The Project Gutenberg eBook of Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, April 1885, by Various. (2025)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 53212 ***

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Transcriber’s note: table of contents added by the transcriber.

A WORD MORE ABOUT AMERICA.
REVIEW OF THE YEAR.
THE POETRY OF TENNYSON.
ON AN OLD SONG.
THE AMERICAN AUDIENCE.
STIMULANTS AND NARCOTICS.
FOLK-LORE FOR SWEETHEARTS.
A ROMANCE OF A GREEK STATUE.
THE LIFE OF GEORGE ELIOT.
LORD TENNYSON.
IN THE NORWEGIAN MOUNTAINS.
THE QUANDONG’S SECRET.
DE BANANA.
TURNING AIR INTO WATER.
THE HEALTH AND LONGEVITY OF THE JEWS.
THE HITTITES.
AUTOMATIC WRITING, OR THE RATIONALE OF PLANCHETTE.
SCIENTIFIC VERSUS BUCOLIC VIVISECTION.
NOTES ON POPULAR ENGLISH.
LITERARY NOTICES.
FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES.
MISCELLANY.

A WORD MORE ABOUT AMERICA.
BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

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When I was at Chicago last year, Iwas asked whether Lord Coleridge wouldnot write a book about America. Iventured to answer confidently for himthat he would do nothing of the kind.Not at Chicago only, but almost whereverI went, I was asked whether I myselfdid not intend to write a bookabout America. For oneself one cananswer yet more confidently than forone’s friends, and I always replied thatmost assuredly I had no such intention.To write a book about America, on thestrength of having made merely such atour there as mine was, and with nofuller equipment of preparatory studiesand of local observations than I possess,would seem to me an impertinence.

It is now a long while since I read M.de Tocqueville’s famous work onDemocracy in America. I have thehighest respect for M. de Tocqueville;3but my remembrance of his book is thatit deals too much in abstractions for mytaste, and that it is written, moreover,in a style which many French writersadopt, but which I find trying—a stylecut into short paragraphs and wearingan air of rigorous scientific deductionwithout the reality. Very likely, however,I do M. de Tocqueville injustice.My debility in high speculation is wellknown, and I mean to attempt his bookon Democracy again when I have seenAmerica once more, and when years mayhave brought to me, perhaps, more ofthe philosophic mind. Meanwhile, however,it will be evident how serious amatter I think it to write a worthy bookabout the United States, when I am notentirely satisfied with even M. deTocqueville’s.

But before I went to America, andwhen I had no expectation of ever going4there, I published, under the title of“A Word about America,” not indeeda book, but a few modest remarks onwhat I thought civilisation in the UnitedStates might probably be like. I hadbefore me a Boston newspaper-articlewhich said that if I ever visited AmericaI should find there such and such things;and taking this article for my text Iobserved, that from all I had read andall I could judge, I should for my partexpect to find there rather such and suchother things, which I mentioned. I saidthat of aristocracy, as we know it here,I should expect to find, of course, inthe United States the total absence;that our lower class I should expect tofind absent in a great degree, while myold familiar friend, the middle class, Ishould expect to find in full possessionof the land. And then betaking myselfto those playful phrases which a littlerelieve, perhaps, the tedium of gravedisquisitions of this sort, I said that Iimagined one would just have in Americaour Philistines, with our aristocracy quiteleft out and our populace very nearly.

An acute and singularly candidAmerican, whose name I will on no accountbetray to his countrymen, readthese observations of mine, and he madea remark upon them to me which struckme a good deal. Yes, he said, you areright, and your supposition is just. Ingeneral, what you would find over therewould be the Philistines, as you callthem, without your aristocracy and withoutyour populace. Only this, too, Isay at the same time: you would findover there something besides, somethingmore, something which you do notbring out, which you cannot know andbring out, perhaps, without actuallyvisiting the United States, but whichyou would recognise if you saw it.

My friend was a true prophet. WhenI saw the United States I recognisedthat the general account which I hadhazarded of them was, indeed, noterroneous, but that it required to havesomething added to supplement it. Ishould not like either my friends inAmerica or my countrymen here at hometo think that my “Word about America”gave my full and final thoughts respectingthe people of the United States.The new and modifying impressionsbrought by experience I shall communi5cate,as I did my original expectations,with all good faith, and as simply andplainly as possible. Perhaps when Ihave yet again visited America, haveseen the great West, and have had asecond reading of M. de Tocqueville’sclassical work on Democracy, my mindmay be enlarged and my present impressionsstill further modified by new ideas.If so, I promise to make my confessionduly; not indeed to make it, even then,in a book about America, but to makeit in a brief “Last Word” on thatgreat subject—a word, like its predecessors,of open-hearted and free conversationwith the readers of this Review.

I suppose I am not by nature disposedto think so much as most people do of“institutions.” The Americans thinkand talk very much of their “institutions;”I am by nature inclined to callall this sort of thing machinery, and toregard rather men and their characters.But the more I saw of America, the moreI found myself led to treat “institutions”with increased respect. Until Iwent to the United States I had neverseen a people with institutions whichseemed expressly and thoroughly suitedto it. I had not properly appreciatedthe benefits proceeding from this cause.

Sir Henry Maine, in an admirableessay which, though not signed, betrayshim for its author by its rare and characteristicqualities of mind and style—SirHenry Maine in the Quarterly Reviewadopts and often reiterates a phraseof M. Scherer, to the effect that“Democracy is only a form of government.”He holds up to ridicule a sentenceof Mr. Bancroft’s History, inwhich the American democracy is toldthat its ascent to power “proceeded asuniformly and majestically as the lawsof being and was as certain as the decreesof eternity.” Let us be willing togive Sir Henry Maine his way, and toallow no magnificent claim of this kindon behalf of the American democracy.Let us treat as not more solid theassertion in the Declaration of Independence,that “all men are created equal,are endowed by their Creator with certaininalienable rights, among them life,liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”Let us concede that these natural6rights are a figment; that chance andcircumstance, as much as deliberateforesight and design, have brought theUnited States into their present condition,that moreover the British rulewhich they threw off was not the rule ofoppressors and tyrants which declaimerssuppose, and that the merit of theAmericans was not that of oppressedmen rising against tyrants, but rather ofsensible young people getting rid ofstupid and overweening guardians whomisunderstood and mismanaged them.

All this let us concede, if we will;but in conceding it let us not lose sightof the really important point, which isthis: that their institutions do in factsuit the people of the United States sowell, and that from this suitablenessthey do derive so much actual benefit.As one watches the play of theirinstitutions, the image suggests itself toone’s mind of a man in a suit of clotheswhich fits him to perfection, leaving allhis movements unimpeded and easy. Itis loose where it ought to be loose, andit sits close where its sitting close is anadvantage. The central government ofthe United States keeps in its own handsthose functions which, if the nation is tohave real unity, ought to be kept there;those functions it takes to itself and noothers. The State governments and themunicipal governments provide peoplewith the fullest liberty of managing theirown affairs, and afford, besides, a constantand invaluable school of practicalexperience. This wonderful suit ofclothes, again (to recur to our image),is found also to adapt itself naturally tothe wearer’s growth, and to admit of allenlargements as they successively arise.I speak of the state of things since thesuppression of slavery, of the state ofthings which meets a spectator’s eye atthe present time in America. Thereare points in which the institutions ofthe United States may call forth criticism.One observer may think that itwould be well if the President’s term ofoffice were longer, if his ministers satein Congress or must possess the confidenceof Congress. Another observermay say that the marriage laws for thewhole nation ought to be fixed by Congress,and not to vary at the will of thelegislatures of the several States. Imyself was much struck with the incon7venienceof not allowing a man to sit inCongress except for his own district;a man like Wendell Phillips was thusexcluded, because Boston would not returnhim. It is as if Mr. Bright couldhave no other constituency open to himif Rochdale would not send him to Parliament.But all these are really questionsof machinery (to use my own term), andought not so to engage our attention asto prevent our seeing that the capitalfact as to the institutions of the UnitedStates is this: their suitableness to theAmerican people and their natural andeasy working. If we are not to beallowed to say, with Mr. Beecher, thatthis people has “a genius for the organisationof States,” then at all events wemust admit that in its own organisationit has enjoyed the most signal goodfortune.

Yes; what is called, in the jargon ofthe publicists, the political problem andthe social problem, the people of theUnited States does appear to me to havesolved, or Fortune has solved it forthem, with undeniable success. Againstinvasion and conquest from without theyare impregnably strong. As to domesticconcerns, the first thing to remember is,that the people over there is at bottomthe same people as ourselves, a peoplewith a strong sense for conduct. Butthere is said to be great corruptionamong their politicians and in the publicservice, in municipal administration,and in the administration of justice. SirLepel Griffin would lead us to think thatthe administration of justice, in particular,is so thoroughly corrupt, thata man with a lawsuit has only to providehis lawyer with the necessary funds forbribing the officials, and he can makesure of winning his suit. The Americansthemselves use such strong languagein describing the corruptionprevalent amongst them that they cannotbe surprised if strangers believethem. For myself, I had heard and readso much to the discredit of Americanpolitical life, how all the best men keptaloof from it, and those who gave themselvesto it were unworthy, that I endedby supposing that the thing must actuallybe so, and the good Americans must belooked for elsewhere than in politics.Then I had the pleasure of dining withMr. Bancroft in Washington; and how8everhe may, in Sir Henry Maine’s opinion,overlaud the pre-established harmonyof American democracy, he had atany rate invited to meet me half a dozenpoliticians whom in England we shouldpronounce to be members of Parliamentof the highest class, in bearing, manners,tone of feeling, intelligence, information.I discovered that in truth the practice,so common in America, of calling apolitician “a thief,” does not mean sovery much more than is meant in Englandwhen we have heard Lord Beaconsfieldcalled “a liar” and Mr. Gladstone“a madman.” It means, that thespeaker disagrees with the politician inquestion and dislikes him. Not that Iassent, on the other hand, to the thick-and-thinAmerican patriots, who will tellyou that there is no more corruption inthe politics and administration of theUnited States than in those of England.I believe there is more, and that the toneof both is lower there; and this from acause on which I shall have to touchhereafter. But the corruption is exaggerated;it is not the wide and deepdisease it is often represented; it is suchthat the good elements in the nationmay, and I believe will, perfectly workit off; and even now the truth of whatI have been saying as to the suitablenessand successful working of Americaninstitutions is not really in the leastaffected by it.

Furthermore, American society is notin danger from revolution. Here, again,I do not mean that the United Statesare exempt from the operation of everyone of the causes—such a cause as thedivision between rich and poor, for instance—whichmay lead to revolution.But I mean that comparatively with theold countries of Europe they are freefrom the danger of revolution; and Ibelieve that the good elements in themwill make a way for them to escape outof what they really have of this dangeralso, to escape in the future as well asnow—the future for which some observersannounce this danger as so certainand so formidable. Lord Macaulaypredicted that the United States mustcome in time to just the same state ofthings which we witness in England;that the cities would fill up and the landsbecome occupied, and then, he said, thedivision between rich and poor would9establish itself on the same scale as withus, and be just as embarrassing. Heforgot that the United States are withoutwhat certainly fixes and accentuates thedivision between rich and poor—thedistinction of classes. Not only havethey not the distinction between nobleand bourgeois, between aristocracy andmiddle class; they have not even thedistinction between bourgeois and peasantor artisan, between middle and lowerclass. They have nothing to createit and compel their recognition of it.Their domestic service is done for themby Irish, Germans, Swedes, Negroes.Outside domestic service, within therange of conditions which an Americanmay in fact be called upon to traverse,he passes easily from one sort of occupationto another, from poverty toriches, and from riches to poverty. Noone of his possible occupations appearsdegrading to him or makes him losecaste; and poverty itself appears to himas inconvenient and disagreeable ratherthan as humiliating. When the immigrantfrom Europe strikes root in hisnew home, he becomes as the American.

It may be said that the Americans,when they attained their independence,had not the elements for a division intoclasses, and that they deserve no praisefor not having invented one. But I amnot now contending that they deservepraise for their institutions, I am sayinghow well their institutions work. Considering,indeed, how rife are distinctionsof rank and class in the world, howprone men in general are to adopt them,how much the Americans themselves,beyond doubt, are capable of feelingtheir attraction, it shows, I think, atleast strong good sense in the Americansto have forborne from all attempt to inventthem at the outset, and to have escapedor resisted any fancy for inventingthem since. But evidently the UnitedStates constituted themselves, not amidthe circumstances of a feudal age, butin a modern age; not under the conditionsof an epoch favorable to subordination,but under those of an epochof expansion. Their institutions didbut comply with the form and pressureof the circumstances and conditions thenpresent. A feudal age, an epoch of war,defence, and concentration, needs centresof power and property, and it10reinforces property by joining distinctionsof rank and class with it. Propertybecomes more honorable, more solid.And in feudal ages this is well, for itschanging hands easily would be a sourceof weakness. But in ages of expansion,where men are bent that every one shallhave his chance, the more readily propertychanges hands the better. Theenvy with which its holder is regardeddiminishes, society is safer. I thinkwhatever may be said of the worship ofthe almighty dollar in America, it isindubitable that rich men are regardedthere with less envy and hatred than richmen are in Europe. Why is this?Because their condition is less fixed,because government and legislation donot take them more seriously than otherpeople, make grandees of them, aid themto found families and endure. With us,the chief holders of property are grandeesalready, and every rich man aspires tobecome a grandee if possible. Andtherefore an English country-gentlemanregards himself as part of the system ofnature; government and legislation haveinvited him so to do. If the price ofwheat falls so low that his means of expenditureare greatly reduced, he tellsyou that if this lasts he cannot possiblygo on as a country-gentleman; and everywell-bred person amongst us looks sympathisingand shocked. An Americanwould say: “Why should he?” TheConservative newspapers are fond ofgiving us, as an argument for the game-laws,the plea that without them acountry-gentleman could not be inducedto live on his estate. An Americanwould say: “What does it matter?”Perhaps to an English ear this will soundbrutal; but the point is that the Americandoes not take his rich man soseriously as we do ours, does not makehim into a grandee; the thing, if proposedto him, would strike him as anabsurdity. I suspect that Mr. Winanshimself, the American millionaire whoadds deer-forest to deer-forest, and willnot suffer a cottier to keep a pet lamb,regards his own performance as a colossalstroke of American humor, illustratingthe absurdities of the British systemof property and privilege. Ask Mr.Winans if he would promote the introductionof the British game-laws into theUnited States, and he would tell you11with a merry laugh that the idea isridiculous, and that these British folliesare for home consumption.

The example of France must not misleadus. There the institutions, anobjector may say, are republican, andyet the division and hatred between richand poor is intense. True; but inFrance, though the institutions may berepublican, the ideas and morals arenot republican. In America not onlyare the institutions republican, but theideas and morals are prevailingly republicanalso. They are those of a plain,decent middle class. The ideal of thosewho are the public instructors of thepeople is the ideal of such a class. InFrance the ideal of the mass of popularjournalists and popular writers of fiction,who are now practically the publicinstructors there, is, if you could seetheir hearts, a Pompadour or du Barryrégime, with themselves for the part ofFaublas. With this ideal prevailing,this vision of the objects for whichwealth is desirable, the possessors ofwealth become hateful to the multitudewhich toils and endures, and society isundermined. This is one of the manyinconvenience which the French have tosuffer from that worship of the greatgoddess Lubricity to which they are atpresent vowed. Wealth excites the mostsavage enmity there, because it is conceivedas a means for gratifying appetitesof the most selfish and vile kind. But inAmerica Faublas is no more the idealthan Coriolanus. Wealth is no moreconceived as the minister to the pleasuresof a class of rakes, than as theminister to the magnificence of a classof nobles. It is conceived as a thingwhich almost any American may attain,and which almost every American willuse respectably. Its possession, therefore,does not inspire hatred, and so Ireturn to the thesis with which I started—Americais not in danger of revolution.The division between rich and poor isalleged to us as a cause of revolutionwhich presently, if not now, must operatethere, as elsewhere; and yet we seethat this cause has not there, in truth,the characters to which we are elsewhereaccustomed.

A people homogeneous, a people whichhad to constitute itself in a modern age,an epoch of expansion, and which has12given to itself institutions entirely fittedfor such an age and epoch, and whichsuit it perfectly—a people not in dangerof war from without, not in danger ofrevolution from within—such is thepeople of the United States. Thepolitical and social problem, then, wemust surely allow that they solve successfully.There remains, I know, thehuman problem also; the solution ofthat too has to be considered; but I shallcome to that hereafter. My point atpresent is, that politically and sociallythe United States are a communityliving in a natural condition, and consciousof living in a natural condition.And being in this healthy case, andhaving this healthy consciousness, thecommunity there uses its understandingwith the soundness of health; it in generalsees its political and social concernsstraight, and sees them clear. So thatwhen Sir Henry Maine and M. Scherertell us that democracy is “merely a formof government,” we may observe to themthat it is in the United States a form ofgovernment in which the community feelsitself in a natural condition and at ease;in which, consequently, it sees thingsstraight and sees them clear.

More than half one’s interest in watchingthe English people of the UnitedStates comes, of course, from the bearingof what one finds there upon thingsat home, amongst us English peopleourselves in these islands. I havefrankly recorded what struck me andcame as most new to me in the conditionof the English race in the United States.I had said beforehand, indeed, that Isupposed the American Philistine was alivelier sort of Philistine than ours,because he had not that pressure of theBarbarians to stunt and distort himwhich befalls his English brother here.But I did not foresee how far his superiorliveliness and naturalness of condition,in the absence of that pressure, wouldcarry the American Philistine. I stilluse my old name Philistine, because itdoes in fact seem to me as yet to suitthe bulk of the community over there,as it suits the strong central body of thecommunity here. But in my mouth thename is hardly a reproach, so clearly doI see the Philistine’s necessity, so willinglyI own his merits, so much I find ofhim in myself. The American Philistine,13however, is certainly far more differentfrom his English brother than I had beforehandsupposed. And on that differencewe English of the old country maywith great profit turn our regards forawhile, and I am now going to speak of it.

Surely if there is one thing more thananother which all the world is saying ofour community at present, and of whichthe truth cannot well be disputed, it isthis: that we act like people who donot think straight and see clear. I knowthat the Liberal newspapers used to befond of saying that what characterisedour middle class was its “clear, manlyintelligence, penetrating through sophisms,ignoring commonplaces, andgiving to conventional illusions theirtrue value.” Many years ago I tookalarm at seeing the Daily News, and theMorning Star, like Zedekiah the son ofChenaanah, thus making horns of ironfor the middle class and bidding it “Goup and prosper!” and my first effortsas a writer on public matters wereprompted by a desire to utter, likeMicaiah the son of Imlah, my protestagainst these misleading assurances ofthe false prophets. And though oftenand often smitten on the cheek, just asMicaiah was, still I persevered; and atthe Royal Institution I said how weseemed to flounder and to beat the air,and at Liverpool I singled out as ourchief want the want of lucidity. Butnow everybody is really saying of us thesame thing: that we fumble because wecannot make up our mind, and that wecannot make up our mind because we donot know what to be after. If ourforeign policy is not that of “the BritishPhilistine, with his likes and dislikes,his effusion and confusion, his hot andcold fits, his want of dignity and of thesteadfastness which comes from dignity,his want of ideas and of the steadfastnesswhich comes from ideas,” then allthe world at the present time is, it mustbe owned, very much mistaken.

Let us not, therefore, speak of foreignaffairs; it is needless, because the thingI wish to show is so manifest there toeverybody. But we will consider mattersat home. Let us take the presentstate of the House of Commons. Cananything be more confused, more unnatural?That assembly has got into acondition utterly embarrassed, and seems14impotent to bring itself right. Themembers of the House themselves mayfind entertainment in the personal incidentswhich such a state of confusionis sure to bring forth abundantly, andexcitement in the opportunities thusoften afforded for the display of Mr.Gladstone’s wonderful powers. But toany judicious Englishman outside theHouse the spectacle is simply an afflictingand humiliating one; the sense arousedby it is not a sense of delight at Mr.Gladstone’s tireless powers, it is rathera sense of disgust at their having to beso exercised. Every day the House ofCommons does not sit judicious peoplefeel relief, every day that it sits they areoppressed with apprehension. Insteadof being an edifying influence, as suchan assembly ought to be, the House ofCommons is at present an influencewhich does harm; it sets an examplewhich rebukes and corrects none of thenation’s faults, but rather encouragesthem. The best thing to be done atpresent, perhaps, is to avert one’s eyesfrom the House of Commons as muchas possible; if one keeps on constantlywatching it welter in its baneful confusion,one is likely to fall into the fulminatingstyle of the wrathful Hebrewprophets, and to call it “an astonishment,a hissing, and a curse.”

Well, then, our greatest institution,the House of Commons, we cannot sayis at present working, like the Americaninstitutions, easily and successfully.Suppose we now pass to Ireland. I willnot ask if our institutions work easilyand successfully in Ireland; to ask sucha question would be too bitter, too cruela mockery. Those hateful cases whichhave been tried in the Dublin Courtsthis last year suggest the dark and ill-omenedword which applies to the wholestate of Ireland—anti-natural. Anti-natural,anti-nature—that is the wordwhich rises irresistibly in my mind as Isurvey Ireland. Everything is unnaturalthere—the proceedings of the Englishwho rule, the proceedings of the Irishwho resist. But it is with the workingof our English institutions there that Iam now concerned. It is unnatural thatIreland should be governed by LordSpencer and Mr. Campbell Bannerman—asunnatural as for Scotland to begoverned by Lord Cranbrook and Mr.15Healy. It is unnatural that Irelandshould be governed under a Crimes Act.But there is necessity, replies the Government.Well, then, if there is such evilnecessity, it is unnatural that the Irishnewspapers should be free to write asthey write and the Irish members tospeak as they speak—free to inflame andfurther exasperate a seditious people’smind, and to promote the continuanceof the evil necessity. A necessity forthe Crimes Act is a necessity for absolutegovernment. By our patchwork proceedingswe set up, indeed, a make-believeof Ireland’s being constitutionallygoverned. But it is not constitutionallygoverned; nobody supposes it to beconstitutionally governed, except, perhaps,that born swallower of all clap-trap,the British Philistine. The Irish themselves,the all-important personages inthis case, are not taken in; our make-believedoes not produce in them thevery least gratitude, the very least softening.At the same time it adds an hundredfold to the difficulties of an absolutegovernment.

The working of our institutions beingthus awry, is the working of our thoughtsupon them more smooth and natural?I imagine to myself an American, hisown institutions and his habits ofthought being such as we have seen,listening to us as we talk politics anddiscuss the strained state of things overhere. “Certainly these men have considerabledifficulties,” he would say;“but they never look at them straight,they do not think straight.” Who doesnot admire the fine qualities of LordSpencer?—and I, for my part, am quiteready to admit that he may require for agiven period not only the present CrimesAct, but even yet more stringent powersof repression. For a given period, yes!—butafterwards? Has Lord Spencerany clear vision of the great, the profoundchanges still to be wrought beforea stable and prosperous society can arisein Ireland? Has he even any ideal forthe future there, beyond that of a timewhen he can go to visit Lord Kenmare,or any other great landlord who is hisfriend, and find all the tenants punctuallypaying their rents, prosperous anddeferential, and society in Ireland settlingquietly down again upon the oldbasis? And he might as well hope to16see Strongbow come to life again!Which of us does not esteem and likeMr. Trevelyan, and rejoice in the highpromise of his career? And how all hisfriends applauded when he turned uponthe exasperating and insulting Irishmembers, and told them that he was“an English gentleman”! Yet, if onethinks of it, Mr. Trevelyan was thustelling the Irish members simply that hewas just that which Ireland does notwant, and which can do her no good.England, to be sure, has given Irelandplenty of her worst, but she has alsogiven her not scantily of her best. Irelandhas had no insufficient supply ofthe English gentleman, with his honesty,personal courage, high bearing, good intentions,and limited vision; what shewants is statesmen with just the qualitieswhich the typical English gentleman hasnot—flexibility, openness of mind, afree and large view of things.

Everywhere we shall find in our thinkinga sort of warp inclining it aside ofthe real mark, and thus depriving it ofvalue. The common run of peers whowrite to the Times about reform of theHouse of Lords one would not muchexpect, perhaps, to “understand thesigns of this time.” But even the Dukeof Argyll, delivering his mind about theland-question in Scotland, is like oneseeing, thinking, and speaking in someother planet than ours. A man of evenMr. John Morley’s gifts is provokedwith the House of Lords, and straightwayhe declares himself against the existenceof a Second Chamber at all; although—ifthere be such a thing as demonstrationin politics—the working ofthe American Senate demonstrates awell-composed Second Chamber to bethe very need and safeguard of a moderndemocracy. What a singular twist,again, in a man of Mr. Frederic Harrison’sintellectual power, not, perhaps,to have in the exuberance of youthfulenergy weighted himself for the race oflife by taking up a grotesque old Frenchpedant upon his shoulders, but to haveinsisted, in middle age, in taking up theProtestant Dissenters too; and now,when he is becoming elderly, it seems asif nothing would serve him but he mustadd the Peace Society to his load!How perverse, yet again, in Mr. HerbertSpencer, at the very moment when past17neglects and present needs are drivingmen to co-operation, to making thecommunity act for the public good in itscollective and corporate character of theState, how perverse to seize this occasionfor promulgating the extremestdoctrine of individualism; and not onlyto drag this dead horse along the publicroad himself, but to induce Mr. AuberonHerbert to devote his days to floggingit!

We think thus unaccountably becausewe are living in an unnatural andstrained state. We are like peoplewhose vision is deranged by their lookingthrough a turbid and distorting atmosphere,or whose movements arewarped by the cramping of some unnaturalconstraint. Let us just ask ourselves,looking at the thing as peoplesimply desirous of finding the truth,how men who saw and thought straightwould proceed, how an American, forinstance—whose seeing and thinkinghas, I have said, if not in all matters,yet commonly in political and socialconcerns, this quality of straightness—howan American would proceed in thethree confusions which I have given asinstances of the many confusions nowembarrassing us: the confusion of ourforeign affairs, the confusion of theHouse of Commons, the confusion ofIreland. And then, when we have discoveredthe kind of proceeding naturalin these cases, let us ask ourselves, withthe same sincerity, what is the cause ofthat warp of mind hindering most of usfrom seeing straight in them, and alsowhere is our remedy.

The Angra Pequeña business haslately called forth from all sides manyand harsh animadversions upon LordGranville, who is charged with the directionof our foreign affairs. I shall notswell the chorus of complainers. Nothinghas happened but what was to be expected.Long ago I remarked that it isnot Lord Granville himself who determinesour foreign policy and shapes thedeclarations of Government concerningit, but a power behind Lord Granville.He and his colleagues would call it thepower of public opinion. It is reallythe opinion of that great ruling classamongst us on which Liberal Governmentshave hitherto had to depend forsupport—the Philistines or middle class.18It is not, I repeat, with Lord Granville inhis natural state and force that a foreignGovernment has to deal; it is with LordGranville waiting in devout expectationto see how the cat will jump—and thatcat the British Philistine! When PrinceBismarck deals with Lord Granville, hefinds that he is not dealing mind to mindwith an intelligent equal, but that he isdealing with a tumult of likes and dislikes,hopes and fears, stock-jobbing intrigues,missionary interests, quidnuncs,newspapers—dealing, in short, withignorance behind his intelligent equal.Yet ignorant as our Philistine middleclass may be, its volitions on foreignaffairs would have more intelligibilityand consistency if uttered through aspokesman of their own class. Comingthrough a nobleman like Lord Granville,who has neither the thoughts, habits,nor ideals of the middle class, and yetwishes to act as proctor for it, they haveevery disadvantage. He cannot evendo justice to the Philistine mind, suchas it is, for which he is spokesman; heapprehends it uncertainly and expoundsit ineffectively. And so with the houseand lineage of Murdstone thundering athim (and these, again, through LordDerby as their interpreter) from theCape, and the inexorable Prince Bismarckthundering at him from Berlin,the thing naturally ends by Lord Granvilleat last wringing his adroit handsand ejaculating disconsolately: “It is amisunderstanding altogether!” Evenyet more to be pitied, perhaps, was thehard case of Lord Kimberley after theMajuba Hill disaster. Who can everforget him, poor man, studying the facesof the representatives of the dissentinginterest and exclaiming: “A suddenthought strikes me! May we not beincurring the sin of blood-guiltiness?”To this has come the tradition of LordSomers, the Whig oligarchy of 1688,and all Lord Macaulay’s Pantheon.

I said that a source of strength toAmerica, in political and social concerns,was the homogeneous character ofAmerican society. An American statesmanspeaks with more effect the mindof his fellow-citizens from his being insympathy with it, understanding andsharing it. Certainly one must admitthat if, in our country of classes, thePhilistine middle class is really the in19spirerof our foreign policy, that policywould at least be expounded more forciblyif it had a Philistine for its spokesman.Yet I think the true moral to bedrawn is rather, perhaps, this: that ourforeign policy would be improved if ourwhole society were homogeneous.

As to the confusion in the House ofCommons, what, apart from defectiverules of procedure, are its causes? Firstand foremost, no doubt, the temper andaction of the Irish members. But puttingthis cause of confusion out of viewfor a moment, every one can see thatthe House of Commons is far too large,and that it undertakes a quantity ofbusiness which belongs more properlyto local assemblies. The confusion fromthese causes is one which is constantlyincreasing, because, as the country becomesfuller and more awakened, businessmultiplies, and more and more membersof the House are inclined to takepart in it. Is not the cure for thisfound in a course like that followed inAmerica, in having a much less numerousHouse of Commons, and in makingover a large part of its business to localassemblies, elected, as the House ofCommons itself will henceforth be elected,by household suffrage? I have oftensaid that we seem to me to need at present,in England, three things in especial:more equality, education for the middleclasses, and a thorough municipal system.A system of local assemblies isbut the natural complement of a thoroughmunicipal system. Wholes neithertoo large nor too small, not necessarilyof equal population by any means, butwith characters rendering them in themselvesfairly homogeneous and coherent,are the fit units for choosing these localassemblies. Such units occur immediatelyto one’s mind in the provinces ofIreland, the Highlands and Lowlands ofScotland, Wales north and south, groupsof English counties such as present themselvesin the circuits of the judges orunder the names of East Anglia or theMidlands. No one will suppose meguilty of the pedantry of here laying outdefinitive districts; I do but indicatesuch units as may enable the reader toconceive the kind of basis required forthe local assemblies of which I am speaking.The business of these districtswould be more advantageously done in20assemblies of the kind; they wouldform a useful school for the increasingnumber of aspirants to public life, andthe House of Commons would be relieved.

The strain in Ireland would be relievedtoo, and by natural and safe means.Irishmen are to be found, who, in desperationat the present state of theircountry, cry out for making Irelandindependent and separate, with anational Parliament in Dublin, with herown foreign office and diplomacy, herown army and navy, her own tariff,coinage and currency. This is manifestlyimpracticable. But here again letus look at what is done by people whoin politics think straight and see clear;let us observe what is done in the UnitedStates. The Government at Washingtonreserves matters of imperial concern,matters such as those just enumerated,which cannot be relinquishedwithout relinquishing the unity of theempire. Neither does it allow one greatSouth to be constituted, or one greatWest, with a Southern Parliament, or aWestern. Provinces that are too largeare broken up, as Virginia has beenbroken up. But the several States arenevertheless real and important wholes,each with its own legislature; and toeach the control, within its own borders,of all except imperial concerns is freelycommitted. The United States Governmentintervenes only to keep orderin the last resort. Let us suppose asimilar plan applied in Ireland. Thereare four provinces there, forming fournatural wholes—or perhaps (if it shouldseem expedient to put Munster andConnaught together) three. The Parliamentof the empire would still be inLondon, and Ireland would send membersto it. But at the same time eachIrish province would have its own legislature,and the control of its own realaffairs. The British landlord would nolonger determine the dealings with landin an Irish province, nor the BritishProtestant the dealings with church andeducation. Apart from imperial concerns,or from disorder such as to rendermilitary intervention necessary, thegovernment in London would leave Irelandto manage itself. Lord Spencerand Mr. Campbell Bannerman wouldcome back to England. Dublin Castle21would be the State House of Leinster.Land-questions, game-laws, police,church, education, would be regulatedby the people and legislature of Leinsterfor Leinster, of Ulster for Ulster, ofMunster and Connaught for Munsterand Connaught. The same with the likematters in England and Scotland. Thelocal legislatures would regulate them.

But there is more. Everybody whowatches the working of our institutionsperceives what strain and friction iscaused in it at present, by our having aSecond Chamber composed almostentirely of great landowners, and representingthe feelings and interests ofthe class of landowners almost exclusively.No one, certainly, under thecondition of a modern age and ouractual life, would ever think of devisingsuch a Chamber. But we will allow ourselvesto do more than merely state thistruism, we will allow ourselves to askwhat sort of Second Chamber peoplewho thought straight and saw clearwould, under the conditions of amodern age and of our actual life,naturally make. And we find, from theexperience of the United States, thatsuch provincial legislatures as we havejust now seen to be the natural remedyfor the confusion in the House of Commons,the natural remedy for the confusionin Ireland, have the further greatmerit besides of giving us the best basispossible for a modern Second Chamber.The United States Senate is perhaps,of all the institutions of that country,the most happily devised, the most successfulin its working. The legislatureof each State of the Union elects twosenators to the Second Chamber of thenational Congress at Washington. Thesenators are the Lords—if we like tokeep, as it is surely best to keep, for designatingthe members of the SecondChamber, the title to which we have beenfor so many ages habituated. Each ofthe provincial legislatures of GreatBritain and Ireland would elect membersto the House of Lords. The coloniallegislatures also would elect members toit; and thus we should be complying inthe most simple and yet the most signalway possible with the present desire ofboth this country and the colonies for acloser union together, for some representationof the colonies in the Imperial22Parliament. Probably it would be foundexpedient to transfer to the SecondChamber the representatives of the Universities.But no scheme for a SecondChamber will at the present day befound solid unless it stands on a genuinebasis of election and representation.All schemes for forming a SecondChamber through nomination, whetherby the Crown or by any other voice, ofpicked noblemen, great officials, leadingmerchants and bankers, eminent men ofletters and science, are fantastic. Probablythey would not give us by any meansa good Second Chamber. But certainlythey would not satisfy the country orpossess its confidence, and therefore theywould be found futile and unworkable.

So we discover what would naturallyappear the desirable way out of some ofour worst confusions to anybody whosaw clear and thought straight. But thereis little likelihood, probably, of any suchway being soon perceived and followedby our community here. And why isthis? Because, as a community, wehave so little lucidity, we so little seeclear and think straight. And why,again, is this? Because our communityis so little homogeneous. The lowerclass has yet to show what it will do inpolitics. Rising politicians are alreadybeginning to flatter it with servileassiduity, but their praise is as yetpremature, the lower class is too littleknown. The upper class and the middleclass we know. They have each theirown supposed interests, and these arevery different from the true interests ofthe community. Our very classes makeus dim-seeing. In a modern time, weare living with a system of classes sointense, a society of such unnatural complication,that the whole action of ourminds is hampered and falsened by it.I return to my old thesis: inequality isour bane. The great impediments inour way of progress are aristocracy andProtestant dissent. People think thisis an epigram; alas, it is much rather atruism!

An aristocratical society like ours isoften said to be the society from whichartists and men of letters have most togain. But an institution is to be judged,not by what one can oneself gain fromit, but by the ideal which it sets up.And aristocracy—if I may once more23repeat words which, however often repeated,have still a value from theirtruth—aristocracy now sets up in ourcountry a false ideal, which materialisesour upper class, vulgarises our middleclass, brutalises our lower class. It misleadsthe young, makes the worldly moreworldly, the limited more limited, thestationary more stationary. Even to theimaginative, whom Lord John Mannersthinks its sure friend, it is more a hindrancethan a help. Johnson says well:“Whatever makes the past, the distant,or the future, predominate over thepresent, advances us in the dignity ofthinking beings.” But what is a Dukeof Norfolk or an Earl Warwick, dressedin broadcloth and tweed, and going abouthis business or pleasure in hansom cabsand railways like the rest of us? Imaginationherself would entreat him to takehimself out of the way, and to leave usto the Norfolks and Warwicks of history.

I say this without a particle of hatred,and with esteem, admiration, and affectionfor many individuals in the aristocraticalclass. But the action of timeand circumstance is fatal. If one asksoneself what is really to be desired, whatis expedient, one would go far beyondthe substitution of an electedSecond Chamber for the present Houseof Lords. All confiscation is to be reprobated,all deprivation (except in badcases of abuse) of what is actually possessed.But one would wish, if one setabout wishing, for the extinction of titleafter the death of the holder, and for thedispersion of property by a stringent lawof bequest. Our society should be homogeneous,and only in this way can it becomeso.

But aristocracy is in little danger. “Isuppose, sir,” a dissenting minister saidto me the other day, “you found, whenyou were in America, that they enviedus there our great aristocracy.” It washis sincere belief that they did, and suchprobably is the sincere belief of ourmiddle class in general; or at any rate,that if the Americans do not envy us thispossession, they ought to. And myfriend, one of the great Liberal partywhich has now, I suppose, pretty nearlyrun down its deceased wife’s sister, poorthing, has his hand and heart full, sofar as politics are concerned, of the questionof church disestablishment. He is24eager to set to work at a change which,even if it were desirable (and I think itis not,) is yet off the line of those reformswhich are really pressing.

Mr. Lyulph Stanley, Professor Stuart,and Lord Richard Grosvenor are waitingready to help him, and perhaps Mr.Chamberlain himself will lead the attack.I admire Mr. Chamberlain as a politicianbecause he has the courage—and it is awise courage—to state large the reformswe need, instead of minimising them.But like Saul before his conversion, hebreathes out threatenings and slaughteragainst the Church, and is likely, perhaps,to lead an assault upon her. Heis a formidable assailant, yet I suspecthe might break his finger-nails on herwalls. If the Church has the majorityfor her, she will of course stand. Butin any case this institution, with all itsfaults, has that merit which makes thegreat strength of institutions—it offersan ideal which is noble and attaching.Equality is its profession, if not alwaysits practice. It inspires wide and deepaffection, and possesses, therefore, immensestrength. Probably the Establishmentwill not stand in Wales, probablyit will not stand in Scotland. InWales it ought not, I think, to stand.In Scotland I should regret its fall; butPresbyterian churches are born to separatism,as the sparks fly upward. Atany rate, it is through the vote of locallegislatures that disestablishment is likelyto come, as a measure required in certainprovinces, and not as a generalmeasure for the whole country. Inother words, the endeavor for disestablishmentought to be postponed to theendeavor for far more important reforms,not to precede it. Yet I doubt whetherMr. Chamberlain and Mr. Lyulph Stanleywill listen to me when I plead thuswith them; there is so little lucidity inEngland, and they will say I am priest-ridden.

One man there is, whom above allothers I would fain have seen in Parliamentduring the last ten years, and beheldestablished in influence there atthis juncture—Mr. Goldwin Smith. Ido not say that he was not too embitteredagainst the Church; in my opinionhe was. But with singular lucidityand penetration he saw what great reformswere needed in other directions,25and the order of relative importance inwhich reforms stood. Such were hischaracter, style, and faculties, thatalone perhaps among men of his insighthe was capable of getting his ideasweighed and entertained by men inpower; while amid all favor and underall temptations he was certain to have stillremained true to his insight, “unshaken,unseduced, unterrified.” I think of himas a real power for good in Parliamentat this time, had he by now become, ashe might have become, one of the leadersthere. His absence from the scene,his retirement in Canada, is a loss to hisfriends, but a still greater loss to hiscountry.

Hardly inferior in influence to Parliamentitself is journalism. I do not conceiveof Mr. John Morley as made forfilling that position in Parliament whichMr. Goldwin Smith would, I think, havefilled. If he controls, as Protesilaos inthe poem advises, hysterical passion (thebesetting danger of men of letters on theplatform and in Parliament) and remembersto approve “the depth and not thetumult of the soul,” he will be powerfulin Parliament; he will rise, he willcome into office; but he will not do forus in Parliament, I think, what Mr.Goldwin Smith would have done. Heis too much of a partisan. In journalism,on the other hand, he was as uniquea figure as Mr. Goldwin Smith would, Iimagine, have been in Parliament. As ajournalist, Mr. John Morley showed amind which seized and understood thesigns of the times; he had all the ideasof a man of the best insight, and alone,perhaps, among men of his insight, hehad the skill for making these ideaspass into journalism. But Mr. JohnMorley has now left journalism. Thereis plenty of talent in Parliament, plentyof talent in journalism, but no one ineither to expound “the signs of thistime” as these two men might have expoundedthem. The signs of the time,political and social, are left, I regret tosay, to bring themselves as they bestcan to the notice of the public. Yethow ineffective an organ is literature forconveying them compared with Parliamentand journalism!

Conveyed somehow, however, theycertainly should be, and in this disquisitionI have tried to deal with them.26But the political and social problem, asthe thinkers call it, must not so occupyus as to make us forget the human problem.The problems are connected together,but they are not identical. Ourpolitical and social confusions I admit;what Parliament is at this moment, I seeand deplore. Yet nowhere but in Englandeven now, not in France, not inGermany, not in America, could therebe found public men of that quality—socapable of fair dealing, of trusting oneanother, keeping their word to one another—asto make possible such a settlementof the Franchise and Seat Bills asthat which we have lately seen. Platosays with most profound truth: “Theman who would think to good purposemust be able to take many things intohis view together.” How homogeneousAmerican society is, I have done mybest to declare; how smoothly and naturallythe institutions of the UnitedStates work, how clearly, in some mostimportant respects, the Americans see,how straight they think. Yet Sir LepelGriffin says that there is no country callingitself civilised where one would notrather live than in America, except Russia.In politics I do not much trust SirLepel Griffin. I hope that he administersin India some district where a pro27foundinsight into the being and workingof institutions is not requisite. But,I suppose, of the tastes of himself andof that large class of Englishmen whomMr. Charles Sumner has taught us tocall the class of gentlemen, he is no untrustworthyreporter. And an Englishmanof this class would rather live inFrance, Spain, Holland, Belgium, Germany,Italy, Switzerland, than in theUnited States, in spite of our communityof race and speech with them!This means that, in the opinion of menof that class, the human problem atleast is not well solved in the UnitedStates, whatever the political and socialproblem may be. And to the humanproblem in the United States we oughtcertainly to turn our attention, especiallywhen we find taken such an objection asthis; and some day, though not now,we will do so, and try to see what theobjection comes to. I have given hostagesto the United States, I am boundto them by the memory of great, untiring,and most attaching kindness. Ishould not like to have to own them tobe of all countries calling themselvescivilised, except Russia, the countrywhere one would least like to live.—NineteenthCentury.

28

REVIEW OF THE YEAR.
BY FREDERIC HARRISON.

The opening of a new year again assemblesus together to look back on thework of the year that is gone, to lookfaithfully into our present state, and totake forecast of all that yet awaits us inthe visible life on earth, under the inspiringsense of the Great Power whichmakes us what we are, and who will beas great when we are not.

In the light of this duty to Humanityas a whole, how feeble is our work, howpoor the result! And yet, looking backon the year that is just departed, weneed not be down-hearted. Surely andfirmly we advance. Not as the spiritualistmovements advance, by leaps andbounds, as the tares spring up, as thestubble blazes forth, but by conviction,with system, with slow consolidation ofbelief resting on proof and tested by experience.If at the beginning of lastyear we could point to the formation ofa new centre in North London, this yearwe can point to its maintenance withsteady vigor, and to the opening of amore important new centre in the cityof Manchester. Year by year sees theaddition to our cause of a group in thegreat towns of the kingdom. Liverpool,Manchester, Birmingham, Newcastle,already have their weekly meetingsand their organised societies.

I make no great store of all this. Thereligious confidence in Humanity willnot come about, I think, like the beliefin the Gospel, or in the Church, or inany of the countless Protestant persuasions,by the formation of a small sect29of believers, gradually inducing men tojoin some exclusive congregation. Thetrust in Humanity is an ineradicablepart of modern civilisation: nay, it isthe very motive power and saving qualityof modern civilisation, and that evenwhere it is encumbered by a consciousbelief in God and Christ, in Gospel andsalvation, or where it is disguised by anatheistical rejection of all religious reverencewhatever. Positivists are not asect. Positivism is not merely a newmode of worship. It is of small momentto us how numerous are the congregationswho meet to-day to acknowledgeHumanity in words. The bestmen and women of all creeds and allraces acknowledge Humanity in theirlives. For the full realisation of ourhopes we must look to the improvementof civilisation; not to the extension ofa sect. Let us shun all sects and everythingbelonging to them.

I shall say but little, therefore, of thegrowth of Positivist congregations.Where they are perfectly spontaneousand natural; where they are doing areal work in education; where they givesolid comfort and support to the livesof those who form them, they are usefuland living things, giving hope and signof something better. But I see evil inthem if they are artificial and premature;if they spring out of the incurable tendencyof our age toward sects; if theyare mere imitations of Christian congregations;and, above all, if their memberslook upon them as adequate typesof a regenerated society. The religionof Humanity, by its nature, is incapableof being narrowed down to the limits ofa few hundreds of scattered believersand to casual gatherings of men andwomen divided in life and activity.And that for the same reason that civilisationor patriotism could not possiblybe the privilege of a few scattered individuals.Where two or three are gatheredtogether, there the Gospel may beduly presented, and God and Christ adequatelyworshipped. It is not so withHumanity. The service of Humanityneeds Humanity. The only Church ofHumanity is a healthy and cultured humansociety. It is the very business ofHumanity to free us from all individualistreligion, from all self-contained worshipof the isolated believer. And30though the idea of Humanity is able tostrengthen the individual soul as profoundlyas the idea of Christ, yet theidea of Humanity, the service of Humanity,the honoring of Humanity, areonly fully realised in the living organismof a humane society of men.

For this reason I look on a Positivistcommunity rather as a germ of what isto come, one which may easily degenerateinto a hindrance to true life in Humanity.The utmost that we can donow as an isolated knot of scattered believersis so immeasurably short of whatmay be done by a united nation, familiarfrom generation to generation with thesense of duty to Humanity, saturatedfrom infancy with the consciousness ofHumanity, and with all the resources ofan organised public opinion, and a disciplinedbody of teachers, poets, andartists, to secure its convictions and expressits emotions, that I am alwaysdreading lest our puny attempts in themovement be stereotyped as adequate.Our English, Protestant habits are continuallyprompting us to look for salvationto sects, societies, self-sufficing congregationsof zealous, but possibly self-righteousreformers. The egotistic spiritof the Gospel is constantly inclining usto look for a healthier religious idealto some new religious exercises, to beperformed in secret by the individualbeliever, in the silence of his chamberor in some little congregation offellow-believers. Positivism comes, notto add another to these congregations,but to free us from the temper of mindwhich creates them. It comes to showus that religion is not to be foundwithin any four walls, or in the secretyearnings of any heart, but in the rightsystematic development of an entirehuman society. Until there is a profounddiffusion of the spirit of Humanitythroughout the mass of some entirehuman society, some definite section ofmodern civilisation, there can be no religionof Humanity in any adequatedegree; there can be no full worship ofHumanity; there can be no true Positivistlife till there be an organic Positivistcommunity to live such a life. Letus beware how we imagine, that wheretwo or three are gathered together thereis a Positivist Church. There may be asynagogue of Positivist pharisees, it may31be; but the sense of our vast humanfellowship—which lies at the root ofPositivist morality; the reality of Positivistreligion, which means a high andhumane life in the world; the glory ofPositivist worship, which means thenoblest expression of human feeling inart—all these things are not possible inany exclusive and meagre synagoguewhatever, and are very much retardedby the premature formation of synagogues.

I look, as I say always, to the leaveningof opinion generally; to the attitudeof mind with which the world around usconfronts Positivism and understands,or feels interest in Positivism. Andhere, and not in the formation of newcongregations, I find the grounds forunbounded hope. Within a very fewyears, and notably within the year justended, there has been a striking changeof tone in the way in which the thoughtfulpublic looks at Positivism. It hasentirely passed out of the stage of silenceand contempt. It occupies a place inthe public interest, not equal yet to itsimportance in the future; but far in excess,I fear, of anything which its livingexponents can justify in the present.The thoughtful public and the religiousspirits acknowledge in it a genuine religiousforce. Candid Christians seethat it has much which calls out theirsympathy. But apart from that, theperiod of misunderstanding and of ridiculeis passed for Positivism for ever.Serious people are beginning now to saythat there is nothing in Positivism soextravagant, nothing so mischievous asthey used to think. Many of them arebeginning to see that it bears witness tovaluable truths which have been hithertoneglected. They are coming to feelthat in certain central problems of themodern world, such as the possibility ofpreserving the religious sentiment, indefending the bases of spiritual andtemporal authority, in explaining thescience of history, in the institution ofproperty, in the future relations of menand women, employers and employed,government and people, teachers andlearners, in all of these, Positivism holdsup a ray of steady light in the chaos ofopinion. They are asking themselves,the truly conservative and truly religiousnatures, if, after all, society may not be32destined to be regenerated in some suchideal lines as Positivism shadows forth:—

Here, then, is the great gain of thepast year. It has for some time beenfelt that we have hold of a profound religioustruth; that Positivism, as Mr.Mill says, does realise the essentialconditions of religion. But we havenow made it clear that we have hold ofa profound philosophical truth as well;and a living and prolific social truth.The cool, instructed, practical intellectis now prepared to admit that it is quitea reasonable hope to look for the cultivationof a purely human duty towardsour fellow beings and our race collectivelyas a solid basis of moral and practicallife—nay, further, that so far as itgoes, and without excluding other basesof life, this is a sound, and indeed, avery common, spring to right action. Itis an immense step gained that the cool,instructed, practical intellect of our daygoes with us up to this point. It is aminor matter, that in conceding so much,this same intelligent man-of-the-world isready to say, “You must throw over,however, all the mummery and priestcraftwith which Positivism began itscareer.” Positivism has no mummeryor priestcraft to throw over. The wholeidea of such things arose out of laboredepigrams manufactured about the utopiasof Comte when exaggerated into a formalismby some of his more excitable followers.

In the history of any great truth wegenerally find three stages of publicopinion regarding it. The first, of unthinkinghostility; the second, of minimisingits novelty; the third, of adoptingit as an obvious truism. Men say first,“Nothing more grotesque and mischievouswas ever propounded!” Thenthey say, “Now that it has entirelychanged its front, there is nothing to beafraid of, and not much that is new!”And in the third stage they say, “Wehave held this all our lives, and it is amere commonplace of modern thought.”Positivism has now passed out of thefirst stage. Men have ceased to thinkof it as grotesque or mischievous. Theyhave now passed into the second stage,and say,33 “Now that it is showing itselfas mere common-sense, it is little morethan a re-statement of what reasonablemen have long thought, and whatgood men have long aimed at.” Quiteso, only there has been no change offront, no abandoning of anything, andno modification of any essential principle.We have only made it clear that the originalprejudices we had to meet werefounded in haste, misconception, andmere caricature. We have shown thatPositivism is just as truly scientific as itis religious; that it has as much aversionto priestcraft, ritualism, and ceremony,as any Protestant sectary: and as deepan aversion to sects as the Pope of Romeor the President of the Royal Society.Positivism itself is as loyal to everygenuine result of modern science as theRoyal Society itself. The idea that anyreasonable Positivist undervalues thereal triumphs of science, or could dreamof minimising any solid conclusion ofscience, or of limiting the progress ofscience, or would pit any unproven assertionof any man, be he Comte, or anentire Ecumenical Council of Comtists,so to speak, against any single provenconclusion of human research, this, Isay, is too laughable to be seriously imputedto any Positivist.

If Auguste Comte had ever used languagewhich could fairly be so understood,I will not stop to inquire. I do notbelieve he has. But if I were shown fiftysuch passages, they would not weigh withme a grain against the entire basis andgenius of Positivism itself; which is thathuman life shall henceforward be basedon a footing of solid demonstration alone.If enthusiastic Positivists, more Comtistthan Comte, ever gave countenance tosuch an extravagance, I can only saythat they no more represent Positivismthan General Booth’s brass band representsChristianity. If words ofAuguste Comte have been understood tomean that the religion of Humanity canbe summed up in the repetition ofphrases, or can be summed up in anythingless than a moral and scientificeducation of man’s complex nature, Ican only treat it as a caricature unworthyof notice. This hall is the centre in thiscountry where the Positivist scheme ispresented in its entirety, under the immediatedirection of Comte’s successor.And speaking in his name and in the34name of our English committee, I claimit as an essential purpose of our existenceas an organised body, to promote asound scientific education, so as to abolishthe barrier which now separatesschool and Church; to cultivate individualtraining in all true knowledge,and the assertion of individual energy ofcharacter and brain; to promote independencequite as much as association;personal responsibility, quite as muchas social discipline; and free publicopinion, in all things spiritual andmaterial alike, quite as much as organisedguidance by trained leaders. Whatevermakes light of these, whatever is indifferentto scientific education, whatevertends to blind and slavish surrender ofthe judgment and the will, whateverclings to mysticism, formalism, andpriestcraft, such belongs not to Positivism,to Auguste Comte, or to humanityrightly regarded and honored. The firstcondition of the religion of Humanity ishuman nature and common sense.

Whilst Positivism has been makinggood its ground within the area of scientificphilosophy, scientific metaphysicshas been exhibiting the signal weaknessof its position on the side of religion.To those who have once entered intothe scientific world of belief in positiveknowledge there is no choice between abelief in nothing at all and a belief inthe future of human civilisation, betweenAgnosticism and Humanity. Agnosticismis therefore for the present the rivaland antagonist of Positivism outside theorthodox fold. I say for the present,because by the nature of the case Agnosticismis a mere raft or jurymast forshipwrecked believers, a halting-place,and temporary passage from one beliefto another belief. The idea that thedeepest issues of life and of thought canbe permanently referred to any negation;that cultivated beings can feel proud ofsumming up their religious belief in theformula, that they “know nothing”this is too absurd to endure. Agnosticismis a milder form of the Voltaireanhatred of religion that was current inthe last century; but it is quite as passinga phase. For the moment, it is thefashion of the emancipated Christian tosave all trouble by professing himself anAgnostic. But he is more or lessashamed of it. He knows it is a subter35fuge.It is no real answer. It is only anexcuse for refusing to answer a troublesomequestion. The Agnostic knowsthat he will have to give a better answersome day; he finds earnest men clamoringfor an answer. He is getting uneasythat they will not take “Don’t know”for an answer. He is himself too fullstill of theology and metaphysics to followour practice, which is to leave thetheological conundrum alone, and toproclaim regard for the human race as anadequate solution of the human problem.And in the meantime he staves off questionsby making his own ignorance—hisown ignorance!—the foundation of acreed.

We have just seen the failure of one,of these attempts. The void caused bythe silent crumbling of all the spiritualcreeds has to be filled in some way.The indomitable passion of mankind towardsan object to revere and work for,has to be met. And the latest devicehas been, as we have seen, to erect the“Unknowable” itself into the solereality, and to assure us that an indescribableheap of abstract terms is thetrue foundation of life. So that, afterall its protestations against any superstitiousbelief, Agnosticism floats backinto a cloud of contradictions and negationsas unthinkable as those of theAthanasian creed, and which are merelyour old theological attributes again,dressed up in the language of EsotericBuddhism.

II.

I turn now, as is our custom, to reviewthe work of the year under its three-foldheads of Cult, Education, Politics.You will see that I avoid the word Worship,because worship is so often misunderstood;and because it wholly failsto convey the meaning of the Positivistcultus, or stimulus of the noblest emotionsof man. Worship is in no way atranslation of Comte’s word culte. InFrench we can talk of the culte des mères,or the culte des morts, or the culte des enfants,or the culte de l’Art. We cannotin English talk of worshipping ourmothers, or worshipping our deadfriends, or worshipping children, or worshippingart; or, if we use the words, wedo not mean the same thing. Comtehas suffered deeply by being crudely36translated into English phrases, bypeople who did not see that the samephrase in English means somethingdifferent. Now his culte de l’Humanitédoes not mean what Englishmen understandby the worship of Humanity: i.e.,they are apt to fancy, kneeling downand praying to Humanity, or singing ahymn to Humanity. By culte de l’Humanitéis meant, deepening our senseof gratitude and regard for the humanrace and its living or dead organs. Andeverything which does this is cult, thoughit may not be what we call in Englishworship. So service is a word I avoid;because the service of Humanity consistsin the thousand ways in which we fulfilour social duties, and not in utteringexclamations which may or may not leadto anything in conduct, and which wehave no reason to suppose are heard byany one, or affect any one outside theroom where they are uttered. Thecommemoration of a great man such asWilliam the Silent or Corneille is cult,though we do not worship him; thesolemn delight in a piece of music insuch a spirit is cult, though it is not worship,or service, in the modern Englishsense of these words. The ceremonyof interring a dead friend, or naming achild is cult, though we do not worshipour dead friend, nor do we worshipthe baby when brought for presentation.Cult, as we understand it, is a processthat concerns the person or persons whoworship, not the being worshipped.Whatever stimulates the sense of socialduty and kindles the noblest emotions,whether by a mere historical lecture, ora grand piece of music, or by a solemnact, or by some expression of emotion—thisis cult.

In the same way, I avoid the wordreligion, to signify any special departmentor any one side of our Positivistlife. Religion is not a part of life, buta harmonious and true living of ourlives; not the mere expression of feeling,but the right convergence of feeling andthought into pure action. Some of ourpeople seem to use the word “religion,”in the theological sense, to mean theformal expression of a sentiment of devotion.This is a mere distortion ofComte’s language, and essentially unworthyof the broad spirit of Positivism.The full meaning of culte, as Comte em37ployedit, is every act by which man expressesand every means by which hekindles the sense of reverence, duty,love, or resignation. In that sense, andin that sense only, do I now employ cult,which is obviously a somewhat inadequateEnglish phrase.

The past year opened with the commemorationof this day, in which, thoughthe words of praise and devotion thatwe uttered were few, we sought to braceour spirits and clear our brains bypausing for an hour in the midst of thewhirl of life, to look forth on the vastrange of our social duties and the littlenessof our individual performance. Onthe 5th of September, the twenty-seventhanniversary of the death of AugusteComte, we met, as usual, to commemoratehis life and work. The discoursethen given will be shortly published. Atthe friendly repast and in the socialmeeting of that day we had the welcomepresence of several members of ourPositivist body in Paris and also fromthe northern cities of England. Thehundredth year since the death ofDiderot, the two hundredth since thatof Corneille, the three hundredth sincethat of the great founder of the Netherlands,William of Orange, called theSilent, were duly commemorated by adiscourse on their life and work. Suchvague and unreal ideas are suggested bythe phrase, the worship of humanity,that it is useful to point out that this iswhat we in this hall mean by such anotion: the strengthening our sense ofrespect for the worthy men in the pastby whom civilisation has been built up.This is what we mean by the worship ofhumanity. A mere historical lecture, ifits aim and its effect be to kindle in usenthusiastic regard for the noble menwho have gone before us, and by whoselives and deaths we are what we are,—thisis the worship of humanity, and notthe utterance of invocations to anabstract idea.

On the 28th of last month we held acommemoration of the great musician,Beethoven, in all respects like that whichwe had given two years ago for Mozart.Our friend Professor Henry Holmes andhis admirable quartet again performedtwo of those immortal pieces, and ourfriend, Mr. Vernon Lushington, againgave us one of those beautiful discourses38on the glorious art to which he and hishave devoted so much of their lives.These occasions, which are a realcreation of Positivism, I deeply enjoy.They are neither concert nor lecture, norservice specially, but all three together,and much more. It is the one mode inwhich at present the religion of thefuture can put forth its yearnings for asacred art worthy to compare with thehighest types of Christian art. Wemeet not to listen to a musical display—notto hear the history of the musician’slife—not to commemorate his careerby any formal ceremony; but we minglewith our words of gratitude, and honorand affection for the artist, the worthyrehearsing of his consummate ideas in aspirit of devotion for him and theglorious company of whom he is one ofthe most splendid chiefs.

Last night, as the year closed, we metas before to dwell on the past, on thedeparting year that was being laid torest in the incalculable catacombs oftime, and on the infinite myriads ofhuman beings by whom those catacombsare peopled; and with music and withvoice we sought to attune our spirits tothe true meanings of the hour. Theyear has been to many of us one of cruelanxieties, of sad memories and irreparableloss. In Mr. Cutler we have lost amost sincere and valued brother. Aswe stood round his open grave, therewas but one feeling in our gatheredmourners—a sense of loss that could illbe borne, honor to his gentle and uprightcareer, sympathy with those whom hehad left. The occasion will long beremembered, perhaps, as the first onwhich our body has ever been called onto take part in a purely Positivist burialservice. Did any one present feel thatthe religion of Humanity is without itspower to dignify, to consecrate, and toconsole in the presence of death? Ispeak not for others, but for myself.And, for my part, when I remember thepathetic chant of our friends at thegrave, the reality of their reverend sorrow,the consolatory sense of resignationand hope with which we laid our brotherin his peaceful bed, I feel the convictionthat in this supreme office, the greattest of religious power, the faith inHumanity will surpass the faith in thefictions—in beauty, in pathos, in39courage, and in consolation, even as itso manifestly surpasses them in reality.

The hand of death has been heavy onus both abroad and at home. The pastyear has carried off to their immortal lifetwo of the original disciples and friendsof our master, Auguste Hadery andFabien Magnin. Both have been mostamply honored in funeral sermons byM. Laffitte. Fabien Magnin was one ofthose rare men who represent to thepresent the type that we look for in thefuture. A workman (he was an engine-patternmaker,) he chose to live anddie a workman, proud of his order, andconfident in its destinies; all throughhis long life without fortune, or luxury,or ambition; a highly-trained man ofscience; a thoroughly trained politician,loyal unshakenly to his great teacher andhis successor; of all the men I have everknown the most perfect type of the cultivated,incorruptible, simple, courageousman of the people. With his personalinfluence over his fellow-workmen, andfrom the ascendency of his intellect andcharacter, he might easily in Francehave forced his way into the foremostplace. With his scientific resources, andhis faculty both for writing and speech,he might easily have entered the literaryor scientific class. With his energy,prudence, and mechanical skill, hemight easily have amassed a fortune.The attractions of such careers neverseemed to touch by a ripple the serenesurface of his austere purity. He choseto live and die in the strictest simplicity—thetype of an honest and educatedcitizen, who served to make us feel allthat the future has to promise to theworkman, when remaining a workman,devoted to his craft and to his order, heshall be as highly educated as the bestof us to-day; as courteous and dignifiedas the most refined; as simple as theideal village pastor; as ardent a Republicanas the Ferrys and Gambettaswhose names fill the journals.

We have this past year also carriedout another series of commemorations,long familiar to our friends in France,but which are a real creation of Positivistbelief. I mean those Pilgrimages or religiousvisits to the scenes of the lives ofour great men. This is a real revivalof a noble mediæval and Oriental practice,but wholly without superstitious40taint, and entirely in the current ofmodern scientific thought. We go ina body to some spot where one of ourimmortal countrymen lived or died, andthere, full of the beauty of the scene onwhich he used to gaze, and of the geniusloci by which he was inspired, we listento a simple discourse on his life andwork. In this way we visited the homesor the graves of Bacon, of Harvey, ofMilton, of Penn, of Cromwell, and ofour William of Orange. What may notthe art of the future produce for us inthis most fruitful mode, when in placeof the idle picnics and holidays of vacantsightseers, in place of the formal celebrationof some prayer-book saint, weshall gather in a spirit of real religionand honor round the birthplace, thehome, it may be the grave, of some poet,thinker, or ruler; and amidst all the inspirationof Nature and of the sacredmemories of the soil, shall fill our heartswith the joy in beauty and profoundveneration of the mighty Dead?

III.

In our Sunday meetings, which havebeen regularly continued excepting duringthe four summer months, we havecontinued our plan of dealing alike withthe religious, the social, and the intellectualsides of the Positivist viewof life and duty. The Housing of thePoor, Art, Biology, Socialism, our socialDuties, the Memory of the Dead,the Positivist grounds of Morality, andour Practical Duties in Life, formed thesubject of one series. Since our re-openingin the autumn, we have had courseson the Bible, on the religious value ofthe modern poets, and on the true basisof social equality. Amongst the featuresof special interest in these series of discoursesis that one course was given bya former Unitarian minister who, aftera life of successful preaching in the leastdogmatic of all the Christian Churches,has been slowly reduced to the convictionthat the reality of Humanityis a more substantial basis for religionto rest on than the hypothesis of God,and that the great scheme of humanmorality is a nobler Gospel to preachthan the artificial ideal of a subjectiveChrist. I would in particular note theseries of admirable lectures on theBible, by Dr. Bridges, which combined41the results of the latest learning onthis intricate mass of ancient writingswith the sympathetic and yet impartialjudgment with which Positivists adoptinto their sacred literature the mostfamous and most familiar of all the religiousbooks of mankind. And againI would note that beautiful series ofdiscourses by Mr. Vernon Lushingtonon the great religious poets of themodern world:—Dante, Shakespeare,Milton, Byron, Wordsworth and Shelley.When we have them side by side, weshall have before us a new measure ofthe sound, sympathetic, and universalspirit of Positivist belief. It is onlythose who are strangers to it and to uswho can wonder how we come to putthe Bible and the poets in equal placesof honor as alike the great organs oftrue religious feeling.

The systematic teaching of science,which is an essential part of our conceptionof Positivism, has been maintainedin this hall with unabated energy. Inthe beginning of the year Mr. VernonLushington commenced and carriedthrough (with what an effort of personalself-devotion no one of us can dulymeasure) his class on the history and theelements of Astronomy. This winter,Mr. Lock has opened a similar class onthe History and Elements of Mathematics.Positivism is essentially ascheme for reforming education, and itis only through a reformed education,universal to all classes alike, and concernedwith the heart as much as the intellect,that the religious meaning ofHumanity can ever be unfolded. Thesinging class, the expense of which wasagain assumed by Mr. Lushington, wassteadily and successfully maintainedduring the first part of the year. Weare still looking forward to the formationof a choir. The social meetingswhich we instituted last year have becomea regular feature of our movement,and greatly contribute to our closerunion and our better understanding ofthe social and sympathetic meaning ofthe faith we profess.

The publications of the year havebeen first and chiefly, The Testament andLetters of Auguste Comte, a work longlooked for, the publication of which hasbeen long delayed by various causes.In the next place I would call attention42to the new and popular edition of InternationalPolicy, a work of combinedessays which we put forward in 1866,nearly twenty years ago. Our object inthat work was to state and apply to theleading international problems in turnthe great principles of social morality onwhich it is the mission of Positivism toshow that the politics of nations canonly securely repose. In an epochwhich is still tending, we are daily assured,to the old passion for nationalself-assertion, it is significant that thePositivist school alone can resolutelymaintain and fearlessly repeat its dictatesof morality and justice, whilst all theChurches, all the political parties, andall the so-called organs of opinion, whichare really the creatures of parties andcliques, find various pretexts for abandoningthem altogether. How few arethe political schools around us whocould venture to republish after twentyyears, their political programmes of1866, their political doctrines and practicalsolutions of the tangled internationalproblems, and who could not find in1885 a principle which they had discarded,or a proposal which to-day theyare ashamed to have made twenty yearsago.

Besides these books, the only separatepublications of our body are the affectingaddress of Mr. Ellis On the due Commemorationof the Dead. The PositivistSociety has met throughout the year forthe discussion of the social and politicalquestions of the day. The most publicmanifestation of its activity has beenthe part that it took in the third centenaryof the great hero of national independence,William, Prince of Orange,called the Silent. The noble andweighty address in which Mr. Beeslyexpressed to the Dutch Committee atDelft the honor in which we held thatimmortal memory, has deeply touched,we are told, those to whom it was addressed.And it is significant that fromthis hall, dedicated to peace, to the Republic,to the people, and to Humanity,there was sent forth the one voice fromthe entire British race in honor to thegreat prince, the soldier, the diplomatistthe secret, subtle, and haughty chief,who, three hundred years ago, createdthe Dutch nation. We have learnedhere to care little for a purely insular43patriotism. The great creators ofnations are our forefathers and ourcountrymen. Protestant or Catholic arenothing to us, so long as either preparedthe way for a broader faith. In ourabhorrence of war we have learned tohonor the chief who fought desperatelyfor the solid bases of peace. In ourzeal for the people, for public opinion,for simplicity of life, and for truthfulnessand openness in word as in conduct,we have not forgotten the relative dutyof those who in darker, fiercer, rudertimes than ours used the weapons oftheir age in the spirit of duty, and to thesaving of those precious elements where-outthe future of a better Humanity shallbe formed.

IV.

Turning to the political field, I shalloccupy but little of your time with thespecial questions of the year. We areas a body entirely dissevered from partypolitics. We seek to color political activitywith certain moral general principles,but we have no interest in partypolitics as such. The idea that Positivistsare, as a body, Radicals or Revolutionariesis an idle invention; and Iam the more entitled to repudiate it, inthat I have myself formally declined toenter on a Parliamentary career, on theexpress ground that I prefer to judgepolitical questions without the trammelsof any party obligation. On the onehand we are Republicans on principle,in that we demand a government in theinterest of all and of no favored order,by the highest available capacity, withoutreference to birth, or wealth, orclass. On the other hand, we are notDemocrats, in that we acknowledge noabstract right to govern in a numericalmajority. Whatever is best administeredis best. We desire to see efficiencyfor the common welfare, responsiblepower intrusted to the most capablehand, with continuous responsibility toa real public opinion.

I am far from pretending that generalprinciples of this kind entitle us to passa judgment on the complex questions ofcurrent politics, or that all Positivistswho recognize these principles are boundto judge current politics in precisely thesame way. There is in Positivism a deepvein of true Conservatism; as there44is also an unquenchable yearning fora social revolution of a just and peacefulkind. But no one of these tendenciesimpel us, I think, to march underthe banner either of Mr. Gladstone orLord Salisbury. As Republicans onprinciple, we desire the end of all hereditaryinstitutions. As believers inpublic opinion, we desire to see opinionrepresented in the most complete way,and without class distinctions. As menwho favor efficiency and concentrationin government, we support whatever maypromise to relieve us of the scandalousdeadlock to which Parliamentarygovernment has long been reduced. Itmay be permitted to those who arewholly detached from party interests toexpress a lively satisfaction that the longelectoral struggle is happily got out ofthe way, and that a great stride has beentaken towards a government at onceenergetic and popular, without regardingthe hobbies about the representation ofwomen and the representation of inorganicminorities.

It is on a far wider field that our greatpolitical interests are absorbed. Thereis everywhere a revival of the spirit ofnational aggrandisement and imperialambition. Under the now avowed leadof the great German dictator, the nationsof Europe are running a race to extendtheir borders by conquest and annexationamongst the weak and uncivilised.There is to-day a scramble for Africa,as there was formerly a scramble forAsia; and the scramble in Asia, or inPolynesia, is only less urgent for themoment, in that the rivalry is just nowkeenest in Africa. But in Asia, inAfrica, in Polynesia, the strong nationsof Europe are struggling to found Empiresby violence, fraud, or aggression.Three distinct wars are being waged inthe East; and in Africa alone oursoldiers and our Government are assertingthe rule of the sword in the North,on the East, in the centre, on the South,and on the West at the same time. Fiveyears ago, we were told that for Englandat least there was to be some lull in thiscareer of blood and ambition. It wasonly, we see, a party cry, a device toupset a government. There has beenno lull, no pause in the scramble forempire. The empire swells year byyear; year by year fresh wars break45out; year by year the burden of empireincreases whether Disraeli or Gladstone,Liberal or Conservative, are the actualwielders of power. The agents of theaggression, the critics, have changedsides; the Jingoes of yesterday are thegrumblers of to-day; and the peacefulpatriots of yesterday are the Jingoes ofto-day. The empire and its appendagesare even vaster in 1885 than in 1880;its responsibilities are greater; its risksand perplexities deeper; its enemiesstronger and more threatening. And inthe midst of this crisis, those who condemnthis policy are fewer; their protestscome few and faint. The Christiansects can see nothing unrighteous in Mr.Gladstone; the Liberal caucuses stifleany murmur of discontent, and forcethose who spoke out against Zulu,Afghan, and Trans-Vaal wars to justify,by the tyrant’s plea of necessity, themassacre of Egyptian fellahs and the exterminationof Arab patriots. They whomouthed most loudly about Jingoism arenow the foremost in their appeals tonational vanity. And the parasites ofthe parasites of our great Liberal statesmancan make such hubbub, in his utterabsence of a policy, that they drive himby sheer clamor from one adventure intoanother. For nearly four years now wehave continuously protested against thepolicy pursued in Egypt. Year after yearwe have told Mr. Gladstone that it wasblackening his whole career and coveringour country with shame. There is amonotony about our protests. But,when there is a monotony in evil-doing,there must alike be monotony in remonstrance.We complain that theblood and treasure of this nation shouldbe used in order to flay the peasantryof the Nile, in the interests of usurersand speculators. We complain that wepractically annex a people whom we willnot govern and cannot benefit. We areboldly for what in the slang of the dayis called “scuttling” out of Egypt. Wethink the robber and the oppressor shouldscuttle as quickly as possible, that heis certain to scuttle some day. Wecomplain of massacring an innocent peoplemerely to give our traders andmoney-dealers larger or safer markets.We complain of all the campaigns andbattles as wanton, useless, and unjustmassacres. We especially condemn the46war in the Soudan as wanton and unjusteven in the avowal of the veryministers who are urging it. The defenderof Khartoum is a man of heroicqualities and beautiful nature; but thecause of civilisation is not served bylaunching amongst savages a sort ofPentateuch knight errant. And we seriouslycomplain that the policy of a greatcountry in a great issue of right andwrong should be determined by schoolboyshouting over the feats of our EnglishGaribaldi.

It is true that our Ministers, especiallyMr. Gladstone, Lord Granville,and Lord Derby, are the public men whoare now most conspicuously resisting theforward policy, and that the outcry ofthe hour is against them on that ground.But ambition should be made of sternerstuff. Those who aspire to guidenations should meet the folly of the daywith more vigorous assertion of principle.And the men who are waging awanton, bloody, and costly war in thesands of Africa have no principle left toassert.

It may well be that Mr. Gladstone,and most of those who follow him in office,are of all our public men those whohave least liking for these wars, annexations,and oppressive dealings with theweak. They may have less liking forthem it may be, but they are the menwho do these things. They are responsible.The blood lies on their doorstep.The guilt hangs on their fame. Thecorruption of the national conscience istheir doing. The page of history willwrite their names and their deeds inletters of gore and of flame. It is mockery,even in the most servile parliamentarydrudge, to repeat to us that thewrong lies at the door of the Opposition,foreign intriguers, internationalengagements, untoward circumstances.Keep these threadbare pretexts to defendthe next official blunder amidst thecheers of a party mob. The Englishpeople will have none of such staleequivocation. The ministers who massacredthousands at Tel-el-Kebir, atAlexandria, at Teb, at Tamasi, who aresinking millions of our people’s hard-wonsavings in the sands of Africa, inorder to slaughter a brave race whomthey themselves declare to be heroes andpatriots fighting for freedom; and who47after three years of this bloodshed, ruin,and waste, have nothing to show for it—nothing,except the utter chaos of a finecountry, the extreme misery of an innocentpeople, and all Europe gloweringat us in menace and hate—the men whohave done this are responsible. Whenthey fail to annex some trumpery bit ofcoast, the failure is naturally set downto blundering, not to conscience. History,their country, their own consciencewill make them answer for it. Theheadlong plunge of our State, alreadyover-burdened with the needs and dangersof a heterogeneous empire, theconsuming rage for national extension,which the passion for money, markets,careers, breeds in a people where moraland religious principles are loosened andconflicting, this is the great evil of ourtime. It is to stem this that statesmenshould address themselves. It is to fanthis, or to do its bidding, that our actualstatesmen contend. Mr. Gladstone inhis heart may loathe the task to whichhe is set and the uses to which he lendshis splendid powers. But there aresome situations where weakness beforepowerful clamor works national ruinmore readily even than ambition itself.How petty to our descendants will oursquabbles in the parliamentary game appear,when history shall tell them thatGladstone waged far more wars thanDisraeli; that he slaughtered more hecatombsof innocent people; that he oppressedmore nations, embroiled us worsewith foreign nations; left the empire ofa far more unwieldy size, more exposedand on more rotten foundations; andthat Mr. Gladstone did all this not becauseit seemed to him wise or just, butfor the same reason (in truth) that hisgreat rival acted, viz., that it gave himunquestioned ascendency in his party andwith those whose opinion he sought.

I have not hesitated to speak out mymind of the policy condemned, not inpersonal hostility or irritation, howevermuch I respect the great qualities ofMr. Gladstone himself, however littleI desire to see him displaced by hisrivals. No one will venture to believethat I speak in the interest of party, orhave any quarrel with my own countrymen.All that I have said in condemnationof the African policy of England Iwould say in condemnation of the48Chinese policy in France. I would sayit all the more because, for the reasonson which I will not now enlarge, ourbrethren in France have said so little, andthat little with so broken a voice. It isa weakness to our common cause thatso little has been said in France. But Irejoice to see that in the new numberof our Review, our director, M. Laffitte,has spoken emphatically against all disturbanceof the status quo, and thepolicy of founding colonial empires. Itbehooves us all the more to speak outplainly here. There is the same situationin France as in England. A ministrywhom the majority trust, and whom themilitary and trading class can bend todo their will; a thirst in the rich to extendthe empire; a thirst in the adventurersfor careers to be won; a thirst inthe journalists for material wherewithto pamper the national vanity. There,too, are in the East backward peoples tobe trampled on, a confused tangle ofpretexts and opportunities, a Parliamentarymajority to be secured, and a crowdof interests to be bribed. In the case ofM. Ferry, we can see all the weakness,all the helpless vacillations, all the dangerof his game; its cynical injustice,its laughable pretexts and excuses, itsdeliberate violation of the real interestsof the nation, the formidable risks thathe is preparing for his country, and theruin which is as certain to follow it. InMr. Gladstone’s case there are nationaland party slaves for the conscience ofthe boldest critic.

The year, too, has witnessed a newform of the spread-eagle tendency in therevival of one of our periodical scaresabout the strength of the navy. Aboutonce in every ten or twenty years a knotof shipbuilders, journalists, seamen, andgunners, contrive to stir up a panic, andto force the nation into a great increaseof its military expenditure. I am notgoing to discuss the truth about theNavy, or whether it be equal or not tothe requirements of the Service. I lookat this in a new way: I take up verydifferent ground. I say that the service,to which we are now called on to makethe navy equal, is a service that we oughtnot to undertake. The requirementsdemanded are wholly incompatible withthe true interests of our nation. Theyare opposed to the real conditions of49civilisation. They will be in a very fewyears, even if they are not now, beyondthe power of this people to meet. Theclaim to a maritime supremacy, in thesense that this country is permanentlyto remain undisputed mistress of allseas, always able and ready to overwhelmany possible combination of anyforeign Powers, this claim in itself is aridiculous anachronism. Whether theBritish fleet is now able to overpowerthe combined fleets of Europe, or evenof several Powers in Europe, I do notknow. Even if it be now able, such isthe progress of events, the ambition ofour neighbors, and the actual conditionsof modern war, that it is physically impossiblethat such a supremacy can bepermanently maintained. To maintainit, even for another generation, wouldinvolve the subjection of England to amilitary tyranny such as exists for themoment in Germany, to a crushing taxationand conscription, of which we havehad no experience. We should have tospend, not twenty-five, but fifty millionsa year on our army and navy if we intendto be really masters in every sea,and to make the entire British empireone continuous Malta and Gibraltar.And even that, or a hundred millionsa year, would not suffice in the future forthe inevitable growth of foreign powersand the constant growth of our own empire.To guarantee the permanent supremacyof the seas, we shall need someBismarck to crush our free people intothe vice of his military autocracy anduniversal conscription.

“Rule Britannia,” or England’s exclusivedominion of the seas, is a temporary(in my opinion, an unfortunate)episode in our history. To brag aboutit and fight for it is the part of a badcitizen; to maintain it would be a crimeagainst the human race. To havefounded, not an empire, but a scatteredcongeries of possessions in all parts ofthe world by conquest, intrigue, orarbitrary seizure, is a blot upon our history;to perpetuate it is a burdensomeinheritance to bequeath to our children.To ask that this inorganic heap of possessionsshall be perpetually extended,made absolutely secure against allcomers, and guarded by a fleet which isalways ready to meet the world in arms—thisis a programme which it is the50duty of every good citizen to stamp out.Whilst this savage policy is in vogue, thevery conditions of national morality, ofpeace, of true industrial civilisation arewanting. The first condition of healthynational progress is to have broken forever with this national buccaneering.The commerce, the property of Englishmenon the seas must protect itself, likethat of other nations, by just, prudent,and civilised bearing, and not by an exclusivedominion which other greatnations do very well without. Thecommerce and the honor of Americansare safe all over the world, though theirnavy is not one-tenth of ours. AndGermany can speak with us face to faceon every ocean, though she can hardlyput a first-rate ship in array of battle.To talk big about refusing to trust thegreatness of England to the sufferanceof her neighbors is mere clap-trap. Itis the phrase of Mexican or Californiandesperadoes when they fill their pocketswith revolvers and bowie-knives. Allbut two or three of the greatest nationsare obliged, at all times, to trust theirexistence to the sufferance of theirstronger neighbors. And they are justas safe, and quite as proud, and morecivilised than their great neighbors inconsequence. Human society, whethernational or international, only beginswhen social morality has taken the placeof individual violence. Society, for menor nations, cannot be based on the revolverand bowie-knife principle.

We repudiate, then, with our wholesouls the code of buccaneer patriotism.True statesmen are bound to check, notto promote, the expansion of England;to provide for the peaceful disintegrationof the heterogeneous empire, thepermanence of which is as incapable ofbeing justified in policy as of beingmaterially defended in arms. Theseaggressions and annexations and protectorates,these wanton wars amongstsavages are at once blunders and crimes,pouring out by millions what goodgovernment and thrift at home save bythousands, degrading the present generationand deeply wronging the next.We want no fleet greater than that ofour greatest neighbors, and the claim toabsolute dominion at sea must be putaway like the claim to the kingdom ofFrance or exclusive right to the British51Channel. We can afford to smile at thecharge that we are degenerate Britonsor wanting in patriotism. Patriotism tous is a deep and working desire for thegood name of England, for the justiceand goodness of her policy, for the realenlightenment and well-being of her sons,and for her front place in humanity andcivilisation. We smile at the vaporingof men to whom patriotism means agood cry, and several extra editions.

It may seem for the moment that doctrinessuch as ours are out of credit, andthat there is little hope of their ever obtainingthe mastery. We are told that to-daynot a voice is raised to oppose thedoctrines of spoliation. It is true that,owing to the hubbub of party politics, tothe servility of the Christian Churches,and the low morality of the press, thesenational acts of rapacity have passed asyet with but small challenge. But atany rate here our voice has neverwavered, nor have considerations ofmen, parties, or majorities led us totemporise with our principles. We speakout plainly—not more plainly than Mr.Gladstone and his followers on platformand in press spoke out once—andwe shall go on to speak out plainly,whether we are many or whether we arefew, whether the opinion of the hour iswith us or not. But I am not despondent.Nor do I doubt the speedy triumphof our stronger morality. I seewith what weather cock rapidity thenoisiest of the Anti-Jingoes can changetheir tone. The tribe of Cleon, and theSausage-seller are the same in every age.I will not believe that the policy of agreat nation can be long dictated byfirms of advertising touts, who will puffthe new soap, a comic singer, and animperial war in the same page; who areequally at home in the partition ofAfrica or a penny dreadful. Nationsare not seriously led by the arts whichmake village bumpkins crowd to theshow of the fat girl and the woolly pig.In the rapid degradation of the press tothe lower American standard we may seean escape from its mischief. The age isone of democracy. We have just takena great stride towards universal suffrageand the government of the people. Inreally republican societies, where powerrests on universal suffrage, as in France,and in America, the power of the press52is reduced to a very low ebb. Thepower of journalism is essentially one oftown life and small balanced parties.Its influence evaporates where poweris held by the millions, and governmentappeals directly to vast massesof voters spread over immense areas.Cleon and the Sausage-seller can do littlewhen republican institutions are firmlyrooted over the length and breadth ofa great country.

The destinies of this nation have nowbeen finally committed to the people, andto the people we will appeal with confidence.The laborer and the workmanhave no interest in these wanton wars.In this imperial expansion, in thisrivalry of traders and brag of arms; notaste for it and no respect for it. Theyfind that they are dragged off to die inwars of which they know nothing; thattheir wages are taxed to support adventureswhich they loathe. The people areby instinct opponents of these crimes,and to them we will appeal. The peoplehave a natural sense of justice and anatural leaning to public morality.Ambition, lucre, restlessness, and vainglorydo not corrupt their minds to approvea financial adventure. They needpeace, productive industry, humanity.Every step towards the true republic isa step towards morality. To the newvoters, to the masses of the people, wewill confidently appeal.

There is, too, another side to thismatter. If these burdens are to bethrust on the national purse, and (shouldthe buccaneers have their way) if thepermanent war expenditure must bedoubled, and little wars at ten andtwenty millions each are inevitable aswell, then in all fairness the classes whomake these wars and profit by them mustpay for them. We have taken a greatstride towards democracy, and two ofthe first taxes with which the newdemocracy will deal are the income-taxand the land-tax. The entire revisionof taxation is growing inevitable. It isa just and sound principle that the mainburden of taxation shall be thrown onthe rich, and we have yet to see how thenew democracy will work out that justprinciple. A graduated income-tax is acertain result of the movement. Thesteady pressure against customs dutiesand the steady decline in habits of drink53ingmust combine to force the taxation ofthe future more and more on income andon land. A rapid rise in the scale oftaxing incomes, until we reach the pointwhere great fortunes cease to be rapidlyaccumulated, would check the wastefulexpenditure on war more than any considerationof justice. Even a Chinamerchant would hardly promote anopium war when he found himself taxedten or twenty per cent. on his income.

One of the first things which will occurto the new rural voters is the ridiculousminimum to which the land-tax is reduced.Mr. Henry George and theschool of land reformers have lately beeninsisting that the land-tax must be immenselyincreased. At present it is afarce, not one-tenth of what is usual inthe nations of Europe. I entirely agreewith them, and am perfectly prepared tosee the land-tax raised till it ultimatelybrings us some ten or even twentymillions, instead of one million. If theresult would be to force a great portionof the soil to change hands, and to passfrom the rent receivers to the occupiers,all the more desirable. But one inevitableresult of the new Reform Act mustbe a great raising of the taxes on land,and when land pays one-fifth of the totaltaxation, our wars will be fewer and ourarmaments more modest.

One of the cardinal facts of our immediategeneration is the sudden revivalof Socialism and Communism. It was notcrushed, as we thought, in 1848; it wasnot extinguished in 1871. The newRepublic in France is uneasy with it.The military autocracy of Germany ishoneycombed with it. Society is almostdissolved by it in Russia. It is rife inAmerica, in Italy, in Denmark, in Austria.Let no man delude himself thatSocialism has no footing here. I tellthem (and I venture to say that I know)Socialism within the last few years hasmade some progress here. It will assuredlymake progress still. With theaspirations and social aims of Socialismwe have much in common, little as weare Communists and firmly as we supportthe institution of private property.But if Socialism is in the ascendant, if54the new democracy is exceedingly likelyto pass through a wave of Socialist tendency,are these the men, and is this theepoch to foster a policy of imperial aggression?With the antipathy felt bySocialists for all forms of national selfishness,with their hatred of war, andtheir noble aspirations after the brotherhoodof races and nations, we as Positivistsare wholly at one. Let us joinhands, then, with Socialists, with Democrats,with Humanitarians, and reformersof every school, who repudiate apolicy of national oppression; and togetherlet us appeal to the new democracyfrom the old plutocracy to arrestour nation in its career of blood, and tolift this guilty burden from the conscienceof our children for ever.

So let us begin the year resolved todo our duty as citizens, fearlessly andhonestly, striving to show our neighborsthat social morality is a real religion initself, by which men can order theirlives and purify their hearts. Let usseek to be gentler as fathers, husbands,comrades, or masters; more dutiful assons and daughters, learners or helpers;more diligent as workers, students, orteachers; more loving and self-denyingas men and as women everywhere. Letus think less about calling on Humanityand more about being humane. Let ustalk less about religion, and try morefully to live religion. We have sufficientlyexplained our principles in words.Let us manifest them in act. I do notknow that more is to be gained by thefurther preaching of our creed—muchless by external profession of our ownconviction. The world will be ours, theday that men see that Positivism in factenables men to live a more pure andsocial life, that it fills us with a desirefor all useful knowledge, stimulates usto help one another and bear with oneanother, makes our homes the brighter,our children the better, our lives thenobler by its presence; and that on thefoundation of order, and in the spirit oflove, and with progress before us as ouraim, we can live for others, live openlybefore all men.—Fortnightly Review.

55

THE POETRY OF TENNYSON.
BY RODEN NOEL.

56

It is perhaps difficult for men of middleage to estimate Tennyson aright.For we who love poetry were broughtup, as it were, at his feet, and he cast themagic of his fascination over our youth.We have gone away, we have travelled inother lands, absorbed in other preoccupations,often revolving problems differentfrom those concerning which we tookcounsel with him; and we hear newvoices, claiming authority, who aver thatour old master has been superseded, thathe has no message for a new generation,that his voice is no longer a talisman ofpower. Then we return to the countryof our early love, and what shall our reportbe? Each one must answer for himself;but my report will be entirely loyalto those early and dear impressions. Iam of those who believe that Tennysonhas still a message for the world. Menbecome impatient with hearing Aristidesso often called just, but is that the faultof Aristides? They are impatient alsowith a reputation, which necessarily iswhat all great reputations must so largelybe—the empty echo of living voicesfrom blank walls. “Now again”—notthe people, but certain critics—“call itbut a weed.” Yet how strange thesefashions in poetry are! I well rememberLord Broughton, Byron’s friend, expressingto me, when I was a boy, hisastonishment that the bust of Tennysonby Woolner should have been thoughtworthy of a place near that of Lord Byronin Trinity College, Cambridge.“Lord Byron was a great poet; but Mr.Tennyson, though he had written prettyverses,” and so on. For one thing, themen of that generation deemed Tennysonterribly obscure. “In Memoriam,”it was held, nobody could possibly understand.The poet, being original, hadto make his own public. Men nurturedon Scott and Byron could not understandhim. Now we hear no more ofhis obscurity. Moreover, he spoke asthe mouthpiece of his own time. Doubts,aspirations, visions unfamiliar to theaging, breathed melodiously throughhim. Again, how contemptuously doBroad-church psychologists like George57Macdonald, and writers for the Spectator,as well as literary persons belongingto what I may term the finikin school,on the other hand, now talk of ourequally great poet Byron. How detestablemust the North be, if the South beso admirable! But while Tennysonspoke to me in youth, Byron spoke tome in boyhood, and I still love both.

Whatever may have to be discountedfrom the popularity of Tennyson on accountof fashion and a well-known name,or on account of his harmony with the(more or less provincial) ideas of the largemajority of Englishmen, his popularityis a fact of real benefit to the public, andhighly creditable to them at the sametime. The establishment of his namein popular favor is but very partiallyaccounted for by the circumstance that,when he won his spurs, he was amongyounger singers the only serious championin the field, since, if I mistake not,he was at one time a less “popular”poet than Mr. Robert Montgomery. Voxpopuli is not always vox Dei, but it maybe so accidentally, and then the peoplereap benefit from their happy blunder.The great poet who won the laurel beforeTennyson has never been “popular”at all, and Tennyson is the onlytrue English poet who has pleased the“public” since Byron, Walter Scott,Tom Moore, and Mrs. Hemans. Buthe had to conquer their suffrages, forhis utterance, whatever he may haveowed to Keats, was original, and hissubstance the outcome of an opulentand profound personality. These wereserious obstacles to success, for he neitherwent “deep” into “the generalheart” like Burns, nor appealed to superficialsentiments in easy languagelike Scott, Moore, and Byron. In hisearliest volume indeed there was a preponderanceof manner over matter; itwas characterized by a certain daintyprettiness of style, that scarcely gavepromise of the high spiritual vision andrich complexity of human insight towhich he has since attained, though itdid manifest a delicate feeling for naturein association with human moods, an58extraordinarily subtle sensibility of allsenses, and a luscious pictorial power.Not Endymion had been more luxuriant.All was steeped in golden languors.There were faults in plenty, and ofcourse the critics, faithful to the instinctsof their kind, were jubilant tonose them. To adapt Coleridge’s funnyverses, not “the Church of St. Geryon,”nor the legendary Rhine, but the “stinksand stenches” of Kölntown do suchoffal-feeders love to enumerate, and distinguish.But the poet in his verses on“Musty Christopher” gave one of thesepeople a Roland for his Oliver. StuartMill, as Mr. Mathews, in his lately publishedand very instructive lecture onTennyson, points out, was the one criticin a million who remembered Pope’sprecept,

Yet it is only natural that the mediocrities,who for a moment keep the doorof Fame, should scrutinize with somewhatjaundiced eye the credentials ofnew aspirants, since every entry addsfresh bitterness to their own exclusion.

But really it is well for us, the poet’select lovers, to remember that he oncehad faults, however few he may nowretain; for the perverse generation whodance not when the poet pipes to them,nor mourn when he weeps, have turnedupon Tennyson with the cry that he “isall fault who has no fault at all”—theywould have us regard him as a kind ofAndrea del Sarto, a “blameless” artistic“monster, “a poet of unimpeachabletechnical skill, but keeping a certaindead level of moderate merit. It is aswell to be reminded that this at allevents is false. The dawn of his youngart was beautiful; but the artist had allthe generous faults of youthful genius—excess,vision confused with gorgeouscolor and predominant sense, too palpableartifice of diction, indistinctnessof articulation in the outline, intricately-wovencross-lights flooding the canvas,defect of living interest; while Coleridgesaid that he began to write poetrywithout an ear for metre. Neither Adeline,Madeline, nor Eleanore are livingportraits, though Eleanore is gorgeouslypainted. “The Ode to Memory” hasisolated images of rare beauty, but it iskaleidoscopic in effect; the fancy is59playing with loose foam-wreaths, ratherthan the imagination “taking things bythe heart.” But our great poet has gonebeyond these. He has himself rejectedtwenty-six out of the fifty-eight poemspublished in his first volume; whilesome of those even in the second havebeen altogether rewritten. Such defectsare eminently present in the lately republishedpoem written in youth, “TheLover’s Tale,” though this too hasbeen altered. As a storehouse of fineimagery, metaphor, and deftly mouldedphrase, of blank verse also whose sonorousrhythm must surely be a fabric ofadult architecture, the piece can hardlybe surpassed; but the tale as tale lingersand lapses, overweighted with the too gorgeoustrappings under which it so laboriouslymoves. And such expression asthe following, though not un-Shakspearian,is hardly quarried from the soundestmaterial in Shakspeare—for, after all,Shakspeare was a euphuist now andthen—

Yet “Mariana” had the virtue, whichthe poet has displayed so pre-eminentlysince, of concentration. Every subtletouch enhances the effect he intends toproduce, that of the desolation of thedeserted woman, whose hope is nearlyextinguished; Nature hammering a freshnail into her coffin with every innocentaspect or movement. Beautiful too are“Love and Death” and “The Poet’sMind;” while in “The Poet” we havethe oft-quoted line: “Dowered with thehate of hate, the scorn of scorn, thelove of love.”

Mr. G. Brimley was the first, I believe,to point out the distinctive peculiarityof Lord Tennyson’s treatment oflandscape. It is treated by him dramatically;that is to say, the details of itare selected so as to be interpretative ofthe particular mood or emotion hewishes to represent. Thus in the twoMarianas, they are painted with theminute distinctness appropriate to themorbid and sickening observation of thelonely woman, whose attention is dis60tractedby no cares, pleasures, or satisfiedaffections. That is a pregnantremark, a key to unlock a good deal ofTennyson’s work with. Byron andShelley, though they are carried out ofthemselves in contemplating Nature, donot, I think, often take her as interpreterof moods alien to their own. InWordsworth’s “Excursion,” it is true,Margaret’s lonely grief is thus delineatedthough the neglect of her garden andthe surroundings of her cottage; yetthis is not so characteristic a note ofhis nature-poetry. In the “Miller’sDaughter” and the “Gardener’s Daughter”the lovers would be little indeedwithout the associated scene so germaneto the incidents narrated, both ascongenial setting of the picture for aspectator, and as vitally fused with theemotion of the lovers; while never wasmore lovely landscape-painting of thegentle order than in the “Gardener’sDaughter.” Lessing, who says thatpoetry ought never to be pictorial,would, I suppose, much object to Tennyson’s;but to me, I confess, thismellow, lucid, luminous word-paintingof his is entirely delightful. It refutesthe criticism that words cannot conveya picture by perfectly conveying it.Solvitur ambulando; the Gardener’sDaughter standing by her rose-bush,“a sight to make an old man young,”remaining in our vision to confound allcrabbed pedants with pet theories.

In his second volume, indeed, thepoet’s art was well mastered, for herewe find the “Lotos-eaters,” “Œnone,”“The Palace of Art,” “A Dream ofFair Women,” the tender “May-Queen,”and the “Lady of Shalott.”Perhaps the first four of these are amongthe very finest works of Tennyson. Inthe mouth of the love-lorn nymphŒnone he places the complaint concerningParis into which there enters somuch delightful picture of the sceneryaround Mount Ida, and of those fairimmortals who came to be judged by thebeardless apple-arbiter. How deliciouslyflows the verse!—though probably itflows still more entrancingly in the “Lotos-eaters,”wandering there like cloudsof fragrant incense, or some slow heavyhoney, or a rare amber unguent pouredout. How wonderfully harmoniouswith the dream-mood of the dreamers61are phrase, image, and measure! Butwe need not quote the lovely choric songwherein occur the lines—

so entirely restful and happy in theirsimplicity. If Art would always blossomso, she might be forgiven if sheblossomed only for her own sake; yetthis controversy regarding Art for Artneed hardly have arisen, since Art maycertainly bloom for her own sake, if onlyshe consent to assimilate in her blooming,and so exhale for her votaries, indue proportion, all elements essential toNature, and Humanity: for in the highestartist all faculties are transfigured intoone supreme organ; while amongforms her form is the most consummate,among fruits her fruit offers the mostsatisfying refreshment. What a delicatelytrue picture have we here—

where we feel also the poet’s remarkablefaculty of making word and rhythm anecho and auxiliary of the sense. Notonly have we the three cæsuras respectivelyafter “fall,” and “pause” and“fall,” but the length, and soft amplitudeof the vowel sounds with liquid consonantsaid in the realization of the picture,reminding of Milton’s beautiful“From morn to noon he fell, from noonto dewy eve, a summer’s day.” Thesame faculty is notable in the rippling liltof the charming little “Brook” song, andindeed everywhere. In the “Dream ofFair Women” we have a series of cabinetportraits, presenting a situation ofhuman interest with a few animatingtouches, but still chiefly through suggestivesurroundings. There occurs themagnificent phrase of Cleopatra: “Wedrank the Lybian sun to sleep, and litlamps which outburned Canopus.” Theforce of expression could be carried nofurther than throughout this poem, andby “expression” of course I do notmean pretty words, or power-words forthere own sweet sake, for these, expressingnothing, whatever else they may be,are not “expression;” but I mean theforcible or felicitous presentment ofthought, image, feeling, or incident,62through pregnant and beautiful languagein harmony with them; though thesubtle and indirect suggestion of languageis unquestionably an element tobe taken into account by poetry. The“Palace of Art” is perhaps equal to theformer poem for lucid splendor of description,in this instance pointing amoral, allegorizing a truth. Scornfulpride, intellectual arrogance, selfishabsorption in æsthetic enjoyment, isimaged forth in this vision of the queen’sworld-reflecting palace, and its varioustreasures—the end being a sense of unendurableisolation, engendering madness,but at last repentance, and reconcilementwith the scouted commonaltyof mankind.

The dominant note of Tennyson’spoetry is assuredly the delineation ofhuman moods modulated by Nature,and through a system of Nature-symbolism.Thus, in “Elaine,” when Lancelothas sent a courtier to the queen, askingher to grant him audience, that he maypresent the diamonds won for her intourney, she receives the messenger withunmoved dignity; but he, bending lowand reverently before her, saw “with asidelong eye”

The “Morte d’Arthur” affords a strikinginstance of this peculiarly Tennysonianmethod. That is another ofthe very finest pieces. Such poetry maysuggest labor, but not more than doesthe poetry of Virgil or Milton. Everyword is the right word, and each in theright place. Sir H. Taylor indeedwarns poets against “wanting to makeevery word beautiful.” And yet here itmust be owned that the result of such aneffort is successful, so delicate has becomethe artistic tact of this poet in hismaturity.1 For, good expression being63the happy adaptation of language tomeaning, it follows that sometimes goodexpression will be perfectly simple, evenordinary in character, and sometimes itwill be ornate, elaborate, dignified. Hewho can thus vary his language is thebest verbal artist, and Tennyson canthus vary it. In this poem, the “Morted’Arthur,” too, we have “deep-chestedmusic.” Except in some of Wordsworthand Shelley, or in the magnificent“Hyperion” of Keats, we havehad no such stately, sonorous organ-musicin English verse since Milton asin this poem, or in “Tithonus,” “Ulysses,”“Lucretius,” and “Guinevere.”From the majestic overture,

onward to the end, the same high elevationis maintained.

But this very picturesqueness of treatmenthas been urged against Tennysonas a fault in his narrative pieces generally,from its alleged over-luxuriance,and tendency to absorb, rather thanenhance, the higher human interest ofcharacter and action. However this be(and I think it is an objection that doesapply, for instance, to “The Princess”),here in this poem picturesqueness mustbe counted as a merit, because congenialto the semi-mythical, ideal, and parabolicnature of Arthurian legend, full ofportent and supernatural suggestion.Such Ossianic hero-forms are nearly asmuch akin to the elements as to man.And the same answer holds largely inthe case of the other Arthurian Idylls.It has been noted how well-chosen isthe epithet “water” applied to a lake inthe lines, “On one side lay the ocean,and on one Lay a great water, and themoon was full.” Why is this so happy?For as a rule the concrete rather thanthe abstract is poetical, because theformer brings with it an image, and theformer involves no vision. But now inthe night all Sir Bedevere could observe,or care to observe, was that there was“some great water.” We do not—hedid not—want to know exactly what itwas. Other thoughts, other cares, preoccupyhim and us. Again, of dyingArthur we are told that “all his greavesand caisses were dashed with drops ofonset.” “Onset” is a very generic64term, poetic because removed from allvulgar associations of common parlance,and vaguely suggestive not only of war’spomp and circumstance, but of highdeeds also, and heroic hearts, since onsetbelongs to mettle and daring; theword for vast and shadowy connotationis akin to Milton’s grand abstraction,“Far off His coming shone” or Shelley’s,“Where the Earthquake Demontaught her young Ruin.”

It has been noted also how cunninglyTennyson can gild and furbish up themost commonplace detail—as when hecalls Arthur’s mustache “the knightlygrowth that fringed his lips,” or condescendsto glorify a pigeon-pie, orpaints the clown’s astonishment by thisdetail, “the brawny spearman let hischeek Bulge with the unswallowed piece,and turning stared;” or thus characterizesa pun, “and took the word, andplay’d upon it, and made it of two colors.”This kind of ingenuity, indeed,belongs rather to talent than to genius;it is exercised in cold blood; but talentmay be a valuable auxiliary of genius,perfecting skill in the technical departmentsof art. Yet such a gift is notwithout danger to the possessor. It maytempt him to make his work too muchlike a delicate mosaic of costly stone,too hard and unblended, from excessiveelaboration of detail. One may evenprefer to art thus highly wrought a moreglowing and careless strain, that lifts usoff our feet, and carries us away as on amore rapid, if more turbid torrent ofinspiration, such as we find in Byron,Shelley, or Victor Hugo. Here youare compelled to pause at every step,and admire the design of the costly tesselatedpavement under your feet. Perhapsthere is a jewelled glitter, a Pre-Raphaeliteor Japanese minuteness offinish here and there in Tennyson, thattakes away from the feeling of aërialperspective and remote distance, leavinglittle to the imagination; not suggestingand whetting the appetite, but rathersatiating it; his loving observation ofminute particulars is so faithful, hisknowledge of what others, even men ofscience, have observed so accurate, hisfancy so nimble in the detection of similitudes.But every master has his ownmanner, and his reverent disciples wouldbe sorry if he could be without it. We65love the little idiosyncracies of ourfriends.

I have said the objection in questiondoes seem to lie against “The Princess.”It contains some of the most beautifulpoetic pearls the poet has ever dropped;but the manner appears rather disproportionateto the matter, at least to thesubject as he has chosen to regard it.For it is regarded by him only semi-seriously;so lightly and sportively is thewhole topic viewed at the outset, thatthe effect is almost that of burlesque;yet there is a very serious conclusion,and a very weighty moral is drawn fromthe story, the workmanship being laboredto a degree, and almost encumbered withornamentation. But the poet himselfadmits the ingrained incongruity of thepoem. The fine comparison of thePrincess Ida in the battle to a beaconglaring ruin over raging seas, for instance,seems too grand for the occasion.How differently, and in whatburning earnest has a great poet-woman,Mrs. Browning, treated this grave modernquestion of the civil and politicalposition of women in “Aurora Leigh!”Tennyson’s is essentially a man’s view,and the frequent talk about women’sbeauty must be very aggravating to the“Blues.” It is this poem especiallythat gives people with a limited knowledgeof Tennyson the idea of a “pretty”poet; the prettiness, though very genuine,seems to play too patronizingly witha momentous theme. The Princess herself,and the other figures are indeeddramatically realized, but the splendorof invention, and the dainty detail,rather dazzle the eye away from theirhumanity. Here, however, are some ofthe loveliest songs that this poet, oneof our supreme lyrists, ever sung:“Tears, idle tears!” “The splendorfalls,” “Sweet and low,” “Home theybrought,” “Ask me no more,” and theexquisite melody, “For Love is of thevalley.” Moreover, the grand linestoward the close are full of wisdom—

I feel myself a somewhat similar incongruityin the poet’s treatment of hismore homely, modern, half-humorousthemes, such as the introduction to the“Morte d’Arthur,” and66 “Will Waterproof;”not at all in the humorouspoems, like the “Northern Farmer,”which are all of a piece, and perfect intheir own vein. In this introduction wehave “The host and I sat round thewassail bowl, then half-way ebb’d;”but this metaphorical style is not (fortunately)sustained, and so, as good luckwould have it, a metaphor not beingready to hand, we have the honester andhomelier line, “Till I tired out withcutting eights that day upon the pond;”yet this homespun hardly agrees withthe above stage-king’s costume. Andso again I often venture to wish that thePoet-Laureate would not say “flowed”when he only means “said.” Still,this may be hypercriticism. For I didnot personally agree with the critic whoobjected to Enoch Arden’s fish-basketbeing called “ocean-smelling osier.”There is no doubt, however, that“Stokes, and Nokes, and Vokes” haveexaggerated the poet’s manner, till the“murex fished up” by Keats and Tennysonhas become one universal flare ofpurple. Beautiful as some of Mr. Rossetti’swork is, his expression in thesonnets surely became obscure fromover-involution, and excessive fioritureof diction. But then Rossetti’s style isno doubt formed considerably upon thatof the Italian poets. One is glad, however,that, this time, at all events, theright man has “got the porridge!”

In connection with “Morte d’Arthur,”I may draw attention again toLord Tennyson’s singular skill in producinga rhythmical response to thesense.

Here the anapest instead of the iambicin the last place happily imitates thesword Excalibur’s own gyration in theair. Then what admirable wisdom doesthe legend, opening out into parable,disclose toward the end! When SirBedevere laments the passing away ofthe Round Table, and Arthur’s noblepeerage, gone down in doubt, distrust,treachery, and blood, after that lastgreat battle in the West, when, amid thedeath-white mist, “confusion fell evenupon Arthur,” and “friend slew friend,now knowing whom he slew,” how67grandly comes the answer of Arthurfrom the mystic barge, that bears himfrom the visible world to “some farisland valley of Avilion,” “The oldorder changeth, yielding place to new,and God fulfils Himself in many ways,Lest one good custom should corruptthe world!” The new commencementof this poem, called in the idyls “ThePassing of Arthur,” is well worthy ofthe conclusion. How weirdly expressiveis that last battle in the mist ofthose hours of spiritual perplexity, whichovercloud even strongest natures andfirmest faith, overshadowing whole communities,when we know not friend fromfoe, the holiest hope seems doomed todisappointment, all the great aim andwork of life have failed; even loyaltyto the highest is no more; the fair politybuilt laboriously by some god-likespirit dissolves, and “all his realm reelsback into the beast;” while men “fallingdown in death” look up to heavenonly to find cloud, and the great-voicedocean, as it were Destiny without loveand without mind, with voice of days ofold and days to be, shakes the world,wastes the narrow kingdom, yea, beatsupon the faces of our dead! Theworld-sorrow pierces here through thestrain of a poet usually calm and contented.Yet “Arthur shall come again,aye, twice as fair;” for the spirit ofman is young immortally.

Who, moreover, has moulded for usphrases of more transcendent dignity,of more felicitous grace and import,phrases, epithets, and lines that havealready become memorable householdwords? More magnificent expression Icannot conceive than that of such poemsas “Lucretius,” “Tithonus,” “Ulysses.”These all for versification, language,luminous picture, harmony ofstructure have never been surpassed.What pregnant brevity, weight, and majestyof expression in the lines where Lucretiuscharacterizes the death of hisnamesake Lucretia, ending “and fromit sprang the commonwealth, whichbreaks, as I am breaking now!” Whatmasterly power in poetically embodyinga materialistic philosophy, congenial tomodern science, yet in absolute dramatickeeping with the actual thought of theRoman poet! And at the same time,what tremendous grasp of the terrible68conflict of passion with reason, twonatures in one, significant for all epochs!In “Tithonus” and “Ulysses” wefind embodiments in high-born verseand illustrious phrase of ideal moods,adventurous peril-affronting Enterprisecontemptuously tolerant of tame householdvirtues in “Ulysses,” and the baneof a burdensome immortality, becomeincapable even of love, in “Tithonus.”Any personification more exquisite thanthat of Aurora in the latter were inconceivable.

M. Taine, in his Litterature Anglaise,represents Tennyson as an idyllic poet(a charming one), comfortably settledamong his rhododendrons on an Englishlawn, and viewing the world through thesomewhat insular medium of a prosperous,domestic and virtuous member ofthe English comfortable classes, as alsoof a man of letters who has fully succeeded.Again, either M. Taine, M.Scherer, or some other writer in the Revuedes deux Mondes, pictures him, likehis own Lady of Shalott, viewing life notas it really is, but reflected in the magicmirror of his own recluse fantasy. Now,whatever measure of truth there mayformerly have been in such conceptions,they have assuredly now proved quiteone-sided and inadequate. We have onlyto remember “Maud,” the stormier poemsof the “Idylls,” “Lucretius,” “Rizpah,”the “Vision of Sin.” The recentpoem “Rizpah” perhaps marks thehigh-water mark of the Laureate’s genius,and proves henceforward beyondall dispute his wide range, his commandover the deeper-toned and stormierthemes of human music, as well as overthe gentler and more serene. It provesalso that the venerable master’s handhas not lost its cunning, rather that hehas been even growing until now, havingbecome more profoundly sympatheticwith the world of action, and the commongrowth of human sorrows. “Rizpah”is certainly one of the strongest,most intensely felt, and graphically realizeddramatic poems in the language;its pathos is almost overwhelming.There is nothing more tragic in Œdipus,Antigone, or Lear. And what astrong Saxon homespun language hasthe veteran poet found for these terriblelamentations of half-demented agony,69“My Baby! the bones that had suckedme, the bones that had laughed and hadcried, Theirs! O no! They are minenot theirs—they had moved in my side.”Then the heart-gripping phrase breakingforth ever and anon in the imaginativemetaphorical utterance of wild emotion,to which the sons and daughters of thepeople are often moved, eloquent beyondall eloquence, white-hot from theheart! “Dust to dust low down! let ushide! but they set him so high, that allthe ships of the world could stare athim passing by.” In this last book ofballads the style bears the same relationto the earlier and daintier that the styleof “Samson Agonistes” bears to that of“Comus.” “The Revenge” is equallymasculine, simple, and sinewy in appropriatestrength of expression, a mostspirited rendering of a heroic naval action—worthyof a place, as is alsothe grand ode on the death of Wellington,beside the war odes of Campbell,the “Agincourt” of Drayton, and the“Rule Britannia” of Thomson. Theirregular metre of the “Ballad of theFleet” is most remarkable as a vehicleof the sense, resonant with din of battle,full-voiced with rising and burstingstorm toward the close, like the equallyspirited concluding scenes of “Harold,”that depict the battle of Senlac. Thedramatic characterizations in “Harold”and “Queen Mary” are excellent—Mary,Harold, the Conqueror, the Confessor,Pole, Edith, Stigand, and othersubordinate sketches, being striking andsuccessful portraits; while “Harold”is full also of incident and action—areally memorable modern play; but themain motive of “Queen Mary” fails intragic dignity and interest, though thereis about it a certain grim subdued pathos,as of still life, and there are somenotable scenes. Tennyson is admirablydramatic in the portrayal of individualmoods, of men or women in certain givensituations. His plays are fine, and ofreal historic interest, but not nearly soremarkable as the dramatic poems I havenamed, as the earlier “St. Simeon Stylites,”“Ulysses,” “Tithonus,” or asthe “Northern Farmer,” “Cobblers,”and “Village Wife,” among his laterworks. These last are perfectly marvellousin their fidelity and humorous photographicrealism. That the poet of“Œnone,” “The Lotus-eaters,” and70the Arthur cycle should have done thesealso is wonderful. The humor of themis delightful, and the rough homely dictionperfect. One wishes indeed thatthe “dramatic fragments” collected byLamb, like gold-dust out of the ratherdreary sand-expanse of Elizabethanplaywrights, were so little fragmentaryas these. Tennyson’s short dramaticpoems are quintessential; in a briefglimpse he contrives to reveal the wholeman or woman. You would know theold “Northern Farmer,” with his reproachto “God Amoighty” for not“letting him aloan,” and the odiousfarmer of the new style, with his “Proputty!Proputty!” wherever you metthem. But “Dora,” the “Grand-mother,”“Lady Clare,” “EdwardGray,” “Lord of Burleigh,” had longsince proved that Tennyson had morethan one style at command; that hewas master not only of a flamboyant, aCorinthian, but also of a sweet, simple,limpid English, worthy of Goldsmith orCowper at their best.

Reverting, however, to the questionof Tennyson’s ability to fathom thedarker recesses of our nature, what shallbe said of the “Vision of Sin?” Formyself I can only avow that, whenever Iread it, I feel as if some horrible grayfungus of the grave were growing overmy heart, and over all the world aroundme. As for passion, I know few moreprofoundly passionate poems than“Love and Duty.” It paints with glowingconcentrated power the conflict ofduty with yearning passionate love,stronger than death. The “Sisters,”and “Fatima,” too, are fiercely passionate,as also is “Maud.” I should besurprised to hear that a lover could read“Maud,” and not feel the spring andmid-noon of passionate affection in it tothe very core of him, so profoundly feltand gloriously expressed is it by thepoet. Much of its power, again, is derivedfrom that peculiarly Tennysonianability to make Nature herself reflect,redouble, and interpret the human feeling.That is the power also of suchsupreme lyrics as “Break, break!”and “In the Valley of Cauterets;” ofsuch chaste and consummate renderingof a noble woman’s self-sacrifice as“Godiva,” wherein “shameless gargoyles”stare, but71 “the still air scarcelybreathes for fear;” and likewise of“Come into the garden, Maud,” an invocationthat palpitates with rapture ofyoung love, in which the sweet choir offlowers bear their part, and sing antiphony.The same feeling pervadesthe delicious passage commencing, “Isthat enchanted moon?” and “Go not,happy day.” All this may be whatMr. Ruskin condemns as “pathetic”fallacy, but it is inevitable and right.For “in our life doth nature live, oursis her wedding garment, ours hershroud.” The same Divine Spirit pervadesman and nature; she, like ourselves,has her transient moods, as wellas her tranquil immovable deeps. Inher, too, is a passing as well as an eternal,while we apprehend either accordingto our own capacity, together withthe emotional bias that dominates usat the moment. The vital and permanentin us holds the vital and permanentin her, while the temporary in us mirrorsthe transitory in her. I cannotthink indeed that the more troubledand jarring moods of disharmony andfury are touched with quite the samedegree of mastery in “Maud” as arethe sunnier and happier. Tennysonhitherto had basked by preference inthe brighter regions of his art, and theturbid Byronic vein appeared rather unexpectedlyin him. The tame, sleek,daintily-feeding gourmêts of criticismyelped indeed their displeasure at these“hysterics,” as they termed the “Sturmund Drang” elements that appeared in“Maud,” especially since the poetdared appropriately to body these forthin somewhat harsh, abrupt language, andirregular metres. Such elements, intruth, hardly seemed so congenial tohim as to Byron or Hugo. Yet theywere welcome, as proving that our chiefpoet was not altogether irresponsive tothe terrible social problems around him,to the corruptions, and ever-festeringvices of the body politic, to the doubt,denial, and grim symptoms of upheavalat his very doors. For on the wholesome of us had felt that the Poet-Laureatewas almost too well contented withthe general framework of things, withthe prescriptive rights of long-unchallengedrule, and hoar comfortable custom,especially in England, as thoughthese were in very deed divine, and no72subterranean thunder were ever heard,even in this favored isle, threateningChurch and State, and the very fabric ofsociety. But the temper of his class andtime spoke through him. Did not allmen rejoice greatly when Prince Albertopened the Exhibition of 1851; whenCobden and the Manchester school wonthe battle of free-trade; when steam-enginesand the electric telegraph wereinvented; when Wordsworth’s “glorioustime” came, and the Revised Codepassed into law; when science first toldher enchanting fairy tales? Yet the Millenniumtarries, and there is an exceeding“bitter cry.”

But in “Maud,” as indeed before inthat fine sonorous chaunt, “LocksleyHall,” and later in “Aylmer’s Field,”the poet’s emphasis of appreciation is certainlyreserved for the heroes, men whohave inherited a strain of gloom, or ancestraldisharmony moral and physical,within whom the morbific social humorsbreak forth inevitably into plague-spots;the injustice and irony of circumstancelash them into revolt, wrath, and madness.Mr. R. H. Hutton, a critic who oftenwrites with ability, but who seems tofind a little difficulty in stepping outsidethe circle of his perhaps ratherrigid misconceptions and predilections,makes the surely somewhat strange remarkthat “‘Maud’ was written to reprobatehysterics.” But I fear—nay, Ihope and believe—that we cannot creditthe poet with any such virtuous or didacticintention in the present instance,though of course the pregnant lines beginning“Of old sat Freedom on theheights,” the royal verses, the recentplay so forcibly objected to by LordQueensberry, together with various allusionsto the “red fool-fury of theSeine,” and “blind hysterics of theCelt,” do indicate a very Conservativeand law-abiding attitude. But otherlines prove that after all what he mostlydeprecates is “the falsehood of extremes,”the blind and hasty plunge intomeasures of mere destruction; for hepraises the statesmen who “take occasionby the hand,” and make “thebounds of freedom wider yet,” andeven gracefully anticipates “the goldenyear.”

The same principle on which I havethroughout insisted as the key to most73of Tennyson’s best poetry is the keyalso to the moving tale “Enoch Arden,”where the tropical island around thesolitary shipwrecked mariner is gorgeouslydepicted, the picture being as full-Venetian,and resplendent in color, asthose of the “Day-Dream” and “ArabianNights.” But the conclusion ofthe tale is profoundly moving and pathetic,and relates a noble act of self-renouncement.Parts of “Aylmer’sField,” too, are powerful.

And now we come to the “Idylls,”around which no little critical controversyhas raged. It has been chargedagainst them that they are more picturesque,scenic, and daintily-wrought thanhuman in their interest. But thoughassuredly the poet’s love for the picturesqueis in this noble epic—for epic theIdylls in their completed state may beaccounted—amply indulged, I think itis seldom to the detriment of the humaninterest, and the remark I made aboutone of them, the “Morte d’Arthur,”really applies to all. The Arthur cycleis not historical, as “Harold” or“Queen Mary” is, where the style isoften simple almost to baldness; thewhole of it belongs to the reign of myth,legend, fairy story, and parable. Ornament,image, and picture are as muchappropriate here as in Spenser’s “FairyQueen,” of which indeed Tennyson’spoem often reminds me. But “thelight that never was on sea or land, theconsecration and the poet’s dream,” area new revelation, made peculiarly inmodern poetry, of true spiritual insight.And this not only throws fresh illuminatinglight into nature, but deepens alsoand enlarges our comprehension of man.If nature be known for a symbol andembodiment of the soul’s life, by meansof their analogies in nature the humanheart and mind may be more profoundlyunderstood; while human emotions wina double clearness, or an added sorrow,from their fellowship and associationwith outward scenes. Nature can onlybe fathomed through her consanguinitywith our own desires, aspirations, andfears, while these again become definedand articulate by means of her relatedappearances. A poet, then, who is sensitiveto such analogies confers a two-foldbenefit upon us.

I cannot at all assent to the criticism74passed upon the Idylls by Mr. JohnMorley, who has indeed, as it appearsto me, somewhat imperilled his criticalreputation by the observation that theyare “such little pictures as might adorna lady’s school.” When we think of“Guinevere,” “Vivien,” the “HolyGrail,” the “Passing of Arthur,” thisdictum seems to lack point and penetration.Indeed, had it proceeded only fromsome rhyming criticaster, alternatingwith the feeble puncture of his sting theworrying iteration of his own dolefuldrone, it might have been passed overas simply an impertinence.2 But whilethe poem is in part purely a fairy romancetinctured with humanity, Tennysonhas certainly intended to treat thesubject in part also as a grave spiritualparable. Arthur, Guinevere, Lancelot,Elaine, Galahad, Vivien, are types, graciousor hateful. My own feeling, therefore,would rather be that there is toomuch human nature in the Idylls, thanthat there is too little; or at any ratethat, while Arthur remains a mightyShadow, whose coming and going areattended with supernatural portents, aworthy symbol of the Spirit of divinehumanity, Vivien, for instance, is a tooreal and unlovely harlot, too gross andveritably breathing, to be in proportionateharmony with the general design.Lancelot and Guinevere, again, beingfar fuller of life and color than Arthur,the situation between these three, as invented,or at least as recast from the oldlegends in his own fashion by the poet,does not seem artistically felicitous, ifregarded as a representation of an actualoccurrence in human life. But so vividand human are many of the stories thatwe can hardly fail so to regard them.And if the common facts of life are madethe vehicle of a parable, they must notbe distorted. It is chiefly, I think, becauseArthur and Merlin are only seen,as it were, through the luminous hazeappropriate to romance and myth, thatthe main motive of the epic, the loves ofLancelot and Guinevere, appears scarcelystrong enough to bear the weight ofmomentous consequence imposed on it,75which is no less than the retributive ruinof Arthur’s commonwealth. Now, ifArt elects to appeal to ethical instinct,as great, human, undegraded Art continuallymust, she is even more bound,in pursuance of her own proper end, tosatisfy the demand for moral beauty,than to gratify the taste for beauty intellectualor æsthetic. And of course,while you might flatter a poetaster, youwould only insult a poet by refusing toconsider what he says, and only professinga concern for how he says it. Thereforeif the poet choose to lay all theblame of the dissolution and failure ofArthur’s polity upon the illicit loves ofLancelot and Guinevere, it seems to methat he committed a serious error in hisinvention of the early circumstances oftheir meeting; nothing of the kind beingdiscoverable either in Mallory, orthe old chronicle of Merlin. Greatstress, no doubt, is laid by Sir ThomasMallory on this illicit love as the fruitfulsource of much calamity; but thenMallory relates that Arthur had met andloved Guinevere long before he askedfor her in marriage; whereas, accordingto Tennyson, he sent Lancelot to meetthe betrothed maiden, and she, neverhaving seen Arthur, loved Lancelot, asLancelot Guinevere, at first sight. Thatcircumstance, gratuitously invented,surely makes the degree of the lovers’guilt a problem somewhat needlesslydifficult to determine, if it was intendedto brand their guilt as heinous enoughto deserve the ruin of a realm, and thefailure of Arthur’s humane life-purpose.Guinevere, seeing Lancelot before Arthur,and recognizing in him (as thesweet and pure Elaine, remember, didafter her), the type of all that is nobleand knightly in man, loves the messenger,and continues to love him after shehas met her destined husband, whomshe judges (and the reader of the Idyllscan hardly fail to coincide with her judgment)somewhat cold, colorless, andaloof, however impeccable and grave; akind of moral phantom, or imaginativesymbol of the conscience, whom Guinevere,as typifying the human soul, oughtindeed to love best (“not Lancelot, noranother”), but whom, as a particularliving man, Arthur, one quite fails to seewhy Guinevere, a living woman with herown idiosyncracies, should be bound to76love rather than Lancelot. For if Guinevere,as woman, ought to love “thehighest” man “when she sees him,” itdoes not appear why that obligationshould not equally bind all the womenof her Court also! If the whole burdenof the catastrophe was to be laid uponthe conception of a punishment deservedby the great guilt of particular persons,that guilt ought certainly to have beenso described as to appear heinous andinexcusable to all beyond question.The story need not have been thus moralized;but the Poet-Laureate chose toemphasize the breach of a definite moralobligation as unpardonable, and pregnantwith evil issues. That being so, Isubmit that the moral sense is left hesitatingand bewildered, rather than satisfiedand acquiescent, which interfereswith a thorough enjoyment of the workeven as art. The sacrament of marriageis high and holy; yet we feel disposedto demand whether here it may not berather the letter and mere conventionthan the spirit of constant affection andtrue marriage that is magnified. And ifso, though popularity with the Englishpublic may be secured by this vindicationof their domestic ideal, higher interestsare hardly so well subserved.Doubtless the treachery to husband andfriend on the part of the lovers wasblack and detestable. Doubtless theirindulged love was far from innocent.But then why invent so complicated aproblem, and yet write as if it were perfectlysimple and easy of solution?What I complain of is, that this lovehas a certain air of grievous fatality andexcuse about it, while yet the poettreats it as mere unmitigated guilt, fullyjustifying all the disaster entailed thereby,not only on the sinners themselves,but on the State, and the cause of humanwelfare. Nor can we feel quitesure, as the subject is here envisaged,that, justice apart, it is quite accordingto probability for the knowledge of thisconstant illicit affection to engender auniversal infidelity of the Round TableKnights to vows which not only theirlips, as in the case of Guinevere, butalso their hearts have sworn; infidelityto their own true affection, and disloyaltyto their own genuine aspiration afterthe fulfilment of chivalrous duty inchampioning the oppressed—all because77a rich-natured woman like Guinevereproves faithful to her affection for arich kindred humanity in Lancelot!How this comes about is at any rate notsufficiently explained in the poet’s narrative;and if so, he must be held tohave failed both as artist and as ethicalteacher, which in these Idylls he hascertainly aspired to be. Then comesthe further question, not altogether aneasy one to answer, whether it is reallytrue that even widespread sexual excessinevitably entails deterioration in otherrespects, a lowered standard of integrityand honor? The chivalry of theMiddle Ages was sans peur, but seldomsans reproche. History, on being interrogated,gives an answer ambiguous as aGreek oracle. Was England, for instance,less great under the Regencythan under Cromwell? But at allevents, the old legends make the processof disintegration in Arthur’s kingdommuch clearer than it is made by Tennyson.In Mallory, for instance, Arthuris by no means the sinless being depictedby Tennyson. Rightly or wrongly,he is resolved to punish Guinevere forher infidelity by burning, and Lancelotis equally resolved to rescue her, whichaccordingly he does from the very stake,carrying her off with him to his castle ofJoyous Gard. Then Arthur and SirGawain make war upon him; and thus,the great knightly heads of the RoundTable at variance; the fellowship isinevitably dissolved, for Modred takesadvantage of their dissension to seizeupon the throne. But in the old legends,who is Modred? The son of Arthurand his sister. According to them, assuredlythe origin of the doom or curseupon the kingdom is the unwitting incest,yet deliberate adultery of Arthur, orperhaps the still earlier and deeply-dyedsin of his father, Uther. Yet, Mr. Swinburne’scontention, that Lord Tennysonshould have emphasized the sin ofArthur as responsible for the doom thatcame upon himself and his kingdom, althoughplausible, appears to me hardlyto meet all the exigencies of the case.Mr. Hutton says in reply that then thesupernatural elements of the story couldhave found no place in the poem; nostrange portents could have been describedas accompanying the birth anddeath of Arthur. A Greek tragedian,78he adds, would never have dreamt ofsurrounding Œdipus with such portents.But surely the latter remark demonstratesthe unsoundness of the former.Has Mr. Hutton forgotten what is perhapsone of the sublimest scenes in anyliterature, the supernatural passing ofthis very deeply-dyed sinner Œdipus tohis divine repose at Colonos, in thegrove of those very ladies of divinevengeance, by whose awful ministry hehad been at length assoiled of sin? themysterious stairs; Antigone and Ismeneexpectant above; he “shading his eyesbefore a sight intolerable;” after drinkingto the dregs the cup of sin and sorrow,rapt from the world, even he, tobe tutelary deity of that land? NeitherElijah nor Moses was a sinless man;yet Moses, after enduring righteous punishment,was not, for God took him,and angels buried him; it was he wholed Israel out of Egypt, communed withJehovah on Sinai; he appeared withJesus on the Mount of Transfiguration.But I would suggest that the poet mighthave represented suffering and disappointment,not as penalty apportionedto particular transgressions, rather asintegral elements in that mysterious destinywhich determines the lot of man inhis present condition of defect, moral,physical, and intellectual, involved inhis “Hamartia,” or failure to realizethat fulness of being which yet ideallybelongs to him as divine. Both theseideas—the idea of Doom or destiny, andthat of Nemesis on account of voluntarytransgression—are alike present in dueequipoise in the great conceptions ofGreek drama, as Mr. J. A. Symondshas conclusively proved in his brilliant,philosophic and poetic work on theGreek poetry, against the more one-sidedcontention of Schlegel. I feelthroughout Shakspeare this same ideaof mystic inevitable destiny dominatingthe lives of men: you may call it, if youplease, the will of God. Yet if it doomsus to error, ignorance, and crime, at allevents this will cannot resemble the willsof men as they appear to us now.Othello expiates his foolish credulity,and jealous readiness to suspect her whohad given him no cause to doubt herlove. But there was the old fool Brabantio,and the devil Iago; there werehis race, his temperament, his circum79stancesin general, and the circumstancesof the hour,—all these were toils wovenabout him by Fate. Now, if the idea ofDestiny be the more accentuated (and atragedian surely should make us feelboth this, and the free-will of man),then, as it seems to me, in the interestsof Art, which loves life and harmony,not pure pain, loss, discord, or negation,there ought to be a purifying oridealizing process manifest in the ordealto which the victims are subjected, ifnot for the protagonists, at all events forsome of those concerned in the action.We must at least be permitted to beholdthe spectacle of constancy and fortitude,or devotion, as we do in Desdemona,Cordelia, Antigone, Iphigenia, Romeoand Juliet. But the ethical element offree-will is almost exclusively accentuatedby Tennyson; and in such a casewe desire to be fully persuaded that the“poetical justice” dealt out by the poetis really and radically justice, not a mereprovincial or conventional semblancethereof.

Yet if you confine your attention tothe individual Idylls themselves, theyare undoubtedly most beautiful modelsof sinewy strength, touched to consummategrace. There can be nothing moreexquisite than the tender flower-like humanityof dear Elaine, nor more perfectin pathetic dignity than the Idyll ofGuinevere. Vivien is very powerful;but, as I said, the courtesan appears tome too coarsely and graphically realizedfor perfect keeping with the general toneof this faëry epic. The “Holy Grail”is a wonderful creation in the realm ofthe supernatural; all instinct with highspiritual significance, though some of theinvention in this, as in the other Idylls,belongs to Sir Thomas Mallory. Theadventures of the knights, notably ofGalahad, Percivale, and Lancelot, in theirquest for the Grail, are splendidly described.What, again, can be nobler thanthe parting of Arthur and Guinevere atAlmesbury, where the King forgives andblesses her, she grovelling repentant beforehim, the gleaming “dragon of thegreat Pendragonship” making a vaporoushalo in the night, as Arthur leavesher, “moving ghost-like to his doom?”Here the scenic element blends incorporatewith the human, but assuredlydoes not overpower it, as has been pre80tended.Then how excellent dramaticallyare the subordinate figures of thelittle nun at Almesbury, and the rusticold monk, with whom Percivale conversesin the Holy Grail; while, if wewere to notice such similes (Homeric intheir elaboration, though modern intheir minute fidelity to nature) as that inEnid, which concerns the man startlingthe fish in clear water by holding up “ashining hand against the sun,” or thehappy comparison of standing muscle onan arm to a brook “running too vehemently”over a stone “to break uponit,” our task would be interminable.The Arthur Idylls are full too of elevatingexemplars for the conduct of life, ofsuch chivalrous traits as courage, generosity,courtesy, forbearance, consecration,devotion of life for loyalty andlove, service of the weak and oppressed;abounding also with excellent gnomicsayings inculcating these virtues. Whatadmirable and delightful ladies are Enid,Elaine, Guinevere! Of the Laureate’slonger works, this poem and “In Memoriam”are his greatest, though bothof these are composed of many briefsong-flights.

It may not be unprofitable to inquirewhat idea Tennyson probably intendedto symbolize by the “Holy Grail,” andthe quest for it. Is it that of mere supernaturalportent? Certainly not.The whole treatment suggests far more.I used to think it signified the mysticalblood of Christ, the spirit of self-devotion,or, as Mallory defines it, “the secretof Jesus.” But it scarcely seemspossible that Tennyson means preciselythat, for then his ideal man Arthurwould not discourage the quest. Doesit not rather stand for that secret of thehigher life as sought in any form of supernaturalreligion, involving acts ofworship or asceticism, and religious contemplation?Yet Arthur deprecates notthe religious life as such—rather thatlife in so far as it is not the auxiliary ofhuman service. It is while pursuing thequest that Percivale (in the “HolyGrail”) finds all common life, even themost sacred relations of it, as well as themost ordinary and vulgar, turn to dustwhen he touches them; and to a religiousfanatic that is indeed the issue—thislife is less than dust to him; he existsfor the future and81 “supernatural”only; his soul is already in another regionthan this homely work-a-day worldof ours; and because it is another, heis only too ready to think it must behigher. What to him are our politics,our bewilderments, our fair humanities,our art and science, or schemes of socialamelioration? Less than nothing. Whathe has to do is to save first his own soul,and then some few souls of others, if hecan. But while, as Arthur himself complained,such an one waits for the beatificvision, or follows “wandering fires”of superstition, how often, for men withstrength to right the wronged, will “thechance of noble deeds come and go unchallenged!”Arthur even dares to callthe Holy Grail “a sign to maim this orderwhich I made.” “Many of you,yea most, return no more.” But, as theQueen laments, “this madness has comeon us for our sins.” Percivale turnsmonk, Galahad passes away to the spiritualcity, Sir Bors meets Lancelot ridingmadly all abroad, and shouting, “Stayme not; I have been the sluggard, andI ride apace, for now there is a lion inthe path!” Lancelot rides on the questin order that, through the vision of theGrail, the sin of which his conscienceaccuses him may be rooted out of hisheart. And so it was partly the sin—theinfidelity to their vows—that hadcrept in amongst the knights, whichdrove the best of them to expiation, toreligious fervors, whereby their sinmight be purged, thus completing thedisintegration of that holy humanbrotherhood, which had been welded togetherby Arthur for activities of righteousand loving endeavor after humanwelfare. Magnificent is the picture ofthe terrible, difficult quest of Lancelot,whose ineradicable sin hinders him fromfull enjoyment of the spiritual visionafter which he longs. Nor will Arthurunduly discourage those who have thusin mortal peril half attained. “Blessedare Bors, Lancelot, and Percivale, forthese have seen according to their sight.”Into his mouth the poet also puts somebeautiful lines on prayer. More indeedmay be wrought for the world by thesilent spiritual life, by the truth-seekingstudent, by the beauty-loving artist, thanis commonly believed. In worshippingthe ideal they bless men. Arthur rebukesGawain for light infidel profanity,82born only of blind contented immersionin the slime of sense; while for the others,there was little indeed of the truereligious spirit in their quest. “Theyfollowed but the leader’s bell, for onehath seen, and all the blind will see.”With them it is mere fashion, and hollowlip-service, or superstitious fear; avery devil-worship indeed, standing tothem too often in the place of justice,mercy, and plain human duty. Nay,what terrible crimes have been committedagainst humanity in the name of thisvery religion! Even Percivale only attainedto spiritual vision through thevision of Galahad, whose power ofstrong faith came upon him, for helacked humility, a heavenly virtue toooften lacking in the unco guid, as likewisein those raised above their fellowsthrough any uncommon gifts, whetherof body or mind. In the old legends,the sin of Lancelot himself is representedas consisting quite as much in personalambition, over-self-confidence,and pride on the score of his prowess,as in his adultery with the Queen. Yetthe “pure religion and undefiled” ofGalahad and St. Agnes had been longsince celebrated by our poet in two ofhis loveliest poems. But these sweetchildren were not left long to battle forgoodness and truth upon the earth;heaven was waiting for them; though,while he remained, Galahad, who sawthe vision because he was pure in heart,“rode shattering evil customs everywhere”in the strength of that purityand that vision. Arthur, however, avershe could not himself have joined in thequest, because his mission was to mouldand guard his kingdom, although, thatdone, “let visions come and welcome;”nay, to him the common earth and airare all vision; and yet he knows himselfno vision, nor God, nor the divine man.To the spiritual, indeed, all is religious,sacred, sacramental, for they lookthrough the appearance to the reality,half hidden and half revealed under it.This avowal reminds me of Wordsworth’sgrand passage in the “Ode onImmortality” concerning “creaturesmoving about in worlds not realized.”But for men not so far advanced revelationsof the Holy Grail, sacramental observances,and stated acts of worship,are indeed of highest import and utility.83Yet good, straightforward, modest SirBors, who is not over-anxious about thevision, to him it is for a moment vouchsafed,though Lancelot and Percivaleattain to it with difficulty, and selfish,superstitious worldlings, with their worsethan profitless head-knowledge, badhearts, hollow worship of Conventionand the Dead Letter, get no inkling of itat all. This wholesome conviction Itrace through many of the Laureate’swritings. Stylites is not intended to bea flattering, though it is certainly averacious portrait of the sanctimonious,self-depreciating, yet self-worshippingascetic. The same feeling runs through“Queen Mary;” and Harold, the honestwarrior of unpretending virtue, iswell contrasted with the devout, yet un-Englishand only half-kingly confessor,upon whose piety Stigand passes no verycomplimentary remarks. So that therecent play which Lord Queensberry objectedto surprises me; for in “Despair”it is theological caricature of the divinecharacter which is made responsible forthe catastrophe quite as much as Agnosticism,a mere reaction from false belief.Besides, has not Tennyson sung “Therelives more faith in honest doubt, believeme, than in half the creeds,” and“Power was with him in the night,which makes the darkness and the light,and dwells not in the light alone”?

Turning now to the philosophical andelegiac poetry of Tennyson, one wouldpronounce the poet to be in the bestsense a religious mystic of deep insight,though fully alive to the claims of activity,culture, science, and art. It wouldnot be easy to find more striking philosophicalpoetry than the lines on “Will,”the “Higher Pantheism,” “Wages,”“Flower in the Crannied Wall,” the“Two Voices,” and especially “InMemoriam.” As to “Wages,” it issurely true that Virtue, even if she seekno rest (and that is a hard saying), doesseek the “wages of going on and still tobe.” An able writer in “To-day” objectsto this doctrine. And of coursean Agnostic may be, often is, a muchmore human person—larger, kinder,sounder—than a believer. But the truthis, the very feeling that Love and Virtueare noblest and best involves the implicitintuition of their permanence, howeverthe understanding may doubt or deny.84Again, I find myself thoroughly at onewith the profound teaching of the“Higher Pantheism,” As for “InMemoriam,” where is the elegiac poetryequal to it in our language? Gravelythe solemn verse confronts problemswhich, mournful or ghastly, yet withsome far-away light in their eyes, lookus men of this generation in the face,visiting us with dread misgiving orpathetic hope. From the conference,from the agony, from the battle, Faithemerges, aged, maimed, and scarred,yet triumphing and serene. Like everygreater poet, Tennyson wears the prophet’smantle, as he wears the singer’s bay.Mourners will ever thank him for suchwords as, “‘Tis better to have lovedand lost, than never to have loved atall;” and, “Let love clasp grief, lestboth be drowned;” and, “Our willsare ours, we know not how; our willsare ours, to make them Thine;” as forthe lines that distinguish Wisdom andKnowledge, commending Wisdom asmistress, and Knowledge but as handmaid.Every mourner has his favoritesection or particular chapel of the temple-poem,where he prefers to kneel for worshipof the Invisible. Yes, for into thefurnace men may be cast bound andcome forth free, having found for companionOne whose form was like the Sonof God. Our poet’s conclusion may befoolish and superstitious, as some wouldnow persuade us; but if he errs, it is ingood company, for he errs with him whosang, “In la sua voluntade e nostrapace” and with Him who prayed, “Father,not My will, but Thine.”

The range, then, of this poet in all theachievements of his long life is vast—lyrical,dramatic,3 narrative, allegoric,85philosophical. Even strong and barbedsatire is not wanting, as in “Sea-Dreams,”the fierce verses to Bulwer,“The Spiteful Letter.” Of the mostvaried measures he is master, as of therichest and most copious vocabulary.Only in the sonnet form, perhaps, doeshis genius not move with so royal a port,so assured a superiority over all rivals.I have seen sonnets even by other livingEnglish writers that appeared to memore striking; notably, fine sonnets byMr. J. A. Symonds, Mr. TheodoreWatts, Mrs. Pfeiffer, Miss Blind. Butsurely Tennyson must have written verylittle indifferent poetry when you thinkof the fuss made by his detractors overthe rather poor verses beginning “Istood on a tower in the wet,” and thesomewhat insignificant series entitled“The Window.” For “The Victim”appears to me exceedingly good. Talkof daintiness and prettiness! Yes; butit is the lambent, water-waved damasceningon a Saladin’s blade; it is the richenchasement on a Cœur de Lion’s armor.Amid the soul-subduing spaces, and tallforested piers of that cathedral by Rhine,there are long jewelled flames for window,and embalmed kings lie shrined ingold, with gems all over it like eyes.While Tennyson must loyally be recognizedas the Arthur or Lancelot of modernEnglish verse, even by those amongus who believe that their own work inpoetry cannot fairly be damned as“minor,” while he need fear the enthronementof no younger rival nearhim, the poetic standard he has establishedis in all respects so high thatpoets who love their art must needsglory in such a leader and such an example,though pretenders may verily beshamed into silence, and Marsyas ceasehenceforward to contend with Apollo.—ContemporaryReview.

86

ON AN OLD SONG.
BY W. E. H. LECKY.

THE AMERICAN AUDIENCE.
BY HENRY IRVING.

What is the difference between anEnglish and an American audience?That is a question which has frequentlybeen put to me, and which I have alwaysfound it difficult to answer. The pointsof dissimilarity are simply those arising88from people of a common origin livingunder conditions often widely different.It is, therefore, only possible for me toindicate such traits in the bearing of theAmerican playgoer as have come undermy own personal notice, and impressedme with a sense of unfamiliarity.

Every American town, great or small,has—I believe, without exception—itstheatre and its church, and when a newtown is about to be built, the sites for aplace of amusement and a place of worshipare invariably those first selected.As an instance, take Pullman, which liessome sixteen miles from Chicago, pleasantlysituated on the banks of the CalumetLake. The original design of thislittle city, which is almost ideal in itsorganization, and has the enviable reputationof being absolutely perfect in itssanitation, was conceived on the linesjust mentioned. Denver City, which isa growth almost abnormal even in anage and country of abnormal progress,has a theatre, which is said to be one ofthe finest in America. Boston, with itsold civilization, boasts seventeen theatres,or buildings in which plays aregiven; New York possesses no less thantwenty-eight regular theatres, besides ahost of smaller ones; and Chicago,whose very foundations are younger thanthe beards of some men of thirty, has,according to a printed list, over twentytheatres, all of which seem to flourish.The number of theatres in America andthe influence they exercise constituteimportant elements in the national life.This great multiplication of dramaticpossibilities renders it necessary to takea very wide and general view, if onewishes to get a distinct impression as tohow audiences here differ from those athome. So at least it must seem to aplayer, who can only find comparisonpossible when points of difference suggestthemselves. For a proper understandingof such difference in audiences,we must ascertain wherein consist thedifferences of the theatres which theyfrequent, both in architectural construction,social arrangement, and that habitof management which is a naturalgrowth.

By the enactments of the variousStates regulating the structure and conductof places of amusement, full provisionfor the comfort and safety of89the audience is insisted on. It is directedthat the back of the auditoriumshould open by adequate doors directlyupon the main passage or vestibule, andthat through the centre of the floorshould run an aisle right down to theorchestra rail. Thus the floor of thehouse is easy of access and exit, is generallyof large expanse, and capable ofcontaining half, or more than half, ofthe entire audience. It is usually dividedinto two parts—the orchestra or parquet,and the orchestra or parquet circle—thelatter being a zone running aroundthe former and covered by the projectionof the first gallery. The floor of anAmerican theatre is, as a rule, on amore inclined plane than is customaryin English theatres, and there is a goodview of the stage from every part. Outsidethe parquet circle, and within theinner wall of the building, is usually awide passage where many persons canstand. Thus in most houses there is agreat elasticity in the holding power,which at times adds not a little to themanagerial success. I cannot but thinkthat in several respects we have much tolearn from our American cousins in theconstruction and arrangement of theauditorium of the theatre; on the otherhand, they might study with advantageour equipment behind the proscenium.

It is perhaps due to the sentiment andtradition of personal equality in the nation,that the entire stream often turnsto one portion of the house, in a waysomewhat odd to those accustomed aswe are in England to the separatingforce of social grades. To the greatmajority of persons, only one part of thetheatre is eminently eligible, and otherportions are mainly sought when thefloor is occupied. The very willingnesswith which the public acquiesce in certaindiscomforts or annoyances attendanton visiting the theatre, would seem toshow that the drama is an integral portionof their daily life. It cannot bedenied by any one cognizant of the workingof American theatres that there arecertain facts or customs which must discountenjoyment. Before a visitor is ina position to settle comfortably to thereception of a play, he must, as a rule,experience many inconveniences. Inthe first place he has in some States tosubmit to the exactions of the ticket90speculator or “scalper,” who, throughdefective State laws, is generally able tobuy tickets in bulk, and to retail themat an exorbitant rate. I have known ofinstances where tickets of the full valueof three dollars were paid for by thepublic at the average rate of ten ortwelve dollars. Then, through the highprice of labor, which in most Americaninstitutions causes employers to so disposeof their forces as to minimize service,the attendance in the front of thehouse is, I am told, often inadequate.Were it not for the orderly dispositionand habit of the public, trained by thecustom of equal rights to stand, andmove en queue, it would not be possibleto admit and seat the audience in theinterval between the opening of thedoors and the commencement of the performance.Thus the public are somewhat“hustled,” and from one cause oranother too often reach their seats afterhaving endured much annoyance with apatient submission which speaks volumesfor their law-abiding nature; butwhich must sorely disturb that reposefulspirit which the actor may consider essentialto a due enjoyment of the play.

Once in his seat the American playgoerdoes not, as a rule, leave it untilthe performance is at an end. Thepercentage of persons who move aboutduring the entr’acte is, when comparedwith that in England, exceedingly small,and sinks into complete insignificancewhen contrasted with the exodus to thefoyer customary in continental theatres.In the equipment of the American theatrethere is one omission which will surpriseus at home—that of the bar, or refreshmentroom. In not a single theatrethat I can call to mind in America haveI found provision made for drinking.It is not by any means that the averageplaygoer is a teetotaler, but that, if hewishes or needs to drink during theevening, he does it as he does duringthe hours of his working life, and not asa necessary concomitant to the enjoymentof his leisure hours. Two otherthings are noticeable: first, that the audiencesare sometimes very unpunctual,and to suit the audiences the managerssometimes delay beginning. The audiencedepend on this delay, and the consequencefrequently is, that a first act isentirely disturbed by their entry; sec91ondly,that, after the play, it is a custom,in a degree unknown in any Europeancapital, to adjourn to various restaurantsfor supper.

As the audience en bloc remain seated,so the length of the performance mustbe taken into account by managers; andcommonly two hours and a half is consideredthe maximum length to which aperformance should run, though I mustsay that we have at times sinned bykeeping our audiences seated until eleveno’clock, and it has been even later. Ofcourse in this branch of the subjectmust be also considered the difficulty ofreaching their homes experienced byaudiences in cities whose liberal arrangementsof space, and absence of cheapcabs, renders necessary a due regard totime. In matter of duration, however,the audience is not to be trifled with orimposed on. I have heard of a case ina city of Colorado where the manager ofa travelling company, on the last nightof an engagement, in order to catch athrough train, hurried the ordinary performanceof his play into an hour and ahalf. When next the company werecoming to the city they were met enroute, some fifty miles out, by the sheriff,who warned them to pass on by someother way, as their coming was awaitedby a large section of the able-bodiedmale population armed with shot guns.The company did not, I am informed,on that occasion visit the city. I mayhere mention that in America the dramaticseason lasts about eight months—fromthe beginning of the “fall” inSeptember till the hot weather commencesin April. During this periodthe theatres are kept busy, as there areperformances on the evenings of everyweek day, and in the South and Weston Sunday evening also, whilst matinéesare given every Saturday, and in a largenumber of cases every Wednesday. Incertain places even the afternoon ofSunday sees a performance. It is a fact,somewhat amusing at first, that in nearlyall towns of comparatively minor importancethe theatre is known as the OperaHouse.

I have dwelt on the external conditionof the American audiences in order toexplain the condition antecedent to theactor’s appearance. The differences betweenvarious audiences are so minute92that some such insight seems necessaryto enable one to recognise and understandthem. An actor in the ordinarycourse of his work can only partially atbest realise such differences as theremay be, much less attempt to state themexplicitly. His first experience before astrange audience is the discovery whetheror not he is en rapport with them. This,however, he can most surely feel, thoughhe cannot always give a reason for thefeeling. As there is, in the occurrencesof daily life, a conveyance other thanby words of meaning, of sentiment, orof understanding between different individuals,so there is a carriage of mutualunderstanding or reciprocity of sentimentbetween the stage and the auditorium.The emotion which an actor mayfeel, or which his art may empower himsuccessfully to simulate, can be conveyedover the floats in some way whichneither actor nor audience may be ableto explain; and the reciprocation ofsuch emotion can be as surely manifestedby the audience by more subtle andunconscious ways than overt applauseor otherwise. It must be rememberedthat the opportunities which I have hadof observing audiences have been almostentirely from my own stage. Littlefacility of wider observation is affordedto a man who plays seven performanceseach week and fills up most of the blankmornings with rehearsal or travel. Ionly put forward what I feel or believe.Such belief is based on the opportunitiesI have had of observation or of followingout the experience of others.

The dominant characteristic of theAmerican audience seems to be impartiality.They do not sit in judgment,resenting as positive offences lackof power to convey meanings or divergenceof interpretation of particularcharacter or scene. I understand thatwhen they do not like a performancethey simply go away, so that at the closeof the evening the silence of a desertedhouse gives to the management a verdictmore potent than audible condemnation.This does not apply to questions ofmorals, which can be, and are, asquickly judged here as elsewhere. Onthis subject I give entirely the evidenceof others, for it has been my good fortuneto see our audiences seated till the93final falling of the curtain. Again,there is a kindly feeling on the part ofthe audience towards the actor as an individual,especially if he be not a completestranger, which is, I presume, apart of that recognition of individualitywhich is so striking a characteristic inAmerican life and customs. Many anactor draws habitually a portion of hisaudience, not in consequence of artisticmerit, not from capacity to arouse orexcite emotion, but simply because thereis something in his personality whichthey like. This spirit forcibly remindsme of the story told of the manager ofone of the old “Circuits,” who gave asa reason for the continued engagementof an impossibly bad actor, that “hewas kind to his mother.” The thoroughenjoyment of the audience is anotherpoint to be noticed. Not only are theyquick to understand and appreciate, butthere seems to be a genuine pleasurein the expression of approval. Americanaudiences are not surpassed in quicknessand completeness of comprehensionby any that I have yet seen, and noactor need fear to make his strongest orhis most subtle effort, for such is sureto receive instant and full acknowledgmentat their hands.

There is little more than this to besaid of the American audience. Butshort though the record is, the impressionupon the player himself is profoundand abiding. To describe what onesees and hears over the footlights is infinitelyeasier than to convey an idea ofthe mental disposition and feeling ofthe spectators. The house is ample andcomfortable, and the audience is well-disposedto be pleased. Ladies andgentlemen alike are mostly in morningdress, distinguished in appearance, andguided in every respect by a refined decorum.The sight is generally picturesque.Even in winter flowers abound,and the majority of ladies have bouquetseither carried in the hand orfastened on the shoulder or corsage.At matinée performances especially,where the larger proportion of the audienceis composed of ladies, the effect isnot less pleasing to the olfactory sensesthan to the eye. Courteous, patient,enthusiastic, the American audience isworthy of any effort which the actor94can make on its behalf, and he who hashad experience of them would be anuntrustworthy chronicler if he failed, oreven hesitated, to bear witness to theirintelligence, their taste and their generosity.—FortnightlyReview.

95

STIMULANTS AND NARCOTICS.
BY PERCY GREG.

Among all the signal inventions, discoveries,and improvements of the age,social and material, scientific and mechanical,few, perhaps, are fraught withgraver possibilities for good and evilthan the great achievement of recentmedicine—the development, if it shouldnot more properly be called the discovery,of anæsthetics. Steam has revolutionizedmechanics; the locomotive, thesteam-hammer, and the power-loom, thecreation of the railway and the factorysystem, have essentially modified socialas well as material civilization; and itis possible at least that electric lightsand motors, telegraphs and telephones,may produce yet greater consequences.This last century has been signalizedby greater mechanical achievementsthan the whole historic period sincethe discovery of iron. But in obvious,immediate influence on human happiness,it is quite conceivable that thediscovery of chloroform, ether, andother anæsthetics—the diffusion ofchloral, opium, and other narcotics,putting them within the reach of everyindividual, at the command of men andwomen, almost of children, independentlyof medical advice or sanction—maybe, for a time at least, more importantthan those inventions which havechanged the fundamental conditions ofindustry, or those which may yet changethem once more. It is difficult for therising generation to realize that state ofmedicine, and especially of surgery,which old men can well remember;when every operation, from the extractionof a bad tooth to the removal ofa limb, must be performed upon patientsin full possession of their senses.In those days the horror with whichmen and women, uninfluenced by scientificenthusiasm, now regard the allegedtortures of vivisection was hardly possible.Thousands of human beings hadyearly to undergo—every man, woman,96and child might have to undergo—agoniesquite as terrible as any that themost ardent advocate of the rights ofanimals, the most vivid imagination excitedby fear for dearly loved dumb companions,ascribes to the vivisector’sknife. It may well be doubted whetherthe highest brutes are capable of sufferingany pain comparable with that ofhardy soldiers or seamen—much lesswith that of sensitive, nervous men, anddelicate women—when the surgeon’sblade cut through living, often inflamedtissues, generally rendered infinitelymore sensitive by previous disease orinjury, while the brain was fully, intenselyconscious; every nerve quiveringwith even exaggerated sensibility.The brutes, at any rate, are spared thelong agony of anticipation, and at leasthalf the tortures of memory. Theymay fear for a few minutes; our fathersand mothers lay in terror for hours anddays, nay, persons of vivid imaginationmust have suffered acutely through halfa lifetime, in the expectation that, soonor late, their only choice might lie betweenexcruciating temporary tortureand a death of lingering hopeless anguish.No gift of God, perhaps, hasbeen so precious, no effort of human intellecthas done more to lessen humansuffering and fear, to take from lifemuch of its darkest evil and horror,than anæsthesia as developed duringthe last fifty years. True that in thecase of severe operations it is as yet beyondthe power of medicine to give completerelief. If spared the torture ofthe operation, the patient has yet to endurethe cruel smart that the knifeleaves behind. But the relief of previousterror, of the awful, unspeakable,and, to those who never felt it, almostinconceivable agony endured while theflesh was carved, and the bone sawn,have disappeared from the sick roomand the hospital.

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Narcotics should be carefully distinguishedfrom anæsthetics. Their use isdifferent, not in degree only, but incharacter and purpose. Their legitimateobject is two-fold: primarily, in alimited number of cases, to relieve ormitigate pain temporarily or permanentlyincurable; but secondarily and principallyto cure what to a large and constantlyincreasing class in every civilizedcountry is among the severest trials attendanton sickness, over-work, or nervousexcitement—that loss of sleep whichis a terrible affliction in itself, and aggravates,much more than inexperiencewould suppose, every form of sufferingwith which it is connected. Naturemercifully intended that prolonged intolerablepain should of itself bring therelief of sleep or swooning; and primitiveraces like the Red Indian, living inthe open air, with dull imagination andinsensible nerves, still find such relief.The victims of Mohawk and Huron tortureshave been known, during a briefintermission of agony, to sleep at thestake till fire was used to awaken them.But among the many drawbacks of civilizedlife must be counted the tendencyof artificial conditions to defeat some ofNature’s most merciful provisions. Thenerves of civilized men are too sensitive,the brains developed by hereditary cultureand constant exercise are too restless,to obtain from sleep that relief inpain, especially prolonged pain, thatnature apparently intended. Many ofus, even in sleep, are keenly sensitive tosuffering, at least to chronic as distinguishedfrom acute pain, to dull protractedpangs like those of rheumatism,ear-ache, or tooth-ache. A little sharperpain, and sleep becomes impossible.The sufferer is not only deprived of therespite that slumber should afford, butinsomnia itself enhances his sensibility,besides adding a new and terrible tormentof its own. Artificial preventionof sleep was notoriously among the mostcruel and the most certainly mortal ofmediæval or barbaric tortures. Thesensations of one who has not slept forseveral nights, beginning with a restless,unnatural, constantly increasingconsciousness of the brain, its existenceand its action, passing by degrees intoan acute, unendurably distressing irritationof that organ—generally uncon98sciousor insensible, probably becauseits habitual sensibility would be intolerable—areindescribable, unimaginableby those who have not felt them; andseem to be proportionate to the activityof the intellect, the susceptibility ofnerve and vitality of temperament—thecapacity for pain and pleasure. In aword, the finer the physical and nervouscharacter, the more terrible the tormentof sleeplessness. A little more and thepatient is confronted with one of themost frightful forms of pain and terror,the consciousness of incipient insanity.But long before reaching this stage,sleeplessness exaggerates pain and weakensthe power of endurance, quickensthe sensibility of the nerves, enfeeblesthe will, exacerbates the temper, producesa physical and nervous irritabilitywhich to an observer unacquainted withthe cause seems irrational, unaccountable,extravagant, even frantic, butwhich afflicts the patient incomparablymore than those, however near and howeversensitive, on whom it is vented.Drugs, then, which enable the physicianin most cases to check insomnia at anearly stage—to secure, for example, ina case of chronic pain, six or sevenhours of complete repose out of thetwenty-four, to arrest a mischief whichleads by the shortest and most painfulroute directly to insanity—are simplyinvaluable.

It may seem a paradox, it is a truism,to say that in their value lies their peril.Because they have such power for good,because the suffering they relieve is inits lighter forms so common, becauseneuralgia and sleeplessness are ailmentsas familiar to the present generation asgout, rheumatism, catarrh to our grandfathers,therefore the medicines whichimmediately relieve sleeplessness andneuralgic pain are among the most dangerouspossessions, the most subtle temptations,of civilized and especially of intellectuallife. Every one of these drugshas, besides its immediate and beneficialeffect, other and injurious tendencies.The relief which it gives is purchased ata certain price; and in every instancethe relief is lessened or rendered uncertain,the mischievous influence is enhancedand aggravated by repetition;till, when the use has become habitual,it has become pure abuse, when the99drug has become a necessity of life ithas lost the greater part if not the wholeof its value, and serves only to satisfythe need which itself alone has created.Contrary to popular tradition, we believethat of popular narcotics opium is onthe whole, if the most seductive, theleast injurious; chloral, which at firstpassed for being almost harmless, isprobably the most noxious of all, havingboth chemical and vital effects whichapproach if they do not amount toblood-poisoning. It is said (we do notaffirm with what truth) that the subsequentadministration of half a teaspoonfulof a common alkali operatesas an antidote to some of these specificeffects. The bromide of potash, anotherfavorite, especially with women,is less, perhaps, a narcotic proper thana sedative. It is said not to producesleep directly, like chloral or opium,by stupefaction, but at least in smalldoses simply to allay the nervous irritabilitywhich is often the sole causeof sleeplessness. But in larger quantitiesand in its ultimate effects it isscarcely less to be dreaded than chloral.It has been recommended as a potent,indeed a specific and the only specific,remedy for sea-sickness. But the stateto which, as its advocate allows, thepatient must be reduced, a state of completenervous subjection to the powerof the drug, seems worse than thedisease, save in its most cruel and dangerousforms. Such points, however,may be left to the chemist, the physician,or the physiologist; our purposeis rather to indicate briefly the socialaspects of the subject, the social causes,conditions, and consequences of thatnarcotism which is, if not yet a prevalent,certainly a rapidly-spreading habit.

The desire or craving for stimulantsin the most general sense of the word—fordrugs acting upon the nerves whetheras excitant or sedative agents—is analmost if not absolutely universal humanappetite; so general, so earlydeveloped, that we might almost callit an instinct. Alcohol, of course, isthe most popular, under ordinary circumstancesthe most seductive, and byfar the most widely diffused of all stimulantsubstances. From the Euphratesto the Straits of Dover, the vine hasbeen from the earliest ages second only100to corn in popular estimation; wine,next to bread, the most prized and mostuniversal article of human food. Theconnection between Ceres and Bacchusis found in almost every language asin the social life of every nation, fromthe warlike Assyrian monarchy, thestable hierocratic despotism of Egypt,to the modern French Republic andGerman Empire. Corn itself has furnishedstimulant second in popularityto wine alone; the spirit which delightedthe fiercer, sterner races ofNorthern Europe—Swede, Norwegian,and Dane, St. Olaf, and Harold Hardrada,as their descendants of to-day;and the ale of our own Saxonand Scandinavian ancestry, whichneither spirit, cider, nor Spanish winehas superseded among ourselves. Thevine, again, seems to have been nativeto America; but the civilized or semi-civilizedraces of the southern and centralpart of the Western Continent hadother more popular and more peculiarstimulants, also for the most part alcoholic.The palm, again, has furnished toAfrican and Asiatic tribes a spirit not lesspotent or less noxious, not less popularand probably not less primitive, thanwhiskey or beer. But where alcohol hasbeen unknown, among races to whosehabits and temperament it was alien, orin climates where so powerful an excitantproduced effects too palpably alarmingto be tolerated by rulers or law-giversroyal or priestly, other and milder stimulantsor sedatives are found in equallyuniversal use. Till the white man introducedamong them his own destructivebeverages, till the “fire-water”spread demoralization and disease,tobacco was the favorite indulgence ofthe Red Indian of North America, andvery probably of that mighty race whichpreceded them and seems to have disappearedbefore they came upon the scene—theMound-builders, whose giganticworks bear testimony to the existence ofan agriculture scarcely less advanced orless prolific, a despotism probably notless absolute than that of Egypt. Coffeehas for ages been almost equally dearto the Arabs; tea has been to China allthat wine is and was to Europe, probablyfrom a still earlier period, andhas taken hold on the Northern, ascoffee and tobacco upon the Southern,101branches of the Tartar race. Opium,or drugs resembling opium in character,have been found as well suited to thetemper, as delightful to the taste, of thequieter and more passive Oriental racesas wine to the Aryan and Semitic nations.The Malays, the Vikings of the EastIndies, found in bhang a drug the mostexciting and maddening in its effects ofany known to civilized or uncivilizedman; a substitute for opium or haschischbearing much the same relation to thosesedatives as brandy or whiskey to thelight wines of Southern Europe.

The craving, then, is not artificialbut natural; is not, as teetotalers fancy,for alcohol alone or primarily, but forsome form of nervous excitement orsedative specially suited to climate orrace. Tea, coffee, and tobacco, opium,haschisch and bhang, mata and tembe,are probably as old as wine, olderthan beer, and take just as strong ahold upon the national taste. Thedesire testifies to a felt and almostuniversal want; and the attempt to putdown a habit proved by universal andimmemorial practice to answer to aneed, real and absolute—or if artificialeasily created and permanent, if notineradicable, beyond any other artificialcraving or habit—seems doomed tofailure; the desire not being for thisor that stimulant, for wine or alcohol,but for some agent that gives a specialsatisfaction to the nerves, some stimulant,sedative or astringent. The discouragementof one form of indulgence,especially if that discouragement beartificial or forcible, not moral andvoluntary, can hardly have any otherresult than to drive the votaries ofalcohol, for example, upon opium, orthose of opium upon some form ofalcohol. Tea, coffee, and tobacco havedone infinitely more than teetotal andtemperance preaching of every kindto diminish the European consumptionof wine, beer, and spirits. Men andeven women never have been and neverwill be content with water or milk, oreven with the unfermented juices offruits; to say nothing of the extremedifficulty of preserving unfermentedjuices in those warmer climates to whichthey are best adapted.

It seems, however, that the naturalcraving, especially among women, or102men not subject to the fiercer excitementsof war, hunting, and open airlife in general, is not for the strongerbut for the milder stimulants. Alewas the favorite beverage of England,light wine of Southern Europe, till theSaracen invasion, the crusades, andfinally the extension of commerce,familiarised the Western Aryans withthe non-intoxicant stimulants of theEast, and the discovery of Americaintroduced tobacco. But the use of teaand coffee is not less, we might say, ismore distinctly artificial than that ofbeer or wine. The taste for tobacco,as its confinement in so many countriesand to so great an extent to one sexproves, is the most artificial of all.

It is plain, both from the climatesand the character of the races amongwhom the sedative drugs or slightly-stimulantbeverages have first and mostwidely taken root, that the preferencefor sedatives or gentle excitants is notaccidental, but to a large extent dependentupon the temperament and habitsof races or nations. Alcohol suits thehigher, more energetic, active, militantraces; and the fiercer and more militantthe temper or habits, the strongerthe intoxicant employed. It is not improbablethat the first and strongestincitement to the use of alcohol, as ofbhang, was the desire for that which avery unfair and ungenerous nationaltaunt describes as Dutch courage. Norace, probably, except their nearestkinsmen of England, was ever less dependenton the artificial boldness producedby stimulants than the stubbornsoldiers and seamen of Holland. Thebeer-loving Teutons have never been,like the wine-drinkers of France, Italy,and Spain, a military, or even, like theScandinavians, a thoroughly martialrace. They will fight: none, Scandinavians,Soudanese, and Turks perhapsexcepted, fight better or morestubbornly. It may well be that theadventurous, enterprising spirit ofEnglishmen and Scotchmen, displayedat sea rather than on land, and insemi-pacific quite as much as in warlikeenterprise, is derived in large measurefrom the strong Scandinavian elementin our national blood. The tea-drinkingChinamen, the Oriental lovers ofhaschisch and opium, have mostly been103industrious rather than energetic, agriculturalor pastoral rather than predatory.The coffee-drinking Arabs werenot, till the days of Mahomet, aspecially warlike race. Bandits orguerillas they were perforce; like everypeople which inhabits a country whosemountains or deserts afford a safe refugeto robbers but promise no reward topeaceful industry. No race, no classliving in the open air, save in thewarmer climates, no people given toenergetic muscular labor or devoted towar, would be prompt to abandon alcoholin any of its forms for its milderOriental equivalents. Tea and coffeewere introduced at a time when manufacturesand in-door-life were gainingground in Western Europe and foundfavor first, as is still the case, with theindoor-living sex. It is still amongindoor workers that they are most invogue. But if, as seems likely, alcoholwas first adopted by the warriors ofsavage or semi-savage races as an inspiringor hardening force, it early lostthis character with the introduction ofstrict military discipline on the onehand or of chivalry on the other. Neitherthe trained soldier of the phalanxand the legion, nor the knight withwhom reckless but also intelligent couragewas a point of honor, could findany help in intoxication, partial or total;nay, he soon found that while the firstexcitement of alcohol was fatal to discipline,its subsequent effects were almostas injurious to the persevering, steadfastkind of courage in which he put hispride. Wine or brandy, then, came tobe the indulgence of peace and triumph,not of war; wassail followed on victory,sobriety was necessary till the victorywas won. But still it has always beenon the sterner, fiercer, more energeticraces that alcohol, and especially thestronger forms of alcohol, retained theirhold. It is to the passive, quiet, reflectivetemperaments—national or individual,peculiar to classes or to crafts—thattea or coffee, opium or haschisch,substances that calm rather than excitethe nerves, have always proved stronglyand often dangerously attractive.

Now it may be urged with plausibility,and perhaps with truth, that civilizationand intellectual culture, the exchange ofout-door for in-door life, the influences104that have rendered intelligence and dexterityof more practical value than corporealstrength, tend in some sense andin some measure to Orientalize the mostadvanced European races. We are not,perhaps, less daring or less enterprisingthan our fathers; but there is a largeand ever increasing class to which strenuousphysical exertion is neither habitualnor agreeable. We are unquestionablybecoming sedentary; we work muchmore with our brains, much less withour muscles, than heretofore. With thischange has come a decided change offeeling and tastes. We shrink from thefierce excitement, the violent moralstimulants that delighted ruder and lesssensitive races and generations. Thegladiatorial shows of Rome, the savagesports and public punishments of theMiddle Ages, would be simply revoltingto the great majority of almost everyEuropean nation of to-day; not primarilybecause as thoughtful Christians wedeem them wicked, but because, instinctively,as sensitive men and womenin whom imagination and sympathy arestrong, we shudder at them as brutal.Prize-fights, bear-baiting, bull-fightshave become too rough, too coarse, butabove all too exciting; the hideous tragediesof old have ceased to suit the tasteat least of our cultivated classes. Inone word, our nerves are far too sensitiveto crave for strong and violent excitement,moral or physical; it is painfulrather than pleasurable. The sobrietyof the educated classes is due muchless to moral than to social causes. Itis not that strong wines and spirits areso much more injurious to us than toour grandsires, nor that we have learnedin fifty years to think intoxication sinful;rather we have come to despise it,and to dislike its means, because wehave ceased to feel or understand thecraving for such violent stimulation, becausenot merely the reaction but theexcitement itself gives more pain thanpleasure.

In the case of our American kinsmenclimate has very much to do with the matter.A dry, keen, exhilarating air as wellas an intense nervous sensibility renderspowerful alcoholic stimulants unnecessary,over-exciting, unpleasant as wellas injurious. Partly from temperament,a temperament which in itself must be105largely the result of climate, partly fromthe direct influence of their drier, keeneratmosphere, American women feel noneed of alcohol; American men who doindulge in it, rather as a relief frombrain excitement than as an excitant itself,suffer far more than we do from theindulgence. The number of drunkardsor hard-drinkers in the older States is,we believe, very much smaller than inEngland, even at the present day. Butthe proportion of lunatics made by drinkseems to be much larger. In Americaalone teetotalism has been the seriousobject of social and legislative coercion.The Maine Liquor Law failed; but it isenforced in garrisons and colleges,while in many States social feeling andsectarian discipline forbid wine andspirits to women and clergymen, andhabitual indulgence therein, howevermoderate, is hardly compatible with ahigh reputation for religious principleor strict morality. But this case, likethat of the early Mahometans, is thecase of a people whose climate is unsuitedto alcohol; whose very atmosphereis a stimulant.

In a word, the craving of to-day, moraland physical, especially among the cultivatedclasses, among the brain-workers,among those of the softer sex and of thefruges consumere nati, who are almostentirely relieved from physical labor, isfor mild prolonged stimulation, and forstimulation which does not produce astrong reaction; or else for sedativeswhich will allay the sleepless excitementproduced by over-work, or yet oftener,perhaps, by reckless pursuit of pleasure.

It seems, then, not unnatural or improbablethat, as tea and coffee have solargely taken the place of beer or lightwine as beverages, so narcotics shouldtake the place of stronger alcoholicstimulants. That this has been the casein certain quarters is well known tophysicians, and to most of those whohave that experience of life in virtue ofwhich it is said, “every man of fortymust be a physician or a fool.” Nay,it is difficult to read the newspapers andremain ignorant or doubtful of the fact.We read weekly of men and womenpoisoned by an over-dose of some favoritesedative, burnt to death, or otherwisefatally injured while insensible fromself-administered ether or chloroform.106For one fatal case that finds its way intothe newspapers there are, of course,twenty fatal in a different sense—fatal,not to life, but to life’s use and happiness—thatare never known beyond thefamily circle, into which they have introducedunspeakable and often almostunlimited sorrow and evil; unlimited,for no one can be sure, few can reasonablyhope, that the mischief will be confinedto the individual victim of a dangerouscraving. That the children ofdrunkards are often pre-disposed to insanityis notorious; that the children ofhabitual opium-eaters or narcotists inheritan unmistakable taint, whether ina diseased brain, in diseased cravings,or simply in a will too weak to resisttemptation of any kind, is less notoriousbut equally certain. Of these secondaryvictims of chloral or opium thereare not as yet many; but many fathersand mothers—fathers, perhaps, who forthe sake of wives and children haveovertaxed their brains till nothing buteither the rest which circumstances andfamily claims forbid, or drugs, will givethem the sleep necessary to the continuanceof their work; mothers, too commonly,who begin by neglecting theirchildren in the pursuit of pleasure, toend by poisoning their unborn offspringin the struggle to escape the consequencesof that pursuit—are preparinguntold misery and mischief for a futuregeneration. Happily, narcotism is notthe temptation of the young or energetic.It is later in life, when the effect ofyears of brain excitement of whatevernature begins to tell, and generally afterthe period in which the greater numberof children are born, that men andwomen give way to this peculiar temptationof the present age.

The immediate danger to themselvesis sufficiently alarming, if only it wereever realized in time. The narcotistkeeps chloroform or chloral always athand, forgetful or ignorant that one sureeffect of the first dose is to produce asemi-stupor more dangerous than actualsomnolence. In that semi-stupor thepatient is aware, or fancies that the dosehas failed. The pain that has induceda lady to hold a chloroformed handkerchiefunder her nostrils returns while herwill and her judgment are half paralysed.She takes the bottle from the table be107sideher bed, intending to pour an additionalsupply on the handkerchief. Theunsteady hand perhaps spills a quantityon the sheet, perhaps sinks with the unstopperedbottle under her nostrils; andin a few moments she has inhaledenough utterly to stupefy if not to kill.The vapor, moreover, is inflammable;perhaps it catches the candle by herside; and she is burnt to death whilepowerless to move. The sleepless brain-workeralso feels that his usual dose ofchloral has failed to bring sleep; he isnot aware how completely it has stupefiedthe brain, to which it has not givenrest. His judgment is gone, so is hissteadiness of hand; and, whether intentionallyor not, at any rate unconsciously,so far as reasoning and judgment areconcerned, he pours out a second andtoo often a fatal dose. Any one whoknows how great is the stupefying powerof these drugs, how often they producea sort of moral coma without paralysingthe lower functions of animal or even ofmental life, would, one might suppose,at least take care to be in bed beforethe drug takes effect, and if possible toput it out of reach till next morning.But experience shows how seldom eventhis obvious and essential precaution istaken.

The cases that end in a death terribleto the family, but probably involvinglittle or no suffering to the victim himself,are by no means the worst. A lifepoisoned, paralysed, rendered worthlessfor all the uses of intellectual, rational,we might almost say of human existence,is worse for the sufferer himself and forall around him than a quick and painlessdeath; and for one such deaththere must be twenty if not a hundredinstances of this worst death in life. Innine cases out of ten, probably, the narcotisthas been entangled almost insensibly,but incurably, without intentionand almost without consciousness ofdanger. With alcohol this could hardlybe the case. No woman, at any rate,could reach the point at which secretindulgence in wine or spirits became ahabit and a necessity without warnings,evidences of excess palpable to herselfif not to others, that should have terrifiedand shamed her into self-control,while self-control was yet possible. Thehold that opium and other narcotics ac108quireis at once swifter, more gradual,less revolting and incomparably strongerthan that of alcohol. The first indulgenceis in some sense legitimate; isalmost enforced, either by acute pain orby chronic insomnia. The latter is perhapsthe more dangerous. The pain, ifit last for weeks, forces recourse to thedoctor before the habit has become incurable.Sleeplessness is a more persistent,and to most people a much lessalarming thing; and it is moreover onewith which the doctors can seldom dealsave through the very agents of mischief.Neuralgia, relieved for a time bychloroform or morphia, may be curedby quinine; sleeplessness admits ofhardly any cure but such completechange of life as is rarely possible, atleast to its working victims. And thenarcotist habit once formed, neither painnor sleeplessness is all that its renunciationwould involve. The drunkard, itmust be remembered, gets drunk, as arule, but occasionally. Save in the laststages of dipsomania, he can do, if notwithout drink, yet without intoxicatingquantities of drink, for days together.The narcotist who attempts to go for awhole day without his accustomed dose,suffers in twenty-four hours far morecruelly than the drunkard deprived ofalcohol in as many days. The effectupon the stomach and other organs,upon the nerves as well as on the brain,is one of indescribable, unspeakable discomfortamounting to torture; a disorderof the digestive system more tryingthan sea-sickness, a disorganizationof the nerves which after some hours ofunspeakable misery culminates in convulsivetwitchings, in mental and physicaldistress, simply indescribable tothose who have not felt it. Where attemptshave been made forcibly andsuddenly to withhold the accustomedsedative, they have not unfrequentlyended within a few days in madness ordeath. In other cases the victim hassought and obtained relief by effortsand through hardships which, in his orher best days, would have seemed impossibleor unendurable. One womanthus restrained escaped in a déshabillefrom her bed-room on a winter night ofArctic severity; ran for miles throughthe snow, and was fortunate enough tofind a chemist who knew something of109the fearful effect of such privation, andhad the sense and courage to give inadequate quantity the poison that hadnow become the first necessary of life.In a word, narcotics, one and all, are,to those who have once fallen undertheir power, tyrants whose hold canhardly ever be shaken off, which punishrebellion with the rack, and with allthose devices of torture which mediævaland ecclesiastical cruelty found evenmore terrible than the rack itself; whilethe most absolute submission is rewardedwith sufferings only less unendurablethan the punishment of revolt. DeQuincey’s dreams under the influence ofopium were to the tortures of resistancewhat the highest circle of purgatory maybe to the lowest pit of the Inferno. Butany reader who knows what nightmareis would think such tortures of the imagination,so vividly realized by a consciousnessapparently intensified ratherthan impaired by slumber, a sufficientpenalty for almost any human sin.

Chloral, bromide of potash, chloroform,henbane, and their various combinationsand substitutes are, however,by their very natures medicines and nomore. They are taken in the first instanceas such; at worst as medicinalequivalents for a quantity of alcoholwhich women are afraid to take or unableto obtain, much more commonly asmedicines originally useful, mischievousonly because the system has been accustomedto depend on and cannot dispensewith them. Their effects at best arenegatively, not actively, pleasurable.They relieve pain or insomnia, or thecraving which they themselves have created;but their victims would, if theycould, gladly be released from theirtyranny. Their character, moreover, isif not immediately yet very rapidly perceptible.Very few can have used themfor six months without becoming moreor less alarmed by the consequences.The minority, for whom they are meresubstitutes for alcohol, resort to themonly when the system has already beenpoisoned, the habits incurably vitiated.With opium the case is different. Inthose which may be called its nativecountries, it is not a medicine but astimulant or sedative, used for the mostpart in much greater moderation but inthe same manner as wine or spirits110among ourselves; as an indulgencepleasurable and innocent, if not actuallydesirable in itself. It suits the climatesand temperaments to which the heating,exciting influence of alcohol iswholly unsuitable. It is, moreover, incompatiblewith the free use of the latter,a thing which may be said in somesense of most narcotics. Taken up bypersons not yet addicted to intemperance,chloral and similar drugs operateto discourage the use, or at least thefree use, of wine or spirits by intensifyingtheir effect to a serious and generallyan unpleasant degree. But it does notappear that they act, like opium, to indisposethe system for alcohol. To theopium-eater, as a rule, the exciting stimulusof alcohol, counteracting the quiet,dreamy influence of his favorite drug, isdecidedly obnoxious; the action ofchloral much more resembles that of themore stupefying and powerful spirits.A drunkard desirous to abandon hisfavorite vice, and reckless or incredulousof the possibility that the remedy maybe worse than the disease, would probablyfind in opium the most powerfuland effectual assistance and support towhich he could have recourse. It hasmoreover a strong tendency to diminishthe appetite for food, so much so thatboth in the East and in Europe severeprivation tends to encourage and diffuseits use.

Its peculiar danger, however, lies inthe nature of the pleasure, and the remotenessof the pain and mischief whichattend its use. Its effect on differentconstitutions and at different periods oflife is exceedingly different. As DeQuincey remarks, it is not essentiallyand primarily narcotic. It does notnecessarily, immediately, or always producesleep. Some fortunate temperamentsreject it in all forms whatever.With these it produces immediate orspeedy nausea, and consequent repugnance.But its most universal effect isthe diffusion of comfort, quiet, calm,conscious repose, a general sensation ofphysical and mental ease throughout thesystem; not followed necessarily or generallyby acute reaction, or even by depression.De Quincey’s earlier experienceaccords with that of most of thoseto whom opium is in some sense suited,to whom alone it is likely to become a111dangerous temptation. Used once in afortnight, or even once a week, it givesseveral hours of placid enjoyment, andif taken with some mild aperient andfollowed next morning by a cup ofstrong coffee, it generally gives a quietnight’s rest, entailing no further penaltythan a certain not unpleasant lassitudeon the morrow. A working-man, forinstance, might take it every Saturdaynight for twenty years without othereffect than a decided aversion to thepublic-house on Sunday, if he could butresist the temptation to take it oftener.Again, till it loses its power by constantuse it is in many cases the surest andpleasantest of all anæsthetics; it relievesall neuralgic pains, tooth-ache and ear-achefor example, and puts, especiallyin combination with brandy, a quickand sure if by no means a wholesomecheck on the milder forms of diarrhœa.

In this connection one danger peculiarto itself deserves especial notice. Othernarcotics are seldom given or sold saveunder their own names; and if administeredin combination, in quack medicineor unexplained prescriptions, their effectbetrays itself. Opium forms the basisof innumerable remedies and very effectiveremedies, sold under titles altogetherreassuring and misleading. Nearlyall soothing-syrups and powders forexample—“mother’s blessings” and infant’scurses—are really opiates. Theseare known or suspected by most well-informedpeople. What is less generallyknown is that nine in ten of the popularremedies for catarrh, bronchitis, cough,cold and asthma are also opiates. Sopowerful indeed is the effect of opiumupon the lining membrane of the lungsand air passages, so difficult is it to findan effective substitute, that the efficacy,at least the certain and rapid efficacy,of any specific remedy for cold whoseexact nature is not known affords strongground for suspecting the presence ofopium. Many chemists are culpably,almost criminally, reckless; and not afew culpably ignorant in this matter.An experienced man bought from afashionable West-end shop a box ofcough lozenges, pleasant to the tasteand relieving a severe cough with wonderfulrapidity. Familiar with the influenceof opium on the stomach andspirits, he was sure before he had suck112edhalf-a-dozen of the lozenges that hehad taken a dose powerful enough to affecthis accustomed system, and strongenough to poison a child, and do seriousharm to a sensitive adult. Yet the lozengeswere sold without warning orindication of their character; few peoplewould have taken any special precautionto keep them out of the way ofchildren, and the box, falling into thehands of a heedless or disobedient child,might have poisoned a whole nursery.

Another personal experience mayserve to dispel the popular delusion thatopium is necessarily or generally astupefying agent. A mismanaged minoroperation exposed two sensitive nerves,producing an intolerable hyperæsthesiaand a nervous terror which renderedsurgical relief for the time impossible,and endurance utterly beyond humanpower. For a fortnight or more thepatient was never free from agony savewhen the nerves of sensation werepractically paralysed by opium. Duringthat fortnight he took up for thefirst time, and thoroughly mastered, asa college examination shortly afterwardsproved, Mill’s Principles of PoliticalEconomy, a work not merely taxing tothe uttermost the natural faculties ofnineteen, but demanding beyond anyother steady persistent coherence andlucidity of thought. The patientaffirmed that never had his mind beenclearer, his power of concentrationgreater, his receptive faculties moreperfect or his memory more tenacious.That the drug had in no wise impairedthe intellectual, however it might havequelled the muscular or nervous energies,seems obvious. Yet at that timethe patient was ignorant of the twoantidotes above mentioned; and neithercoffee nor aperient medicine qualifiedor mitigated the influence of the opiates;an influence strong enough to quellfor some twenty-two hours out of thetwenty-four an acute and terrible nervoustorture.

After the use of a fortnight or amonth—especially when used legitimatelyto relieve pain and not to procurepleasure—the entire abandonment ofopium may be easily accomplished inthe course of two or three days. Thepain or the disease it is used to overcomecarries off, so to speak, or diverts113in great measure the injurious influenceof the drug; as a person suffering fromdiarrhœa, snakebite, or other cause ofintense lowering of physical and nervouspower, may take with impunity a doseof brandy which in health would certainlyintoxicate him. But after sixmonths’ or a year’s daily use or abuse,only the strongest and sternest resolutioncan overcome or shake off thetyranny of opium, and then only at aprice of suffering and misery, of physicaland mental torture such as onlythose who have known it can conceive.

It would be as foolish to depreciatethe value as to underrate the danger ofthis, the most powerful and in manyrespects the safest of anæsthetics.Nothing else can do what opium canto relieve chronic, persistent, incurablenervous pain, to give sleep when sleeplessnessis produced by suffering. Themore potent anæsthetics, like chloroform,are applicable only to brief intensetortures, whose period can be foreseenor determined—to produce insensibilityduring an operation, or to mitigate thepangs of child-birth. Opium can relieveincurable chronic pain that would otherwiserender life intolerable, and perhapsdrive the sufferer to suicide; and this,if moderation be observed, and thenecessary correctives employed, withoutimpairing, as other narcotics would, theintellectual faculties. It is, moreover,as aforesaid, the quickest and surestcure for bronchial affections of everykind, and might not impossibly, as DeQuincey thought, if used in time andwith sufficient decision, prolong a lifeotherwise doomed, if it could notactually cure phthisis or consumptionafter the formation of tubercle has oncebegun. But its legitimate use is limitedto three cases. It can relieve temporaryneuralgic pain when cure would be slow,or while awaiting a curative operation.One peculiarity of neuralgic pain is itstendency to perpetuate itself. Thenerves continue to thrill and throb becauseworn out by pain. Give them,through whatever agency, a brief periodof rest, and it may well happen that, thetemporary cause removed, the pain willnot return. Secondly, opium is the oneanæsthetic agency available to mitigateincurable and intolerable suffering. Notonly can it render endurable a life that114must otherwise be one continuous torture,till torture hastens death; but itmay in many cases render that life serviceableas well as endurable. DeQuincey gives the instance of a surgeon,suffering under incurable disease of anintolerably painful kind, who owed thepower of steady professional work formore than twenty years to the constantuse of opium in enormous quantities.Finally, when a working life draws nearits natural close, when old age is harassedby the nervous consequences of protractedover-work or over-strain suchas is often almost inseparable from theanxieties of business—the severe taxationof the mental powers by professionalor literary labor—opium, givenhabitually in small quantities and undercareful medical direction, often doeswhat wine effects with less certaintyand safety; gives rest and repose, calmsan irritability of nerve and temper moretrying to the patient himself than tothose around him, and renders the lastdecade of a useful and honorable lifemuch more comfortable, and no wit lessuseful or honorable, than it might otherwisehave been.

But except as a relief in incurabledisease, or in that most incurable of alldiseases, old age, the continual or prolongeduse of opium is always dangerousand nearly always fatal. Itimpairs the will; not infrequentlyit exercises a directly, visibly, unmistakablydeteriorating influence upon themoral nature. There is nothing strangein this to those who know how an accidentalinjury to the skull may impairor pervert the moral no less than theintellectual powers. That moral ishardly a less common or less distinctivedisease than mental insanity, that theconscience as well as the intellect ofthe drunkard is distorted and weakened,no physiologist doubts. Opium has asimilar power, but exerts it with characteristicslowness of action. The demoralizationof the narcotist is not, likethat of the drunkard, rapid, violent, andpalpable; but gradual, insidious, perceptibleonly to close observers or nearand intimate friends. In nine cases outof ten, moreover, opium ultimately andcertainly poisons the whole vital system.The patient loses physical and mentalenergy, courage, and enterprise; shrinks115from exertion of every kind, dreads thelabor of a walk, the trouble of writinga letter, dreads still more intensely anyeffort that calls for moral courage, flinchesfrom a scene, a quarrel, a social ordomestic conflict, becomes at last selfish,shameless, weak, useless, miserable tothe last degree.

But this, like every other effect ofopium, is in some measure uncertain;and hence arises one of its subtlest dangers.De Quincey would seem to havebeen less susceptible than most mento the worst influences of his favoritedrug, seeing what work, excellent inquality as well as considerable in quantityhe achieved after he had become aconfirmed opium-eater. It took, nodoubt, a tenfold greater amount ofopium to reduce him to intellectual impotencethan would suffice to destroythe minds of nine brain-workers in ten.But his own story clearly reveals howcompletely the enormous doses to whichhe had recourse at last overpowereda mind exceptionally energetic, and atemperament exceptionally capable ofassimilating, perhaps, rather than resistingthe power of opium. Here andthere we find a constitution upon whichit exerts few or none of its characteristiceffects. As a few cannot take it at all,so a few can take it with apparent impunity.With them it will relieve painand will not paralyse the nerves, willquell excitement without affecting mentalenergy; nay, while leaving physicalactivity little more impaired than ageand temperament alone might have impairedit. Here and there we may finda confirmed opium-eater capable oftaking and enjoying active exercise—afairly fearless rider, a lover of naturetempted by taste, or it may be by restlessness,to walks beyond his muscularstrength; with vivid imagination wellunder his own control; in whom eventhe will seems but little weakened, whosedread of pain and flinching from dangerare not more marked after twenty yearsspent under the influence of opium thanwhen they first drove him to its use.Such cases are, of course, wholly exceptional;but their very existence is adanger to others, misleads them intothe idea that they may dally with thetempter, may profit by its pleasure-givingand pain-quelling powers without116falling under its yoke, or may fallunder that yoke and find it a light one.I doubt, however, whether the most fortunateof its victims would encouragethe latter idea; whether there be anyopium-eater who would not give a limbnever to have known what opium cando to spare suffering, to give strengthfor protracted exertion, if he had neverknown what slavery to its influencemeans.

Dread of pain, dislike of excitementand worry, impatience of suffering anddiscomfort, of irritation, and sleeplessness,are all strong and increasingly-markedcharacteristics of our highly artificiallife and perhaps almost overstrainedcivilization. Nature knows noinfluence that can relieve worry, mitigatepain, charm away restlessness, discomfort,and even sleeplessness, as opiumcan. Alcohol is at once too stupefyingand too exciting for the tastes andtemperaments that belong to cultivatednatures and highly-developed brains.Beer suits the sluggish laborer, or theenergetic navvy when his work is done,and his system, like that of a ScandinavianViking or Scythian warrior in hishours of repose, craves first exhilarationand then stupid, thoughtless contentment.Wine suits less active and morepassionate races, to whom excitement isan unmixed pleasure; brandy those whocrave for stronger excitement to stimulateless susceptible nerves. But thephysical stimulants of our fathers andgrandfathers, as the moral excitementsof remoter times, are far too violent forour generation. Champagne has succeededport and sherry as the favoritewine of those who can afford it, beingthe lightest of all; and time was, not solong ago, when medical men were accusedof recommending champagne withsomewhat careless facility to those whosenerves, worn out by unhealthy pursuitof pleasure, by unnatural hours and unwholesomeexcitement, might have beeneffectually though more gradually restoredby a change which to most ofthem at least was possible; by life inthe country rather than in London, bythe fresh air of the early morning insteadof that of midnight in over-heatedgas-lighted rooms and a poisoned atmosphere.There is a danger lest, as evenchampagne has proved too much of a117stimulant and too little of a sedative,narcotics should take its place. Thedoctors will hardly recommend opium,but their patients, obliged for one reasonor another to forego wine, might bedriven upon it.

As aforesaid, the craving for stimulationor tranquillization of the brain—inone word, for that whole class of nerve-agentsto which tea, opium, and brandyalike belong—is so universal, has soprevailed in all ages, races and climates,that it must be considered, if not originallynatural, yet as by this time an ingrained,all but ineradicable, human appetite.To baffle such an appetite byany coercive means, by domestic, socialor legislative penalties, has ever provedimpossible. Deprive it of its gratificationin one form, and it is impelled orforced to find a substitute; and finds it,as all strong human cravings have everfound some kind of satisfaction. Andhere lies one of the worst, most certainand yet least considered dangers of thelegislation eagerly demanded by a constantlyincreasing party. Maine liquorlaws, prohibition, local option, everymeasure that threatens to deprive oftheir favorite stimulant those who arenot willing or have not the resolve toabandon it, would probably fail in theirprimary object. If they succeeded inthat, they would, in a majority of instances,force the drinker, not to becontent with water or even with tea, butto find a subtler substitute of lesserbulk, more easily obtained and concealed.Opium is the most obvious,and, among sedatives powerful enoughto be substituted for wine or spirits, theleast mischievous resource. And opium,once adopted as a substitute for alcohol,would take hold with far greater tenacity,and its use would spread with terriblerapidity, because its evil influence isso subtle, so slowly perceptible; andbecause, if used in moderation and withfitting precautions, its worst effects maynot be felt for many years; becausewomen could use it without detection,and men without alarm or discredit.This peril is one of which wiser menthan Sir Wilfrid Lawson will not makelight, but which too many comparativelyrational advocates of total abstinenceseem to have totally overlooked. Withoutunderrating the frightful evils of in118toxication,its baneful influence uponthe individual, upon large classes, andupon the country as a whole, no onewho knows them both can doubt thatnarcotism is the more dangerous andmore destructive habit. The opiatistwill not brawl in the street, will notbeat his wife or maltreat his children;but he is rendered as a rule, even morerapidly and certainly than the drunkard,a useless member of society, a worthlesscitizen, an indifferent husband, helplessas the bread-winner, impotent as themaster and ruler of a household. Andopium, to the same temperaments andto many others, is quite as seductive asalcohol; far more poisonous, and incomparablymore difficult to shake offwhen once its tyranny has been established.To forbid it, as some have proposedto forbid the sale or manufactureof beer, wine, and spirits, is impossible;to exclude it from the country is out ofthe question; its legitimate uses are tooimportant, and no restrictions whatevercan put it out of the reach of those whodesire it. Silks, spirits, tobacco weresmuggled as long as it paid to smugglethem; opium, an article of incomparablyless bulk and incomparably greatervalue, would bring still larger profit tothe importer; while the customer wouldnot merely be attracted by cheapness orfashion, but impelled by the most imperiousand irresistible of acquired cravings.Any man could smuggle throughany barriers enough to satisfy his appetitefor a year, enough to poison a wholebattalion. That opium can becomethe favorite indulgence with numerousclasses, and apparently with a wholepeople, the experience of more than oneEastern nation clearly shows. As theOriental tea and coffee have to so largean extent superseded beer as the dailydrink of men as well as women and children,so opium is calculated underfavoring circumstances to replace wineand spirits as a stimulant. It mightwell do so even while the competitionwas open. Every penalty placed on theuse of wine or brandy is a premium onthat of opium.

De Quincey is not the only opium-eaterwho has given his experience tothe world. It is evident that the practiceis spreading in America, and therecords published by its victims are as119terrible as the worst descriptions of thedrunkard’s misery or even as the horrorsof delirium tremens. It is noteworthy,however, how little any of these seem toknow of other experiences than theirown—for instance, of the numerousforms and methods in which the drugcan be and is administered. Opium—thesolidified juice of the poppy—is thenatural product from which laudanum,the spirituous tincture of opium, and allthe various forms of morphia, whichmay be called the chemical extract, theessential principle of opium, are obtained.Morphia, again, is sold bychemists and exhibited by doctors inmany forms, the principal of which arethe acetate, the sulphate and the muriateof morphia—the substance itself combinedwith acetic, sulphuric, or hydrochloricacid. Of these last the muriateis, we believe, the safest, the acetate andin a lesser degree the sulphate havingmore of the pleasurable, sedative, seductiveinfluence of opium in proportion totheir pain-quelling power. They act,in some way, more powerfully upon thespirits while exerting the same anæstheticinfluence, and the injurious effects ofeach dose are more marked and lesseasily counteracted. Laudanum, containingproof spirit as well as morphine,and through the proof spirit diffusingthe narcotic influence more rapidly andaffecting the brain more quickly anddecidedly, is perhaps the worst vehiclethrough which the essential drug can betaken. Again, morphine, in its liquidforms can be injected under the skin; assolid opium it can be smoked or eaten,as morphia it can be swallowed or injected.Of all modes of administration—speaking,of course, of the self-administeredabuse, not of the strict medicaluse of the drug—subcutaneous injectionis the worst. It acts the most speedilyand apparently the most pleasurably; itpasses off the most rapidly, and tempts,120therefore the most frequent, re-application.Apart, moreover, from the poisonousinfluence itself, this mode of applicationhas injurious effects of its own;produces callosities and sores of a painfuland revolting character. Smokingseems to be the most stupefying mannerin which solid opium can be consumed,the one which acts most powerfully andinjuriously upon the brain. But opium-smokingis hardly likely to take a stronghold on English or European taste. Apiece of opium no larger than a pea,chopped up and mixed with a largebowlful of tobacco, produces on theveteran tobacco-smoker a nauseatingeffect powerfully recalling that of thefirst pipe of his boyhood; while its flavoris incomparably more disagreeableto the palate accustomed to the besthavanas or the worst shag or bird’s-eyethan these were to the unvitiated taste.It is probable that the Englishman whomakes his first acquaintance with opiumin this form will be revolted rather thantempted, unless indeed the pipe be usedto relieve a pain so intolerable that thenauseousness of the remedy is disregarded.Morphia in all its forms, liquid orsolid, has a thoroughly unpleasant bitterness,but neither the nauseous tasteof the pipe nor the intensely disgustingflavor of laudanum, a flavor so revoltingto the unaccustomed palate that onlywhen largely diluted by water can itpossibly be swallowed. On the whole,the muriate, dissolved in a quantity ofwater large enough to render each dropthe equivalent of a drop of laudanum, isprobably the safest, and should be swallowedrather than injected. But ratherthan swallow even this, a wise man, unlessmore confident in his own constancyand self-command than wise men arewont to be, had better endure any temporarypain that nature may inflict orany remedial operation that surgery canoffer.—Contemporary Review.

121

FOLK-LORE FOR SWEETHEARTS.
BY REV. M. G. WATKINS, M.A.

As marriage and death are the chiefevents in human life, an enormous massof popular beliefs has in all nationscrystallised round them. Perhaps thesterner and more gloomy character ofKelts, Saxons, and Northmen generally122found vent in the greater prominencethey have given to omens of death, second-sight,ghosts, and the like; whereasthe lighter and sunnier disposition ofSouthern Europe has delighted more inlove-spells, methods of divining a futurepartner, the whole pomp and circumstanceattending Venus and her doves.The writhing of the wryneck so graphicallyportrayed in Theocritus, or thespells of the lover in his Latin imitator,with their refrain—

may thus be profitably compared withthe darker superstitions of St. Mark’sEve, the Baal fires, and compacts withthe evil one, which so constantly recurthroughout the Northern mythologies.But there are times and festivities whenthe serious Northern temperament relaxes;and any one who has the leastacquaintance with the wealth of folk-lorewhich recent years have shown thenatives of Great Britain that they possess,well knows that the times of courtshipand marriage are two occasionswhen this lighter vein of our compositenature is conspicuous. The collectionof these old-world beliefs amongst ourpeasantry did not begin a moment toosoon. Day by day the remnants of themare fast fading from the national memory.The disenchanting wand of themodern schoolmaster, the rationalisticinfluences of the press, the Procrustes-likesystem of standards in our parishschools—these act like the breath ofmorn or the crowing of a cock uponghosts, and at once put charms, spells,and the like to flight. Before the nationassumes the sober hues of pure reasonand unpitying logic, in lieu of the picturesquescraps of folk-lore and old-wifishbeliefs in which imagination waswont to clothe it, no office can be moregrateful to posterity than for enthusiasticinquirers to search out and put onrecord these notes of fairy music whichour villagers used to listen to with suchcontent. By way of giving a sample oftheir linked sweetnesses long drawn outthrough so many generations of countrydwellers—of which the echoes stillvibrate, especially in the north and west123of the country—it is our purpose toquote something of the legendary loreconnected with love and marriage. Thismust interest everybody. Even the mostdetermined old bachelor probably fellonce, at least, in love to enable him todiscover the hollowness of the passion;and as for the other sex, they may veryconveniently, if illogically, be classedhere as they used to be at the OxfordCommemoration, the married, the unmarried,and those who wish to be married.Some of these spells and charmspossess associations for each of thesedivisions, and we are consequently sureof the suffrages of the fair sex.

Folk-lore, like Venus herself, has indeedspecially flung her cestus over “thepalmer in love’s eye.” She has morecharms to soothe his melancholy thanwere ever prescribed by Burton. Sheis not above dabbling in spells and theunholy mysteries of the black art to informhim who shall be his partner forlife. When sleep at length seals hiseyes, she waits at his bedside next morningto tell him the meaning of his dreams.And most certainly the weaker sex hasnot been forgotten by folk-lore, which,in proportion to their easier powers ofbelief, provides them with infinite storeof solace and prediction. Milkmaids,country lasses, and secluded dwellers inwhitewashed farm or thick-walled ancestralgrange are her particular charge.The Juliets and Amandas of higher rankalready possess enough nurses, confidantes,and bosom friends, to say nothingof the poets and novelists. Perhapsit would be well for them if they neverresorted to more dangerous mentorsthan do their rustic sisters when theylisten to old wives’ wisdom at the chimneycorner. Yet an exception must bemade in favor of some lovers of rank,when we recall the ludicrously simplewooing of Mr. Carteret and LadyJemima Montagu, and how mightilythey were indebted to the good officesof the more skilled Samuel Pepys, wholiterally taught them when they oughtto take each other’s hand, “make theseand these compliments,” and the like;“he being the most awkerd man I evermet with in my life as to that business,”as the garrulous diarist adds. For ourselves,we do not profess to be lovecasuists, and the profusion of receipts124which the subject possesses is so remarkablethat we shall be unable to preservemuch order in our prescriptions. Likethose little books which possess wisdomfor all who look within them, we canonly promise our readers a peep into abudget fresh from fairy-land, and eachmay select what spell he or she chooses.Autolycus himself did not open a packstuffed with greater attractions for hiscustomers, especially for the fair sex.

Nothing is easier than to dream of asweetheart. Only put a piece of wedding-cakeunder your pillow, and yourwish will be gratified. If you are indoubt between two or three lovers, whichyou should choose, let a friend writetheir names on the paper in which thecake is wrapped, sleep on it yourself asbefore for three consecutive nights, andif you should then happen to dream ofone of the names therein written, youare certain to marry him.5 In Hull,folk-lore somewhat varies the receipt.Take the blade-bone of a rabbit, sticknine pins in it, and then put it underyour pillow, when you will be sure tosee the object of your affections. AtBurnley, during a marriage-feast, a wedding-ringis put into the posset, andafter serving it out the unmarried personwhose cup contains the ring will be thefirst of the company to be married.Sometimes, too, a cake is made intowhich a wedding-ring and a sixpenceare put. When the company are aboutto retire, the cake is broken and distributedamong the unmarried ladies. Shewho finds the ring in her portion of cakewill shortly be married, but she who getsthe sixpence will infallibly die an oldmaid.

Perhaps your affections are still disengaged,but you wish to bestow them onone who will return like for like. Inthis case there are plenty of wishing-chairs,wishing-gates, and so forth, scatteredthrough the country. A wishbreathed near them, and kept secret,will sooner or later have its fulfilment.But there is no need to travel to theLake country or to Finchale Priory, nearDurham (where is a wishing-chair); ifyou see a piece of old iron or a horseshoeon your path, take it up, spit onit, and throw it over your left shoulder,125framing a wish at the same time. Keepthis wish a secret, and it will come topass in due time. If you meet a piebaldhorse, nothing can be more lucky; utteryour wish, and whatever it may be youwill have it before the week be out. InCleveland, the following method of diviningwhether a girl will be married ornot is resorted to. Take a tumbler ofwater from a stream which runs southward;borrow the wedding-ring of somegudewife and suspend it by a hair ofyour head over the glass of water, holdingthe hair between the finger andthumb. If the ring hit against the sideof the glass, the holder will die an oldmaid; if it turn quickly round, she willbe married once; if slowly, twice.Should the ring strike the side of theglass more than three times after theholder has pronounced the name of herlover, there will be a lengthy courtshipand nothing more; “she will be courtedto dead,” as they say in Lincolnshire;if less frequently, the affair willbe broken off, and if there is no strikingat all it will never come on.6 Or if youlook at the first new moon of the yearthrough a silk handkerchief which hasnever been washed, as many moons asyou see through it (the threads multiplyingthe vision), so many years must passbefore your marriage. Would you ascertainthe color of your future husband’shair? Follow the practice of theGerman girls. Between the hours ofeleven and twelve at night on St. Andrew’sEve a maiden must stand at thehouse door, take hold of the latch, andsay three times, “Gentle love, if thoulovest me, show thyself,” She mustthen open the door quickly, and make arapid grasp through it into the darkness,when she will find in her hand a lock ofher future husband’s hair. The “UniversalFortune-teller” prescribes a stillmore fearsome receipt for obtaining anactual sight of him. The girl must takea willow branch in her left hand, and,without being observed, slip out of thehouse and run three times round it,whispering the while, “He that is to bemy goodman, come and grip the end ofit.” During the third circuit the like126nessof the future husband will appearand grasp the other end of the wand.Would any one conciliate a lover’s affections?There is a charm of much simplicity,and yet of such potency that itwill even reconcile man and wife. Insidea frog is a certain crooked bone,which when cleaned and dried over thefire on St. John’s Eve, and then groundfine and given in food to the lover, willat once win his love for the administerer.7A timely hint may here begiven to any one going courting: besure when leaving home to spit in yourright shoe would you speed in your wooing.If you accidentally put on yourleft stocking, too, inside out, nothingbut good luck can ensue.

Among natural objects, the folk loreof the north invariably assigns a speedymarriage to the sight of three magpiestogether. If a cricket sings on thehearth, it portends that riches will fallto the hearer’s lot. Catch a ladybird,and suffer it to fly out of your handswhile repeating the following couplet—

and its flight will furnish some clue tothe direction in which your sweetheartlies. Should a red rose bloom early inthe garden, it is a sure token of an earlymarriage. In Scotch folk-lore the rosepossesses much virtue. If a girl hasseveral lovers, and wishes to know whichof them will be her husband, she takesa rose-leaf for each of them, and namingeach leaf after the name of one ofher lovers, watches them float down astream till one after another they sink,when the last to disappear will be herfuture husband.8 A four-leaved cloverwill preserve her from any deceit on hispart, should she be fortunate enough tofind that plant; while there is no end tothe virtues of an even ash-leaf. We recountsome of its merits from an oldcollection of northern superstitions,9trusting they are better than the verseswhich detail them.

The color in which a girl dresses isimportant, not only during courtship,but after marriage.

Green, being sacred to the fairies, is amost unlucky hue. The “little folk”will undoubtedly resent the insult shouldany one dress in their color. Mr. Henderson10has known mothers in the southof England absolutely forbid it to theirdaughters, and avoid it in the furnitureof their houses. Peter Bell’s sixth wifecould not have been more inauspiciouslydressed when she—

And nothing green must make its appearanceat a Scotch wedding. Kaleand other green vegetables are rigidlyexcluded from the wedding-dinner.Jealousy has ever green eyes, and greengrows the grass on Love’s grave.

Some omens may be obtained by thesingle at a wedding-feast. The bride inthe North Country cuts a cheese (as inmore fashionable regions she is the firstto help the wedding-cake), and he whocan secure the first piece that she cutswill insure happiness in his married life.If the “best man” does not secure theknife he will indeed be unfortunate.The maidens try to possess themselvesof a “shaping” of the wedding-dressfor use in certain divinations concerningtheir future husbands.11

In all ages and all parts of our islandmaidens have resorted to omens drawnfrom flowers respecting their sweethearts.Holly, ribwort, plantain, blackcentaury, yarrow, and a multitude morepossess a great reputation in love matters.The lover must generally sleep onsome one of these and repeat a charm,128when pleasant dreams and faithful indicationsof a suitor will follow. “Thelast summer, on the day of St. John theBaptist, 1694,” says Aubrey, “I accidentallywas walking in the pasture behindMontague House; it was twelveo’clock. I saw there about two or threeand twenty young women, most of themwell habited, on their knees very busy,as if they had been weeding. I couldnot presently learn what the matter was;at last a young man told me that theywere looking for a coal under the rootof a plantain, to put under their headthat night, and they should dream whowould be their husbands. It was to besought for that day and hour.”12

But the day of all others sacred tothese mystic rites was ever the eve ofSt. Agnes (January 20), when maidensfasted and then watched for a sign. Apassage in the office for St. Agnes’s Dayin the Sarum Missal may have given riseto this custom: “Hæc est virgo sapiensquam Dominus vigilantem invenit;”and the Gospel is the Parable of theVirgins.13 Ben Jonson alludes to thecustom:—

And a character in “Cupid’s Whirligig”(1616) says, “I could find in my heartto pray nine times to the moone, andfast three St. Agnes’s Eves, so that Imight bee sure to have him to my husband.”Aubrey gives two receipts tothe ladies for that eve, which may stillbe useful. Take a row of pins and pullout every one, one after another, sayinga Paternoster, and sticking a pin in yoursleeve, and you will dream of him youshall marry. Again,129 “you must lie inanother country, and knit the left garterabout the right-legged stocking (let theother garter and stocking alone), and asyou rehearse these following verses, atevery comma knit a knot:—

Accordingly in your dream you will seehim; if a musician, with a lute or otherinstrument; if a scholar, with a book orpapers;” and he adds a little encouragementto use this device in the followinganecdote. “A gentlewoman that Iknew, confessed in my hearing that sheused this method, and dreamt of herhusband whom she had never seen.About two or three years after, as shewas on Sunday at church (at our Lady’sChurch in Sarum), up pops a youngOxonian in the pulpit; she cries outpresently to her sister, ‘This is the veryface of the man that I saw in my dream.Sir William Soame’s lady did the like.’”It is hardly needful to remind readersof Keats’s “Eve of St. Agnes,” and thestory of Madeline,—

Our ancestors made merry in a similarfashion on St. Valentine’s Day. SoHerrick, speaking of a bride, says,—

Brand, who helps us to this quotation,gives an amusing extract from theConnoisseur to the same effect. “LastFriday was Valentine’s Day, and thenight before I got five bay leaves, andpinned four of them to the four cornersof my pillow, and the fifth to the middle;and then, if I dreamt of my sweetheart,Betty said we should be marriedbefore the year was out. But to makeit more sure, I boiled an egg hard, andtook out the yolk and filled it with salt,and when I went to bed, eat it, shelland all, without speaking or drinkingafter it. We also wrote our lovers’names upon bits of paper, and rolledthem up in clay, and put them into water,and the first that rose up was to beour Valentine. Would you think it?Mr. Blossom was my man. I lay abedand shut my eyes all the morning till hecame to our house; for I would nothave seen another man before him forall the world.” The moon, “the ladymoon,” has frequently been called intocouncil about husbands from the timewhen she first lost her own heart to130Endymion, the beautiful shepherd ofMount Latmos. Go out when the firstnew moon of the year first appears, andstanding over the spars of a gate orstile, look on the moon and repeat asfollows:—

You will certainly dream that night ofyour future husband. It is very important,too, that if you have a cat in thehouse, it should be a black one. ANorth Country rhyme says—

And an old woman in the north, addsMr. Henderson,14 said lately in accordancewith this belief to a lady, “It’s nawonder Jock ——’s lasses marry off sofast, ye ken what a braw black catthey’ve got.” It is still more lucky ifsuch a cat comes of its own accord, andtakes up its residence in any house.The same gentleman gives an excellentreceipt to bring lovers to the house,which was communicated to him byCanon Raine, and was gathered fromthe conversation of two maid-servants.One of them, it seems, peeped out ofcuriosity into the box of her fellow servant,and was astonished to find therethe end of a tallow candle stuck throughand through with pins. “What’s that,Molly,” said Bessie, “that I seed i’ thybox?” “Oh,” said Molly, “it’s tobring my sweetheart. Thou seest,sometimes he’s slow a coming, and if Istick a candle case full o’ pins it alwaysfetches him.” A member of the familycertified that John was thus duly fetchedfrom his abode, a distance of six miles,and pretty often too.

Some of the most famous divinationsabout marriage are practised with hazel-nutson Allhallowe’en. In Indo-Europeantradition the hazel was sacred tolove; and when Loki in the form of afalcon rescued Idhunn, the goddess ofyouthful life, from the power of thefrost-giants, he carried her off in hisbeak in the shape of a hazel-nut.15 Soin Denmark, as in ancient Rome, nuts131are scattered at a marriage. In northerndivinations on Allhallowe’en nutsare placed on the bars of a grate bypairs, which have first been named aftera pair of lovers, and according to theresult, their combustion, explosion, andthe like, the wise divine the fortune ofthe lovers. Graydon has beautifullyversified this superstition:—

Nevertheless modes of love-divinationfor this special evening, which is as propitiousto lovers as Valentine’s Day,may be found in Brand, and other collectorsof these old customs.

Peas are also sacred to Freya, almostvying with the mistletoe in alleged virtuefor lovers. In one district of Bohemiathe girls go into a field of peas, andmake there a garland of five or sevenkinds of flowers (the goddess of love delightsin uneven numbers), all of differenthues. This garland they must sleepupon, lying with their right ear upon it,and then they hear a voice from underground,which tells what manner of menthey will have for husbands. Sweet-peaswould doubtless prove very effectualin this kind of divination, and thereneed be no difficulty in finding them ofdifferent hues. If Hertfordshire girlsare lucky enough to find a pod containingnine peas, they lay it under a gate,and believe they will have for husbandthe first man that passes through. Onthe Borders unlucky lads and lasses incourtship are rubbed down with peastraw by friends of the opposite sex.These beliefs connected with peas arevery widespread. Touchstone, it willbe remembered, gave two peas to JaneSmile, saying, “with weeping tears,‘Wear these for my sake.’”17

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In Scotland on Shrove Tuesday a nationaldish called “crowdie,” composedof oatmeal and water with milk, is largelyconsumed, and lovers can always telltheir chances of being married by puttinginto the porringer a ring. Thefinder of this in his or her portion willwithout fail be married sooner than anyone else in the company. Onions, curiouslyenough, figure in many superstitionsconnected with marriage—why, wehave no idea. It might be ungallantlysuggested that it is from their supposedvirtue to produce tears, or from wearingmany faces, as it were, under one hood.While speaking of these unsavory vegetables,we are reminded of a passage inLuther’s “Table Talk”: “Upon theeve of Christmas Day the women runabout and strike a swinish hour” (whateverthis may mean): “if a great hoggrunts, it decides that the future husbandwill be an old man; if a smallone, a young man,”18 The orpine isanother magical plant in love incantations.It must be used on MidsummerEve, and is useful to inform a maidenwhether her lover is true or false. Itmust be stuck up in her room, and thedesired information is obtained by watchingwhether it bends to the right or theleft. Hemp-seed, sown on that evening,also possesses marvellous efficacy.One of the young ladies mentionedabove, who sewed bay leaves on her pillow,and had the felicity of seeing Mr.Blossom in consequence, writes, “Thesame night, exactly at twelve o’clock, Iplanted hemp-seed in our back yard,and said to myself, ‘Hemp seed I sow,hemp-seed I hoe, and he that is my truelove come after me and mow!’ Willyou believe it? I looked back and sawhim behind me, as plain as eyes couldsee him.” And she adds, as anotherwrinkle to her sex, “Our maid Bettytells me that if I go backwards, withoutspeaking a word, into the garden uponMidsummer Eve, and gather a rose andkeep it in a clean sheet of paper withoutlooking at it till Christmas Day, it willbe as fresh as in June; and if I thenstick it in my bosom, he that is to bemy husband will come and take it out.”Whatever be the virtue of Betty’s recipe,it would at all events teach a lover pa133tience.Mr. Henderson supplies twotimely cautions from Border folk-lore.A girl can “scarcely do a worse thingthan boil a dish-clout in her crock.”She will be sure, in consequence, to loseall her lovers, or, in Scotch phrase,“boil all her lads awa’;” “and inDurham it is believed that if you putmilk in your tea before sugar, you loseyour sweetheart,”19 We may add thatunless a girl fasts on St. Catherine’sDay (Nov. 25) she will never have agood husband. Nothing can be luckierfor either bachelor or girl than to beplaced inadvertently at some social gatheringbetween a man and his wife. Theperson so seated will be married beforethe year is out.

Song, play, and sonnet20 have diffusedfar and wide the custom of blowing offthe petals of a flower, saying the while,“He loves me—loves me not.” Whenthis important business has been settledin the affirmative a hint may be usefulfor the lover going courting. If hemeets a hare, he must at once turn back.Nothing can well be more unlucky.Witches are found of that shape, and hewill certainly be crossed in love. Expertssay that after the next meal hasbeen eaten the evil influence is expended,and the lover can again hie forth insafety. In making presents to eachother the happy pair must remember onno account to give each other a knife ora pair of scissors. Such a present effectuallycuts love asunder. Take care,too, not to fall in love with one the initialof whose surname is the same asyours. It is quite certain that the unionof such cannot be happy. This love-secrethas been reduced into rhyme forthe benefit of treacherous memories:—

This love-lore belongs to the Northernmythology, else the Romans wouldnever have used that universal formula,“ubi tu Caius ego Caia.”

These directions and cautions mustsurely have brought our pair of happylovers to the wedding-day. Even yetthey are not safe from malign influences,134but folk-lore does not forget their welfare.If the bride has been courted byother sweethearts than the one she hasnow definitely chosen, there is a fearlest the discarded suitors should entertainunkindly feelings towards her. Toobviate all unpleasant consequences fromthis, the bride must wear a sixpence inher left shoe until she is “kirked,” saythe Scotch. And on her return home,if a horse stands looking at her througha gateway, or even lingers along theroad leading to her new home, it is avery bad omen for her future happiness.

When once the marriage-knot is tied,it is so indissoluble that folk-lore for themost part leaves the young couple alone.It is imperative, however, that the wifeshould never take off her wedding-ring.To do so is to open a door to innumerablecalamities, and a window at thesame time through which love may fly.Should the husband not find that peaceand quietness which he has a right toexpect in matrimony, but discover unfortunatelythat he has married a scoldor a shrew, he must make the best ofthe case:—

Yet folk-lore has still one simple whichwill alleviate his sorrow. Any night hewill, he may taste fasting a root of radish,say our old Saxon forefathers, andnext day he will be proof against awoman’s chatter.21 By growing a largebed of radishes, and supping off themregularly, it is thus possible that hemight exhaust after a time the verbosityof his spouse, but we are bound to addthat we have never heard of such aneasy cure being effected. The cucking-stoolwas found more to the purpose inpast days.

But Aphrodite lays her finger on ourmouth. Having disclosed so many secretsof her worship, it is time now tobe silent.

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After all this love-lore, supposing anyone were to take a tender interest in ourwelfare, we should hint to her that shehad no need of borrowed charms ormystic foreshadowing of the future, inHoratian words, which we shall leaveuntranslated as a compliment to Girton:—

Simplicity and openness of dispositionare worth more than all affectations ofdress or manner. Well did the Scotchlad in the song rebuke his sweetheart,who asked him for a “keekin’-glass”(Anglice, “looking-glass”):—

But he answered—

In truth, the best divination for loversis a ready smile, and the most potentcharms a maiden can possess are reticenceand patience. And so to end(with quaint old Burton22), “Let themtake this of Aristænetus (that so marry)for their comfort: ‘After many troublesand cares, the marriages of lovers aremore sweet and pleasant.’ As we commonlyconclude a comedy with a weddingand shaking of hands, let’s shut upour discourse and end all with an epithalamium.Let the Muses sing, theGraces dance, not at their weddingsonly, but all their dayes long; so coupletheir hearts that no irksomeness or angerever befall them: let him never call herother name than my joye, my light; orshe call him otherwise than sweetheart.”—Belgravia.

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A ROMANCE OF A GREEK STATUE.
BY J. THEODORE BENT.

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I cannot tell you the story just asNikola told it to me, with all that flowof language common in a Greek, mymemory is not good enough for that;but the facts, and some of his quaintexpressions, I can recount, for these Inever shall forget. My travel took meto a distant island of the Greek Archipelago,called Sikinos, last winter, anisland only to be reached by a sailing-boat,and here, in quarters of the humblestnature, I was storm-stayed for fivelong days. Nikola had been my muleteeron an expedition I made to a remotecorner of the island where still are to betraced the ruins of an ancient Hellenictown, and about a mile from it a templeof Pythian Apollo. He was a fine stalwartfellow of thirty or thereabouts; hehad a bright intelligent face, and hewore the usual island costume, namely,knickerbocker trousers of blue homespuncalico, with a fulness, which hangsdown between the legs, and when fullof things, for it is the universal pocket,wabbles about like the stomach of agoose; on his head he wore a faded oldfez, his feet were protected from thestones by sandals of untanned skin, andhe carried a long stick in his hand withwhich to drive his mule.

Sikinos is perhaps the most unattainablecorner of Europe, being nothingbut a barren harborless rock in the middleof the Ægean sea, possessing as afleet one caique, which occasionally goesto a neighboring island where the steamerstops, to see if there are any communicationsfrom the outer world, and fourrotten fishing boats, which seldom venturemore than a hundred yards from theshore. The fifteen hundred inhabitantsof this rock lead a monotonous life intwo villages, one of which is two hundredyears old, fortified and dirty, andcalled the “Kastro,” or the “camp”;the other is modern, and about five minutes’walk from the camp, and is called“the other place”; so nomenclature inSikinos is simple enough. The inhabitantsare descended from certain refugeeswho, two hundred years ago, fled fromCrete during a revolution, and built the138fortified village up on the hillside out ofthe reach of pirates, and remained isolatedfrom the world ever since. Beforethey came, Sikinos had been uninhabitedsince the days of the ancient Greeks.The only two men in the place who havetravelled—that is to say, who have beenas far as Athens—are the Demarch,who is the chief legislator of the island,and looked up to as quite a man of theworld, and Nikola, the muleteer.

I must say, the last thing I expectedto hear in Sikinos was a romance, buton one of the stormy days of detentionthere, with the object of whiling awayan hour, I paid a visit to Nikola in hisclean white house in “the other place.”He met me on the threshold with ahearty “We have well met,” bade mesit down on his divan, and sent his wife—abright, buxom young woman—forthe customary coffee, sweets, and raki;he rolled me a cigarette, which he carefullylicked, to my horror, but which Idared not refuse to smoke, cursed theweather, and stirred the embers in thebrazier preparatory to attacking me witha volley of questions. I always disarminquisitiveness on such occasions by beinginquisitive myself. “How longhave you been married?” “How manychildren have you got?” “How old isyour wife?” and by the time I had askedhalf a dozen such questions, Nikola,after the fashion of the Greeks, had forgottenhis own thirst for knowledge inhis desire to satisfy mine.

In Nikola’s case unparalleled successattended this manœuvre, and from thefurtive smiles which passed betweenhusband and wife I realised that somemystery was attached to their unionswhich I forthwith made it my business,to solve.

“I always call her ‘my statue,’”said the muleteer, laughing, “‘my marblestatue,’” and he slapped her on theback to show that, at any rate, she wasmade of pretty hard material.

“Can Pygmalion have married Galateaafter all?” I remarked for the moment,forgetting the ignorance of myfriends on such topics, but a Greek139never admits that he does not understand,and Nikola replied, “No; hername is Kallirhoe, and she was thepriest’s daughter.”

Having now broached the subject,Nikola was all anxiety to continue it;he seated himself on one chair, his wifetook another, ready to prompt him ifnecessary, and remind him of forgottenfacts. I sat on the divan; between uswas the brazier; the only cause for interruptioncame from an exceedinglynaughty child, which existed as a livingtestimony that this modern Galatea hadrecovered from her transformation intostone.

“I was a gay young fellow in thosedays,” began Nikola.

“Five years ago last carnival time,”put in the wife, but she subsided on afrown from her better half; for Greekhusbands never meekly submit, like Englishones, to the lesser portion of command,and the Greek wife is the patternof a weaker vessel, seldom sittingdown to meals, cooking, spinning, slaving,—amere chattel, in fact.

“I was the youngest of six—two sistersand four brothers, and we fourworked day after day to keep our oldfather’s land in order, for we were verypoor, and had nothing to live upon exceptthe produce of our land.”

Land in Sikinos is divided into tinyholdings: one man may possess half adozen plots of land in different parts ofthe island, the produce of which—thegrain, the grapes, the olives, the honey,etc.—he brings on mules to his store(ἀποθήκη) near the village. Each landownerhas a store and a little gardenaround it on the hillside, just outsidethe village, of which the stores look likea mean extension, but on visiting themwe found their use.

“We worked every day in the yearexcept feast-days, starting early withour ploughs, our hoes, and our pruninghooks, according to the season, and returninglate, driving our bullocks andour mules before us.” An islander’stools are simple enough—his plough is solight that he can carry it over his shouldersas he drives the bullocks to theirwork. It merely scratches the back ofthe land, making no deep furrows;and when the work is far from thevillage the husbandman starts from140home very early, and seldom returns tilldusk.

“On feast-days we danced on the villagesquare. I used to look forward tothose days, for then I met Kallirhoe,the priest’s daughter, who danced thesyrtos best of all the girls, tripping assoftly as a Nereid,” said Nikola, lookingapprovingly at his wife. I had seena syrtos at Sikinos, and I could testify tothe fact that they dance it well, revolvingin light wavy lines backwards, forwards,now quick, now slow, until youdo not wonder that the natives imaginethose mystic beings they call Nereids tobe for ever dancing thus in the cavesand grottoes. The syrtos is a semicirculardance of alternate young men andmaidens, holding each other by handkerchiefs,not from modesty, as onemight at first suppose, but so as to givemore liberty of action to their limbs,and in dancing this dance it would appearNikola and Kallirhoe first felt thetender passion of love kindled in theirbreasts. But between the two a greatgulf was fixed, for marriages amongst apeasantry so shrewd as the Greeks arenot so easily settled as they are with us.Parents have absolute authority overtheir daughters, and never allow them tomarry without a prospect, and beforeproviding for any son a father’s duty isto give his daughters a house and acompetency, and he expects any suitorfor their hand to present an equivalentin land and farm stock. The result ofthis is to create an overpowering stockof maiden ladies, and to drive youngmen from home in search of fortunesand wives elsewhere.

This was the breach which was fixedbetween Nikola and Kallirhoe—apparentlya hopeless case, for Nikola hadsisters, and brothers, and poverty-strickenparents; he never could somuch as hope to call a spade his own;during all his life he would have todrudge and slave for others. Theycould not run away; that idea neveroccurred to them, for the only escapefrom Sikinos was by the solitary caique.“I had heard rumors,” continued Nikola,“of how men from other islandshad gone to far-off countries and returnedrich, but how could I, who hadnever been off this rock in all my life?

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“I should have had to travel by oneof those steamers which I had seen withtheir tail of smoke on the horizon, andabout which I had pondered many atime, just like you, sir, may look andponder at the stars; and to travel Ishould require money, which I well knewmy father would not give me, for hewanted me for his slave. My onlyhope, and that was a small one, was thatthe priest, Papa Manoulas, Kallirhoe’sfather, would not be too hard on uswhen he saw how we loved each other.He had been the priest to dip me in thefont at my baptism; he always smokeda pipe with father once a week; he hadknown me all my life as a steady lad,who only got drunk on feast-days.‘Perhaps he will give his consent,’whispered my mother, putting foolishhopes into my brain. Poor old woman!she was grieved to see her favorite lookingworn and ill, listless at his work,and for ever incurring the blame offather and brothers; only when I talkedto her about Kallirhoe did my facebrighten a little, so she said one day,‘Papa Manoulas is kind; likely enoughhe may wish to see Kallirhoe happy.’So one evil day I consented to mymother’s plan, that she should go andpropose for me.”

Some explanation is here necessary.At Sikinos, as in other remote cornersof Greece, they still keep up a customcalled προξενία. The man does notpropose in person, but sends an oldfemale relative to seek the girl’s handfrom her parents; this old woman musthave on one stocking white and theother red or brown. “Your stockingsof two colors make me think that weshall have an offer,” sings an islandpoem. Nikola’s mother went thusgarbed, but returned with a sorrowfulface. “I was made to eat gruel,” saidhe, using the common expression inthese parts for a refusal, “and nobodyate more than I did. Next day PapaManoulas called at our house. Myheart stood still as he came in, and thenbubbled over like a seething wine vatwhen he asked to speak to me alone.‘You are a good fellow, Kola,’ he began.‘Kallirhoe loves you, and I wishto see you happy;’ and I had fallen onhis neck and kissed him on both cheeksbefore he could say, ‘Wait a bit, youngman; before you marry her you must142get together just a little money; I willbe content with 1,000 drachmas (£40).When you have that to offer in return forKallirhoe’s dower you shall be married,’‘A thousand drachmas!’ muttered I.‘May the God of the ravens help me!’”(an expression denoting impossibility),“and I burst into tears.”

The men of modern Greece when violentlyagitated cry as readily as cunningUlysses, and are not ashamed of thefact.

“I remember well that evening,”continued Nikola. “I left the houseas it was getting dusk, and climbeddown the steep path to the sea. I wanderedfor hours amongst the wild masticand the brushwood. My feet refused tocarry me home that night, so I lay downon the floor in the little white church,dedicated to my patron saint, down bythe harbor, where we go for our annualfestival when the priest blesses the watersand our boats. Many’s the time,as a lad, I’ve jumped into the water tofetch out the cross, which the priestthrows into the sea with a stone tied to iton this occasion, and many’s the timeI’ve been the lucky one to bring it upand get a few coppers for my wetting.That night I thought of tying a stoneround my own neck and jumping intothe sea, so that all traces of me mightdisappear.

“I could not make up my mind toface any one all next day, so I wanderedamongst the rocks, scarcely rememberingto feed myself on the fewolives I had in my pocket. I could donothing but sing ‘The Little Caique,’which made me sob and feel better.”

The song of “The Little Caique” isa great favorite amongst the seafaringmen of the Greek islands. It is a melancholylove ditty, of which the followingwords are a fairly close translation:—

“Towards evening I returned home.My mother’s anxious face told me thatshe, too, had suffered during my absence;and out of a pot of lentil soup,which was simmering on the embers, shegave me a bowlful, and it refreshed me.To my dying day I shall never forgetmy father’s and brothers’ wrath. I hadwilfully absented myself for a whole dayfrom my work. I was called ‘a peacock,’‘a burnt man’ (equivalent to afool), ‘no man at all,’ ‘;horns,’ and anybad name that occurred to them. Fordays and weeks after this I was the mostmiserable, down-trodden Greek alive,and all on account of a woman.” Andhere Nikola came to a stop, and orderedhis wife to fetch him another glass ofraki to moisten his throat. No Greekcan talk or sing long without a glass ofraki.

“About two months after theseevents,” began Nikola with renewedvigor, “my father ordered me to clearaway a heap of stones which occupied acorner of a little terrace-vineyard weowned on a slope near the church ofEpiscopì.23 We always thought thestones had been put there to support theearth from falling from the terraceabove, but it lately had occurred to myfather that it was only a heap of loosestones which had been cleared off thefield and thrown there when the vineyardwas made, and the removal ofwhich would add several square feet tothe small holding. Next morning Istarted about an hour before the Panagía(Madonna) had opened the gates ofthe East,24 with a mule and panniers toremove the stones. I worked hardenough when I got there, for the morningwas cold, and I was beginning tofind that the harder I worked the lesstime I had for thought. Stone afterstone was removed, pannier-load afterpannier-load was emptied down the cliff,144and fell rattling amongst the brushwoodand rousing the partridges and crows asthey fell. After a couple of hours’ workthe mound was rapidly disappearing,when I came across something whiteprojecting upwards. I looked at itclosely; it was a marble foot. Morestones were removed, and disclosed amarble leg, two legs, a body, an arm; ahead and another arm, which had beenbroken off by the weight of the stones,lay close by. Though I was somewhatastonished at this discovery, yet I didnot suppose it to be of any value. Ihad heard of things of this kind beingfound before. My father had an uglybit of marble which came out of a neighboringtomb. However, I did notthrow it over the cliff with the otherstones, but I put it on one side andwent on again with my work.

“All day long my thoughts kept revertingto this statue. It was so verylife-like—so different from the stiff, uglymarble figures I had seen; and it wasso much larger, too, standing nearlyfour feet high. Perhaps, thought I, thePanagía has put it here—perhaps it is asacred miracle-working thing, such asthe priests find in spots like this. Andthen suddenly I remembered how, whenI was a boy, a great German effendi hadvisited Sikinos, and was reported tohave dug up and carried away with himpriceless treasures. Is this statue worthanything? was the question whichhaunted me all day, and which I wouldhave given ten years of my young life tosolve.

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“When my day’s work was over, I putthe statue on to my mule, and carefullycovered it over, so that no one mightsee what I had found; for though I washopelessly ignorant of what the value ofmy discovery might be, yet instinctprompted me to keep it to myself. Itwas dark when I reached the village,and I went straight to the store, sorelyperplexed as to what to do with mytreasure. There was no time to bury it,for I had met one of my brothers, whowould tell them at home that I had returned;so in all haste I hid the coldwhite thing under the grain in the corner,trusting that no one would find it,and went home. I passed a wretchednight, dreaming and restless by turns.Once I woke up in horror, and found itdifficult to dispel the effects of a dreamin which I had sold Kallirhoe to aprince, and married the statue by mistake.And next day my heart stoodstill when my father went down to thestore with me, shoved his hand into thegrain, and muttered that we must sendit up to the mill to be ground. Thatvery night I went out with a spade andburied my treasure deep in the groundunder the straggling branches of our fig-tree,where I knew it would not be likelyto be disturbed.”

Nikola paused here for a while, stirredthe embers with the little brass tweezers,the only diminutive irons required forso lilliputian a fire, sang snatches of nasalGreek music, so distasteful to a westernear, and joined his wife in muttering“winter!” “snow!” “storm!” andother less elegant invectives against theweather, which these islanders use whenwinter comes upon them for two orthree days, and makes them shiver intheir wretched unprotected houses; andthey make no effort to protect themselvesfrom it, for they know that in afew days the sun will shine again anddry them, their mud roofs will cease toleak, and nature will smile once more.

If they do get mysterious illnessesthey will attribute them to supernaturalcauses, saying a Nereid or a sprite hasstruck them, and never suspect thedamp. Nature’s own pupils they are.Their only medical suggestion is that allillnesses are worms in the body, whichhave been distributed by God’s agents,the mysterious and invisible inhabitantsof the air, to those whose sin requireschastising, or whose days are numbered.Such is the simple bacillus theory prevalentin the Greek islands. Who knowsbut what they are right?

“Never was a poor fellow in suchperplexity as I was,” continued Nikola,“the possessor of a marble womanwhose value I could not learn, andabout whom I did not care one straw,whilst I yearned after a woman whosevalue I knew to be a thousand drachmas,and whom I could not buy. My hope,too, was rendered more acute by thevague idea that perhaps my treasure mightprove to be as valuable as Kallirhoe,and I smiled to think of the folly of theman who would be likely to prefer thecold marble statue to my plump, warm146Kallirhoe. But they tell me that youcold Northerners have hearts of marble,so I prayed to the Panagía and all thesaints to send some one who would takethe statue away, and give me enoughmoney to buy Kallirhoe.

“I was much more lively now; myfather and brothers had no cause toscold me any longer, for I had hope;every evening now I went to the café totalk, and all the energy of my existencewas devoted to one object, namely, toget the Demarch to tell me all he knewabout the chances of selling treasures inthat big world where the steamer went,without letting him know that I hadfound anything. After many fruitlessefforts, one day the Demarch told mehow, in the old Turkish days, before hewas born, a peasant of Melos had founda statue of a woman called Aphrodite,just as I had found mine, in a heap ofstones; that the peasant had got nextto nothing for it, but that Mr. Brest,the French consul, had made a fortuneout of it, and that now the statue wasthe wonder of the Western world. Bydegrees I learnt how relentless foreignerslike you, Effendi, do swoop downfrom time to time on these islands andcarry home what is worth thousands ofdrachmas, after giving next to nothingfor them. A week or two later, I learntfrom the Demarch’s lips how strict theGreek Government is, that no marbleshould leave the country, and that theynever give anything like the value forthe things themselves, but that sometimesby dealing with a foreign effendi inAthens good prices have been got andthe Government eluded.

“Poor me! in those days my hopesgrew very very small indeed. Howcould I, an ignorant peasant, hope toget any money from anybody? So Ithought less and less about my statue,and more and more about Kallirhoe,until my face looked haggard again, andmy mother sighed.

“My statue had been in her gravenearly a year,” laughed Nikola, “andafter the way of the world she wasnearly forgotten, when one day a caiqueput in to Sikinos, and two foreigneffendi—Franks, I believe—came up tothe town; they were the first that hadvisited our rock since the German whohad opened the graves on the hillside,147and had carried off a lot of gold andprecious things. So we all stared atthem very hard, and gathered in crowdsaround the Demarch’s door to get aglimpse at them as they sat at table. Iwas one of the crowd, and as I lookedat them I thought of my buried statue,and my hope flickered again.

“Very soon the report went aboutamongst us that they were miners fromLaurion, come to inspect our island andsee if we had anything valuable in theway of minerals; and my father, whosevision it had been for years to find amine and make himself rich thereby,was greatly excited, and offered to lendthe strangers his mules. The old manwas too infirm to go himself, greatly tohis regret, but he sent me as muleteer,with directions to conduct the miners tocertain points of the island, and towatch narrowly everything they pickedup. Many times during the day I wastempted to tell them all about my statueand my hopes, but I remembered whatthe Demarch had said about greedyforeigners robbing poor islanders. SoI contented myself with asking all sortsof questions about Athens; who wasthe richest foreign effendi there, and didhe buy statues? what sort of thing wasthe custom, and should I, who camefrom another part of Greece, be subjectto it if I went? I sighed to go to Athens.

“All day I watched them closely,noted what sort of stones they pickedup, noted their satisfaction or dissatisfaction,and as I watched them an ideastruck me—an idea which made myheart leap and tremble with excitement.

“That evening I told my father someof those lies which hurt nobody, andare therefore harmless, as the priestssay. I told him I had acquired a greatknowledge of stones that day, that Iknew where priceless minerals were to befound; I drew on my imagination aboutpossible hidden stores of gold and silverin our rocky Sikinos. I saw that I hadtouched the right chord, for though healways told us hard-working lads thatan olive with a kernel gives a boot to aman, yet I felt sure that his inmost ideassoared higher, and that he was, like therest of the Sikiniotes, deeply imbuedwith the idea that mineral treasures, if148only they could be found, would give aman more than boots.

“From that day my mode of life waschanged. Instead of digging in thefields and tending the vines, I wanderedaimlessly about the island collectingspecimens of stones. I chose them atrandom—those which had some brightcolor in them were the best—and everyevening I added some fresh specimensto my collection, which were placed forsafety in barrels in the store. ‘Don’tsay a word to the neighbors,’ was myfather’s injunction; and I really believethey all thought my reason was leavingme, or how else could they account formy daily wanderings?

“In about a month’s time I had collectedenough specimens for my purpose,and then, with considerable trepidation,one evening I disclosed my plan to myfather. ‘Something must be done withthose specimens,’ I began; and as Isaid this I saw with pleasure his oldeyes sparkle as he tried to look unconcerned.

“‘Well, Kola, what is to be donewith them?’

“‘Simply this, father. I must takethem to Athens or Laurion, and getmoney down for showing the effendiwhere the mines are. We can’t workthem ourselves.’

“‘To Athens! to Laurion!’ exclaimedmy father, breathless at thebare notion of so stupendous a journey.

“‘Of course I must,’ I added, laughing,though secretly terrified lest heshould flatly refuse to let me go; andbefore I went to bed that night myfather promised to give me ten drachmasfor my expenses. ‘Only take a few ofyour specimens, Kola; keep the bestback;’ for my father is a shrewd man,though he has never left Sikinos. Buton this point I was determined, andwould take all or none, so my fathergrumbled and called me a ‘peacock,’but for this I did not care.

149

“Next day I ordered a box for myspecimens. ‘Why not take them in theold barrels?’ growled my father. ButI said they might get broken, and thespecimens inside be seen. So at last awooden box, just four feet long and twofeet high, was got ready—not withoutdifficulty either, for wood in Sikinos israrer than quails at Christmas, and myfather grumbled not a little at the sumhe had to pay for it—more than half theproduce of his vintage, poor man! Andwhen I thought how my mother mightnot be able to make any cheesecakes atEaster—the pride of her heart, poorthing!—I almost regretted the game Iwas playing.”

The Easter cheesecakes of the island(τυρόπηττα) are what they profess tobe; cheese, curd, saffron, and flour beingthe chief ingredients. They arereckoned an essential luxury at thattime of the year, and some houses makeas many as sixty. It is a sign of greatpoverty and deprivation when none aremade.

“The caique was to leave next morningif the wind was favorable for Ios,where the steamer would touch on thefollowing day, and take me on my wild,uncertain journey. I don’t think I canbe called a coward for feeling nervouson this occasion. I admit that it wasonly by thinking steadfastly about Kallirhoethat I could screw up my courage.When it was quite dark I took thewooden key of the store, and, as carelesslyas I could, said I was going topack my specimens. My brothers volunteeredto come and help me, for theywere all mighty civil now it becameknown that I was bound for Athens tomake heaps of money, but I refusedtheir help with a surly ‘good night,’and set off into the darkness alone withmy spade. I was horribly nervous as Iwent along; I thought I saw a Nereidor a Lamia in every olive-tree. At theleast rustle I thought they were swoopingdown upon me, and would carry meoff into the air, and I should be madeto marry one of those terrible creaturesand live in a mountain cavern, whichwould be worse than losing Kallirhoealtogether; but St. Nikolas and thePanagía helped me, and I dug my statueup without any molestation.

“She was a great weight to carry allby myself, but at last I got her into thestore, and deposited her in her newcoffin, wedged her in, and cast a last,almost affectionate look at this marblerepresentation of life, which had been soconstantly in my thoughts for monthsand months, and finally I proceeded tobury her with specimens, covering herso well that not a vestige of marble150could be seen for three inches below thesurface. What a weight the box was!I could not lift it myself, but the deedwas done, so I nailed the lid on tightly,and deposited what was over of myspecimens in the hole where the statuehad been reposing, and then I lay downon the floor to rest, not daring to goout again or leave my treasure. I thoughtit never would be morning; every hourof the night I looked out to see if therewas any fear of a change of wind, but itblew quietly and steadily from the north;it was quite clear that we should be ableto make Ios next morning without anydifficulty.

“As soon as it was light I went home.My mother was up, and packing mywallet with bread and olives. She hadput a new cover on my mattress, whichI was to take with me. The poor olddear could hardly speak, so agitated wasshe at my departure; my brothers andfather looked on with solemn respect;and I—why, I sat staring out of thewindow to see Kallirhoe returning fromthe well with her amphora on her head.As soon as I saw her coming, I rushedout to bid her good-bye. We shookhands. I had not done this for twelvemonths now, and the effect was to raisemy courage to the highest pitch, andbanish all my nocturnal fears.

“Mother spilt a jug of water on thethreshold, as an earnest of success anda happy return. My father and mybrothers came down to the store to helpme put the box on to the mule’s back,and greatly they murmured at the weightthereof. ‘There’s gold there,’ mutteredmy father beneath his breath.‘Kola will be a prince some day,’growled my eldest brother jealously,and I promised to make him Eparch ofSantorin, or Demarch of Sikinos if heliked that better.

“The bustle of the journey hardlygave me a moment for thought. I wasvery ill crossing over in the caique toIos, during which time my cowardicecame over me again, and I wondered ifKallirhoe was worth all the trouble Iwas taking; but I was lost in astonishmentat the steamer—so astonished thatI had no time to be sick, so I was ableto eat some olives that evening, and asI lay on my mattress on the steamer’sdeck as we hurried on towards the151Piræus, I pondered over what I shoulddo on reaching land.

“You know what the Piræus is like,Effendi?” continued Nikola, after afinal pause and a final glass of raki,“what a city it is, what bustle and rushingto and fro!”

I had not the heart to tell him thatin England many a fishing village islarger, and the scene of greater excitement.

“They all laughed at me for myheavy box, my island accent, my islanddress, and if it had not been for a kindpallikari I had met on the steamer, Ithink I should have gone mad. Theofficers of the custom house were walkingabout on the quay, peering suspiciouslyinto the luggage of the newlyarrived, and naturally my heavy box excitedtheir suspicions. I was preparedfor some difficulty of this kind, and theagony of my interview quite dispelledmy confusion.

“‘What have you there?’

“‘Δείγματα (specimens),’ I replied.

“‘Specimens of what?’

“‘Specimens of minerals for theeffendi at Laurium.’

“‘Open the box!’ And, in anagony of fright, I saw them tear off thelid of my treasure and dive their handsinto its contents.

“‘Stones!’ said one official.

“‘Worthless stones!’ sneered another,‘let the fool go; and with scantceremony they threw the stones backinto the box, and shoved me and mybox away with a curse.

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“I was now free to go wheresoever Iwished, and with the aid of my friend Ifound a room into which I put my box,and as I turned the key, and salliedforth on my uncertain errand, I prayedto the Panagía Odegetria to guide myfootsteps aright.

“The next few days were a period ofintense anxiety for me. In subduedwhispers I communicated to the consulsof each nation the existence of my treasure.One had the impudence to offerme only 200 drachmas for it, another300, another 400, and another 500;then each came again, advancing 100drachmas on their former bids, and somy spirits rose, until at last a grandeffendi came down from Athens, andwithout hesitation offered me 1,000drachmas. ‘Give me fifty more for thetrouble of bringing it and you shall haveit,’ said I, breathless with excitement,and in five minutes the long-covetedmoney was in my hands.

“My old father was very wroth whenI returned to Sikinos, and when helearnt that I had done nothing with myspecimens; the brightness had gone outof his eyes, he was more opprobriousthan ever, but I cared nothing for whathe said. My mother had her cheesecakeson Easter Sunday, and on thatvery day Kallirhoe and I were crowned.”

Thus ended Nikola’s romance. Ifever I go to St. Petersburg, I shall lookcarefully for Nikola’s statue in the Hermitagecollection, which, I understand,was its destination.—Gentleman’s Magazine.

153

THE LIFE OF GEORGE ELIOT.25
BY JOHN MORLEY.

The illustrious woman who is thesubject of these volumes makes a remarkto her publisher which is at leastas relevant now as it was then. Cannothing be done, she asks, by dispassionatecriticism towards the reform ofour national habits in the matter of literarybiography? “Is it anything shortof odious that as soon as a man is deadhis desk should be raked, and every insignificantmemorandum which he nevermeant for the public be printed for thegossiping amusement of people tooidle to read his books?” Autobiography,she says, at least saves a man ora woman that the world is curiousabout, from the publication of a stringof mistakes called Memoirs. Even toautobiography, however, she confessesher deep repugnance unless it can bewritten so as to involve neither self154glorificationnor impeachment of others—acondition, by the way, with whichhardly any, save Mill’s, can be said tocomply. “I like,” she proceeds, “thatHe being dead yet speaketh should havequite another meaning than that” (iii.226, 297, 307). She shows the same fastidiousapprehension still more clearlyin another way. “I have destroyed almostall my friends’ letters to me,” shesays, “because they were only intendedfor my eyes, and could only fall into thehands of persons who knew little of thewriters, if I allowed them to remaintill after my death. In proportion asI love every form of piety—which isvenerating love—I hate hard curiosity;and, unhappily, my experience has impressedme with the sense that hard curiosityis the more common temper ofmind” (ii. 286). There is probably littledifference among us in respect ofsuch experience as that.

Much biography, perhaps we mightsay most, is hardly above the level ofthat “personal talk,” to which Wordsworthsagely preferred long barren silence,the flapping of the flame of hiscottage fire, and the undersong of thekettle on the hob. It would not, then,have much surprised us if George Eliothad insisted that her works should remainthe only commemoration of herlife. There be some who think thatthose who have enriched the world withgreat thoughts and fine creations, mightbest be content to rest unmarked“where heaves the turf in many amouldering heap,” leaving as little workto the literary executor, except of thepurely crematory sort, as did Aristotle,Plato, Shakespeare, and some otherswhose names the world will not willinglylet die. But this is a stoic’s doctrine;the objector may easily retortthat if it had been sternly acted on, weshould have known very little about Dr.Johnson, and nothing about Socrates.

This is but an ungracious prelude tosome remarks upon a book, which mustbe pronounced a striking success. Therewill be very little dispute as to the factthat the editor of these memorials ofGeorge Eliot has done his work withexcellent taste, judgment, and sense.He found no autobiography nor fragmentof one, but he has skilfully shapeda kind of autobiography by a plan which,155so far as we know, he is justified in callingnew, and which leaves her life towrite itself in extracts from her lettersand journals. With the least possibleobtrusion from the biographer, the originalpieces are formed into a connectedwhole “that combines a narrative ofday to day life with the play of lightand shade which only letters written inserious moods can give.” The idea isa good one, and Mr. Cross deservesgreat credit for it. We may hope thatits success will encourage imitators.Certainly there are drawbacks. We missthe animation of mixed narrative. Thereis, too, a touch of monotony in listeningfor so long to the voice of a single speakeraddressing others who are silent behinda screen. But Mr. Cross could not wethink, have devised a better way of dealingwith his material: it is simple, modest,and effective.

George Eliot, after all, led the life ofa studious recluse, with none of the bustle,variety, motion, and large communicationwith the outer world, that justifiedLockhart and Moore in making along story of the lives of Scott and Byron.Even here, among men of letters,who were also men of action and ofgreat sociability, are not all biographiestoo long? Let any sensible reader turnto the shelf where his Lives repose; weshall be surprised if he does not findthat nearly every one of them, takingthe present century alone, and includingsuch splendid and attractive subjectsas Goethe, Hume, Romilly, Mackintosh,Horner, Chalmers, Arnold,Southey, Cowper, would not have beenall the better for judicious curtailment.Lockhart, who wrote the longest, wrotealso the shortest, the Life of Burns;and the shortest is the best, in spite ofdefects which would only have beenworse if the book had been bigger. Itis to be feared that, conscientious andhonorable as his self-denial has been,even Mr. Cross has not wholly resistedthe natural and besetting error of thebiographer. Most people will think thatthe hundred pages of the Italian tour(vol. ii.), and some other not very remarkableimpressions of travel, mightas well or better have been left out.

As a mere letter-writer, George Eliotwill not rank among the famous mastersof what is usually considered es156peciallya woman’s art. She was toobusy in serious work to have leisurefor that most delightful way of wastingtime. Besides that, she had by naturenone of that fluency, rapidity, abandonment,pleasant volubility, which makeletters amusing, captivating, or piquant.What Mr. Cross says of her as the mistressof a salon, is true of her for themost part as a correspondent:—“Playingaround many disconnected subjects,in talk, neither interested nor amusedher much. She took things too seriously,and seldom found the effort ofentertaining compensated by the gain”(iii. 335). There is the outpouring ofardent feeling for her friends, soberingdown, as life goes on, into a crooningkindliness, affectionate and honest, butoften tinged with considerable self-consciousness.It was said of some onethat his epigrams did honor to his heart;in the reverse direction we occasionallyfeel that George Eliot’s effusive playfulnessdoes honor to her head. It lackssimplicity and verve. Even in an invitationto dinner, the words imply agrave sense of responsibility on bothsides, and sense of responsibility is fatalto the charm of familiar correspondence.

As was inevitable in one whose mindwas so habitually turned to the deeperelements of life, she lets fall the pearlsof wise speech even in short notes.Here are one or two:—

“My own experience and developmentdeepen every day my convictionthat our moral progress may be measuredby the degree in which we sympathisewith individual suffering andindividual joy.”

“If there is one attitude more odiousto me than any other of the many attitudesof ‘knowingness,’ it is that airof lofty superiority to the vulgar. Shewill soon find out that I am a very commonplacewoman.”

“It so often happens that others aremeasuring us by our past self while weare looking back on that self with a mixtureof disgust and sorrow.”

The following is one of the best examples,one of the few examples, of herbest manner:—

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“I have been made rather unhappy by myhusband’s impulsive proposal about Christmas.We are dull old persons, and your two sweetyoung ones ought to find each Christmas anew bright bead to string on their memory,whereas to spend the time with us would beto string on a dark shrivelled berry. Theyought to have a group of young creatures tobe joyful with. Our own children alwaysspend their Christmas with Gertrude’s family;and we have usually taken our sober merry-makingwith friends out of town. Illnessamong these will break our custom this year;and thus mein Mann, feeling that our Christmaswas free, considered how very much heliked being with you, omitting the other sideof the question—namely, our total lack ofmeans to make a suitably joyous meeting, areal festival, for Phil and Margaret. I wasconscious of this lack in the very moment ofthe proposal, and the consciousness has beenpressing on me more and more painfully eversince. Even my husband’s affectionate hopefulnesscannot withstand my melancholy demonstration.So pray consider the kill-joy propositionas entirely retracted, and give us somethingof yourselves only on simple black-letter days,when the Herald Angels have notbeen raising expectations early in the morning.”

This is very pleasant, but such piecesare rare, and the infirmity of human naturehas sometimes made us sigh overthese pages at the recollection of thecordial cheeriness of Scott’s letters, thehigh spirits of Macaulay, the gracefullevity of Voltaire, the rattling dare-devilryof Byron. Epistolary stilts amongmen of letters went out of fashion withPope, who, as was said, thought that unlessevery period finished with a conceit,the letter was not worth thepostage. Poor spirits cannot be theexplanation of the stiffness in GeorgeEliot’s case, for no letters in the Englishlanguage are so full of playfulnessand charm as those of Cowper, and hewas habitually sunk in gulfs deeper andblacker than George Eliot’s own. Itwas sometimes observed of her, that inher conversation, elle s’écoutait quandelle parlait—she seemed to be listeningto her own voice while she spoke. Itmust be allowed that we are not alwaysfree from an impression of self-listening,even in the most caressing of theletters before us.

This is not much better, however,than trifling. I dare say that if a livelyFrenchman could have watched the inspiredPythia on the sublime tripod, hewould have cried, Elle s’écoute quandelle parle. When everything of thatkind has been said, we have the profoundsatisfaction, which is not quite158a matter of course in the history ofliterature, of finding, after all that thewoman and the writer were one. Thelife does not belie the books, nor privateconduct stultify public profession.We close the third volume of the biography,as we have so often closed thethird volume of her novels, feeling tothe very core that in spite of a stylethat the French call alambiqué, in spiteof tiresome double and treble distillationsof phraseology, in spite of fatiguingmoralities, gravities, and ponderosities,we have still been in communionwith a high and commanding intellect,and a great nature. We are vexedby pedantries that recall the précieusesof the Hôtel Rambouillet, but we knowthat she had the soul of the most heroicwomen in history. We crave moreof the Olympian serenity that makesaction natural and repose refreshing,but we cannot miss the edification ofa life marked by indefatigable laborafter generous purposes, by an unsparingstruggle for duty, and by steadfastand devout fellowship with loftythoughts.

Those who know Mr. Myers’s essayon George Eliot will not have forgottenits most imposing passage:—

“I remember how at Cambridge, I walkedwith her once in the Fellows’ Garden of Trinity,on an evening of rainy May; and she,stirred somewhat beyond her wont, and takingas her text the three words which have beenused so often as the inspiring trumpet-calls ofmen.—the words God, Immortality, Duty,—pronounced,with terrible earnestness, how inconceivablewas the first, how unbelievable thesecond, and yet how peremptory and absolutethe third. Never, perhaps, had sterner accentsaffirmed the sovereignty of impersonal and unrecompensinglaw. I listened, and night fell;her grave, majestic countenance turned towardme like a Sibyl’s in the gloom; it was as thoughshe withdrew from my grasp, one by one, thetwo scrolls of promise, and left me the thirdscroll only, awful with inevitable fates.”

To many, the relation, which was themost important event in George Eliot’slife, will seem one of those irretrievableerrors which reduce all talk of duty toa mockery. It is inevitable that thisshould be so, and those who disregarda social law have little right to complain.Men and women whom in every otherrespect it would be monstrous to callbad, have taken this particular law intotheir own hands before now, and com159mittedthemselves to conduct of which“magnanimity owes no account to prudence.”But if they had sense andknew what they were about, they havebraced themselves to endure the disapprovalof a majority fortunately moreprudential than themselves. The worldis busy, and its instruments are clumsy.It cannot know all the facts; it hasneither time nor material for unravellingall the complexities of motive, or fordistinguishing mere libertinage fromgrave and deliberate moral misjudgment;it is protecting itself as much asit is condemning the offenders. On allthis, then, we need have neither sophistrynor cant. But those who seek somethingdeeper than a verdict for the honestworking purpose of leaving cardsand inviting to dinner, may feel, as hasbeen observed by a contemporary writer,that men and women are more fairlyjudged, if judge them we must, by theway in which they bear the burden ofan error, than by the decision that laidthe burden on their lives. Some ideaof this kind was in her own mind whenshe wrote to her most intimate friendin 1857, “If I live five years longer,the positive result of my existence onthe side of truth and goodness willoutweigh the small negative good thatwould have consisted in my not doinganything to shock others” (i. 461). Thisurgent desire to balance the moral accountmay have had something to dowith that laborious sense of responsibilitywhich weighed so heavily on hersoul, and had so equivocal an effect uponher art. Whatever else is to be said ofthis particular union, nobody can denythat the picture on which it left a markwas an exhibition of extraordinary self-denial,energy, and persistency in thecultivation and the use of great gifts andpowers for what their possessor believedto be the highest objects for society andmankind.

A more perfect companionship, oneon a higher intellectual level, or ofmore sustained mental activity, is nowhererecorded. Lewes’s mercurial temperamentcontributed as much as thepowerful mind of his consort to preventtheir seclusion from degeneratinginto an owlish stagnation. To the verylast (1878) he retained his extraordinarybuoyancy.160 “Nothing but death couldquench that bright flame. Even on hisworst days he had always a good storyto tell; and I remember on one occasionin the drawing-room at Witley, betweentwo bouts of pain, he sang throughwith great brio, though without muchvoice, the greater portion of the tenorpart in the Barber of Seville, GeorgeEliot playing his accompaniment, andboth of them thoroughly enjoyingthe fun” (iii. 334). All this gaiety, hisinexhaustible vivacity, the facility of histransitions from brilliant levity to a keenseriousness, the readiness of his mentalresponse, and the wide range of intellectualaccomplishments that were muchmore than superficial, made him a sourceof incessant and varied stimulation.Even those, and there were some, whothought that his gaiety bordered on flippancy,that his genial self-content oftencame near to shockingly bad taste, andthat his reminiscences of poor Mr. Fitzballand the green-room and all the restof the Bohemia in which he had oncedwelt, too racy for his company, stillfound it hard to resist the alert intelligencewith which he rose to every goodtopic, and the extraordinary heartinessand spontaneity with which the wholesomespring of human laughter wastouched in him.

Lewes had plenty of egotism, not togive it a more unamiable name, but itnever mastered his intellectual sincerity.George Eliot describes him as one of thefew human beings she has known whowill, in the heat of an argument, see,and straightway confess, that he is inthe wrong, instead of trying to shift hisground or use any other device of vanity.“The intense happiness of ourunion,” she wrote to a friend, “is derivedin a high degree from the perfectfreedom with which we each follow anddeclare our own impressions. In thisrespect I know no man so great as he—thatdifference of opinion rouses noegotistic irritation in him, and that he isready to admit that another argument isthe stronger, the moment his intellectrecognises it” (ii. 279). This will soundvery easy to the dispassionate reader,because it is so obviously just andproper, but if the dispassionate readerever tries, he may find the virtue not soeasy as it looks. Finally, and aboveall, we can never forget in Lewes’s case161how much true elevation and stability ofcharacter was implied in the unceasingreverence, gratitude, and devotion withwhich for five-and-twenty years hetreated her to whom he owed all his happiness,and who most truly, in his ownwords (ii. 76), had made his life a newbirth.

The reader will be mistaken if heshould infer from such passages asabound in her letters that George Eliothad any particular weakness for domesticor any other kind of idolatry. GeorgeSand, in Lucrezia Floriani where shedrew so unkind a picture of Chopin, hasdescribed her own life and character asmarked by “a great facility for illusions,a blind benevolence of judgment, a tendernessof heart that was inexhaustible;consequently great precipitancy, manymistakes, much weakness, fits of heroicdevotion to unworthy objects, enormousforce applied to an end that was wretchedin truth and fact, but sublime in herthought.” George Eliot had none ofthis facility. Nor was general benignityin her at all of the poor kind that is incompatiblewith a great deal of particularcensure. Universal benevolencenever lulled an active critical faculty,nor did she conceive true humility as atall consisting in hiding from an impostorthat you have found him out. LikeCardinal Newman, for whose beautifulpassage at the end of the Apologia sheexpresses such richly deserved admiration(ii. 387), she unites to the gift ofunction and brotherly love, a capacityfor giving an extremely shrewd nip to abrother whom she does not love. Herpassion for Thomas-a-Kempis did notprevent her, and there was no reasonwhy it should, from dealing very faithfullywith a friend, for instance (ii. 271);from describing Mr. Buckle as a conceited,ignorant man; or castigatingBrougham and other people in slashingreviews; or otherwise from showingthat great expansiveness of the affectionswent with a remarkably strong,hard, masculine, positive, judging head.

The benefits that George Eliot gainedfrom her exclusive companionship witha man of lively talents were not withoutsome compensating drawbacks. Thekeen stimulation and incessant strain,unrelieved by variety of daily intercourse,and never diversified by partici162pationin the external activities of theworld, tended to bring about a loaded,over-conscious, over-anxious state ofmind, which was not only not wholesomein itself, but was inconsistent withthe full freshness and strength of artisticwork. The presence of the real worldin his life has, in all but one or twocases, been one element of the novelist’shighest success in the world of imaginativecreation. George Eliot had nogreater favorite than Scott, and when aseries of little books upon English menof letters was planned, she said that shethought that writer among us the happiestto whom it should fall to deal withScott. But Scott lived full in the lifeof his fellow-men. Even of Wordsworth,her other favorite, though he wasnot a creative artist, we may say that hedaily saturated himself in those naturalelements and effects, which were thematerial, the suggestion, and the sustaininginspiration of his consoling andfortifying poetry. George Eliot did notlive in the midst of her material, butaloof from it and outside of it. Heavenforbid that this should seem to be saidby way of censure. Both her healthand other considerations made all approachto busy sociability in any of itsshapes both unwelcome and impossible.But in considering the relation of hermanner of life to her work, her creations,her meditations, one cannot butsee that when compared with somewriters of her own sex and age, she isconstantly bookish, artificial, and mannered.She is this because she fed herart too exclusively, first on the memoriesof her youth, and next from books,pictures, statues, instead of from theliving model, as seen in its actual motion.It is direct calls and personalclaims from without that make fictionalive. Jane Austen bore her part in thelittle world of the parlor that she described.The writer of Sylvia’s Lovers,whose work George Eliot appreciatedwith unaffected generosity (i. 305), wasthe mother of children, and was surroundedby the wholesome actualities ofthe family. The authors of Jane Eyreand Wuthering Heights passed theirdays in one long succession of wild,stormy, squalid, anxious, and miserablescenes—almost as romantic, as poetic,and as tragic, to use George Elio163t’swords, as their own stories. GeorgeSand eagerly shared, even to the pitchof passionate tumult and disorder, inthe emotions, the aspirations, the ardor,the great conflicts and controversies ofher time. In every one of these, theirdaily closeness to the real life of theworld has given a vitality to their workwhich we hardly expect that even thenext generation will find in more thanone or two of the romances of GeorgeEliot. It may even come to pass thattheir position will be to hers as that ofFielding is to Richardson in our ownday.

In a letter to Mr. Harrison, which isprinted here (ii. 441), George Eliot describesher own method, as “the severeeffort of trying to make certain ideasthoroughly incarnate, as if they hadrevealed themselves to me first in theflesh and not in the spirit,” The passagerecalls a discussion one day at thePriory in 1877. She was speaking ofthe different methods of the poetic orcreative art, and said that she beganwith moods, thoughts, passions, andthen invented the story for their sake,and fitted it to them; Shakespeare, onthe other hand, picked up a story thatstruck him, and then proceeded to workin the moods, thoughts, passions, asthey came to him in the course of meditationon the story. We hardly needthe result to convince us that Shakespearechose the better part.

The influence of her reserved fashionof daily life was heightened by the literaryexclusiveness which of set purposeshe imposed upon herself. “The lessan author hears about himself,” shesays, in one place, “the better.” “Itis my rule, very strictly observed, not toread the criticisms on my writings. Foryears I have found this abstinence necessaryto preserve me from that discouragementas an artist, which ill-judgedpraise, no less than ill-judged blame,tends to produce in us.” George Eliotpushed this repugnance to criticism beyondthe personal reaction of it uponthe artist, and more than disparaged itsutility, even in the most competent andhighly trained hands. She finds thatthe diseased spot in the literary cultureof our time is touched with the finestpoint by the saying of La Bruyère, that164“the pleasure of criticism robs us of thepleasure of being keenly moved by veryfine things” (iii. 327). “It seems tome,” she writes (ii. 412), “much betterto read a man’s own writings, thanto read what others say about him,especially when the man is first-rate andthe others third-rate. As Goethe saidlong ago about Spinoza, ‘I always preferredto learn from the man himselfwhat he thought, rather than to hearfrom some one else what he ought tohave thought.’” As if the scholar willnot always be glad to do both, to studyhis author and not to refuse the help ofthe rightly prepared commentator; as ifeven Goethe himself would not havebeen all the better acquainted with Spinoza,if he could have read Mr. Pollock’sbook upon him. But on this questionMr. Arnold has fought a brilliant battle,and to him George Eliot’s heresies maywell be left.

On the personal point whether an authorshould ever hear of himself, GeorgeEliot oddly enough contradicts herselfin a casual remark upon Bulwer. “Ihave a great respect,” she says, “forthe energetic industry which has madethe most of his powers. He has beenwriting diligently for more than thirtyyears, constantly improving his position,and profiting by the lessons of publicopinion and of other writers” (ii. 322).But if it is true that the less an authorhears about himself the better, how arethese salutary “lessons of public opinion”to penetrate to him? “Rubens,”she says, writing from Munich, in 1858(ii. 28), “gives me more pleasure thanany other painter whether right or wrong.More than any one else he makes mefeel that painting is a great art, and thathe was a great artist. His are such realbreathing men and women, moved bypassions, not mincing, and grimacing,and posing in mere imitation of passion.”But Rubens did not concentrate his intellecton his own ponderings, nor shutout the wholesome chastenings of praiseand blame, lest they should discouragehis inspiration. Beethoven, another ofthe chief objects of George Eliot’s veneration,bore all the rough stress of anactive and troublesome calling, thoughof the musician, if of any, we may say,that his is the art of self-absorption.

Hence, delightful and inspiring as itis to read this story of diligent and dis165criminatingcultivation, of accurate truthand real erudition and beauty, notvaguely but methodically interpreted,one has some of the sensations of themoral and intellectual hothouse. Mentalhygiene is apt to lead to mental valetudinarianism.“The ignorant journalist”may be left to the torment whichGeorge Eliot wished that she could inflicton one of those literary slovenswhose manuscripts bring even the mostphilosophic editor to the point of exasperation:“I should like to stick red-hotskewers through the writer, whosestyle is as sprawling as his handwriting.”By all means. But much thateven the most sympathetic reader findsrepellent in George Eliot’s later workmight perhaps never have been, if Mr.Lewes had not practised with more thanRussian rigor a censorship of the pressand the post office which kept every disagreeablewhisper scrupulously from herear. To slop every draft with sandbags,screens, and curtains, and to limitone’s exercise to a drive in a well-warmedbrougham with the windowsdrawn up, may save a few annoyingcolds in the head, but the end of theprocess will be the manufacture of aninvalid.

Whatever view we may take of theprecise connection between what sheread, or abstained from reading, andwhat she wrote, no studious man orwoman can look without admiration andenvy on the breadth, variety, seriousness,and energy, with which she setherself her tasks and executed them.She says in one of her letters, “there issomething more piteous almost thansoapless poverty in the application offeminine incapacity to literature” (ii.16). Nobody has ever taken the responsibilitiesof literature more ardentlyin earnest. She was accustomed toread aloud to Mr. Lewes three hours aday, and her private reading, exceptwhen she was engaged in the actualstress of composition, must have filledas many more. His extraordinary alacrityand her brooding intensity of mind,prevented these hours from being thatleisurely process in slippers and easychair which passes with many for thepractice of literary cultivation. Muchof her reading was for the direct purposesof her own work. The young166lady who begins to write historic novelsout of her own head will find somethingmuch to her advantage if she will referto the list of books read by GeorgeEliot during the latter half of 1861,when she was meditating Romola (ii.325). Apart from immediate needs anduses, no student of our time has knownbetter the solace, the delight, the guidancethat abide in great writings. Nobodywho did not share the scholarsenthusiasm could have described theblind scholar in his library in the adorablefifth chapter of Romola; and wefeel that she must have copied out withkeen gusto of her own those words ofPetrarch which she puts into old Bardo’smouth—“Libri medullitus delectant,colloquuntur, consulunt, et viva quadamnobis atque arguta familiaritate junguntur.”

As for books that are not books, asMilton bade us do with “neat repastswith wine,” she wisely spared to interposethem oft. Her standards of knowledgewere those of the erudite and thesavant, and even in the region of beautyshe was never content with any but definiteimpressions. In one place in thesevolumes, by the way, she makes a remarkcuriously inconsistent with theusual scientific attitude of her mind.She has been reading Darwin’s Originof Species, on which she makes the trulyastonishing criticism that it is “sadlywanting in illustrative facts,” and that“it is not impressive from want ofluminous and orderly presentation” (ii.43-48). Then she says that “the developmenttheory, and all other explanationof processes by which thingscame to be produce a feeble impressioncompared with the mystery that lies underprocesses.” This position it doesnot now concern us to discuss, but atleast it is in singular discrepancy withher strong habitual preference for accurateand quantitative knowledge, overvague and misty moods in the region ofthe unknowable and the unreachable.

George Eliot’s means of access tobooks were very full. She knew French,German, Italian, and Spanish accurately.Greek and Latin, Mr. Cross tellsus, she could read with thorough delightto herself; though after the appallingspecimen of Mill’s juvenile Latinitythat Mr. Bain has disinterred, the fas167tidiouscollegian may be sceptical of thescholarship of prodigies. Hebrew washer favorite study to the end of herdays. People commonly supposed thatshe had been inoculated with an artificialtaste for science by her companion.We now learn that she took a decidedinterest in natural science long beforeshe made Mr. Lewes’s acquaintance,and many of the roundabout pedantriesthat displeased people in her latest writings,and were set down to his account,appeared in her composition before shehad ever exchanged a word with him.

All who knew her well enough wereaware that she had what Mr. Cross describesas “limitless persistency in application.”This is an old account ofgenius, but nobody illustrates moreeffectively the infinite capacity of takingpains. In reading, in looking at pictures,in playing difficult music, in talking,she was equally importunate in thesearch, and equally insistent on mastery.Her faculty of sustained concentrationwas part of her immense intellectualpower. “Continuous thought did notfatigue her. She could keep her mindon the stretch hour after hour; thebody might give way, but the brain remainedunwearied” (iii. 422). It isonly a trifling illustration of the infectionof her indefatigable quality of takingpains, that Lewes should have formedthe important habit of re-writing everypage of his work, even of short articlesfor Reviews, before letting it go to thepress. The journal shows what sorepain and travail composition was to her.She wrote the last volume of Adam Bedein six weeks; she “could not help writingit fast, because it was written underthe stress of emotion.” But what aprodigious contrast between her pace,and Walter Scott’s twelve volumes ayear! Like many other people of powerfulbrains, she united strong and cleargeneral retentiveness, with a weak anduntrustworthy verbal memory. “Shenever could trust herself to write a quotationwithout verifying it.” “Whatcourage and patience,” she says of someone else, “are wanted for every lifethat aims to produce anything,” andher own existence was one long andpainful sermon on that text.

Over few lives have the clouds ofmental dejection hung in such heavy168unmoving banks. Nearly every chapteris strewn with melancholy words. “Icannot help thinking more of your illnessthan of the pleasure in prospect—accordingto my foolish nature, whichis always prone to live in past pain.”The same sentiment is the mournful refrainthat runs through all. Her firstresounding triumph, the success of AdamBede, instead of buoyancy and exultation,only adds a fresh sense of theweight upon her future life. “Theself-questioning whether my nature willbe able to meet the heavy demands uponit, both of personal duty and intellectualproduction—presses upon me almostcontinually in a way that prevents meeven from tasting the quiet joy I mighthave in the work done. I feel no regretthat the fame, as such, brings no pleasure;but it is a grief to me that I donot constantly feel strong in thankfulnessthat my past life has vindicated itsuses.”

Romola seems to have been composedin constant gloom. “I remember mywife telling me, at Witley,” says Mr.Cross, “how cruelly she had suffered atDorking from working under a leadenweight at this time. The writing ofRomola ploughed into her more thanany of her other books. She told meshe could put her finger on it as markinga well-defined transition in her life.In her own words, ‘I began it a youngwoman—I finished it an old woman.’”She calls upon herself to make “greaterefforts against indolence and the despondencythat comes from too egoistica dread of failure.” “This is the lastentry I mean to make in my old bookin which I wrote for the first time atGeneva in 1849. What moments ofdespair I passed through after that—despairthat life would ever be madeprecious to me by the consciousnessthat I lived to some good purpose! Itwas that sort of despair that suckedaway the sap of half the hours whichmight have been filled by energeticyouthful activity; and the same demontries to get hold of me again wheneveran old work is dismissed, and a newone is being meditated” (ii. 307). Oneday the entry is: “Horrible scepticismabout all things paralysing my mind.Shall I ever be good for anything again?Ever do anything again?” On another,169she describes herself to a trusted friendas “a mind morbidly desponding, anda consciousness tending more and moreto consist in memories of error and imperfectionrather than in a strengtheningsense of achievement.” We have toturn to such books as Bunyan’s GraceAbounding to find any parallel to suchwretchedness.

Times were not wanting when the sunstrove to shine through the gloom, whenthe resistance to melancholy was notwholly a failure, and when, as she says,she felt that Dante was right in condemningto the Stygian marsh those whohad been sad under the blessed sunlight.“Sad were we in the sweet air that isgladdened by the sun, bearing sluggishsmoke in our hearts; now lie we sadlyhere in the black ooze.” But still forthe most part sad she remained in thesweet air, and the look of pain thathaunted her eyes and brow even in hermost genial and animated moments, onlytold too truly the story of her inner life.

That from this central gloom a shadowshould spread to her work was unavoidable.It would be rash to compareGeorge Eliot with Tacitus, with Dante,with Pascal. A novelist—for as a poet,after trying hard to think otherwise,most of us find her magnificent but unreadable—asa novelist bound by theconditions of her art to deal in a thousandtrivialities of human character andsituation, she has none of their severityof form. But she alone of moderns hastheir note of sharp-cut melancholy, ofsombre rumination, of brief disdain.Living in a time when humanity has beenraised, whether formally or informally,into a religion, she draws a paintedcurtain of pity before the tragic scene.Still the attentive ear catches from timeto time the accents of an unrelentingvoice, that proves her kindred with thosethree mighty spirits and stern monitorsof men. In George Eliot, a reader witha conscience may be reminded of thesaying that when a man opens Tacitushe puts himself in the confessional.She was no vague dreamer over thefolly and the weakness of men, and thecruelty and blindness of destiny. Hersis not the dejection of the poet who“could lie down like a tired child, Andweep away this life of care,” as Shelleyat Naples; nor is it the despairing mis170erythat moved Cowper in the awfulverses of the Castaway. It was not suchself-pity as wrung from Burns the cry tolife, “Thou art a galling load, Along, arough, a weary road, To wretches suchas I;” nor such general sense of thewoes of the race as made Keats think ofthe world as a place where men sit andhear each other groan, “Where but tothink is to be full of sorrow, Andleaden-eyed despairs.” She was as farremoved from the plangent reverie ofRousseau as from the savage truculenceof Swift. Intellectual training had givenher the spirit of order and proportion,of definiteness and measure, and thismarks her alike from the great sentimentalistsand the sweeping satirists.“Pity and fairness,” as she beautifullysays (iii. 317), “are two little wordswhich, carried out, would embrace theutmost delicacies of the moral life.”But hers is not seldom the severe fairnessof the judge, and the pity that maygo with putting on the black cap after aconviction for high treason. In themidst of many an easy flowing page, thereader is surprised by some bitter aside,some judgment of intense and concentratedirony with the flash of a blade init, some biting sentence where lurks thestern disdain and the anger of Tacitus,and Dante, and Pascal. Souls likethese are not born for happiness.

This is not the occasion for an elaboratediscussion of George Eliot’s placein the mental history of her time, buther biography shows that she travelledalong the road that was trodden by nota few in her day. She started from thatfervid evangelicalism which has madethe base of many a powerful characterin this century, from Cardinal Newmandownwards. Then with curious rapidityshe threw it all off, and embraced withequal zeal the rather harsh and crudenegations which were then associatedwith the Westminster Review. The secondstage did not last much longer thanthe first. “Religious and moral sympathywith the historical life of man,” shesaid (ii. 363), “is the larger half of culture;”and this sympathy, which was thefruit of her culture, had by the time shewas thirty become the new seed of apositive faith and a semi-conservativecreed. Here is a passage from a letter171of 1862 (she had translated Strauss, wemay remind ourselves, in 1845, andFeuerbach in 1854):—

“Pray don’t ask me ever again not to rob aman of his religious belief, as if you thoughtmy mind tended to such robbery. I have tooprofound a conviction of the efficacy that liesin all sincere faith, and the spiritual blight thatcomes with no-faith, to have any negativepropagandism in me. In fact, I have very littlesympathy with Freethinkers as a class, andhave lost all interest in mere antagonism toreligious doctrines. I care only to know, ifpossible, the lasting meaning that lies in allreligious doctrine from the beginning till now”(ii. 243).

Eleven years later the same tendencyhad deepened and gone further:—

“All the great religions of the world, historicallyconsidered, are rightly the objects ofdeep reverence and sympathy—they are therecord of spiritual struggles, which are thetypes of our own. This is to me pre-eminentlytrue of Hebrewism and Christianity,on which my own youth was nourished. Andin this sense I have no antagonism towardsany religious belief, but a strong outflow ofsympathy. Every community met to worshipthe highest God (which is understood to be expressedby God) carries me along in its maincurrent; and if there were not reasons againstby following such an inclination, I should goto church or chapel, constantly, for the sake ofthe delightful emotions of fellowship whichcome over me in religious assemblies—the verynature of such assemblies being the recognitionof a binding belief or spiritual law, whichis to lift us into willing obedience, and save usfrom the slavery of unregulated passion or impulse.And with regard to other people, itseems to me that those who have no definiteconviction which constitutes a protesting faith,may often more beneficially cherish the goodwithin them and be better members of societyby a conformity based on the recognized goodin the public belief, than by a nonconformitywhich has nothing but negatives to utter.Not, of course, if the conformity would beaccompanied by a consciousness of hypocrisy.That is a question for the individual conscienceto settle. But there is enough to be said onthe different points of view from which conformitymay be regarded, to hinder a readyjudgment against those who continue to conformafter ceasing to believe in the ordinarysense. But with the utmost largeness of allowancefor the difficulty of deciding in specialcases, it must remain true that the highest lotis to have definite beliefs about which you feelthat ‘necessity is laid upon you’ to declarethem, as something better which you are boundto try and give to those who have the worse”(iii. 215-217).

These volumes contain many passagesin the same sense—as, of course, her172books contain them too. She was aconstant reader of the Bible, and theImitatio was never far from her hand.“She particularly enjoyed reading aloudsome of the finest chapters of Isaiah,Jeremiah, and St. Paul’s Epistles. TheBible and our elder English poets bestsuited the organ-like tones of her voice,which required for their full effect a certainsolemnity and majesty of rhythm.”She once expressed to a younger friend,who shared her opinions, her sense ofthe loss which they had in being unableto practise the old ordinances of familyprayer. “I hope,” she says, “we arewell out of that phase in which the mostphilosophic view of the past was held tobe a smiling survey of human folly, andwhen the wisest man was supposed tobe one who could sympathise with noage but the age to come” (ii. 308).

For this wise reaction she was nodoubt partially indebted, as so manyothers have been, to the teaching ofComte. Unquestionably the fundamentalideas had come into her mind ata much earlier period, when, for example,she was reading Mr. R. W. Mackay’sProgress of the Intellect (1850, i.253). But it was Comte who enabledher to systematise these ideas, and togive them that “definiteness,” which,as these pages show in a hundred places,was the quality that she sought beforeall others alike in men and their thoughts.She always remained at a respectful distancefrom complete adherence toComte’s scheme, but she was never tiredof protesting that he was a really greatthinker, that his famous survey of theMiddle Ages in the fifth volume of thePositive Philosophy was full of luminousideas, and that she had thankfullylearned much from it. Wordsworth,again, was dear to her in no small degreeon the strength of such passages asthat from the Prelude, which is themotto of one of the last chapters of herlast novel:—

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Or this again, also from the Prelude,(see iii. 389):—

Underneath this growth and diversityof opinion we see George Eliot’s onenessof character, just, for that matter,as we see it in Mill’s long and gravemarch from the uncompromising denialsinstilled into him by his father, thenthrough Wordsworthian mysticism andColeridgean conservatism, down to thepale belief and dim starlight faith of hisposthumous volume. George Eliot wasmore austere, more unflinching, and ofruder intellectual constancy than Mill.She never withdrew from the positionthat she had taken up, of denying andrejecting; she stood to that to the end:what she did was to advance to the farhigher perception that denial and rejectionare not the aspects best worth attendingto or dwelling upon. She hadlittle patience with those who fear thatthe doctrine of protoplasm must dry upthe springs of human effort. Any onewho trembles at that catastrophe mayprofit by a powerful remonstrance ofhers in the pages before us (iii. 245-250,also 228).

“The consideration of molecular physics isnot the direct ground of human love and moralaction, any more than it is the direct means ofcomposing a noble picture or of enjoying greatmusic. One might as well hope to dissectone’s own body and be merry in doing it, astake molecular physics (in which you mustbanish from your field of view what is specificallyhuman) to be your dominant guide, yourdeterminer of motives, in what is solelyhuman. That every study has its bearing onevery other is true; but pain and relief, loveand sorrow, have their peculiar history whichmake an experience and knowledge over andabove the swing of atoms.

“With regard to the pains and limitationsof one’s personal lot, I suppose there is not asingle man, or woman, who has not more orless need of that stoical resignation which isoften a hidden heroism, or who, in consideringhis or her past history, is not aware that ithas been cruelly affected by the ignorant orselfish action of some fellow-being in a moreor less close relation of life. And to my mind,there can be no stronger motive, than thisperception, to an energetic effort that the livesnearest to us shall not suffer in a like mannerfrom us.

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“As to duration and the way in which itaffects your view of the human history, whatis really the difference to your imaginationbetween infinitude and billions when you haveto consider the value of human experience?Will you say that since your life has a term ofthreescore years and ten, it was really a matterof indifference whether you were a cripple witha wretched skin disease, or an active creaturewith a mind at large for the enjoyment ofknowledge, and with a nature which hasattracted others to you?”

For herself, she remained in the positiondescribed in one of her letters in1860 (ii. 283):—“I have faith in theworking out of higher possibilities thanthe Catholic or any other Church haspresented; and those who have strengthto wait and endure are bound to acceptno formula which their whole souls—theirintellect, as well as their emotions—donot embrace with entire reverence.The highest calling and election is to dowithout opium, and live through all ourpain with conscious, clear-eyed endurance.”She would never accept thecommon optimism. As she says here:—“Life,though a good to men on thewhole, is a doubtful good to many, andto some not a good at all. To mythought it is a source of constant mentaldistortion to make the denial of this apart of religion—to go on pretendingthings are better than they are.”

Of the afflicting dealings with the worldof spirits, which in those days werecomparatively limited to the untutoredminds of America, but which since havecome to exert so singular a fascinationfor some of the most brilliant of GeorgeEliot’s younger friends (see iii. 204), shethought as any sensible Philistine amongus persists in thinking to this day:—

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“If it were another spirit aping CharlotteBrontë—if here and there at rare spots andamong people of a certain temperament, oreven at many spots and among people of alltemperaments, tricksy spirits are liable to riseas a sort of earth-bubbles and set furniture inmovement, and tell things which we eitherknow already or should be as well withoutknowing—I must frankly confess that I havebut a feeble interest in these doings, feelingmy life very short for the supreme and awfulrevelations of a more orderly and intelligiblekind which I shall die with an imperfectknowledge of. If there were miserable spiritswhom we could help—then I think we shouldpause and have patience with their trivial-mindedness;but otherwise I don’t feel bound tostudy them more than I am bound to studythe special follies of a peculiar phase of humansociety. Others, who feel differently,and are attracted towards this study, aremaking an experiment for us as to whetheranything better than bewilderment can come ofit. At present it seems to me that to rest anyfundamental part of religion on such a basisis a melancholy misguidance of men’s mindsfrom the true sources of high and pure emotion”(iii. 161).

The period of George Eliot’s productionswas from 1856, the date of her firststories, down to 1876, when she wrote,not under her brightest star, her lastnovel of Daniel Deronda. During thistime the great literary influences of theepoch immediately preceding had notindeed fallen silent, but the most fruitfulseed had been sown. Carlyle’sSartor (1833-4), and his MiscellaneousEssays (collected, 1839), were in allhands; but he had fallen into the terribleslough of his Prussian history (1858-65),and the last word of his evangelhad gone forth to all whom it concerned.In Memoriam, whose noble music anddeep-browed thought awoke such newand wide response in men’s hearts, waspublished in 1850. The second volumeof Modern Painters, of which I haveheard George Eliot say, as of In Memoriamtoo, that she owed much and verymuch to it, belongs to an earlier datestill (1846), and when it appeared,though George Eliot was born in thesame year as its author, she was stilltranslating Strauss at Coventry. Mr.Browning, for whose genius she hadsuch admiration, and who was always sogood a friend, did indeed produce duringthis period some work which theadepts find as full of power and beautyas any that ever came from his pen.But Mr. Browning’s genius has movedrather apart from the general currents ofhis time, creating character and workingout motives from within, undisturbed bytransient shadows from the passingquestions and answers of the day.

The romantic movement was thenupon its fall. The great Oxford movement,which besides its purely ecclesiasticaleffects, had linked English religiononce more to human history, and whichwas itself one of the unexpected out-comesof the romantic movement, hadspent its original force, and no longerinterested the stronger minds among therising generation. The hour had soundedfor the scientific movement. In 1859,was published the Origin of Species, undoubtedlythe most far-reaching agency176of the time, supported as it was by avolume of new knowledge which camepouring in from many sides. The sameperiod saw the important speculations ofMr. Spencer, whose influence on GeorgeEliot had from their first acquaintancebeen of a very decisive kind. Twoyears after the Origin of Species cameMaine’s Ancient Law, and that was followedby the accumulations of Mr. Tylorand others, exhibiting order and fixedcorrelation among great sets of factswhich had hitherto lain in that cheerfulchaos of general knowledge which hasbeen called general ignorance. Theexcitement was immense. Evolution,development, heredity, adaptation, variety,survival, natural selection, wereso many patent pass-keys that were toopen every chamber.

George Eliot’s novels, as they werethe imaginative application of this greatinflux of new ideas, so they fitted inwith the moods which those ideas hadcalled up. “My function,” she said(iii. 330), “is that of the æsthetic, notthe doctrinal teacher—the rousing of thenobler emotions which make mankinddesire the social right, not the prescribingof special measures, concerningwhich the artistic mind, however stronglymoved by social sympathy, is oftennot the best judge.” Her influence inthis direction over serious and impressionableminds was great indeed. Thespirit of her art exactly harmonisedwith the new thoughts that were shakingthe world of her contemporaries. Otherartists had drawn their pictures with astrong ethical background, but she gavea finer color and a more spacious air toher ethics, by showing the individualpassions and emotions of her characters,their adventures and their fortunes, asevolving themselves from long series ofantecedent causes, and bound up withmany widely operating forces and distantevents. Here, too, we find ourselvesin the full stream of evolution,hereditary, survival, and fixed inexorablelaw.

This scientific quality of her workmay be considered to have stood in theway of her own aim. That the nobleremotions roused by her writings tend to“make mankind desire the social right,”is not to be doubted; that we are notsure that she imparts peculiar energy to177the desire. What she kindles is not avery strenuous, aggressive, and operativedesire. The sense of the iron limitationsthat are set to improvement inpresent and future by inexorable forcesof the past, is stronger in her than anyintrepid resolution to press on to whateverimprovement may chance to bewithin reach if we only make the attempt.In energy, in inspiration, in thekindling of living faith in social effort,George Sand, not to speak of Mazzini,takes a far higher place.

It was certainly not the business of anartist to form judgments in the sphereof practical politics, but George Eliotwas far too humane a nature not to bedeeply moved by momentous events asthey passed. Yet her observations, atany rate after 1848, seldom show thatenergy of sympathy of which we havebeen speaking, and these observationsillustrate our point. We can hardlythink that anything was ever said aboutthe great civil war in America, so curiouslyfar-fetched as the following reflection:—“Mybest consolation is that anexample on so tremendous a scale ofthe need for the education of mankindthrough the affections and sentiments, asa basis for true development, will havea strong influence on all thinkers, andbe a check to the arid narrow antagonismwhich in some quarters is held tobe the only form of liberal thought”(ii. 335).

In 1848, as we have said, she felt thehopes of the hour in all their fulness.To a friend she writes (i. 179):—”Youand Carlyle (have you seen his articlein last week’s Examiner?) are the onlytwo people who feel just as I wouldhave them—who can glory in what isactually great and beautiful withoutputting forth any cold reservations andincredulities to save their credit forwisdom. I am all the more delightedwith your enthusiasm because I didn’texpect it. I feared that you lacked revolutionaryardor. But no—you are justas sans-culottish and rash as I wouldhave you. You are not one of thosesages whose reason keeps so tight a reinon their emotions that they are too constantlyoccupied in calculating consequencesto rejoice in any great manifestationof the forces that underlie oureveryday existence.

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“I thought we had fallen on such evildays that we were to see no really greatmovement—that ours was what St.Simon calls a purely critical epoch, notat all an organic one; but I begin to beglad of my date. I would consent,however, to have a year clipt off my lifefor the sake of witnessing such a sceneas that of the men of the barricadesbowing to the image of Christ, ‘whofirst taught fraternity to men.’ Onetrembles to look into every fresh newspaperlest there should be something tomar the picture; but hitherto even thescoffing newspaper critics have beencompelled into a tone of genuine respectfor the French people and theProvisional Government. Lamartine canact a poem if he cannot write one of thevery first order. I hope that beautifulface given to him in the pictorial newspaperis really his: it is worthy of anaureole. I have little patience withpeople who can find time to pity LouisPhilippe and his moustachioed sons.Certainly our decayed monarchs shouldbe pensioned off: we should have ahospital for them, or a sort of zoologicalgarden, where these worn-out humbugsmay be preserved. It is but justicethat we should keep them, since wehave spoiled them for any honest trade.Let them sit on soft cushions, and havetheir dinner regularly, but, for heaven’ssake, preserve me from sentimentalizingover a pampered old man when theearth has its millions of unfed souls andbodies. Surely he is not so Ahab-likeas to wish that the revolution had beendeferred till his son’s days: and I thinkthe shades of the Stuarts would havesome reason to complain if the Bourbons,who are so little better than they,had been allowed to reign much longer.”

The hopes of ’48 were not very accuratelyfulfilled, and in George Eliot theynever came to life again. Yet in socialthings we may be sure that undyinghope is the secret of vision.

There is a passage in Coleridge’sFriend which seems to represent theoutcome of George Eliot’s teaching onmost, and not the worst, of her readers:—“Thetangle of delusions,” saysColeridge,179 “which stifled and distortedthe growing tree of our well-being hasbeen torn away; the parasite weeds thatfed on its very roots have been pluckedup with a salutary violence. To usthere remain only quiet duties, the constantcare, the gradual improvement, thecautious and unhazardous labors of theindustrious though contented gardener—toprune, to strengthen, to engraft,and one by one to remove from itsleaves and fresh shoots the slug and thecaterpillar.” Coleridge goes furtherthan George Eliot, when he adds the exhortation—“Farbe it from us to undervaluewith light and senseless detractionthe conscientious hardihood of our predecessors,or even to condemn in themthat vehemence to which the blessings itwon for us leave us now neither temptationnor pretext.”

George Eliot disliked vehemence moreand more as her work advanced. Theword “crudity,” so frequently on herlips, stood for all that was objectionableand distasteful. The conservatism ofan artistic moral nature was shocked bythe seeming peril to which pricelessmoral elements of human character wereexposed by the energumens of progress.Their impatient hopes for the presentappeared to her rather unscientific;their disregard of the past, very irreverentand impious. Mill had the samefeeling when he disgusted his father bystanding up for Wordsworth, on theground that Wordsworth was helping tokeep alive in human nature elementswhich utilitarians and innovators wouldneed when their present and particularwork was done. Mill, being free fromthe exaltations that make the artist,kept a truer balance. His famous pairof essays on Bentham and Coleridgewere published (for the first time, so faras our generation was concerned) in thesame year as Adam Bede, and I can vividlyremember how the “Coleridge”first awoke in many of us, who werethen youths at Oxford, that sense oftruth having many mansions, and thatdesire and power of sympathy with thepast, with the positive bases of the socialfabric, and with the value of Permanencein States, which form the reputableside of all conservatisms. Thissentiment and conviction never tookricher or more mature form than in thebest work of George Eliot, and her storieslighted up with a fervid glow thetruths that minds of another type hadjust brought to the surface. It was this180that made her a great moral force at thatepoch, especially for all who were capableby intellectual training of standingat her point of view. We even, as Ihave said, tried hard to love her poetry,but the effort has ended less in lovethan in a very distant homage to themajestic in intention and the sonorousin execution. In fiction, too, as theyears go by, we begin to crave morefancy, illusion, enchantment, than thequality of her genius allowed. But theloftiness of her character is abiding, andit passes nobly through the ordeal of anhonest biography. “For the lessons,”says the fine critic already quoted,181“most imperatively needed by the massof men, the lessons of deliberate kindness,of careful truth, of unwaveringendeavor,—for these plain themes onecould not ask a more convincing teacherthan she whom we are commemoratingnow. Everything in her aspect andpresence was in keeping with the bentof her soul. The deeply-lined face, thetoo marked and massive features, wereunited with an air of delicate refinement,which in one way was the moreimpressive because it seemed to proceedso entirely from within. Nay, the inwardbeauty would sometimes quitetransform the external harshness; therewould be moments when the thin handsthat entwined themselves in their eagerness,the earnest figure that bowed forwardto speak and hear, the deep gazemoving from one face to another with agrave appeal,—all these seemed thetransparent symbols that showed thepresence of a wise, benignant soul.”As a wise, benignant soul George Eliotwill still remain for all right-judgingmen and women.—Macmillan’s Magazine.

182

LORD TENNYSON.
BY PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

I.

II.

III.

183

184

IN THE NORWEGIAN MOUNTAINS.
BY OSCAR FREDRIK, KING OF SWEDEN AND NORWAY.

Translated, with His Majesty’s permission, by Carl Siewers.

If you will accompany us on our journeytowards the snow-covered peaks ofthe Sogne Mountains yonder, you arewelcome! But quick, not a moment isto be lost; day is dawning, and we havea long journey before us. It is still fivestiff Norwegian miles to the coast inBergen’s Stift, although we did two yesterdayfrom the last dwelling in the valleyof Lom. We ought to be undershelter before dusk; the night might be“rough” up yonder among the white-cappedold peaks, so therefore to horse,and forward!

We are compelled to say good-bye tothe last Sæter there on the silent shoresof the deep gloomy mountain lake, aduty which we perform with no lightheart. How strange the Sæter life anddwellings appear to the stranger! Howpoor this long and dark structure seemsat first sight, and yet how hearty andunexpectedly lavish is the hospitalitywhich the simple children of the mountainextend to the weary traveller!

Milk, warm from the cow, fresh-churnedbutter, reindeer meat, and acouple of delicious trout which we havejust seen taken from the lake below,form a regal feast indeed; and, spicedwith the keen appetite which the air uphere creates, the meal can only beequalled by the luxury of reposing on asoft couch of fresh, fragrant hay.

On the threshold as we depart, standthe pretty Budejer (dairy maids), in theneat costume of the people in the Guldbrandsdalvalley, nodding a tender farewellto us, and wishing us a hearty“Lykke paa Reisen.” Yes, there theystand, following us with their gaze as weproceed along the steep mountain path,till we disappear from view in the rockyglen. I said “path.” Well, that is thename assigned to it, but never did I imaginethe existence of such a riding“ladder,” and it may well be necessaryto have the peculiar race of mountainhorses found here, for a rider to getsafely to his journey’s end.

Now the road lies through rapid moun185tainstreams, where the roaring waterfallmay in an instant sweep man and beastinto a yawning abyss below, and nowacross a precipice, where the lake dividesthe mountains, and death lurks a yardto your left. Again across the steepestslopes, where Nature appears to haveamused herself by tossing masses ofjagged, tottering rocks in heaps, andwhere no ordinary horse’s hoof wouldfind a safe hold. But if you only watchthese brave and sagacious little animals,how carefully they consider the slightestmovement and measure the smalleststep, they will inspire you with the greatestconfidence, and you will continueyour journey on their back without theslightest fear, along the wildest path, onthe edge of the most awe-inspiringabyss. And should one of these excellentcobs stumble, which happened onceor twice during our ride, it is only oncomparatively safe ground, where probablythe horse does not consider muchattention is required.

We now climb still higher; graduallythe sound of cow bells and the softmelodies from the Lur, (the Norsealpenhorn,) are wafted into space, andin return, a sharp chilly gust of wind,called Fjeldsno, sweeps along the valleyslopes, carrying with it the last souvenirof society and civilization. We havelong ago left the populated districts behind,the mountain Nature stands beforeus, and surrounds us in all its imposinggrandeur. The roar of the mightyBæver river is the only sound whichbreaks the impressive silence, and eventhis becomes fainter and fainter as wemount higher and higher, and the massof water decreases and the fall becomessteeper and steeper, till at last the bigriver is reduced to a little noisy, foamingbrook, skipping from rock to rock,and plunging from one ledge to another,twisting its silvery thread into the mostfantastic shapes.

The morning had dawned rather dull,which in these altitudes means that wehad been enveloped in a thick damp186mist; but the gusts from the snow-fieldssoon chase the heavy clouds away, andseem to sweep them into a heap roundthe crests of the lofty mountains. Atlast a streak of blue appears overhead,and through the rent clouds a faint sunbeamshoots across the high plateau, onestronger and more intense follows, asecond and third. It’s clearing!

Oh, what a magnificent spectacle!Never will it fade from my recollection;indelibly it stands stamped on my mind.Before us lies a grand glacier, the Smörstabsbræen,from whose icy lap our oldacquaintance the Bæver river starts onhis laborious journey to the WesternOcean. The bright rays of the noondaysun are playing on the burnishedsurface of the glacier, which now flasheslike a rivière of the choicest diamonds,now glitters clear and transparent ascrystal, and now gleams in green and bluelike a mass of emeralds and sapphires,the rapid transformation of tint beingten times multiplied by the play of theshadow of the clouds fleeting across theazure heavens. And above the glacierthere towers a gigantic mountain withthe weird name of “Fanarauken” (TheDevil’s Smoke), which may be consideredas the solitary vedette of the bodyof peaks which under the name ofHorungtinderne forms the loftiest partof the Jotun or Sogne Mountains. Someof the slopes of the peaks seem coveredwith white snow, while others stand outin bold relief, jet black in color: somewhatawe-inspiring, with the cold, pale-greenbackground which the sky assumesin the regions of eternal snow.The crests of the Horungtinderne, somesix to eight thousand feet above the sea,are steep and jagged, and around themthe snow-clouds have settled, and whenthe wind attempts to tear them away theytwirl upwards, resembling smoking volcanoes,which further enhances thestrangeness of the scene.

To our right there are some immensesnow-fields, still we are told that thereis very little snow in the mountains thisyear!

Long ago we left the last dwarf birch(Betula nana), six feet in height, behindus, and are now approaching the borderof eternal snow. We reach it, springfrom our horses, and are soon engagedin throwing snowballs at each other.

187

It is the 15th of August, but the airis icy cold; it is more like one of thoseclear, cool spring mornings, so familiarto the Northerner, when rude Boreas isabroad, but far more invigorating andentirely free from that unpleasant, rawtouch which fosters colds and worse illnesses.Here disease is unknown, onefeels as if drinking the elixir of life inevery breath, and, whilst the eye canroam freely over the immense plateau,the lungs are free to inhale the puremountain air untainted.

One is at once gay and solemn.Thought and vision soar over the immensefields and expand with the extendedview, and this consciousness is doublyemphasised by the sense of depressionwe have just experienced under theoverhanging mountains in the narrowSæter’s valley. One feels as if awayfrom the world one is wont to move in,as if parted from life on earth andbrought suddenly face to face with theAlmighty Creator of Nature. One iscompelled to acknowledge one’s ownlowliness and impotence. A snow-cloud,and one is buried for ever; afog, and the only slender thread whichguides the wanderer to the distantabode of man is lost.

Never before had I experienced sucha sensation, not even during a terrificstorm in the Atlantic Ocean, or on beholdingthe desert of Sahara from thepyramid of Cheops. In the latter case,I am in the vicinity of a populated districtand an extensive town, and needonly turn round to see Cairo’s minaretsand citadel in the distance; and againat sea, the ship is a support to the eye,and I am surrounded by many people,who all participate in the very workwhich engages myself; I seem to a certainextent to carry my home with me.Whilst here, on the other hand, I am,as it were, torn away from everythingdear to me—a speck of dust on theenormous snowdrift—and I feel my ownimpotence more keenly as the Naturefacing me becomes grander and moregigantic, and whose forces may from inactionin an instant be called into play,bringing destruction on the fatiguedwanderer. But we did not encounterthem, and it is indeed an exception thatany danger is incurred. With provisionsfor a couple of days, sure and reso188luteguides, enduring horses, and particularlybold courage and good temper,all will go well. As regards good temper,this is a gift of welcome and gratitude:presents from the mountains tothe rare traveller who finds his way uphere.

Our little caravan, a most appropriatedesignation, has certainly something verypicturesque about it, whether lookingat the travellers in their rough cloaks,slouched hats and top boots, or our littlelong-haired cobs with their strongsinewy limbs and close-cropped manes,or the ponies carrying our traps in aKlöf saddle.

These sagacious and enduring Klöfhorses are certainly worth attention.

I cannot understand how they supportthe heavy and bulky packages theycarry, covering nearly the entire body,and still less how they are able to spring,thus encumbered, so nimbly from oneledge to another and so adroitly to descendthe steep, slippery mountainslopes, or so fearlessly wade through thesmall but deep pools—Tjærn—whichwe so often encounter on our road.The most surprising thing is that ourKlöf horses always prefer to be in thevan, yes, even forcing their way to thefront, where the path is narrowest, andthe abyss at its side most appalling, andwhen they gain the desired position theyseem to lead the entire party. Whatguides them in their turn? Simply theinstinct with which Nature has endowedthem.

Life in the mountains, and the dailyintimate acquaintance with the giantforces of Nature, seem to create somethingcorresponding in the character ofthe simple dwellers among the high valleysof Norway. As a type I may mentionan old reindeer-hunter, whom wemet in the mountains. Seventy wintershad snown on his venerable locks, servingonly however to ornament hisproudly-borne head. Leaning on hisrough but unerring rifle, motionless as astatue, he appears before us on a hill atsome distance. Silent and solemn ishis greeting as we pass, and we see himstill yonder, motionless as the rocks,which soon hide him from our view.Thus he has to spend many a wearyhour, even days, in order to earn hisscanty living. To me it seemed a hard189lot, but he is content—he knows no better,the world has not tempted him todiscontent.

Not far from the highest point on ourroad lies a small stone hut, tumbledown,solitary, uninviting, but neverthelessa blessed refuge to the traveller whohas been caught in rough weather, andI should say that the finest hotel in Europeis scarcely entered with such feelingsof grateful contentment as thiswretched Fjeldstue is taken possessionof by the fatigued, frozen, or strayedtraveller.

We were, however, lucky enough notto be in want of the refuge, as theweather became more and more lovelyand the air more transparent as we ascended.

About half-way across the mountainswe discovered, after some search, thehorses which had been ordered to meetus here from the other side in Bergen’sStift; and to order fresh animals tomeet one half-way when crossing is certainlya wise plan, which I should recommendto every one, though I musthonestly add that our horses did not appearthe least exhausted in spite of theirfour hours’ trot yesterday and six to-day,continually ascending. In theopen air we prepared and did amplejustice to a simple fare, and no mealever tasted better. And meanwhile welet our horses roam about and gatherwhat moss they could in the mountainclefts.

After a rest of about two hours weagain mount and resume our journeywith renewed strength. It is still fivehours’ journey to our destination on thecoast.

We did not think that, after what wehad already seen, a fresh grand view,even surpassing the former, would berevealed to our gaze; but we were mistaken.

Anything more grand, more impressivethan the view from the last eminence,the Ocsar’s Houg, before webegin to descend, it is impossible toimagine! Before us loom the threeSkagastölstinder, almost the loftiestpeaks in the Scandinavian peninsula.More than seven thousand feet theyraise their crests above the level of thesea, and they stand yonder as clearlydefined as if within rifle-shot, whilst190they are at least half a day’s journeydistant. To their base no human beinghas ever penetrated, their top has neverbeen trodden by man.

And they certainly appear terriblysteep; snow cannot gather on theirslopes, but only festoons the rocks hereand there, or hides in the crevices,where the all-dispersing wind has lostits force. The mountain has a coldsteel-gray color, and around the pointedcones snow-clouds move erratically,sometimes gathering in a most fantasticmanner in a mass and again suddenlydisappearing, as though chased by someinvisible power.

And around us the dark jagged peaksof the Horungtinder, alternating withdazzling snow-fields, which increase inextent to the north, thus bespeakingtheir close proximity to the famousglacier of Justedalen.

Does this complete my picture? No;our glance has only swept the sun-bathedheights above, but now it is lowered,sinking with terror into yawning abysses,and lost in a gloomy depth, withoutoutlines, without limit! A waterfallrushes wildly forward, downwards—whither?We see it not; we do notknow; we can only imagine that itplunges into some appalling chasm below.In very favorable weather it issaid to be possible to see the Ocean—thebottom of the abyss—quite plainlyfrom this eminence; we could, however,only distinguish its faint outlines,as the sun shone right in our eyes. Wesaw, half “by faith” however, the innermostcreek of the Lysterfjord. But rememberthis creek was rather below thanbefore us!

“Surely it is not intended to descendinto this abyss on horseback?” I askwith some apprehension. “Yes, it is,”responds my venerable guide with thatinimitable, confidence-creating calmnesswhich distinguishes the Norwegian. Iinvoluntarily think compassionately ofmy neck. Perhaps the mountaineer observedmy momentary surprise, as thisrace is gifted with remarkable keenness;perhaps not. However, I felt a slightflush on my face, and that decided me,coûte que coûte, never to dismount, howevertempted. And of course I did not.

We had, in fact, no choice. We werebound to proceed by this road and no191other, unless we desired to return allthe way to Guldbrandsdalen, miss allour nicely-arranged trips around theSogne and Nœrö fjords, and disappointthe steamer waiting for us with our carriageand traps. And above all, whatan ignominious retreat! No; such athought did not for a moment enter ourhead. Therefore come what may, forward!

On a balmy evening, as the rays ofthe setting sun tint the landscape, wefind ourselves on the seashore, safe andsound.

But to attempt a description of theadventurous break-neck, giddy descent,I must decline. I can scarcely reviewit in my mind at this moment, when Iattempt to gather the scattered fragmentsof this remarkable ride, the mostextraordinary I ever performed. Butone word I will add: one must not beafraid or subject to giddiness, else theSogne Mountains had better be left outof the programme. Only have confidencein the mountain horse, and allwill go well.

Well, had I even arrived as far as thisin my journey, I would unfold to you avery different canvas, with warmer colorsand a softer touch. I would, in thefertile valley of Fortun, at 62° latitudeN., conjure up to your astonished gazeentire groves of wild cherry-trees ladenwith ripe fruit; I would show you corn,weighty and yellow three months afterbeing sown, in close rich rows, or undulatingoats ready for the sickle, coveringextensive fields. I would lead youto the shore of the majestic fjord, andlet you behold the towering mountainsreflected sharp and clear in its depth, asthough another landscape lay beneaththe waves; and I would guide yourglance upwards, towards the little farmsnestling up there on the slope, a coupleof thousand feet above your head, andwhich are only accessible from the valleyby a rocky ladder. Yes, this andmore too I would show you, but rememberwe stand at this moment on the crestof the mountain, and a yawning gap stilldivides us from the Canaan which is ourjourney’s end.

I have therefore no choice but to laydown my pen, and I do so with a callon you, my reader, to undertake thisjourney and experience for yourself its192indescribable impressions; and if youdo, I feel confident you will not find mydescription exaggerated.

Ride only once down the precipice betweenOptun and Lysterfjord, and youwill find, I think, that the descent cannotbe accurately described in words;but believe me, the memory thereof willnever fade from your mind, neither willyou repent the toil.

A summer’s day in the Sogne Mountainsof old Norway will, as well foryou as for me, create rich and charmingrecollections—recollections retainedthrough one’s whole life.—TempleBar.

193

THE QUANDONG’S SECRET.

“Steward,” exclaimed the chief-officerof the American barque Decatur,lying just then in Table Bay, into whichshe had put on her long voyage to Australia,for the purpose of obtaining waterand fresh provisions—“the skipper’ssent word off that there’s two passengerscoming on board for Melbourne; solook spry and get those after-berthsready, or I guess the ‘old man’ ’llstraighten you up when he does comealong.”

Soon afterwards, the “old man” andhis passengers put in an appearance inthe barque’s cutter; the anchor, shortsince sunrise, was hove up to the catheads,topsails sheeted home, and, dippingthe “stars and bars” to the surroundingshipping, the Decatur again,after her brief rest, set forth on herocean travel.

John Leslie and Francis Drury hadbeen perfect strangers to each other alltheir lives long till within the last fewhours; and now, with the frank confidencebegotten of youth and health,each knew more of the other, his failuresand successes, than perhaps, underordinary circumstances, he would havelearned in a twelvemonth. Both werecomparatively young men; Drury, Australianborn, a native of Victoria, andone of those roving spirits one meetswith sometimes, who seem to have, andcare to have, no permanent place onearth’s surface, the wandergeist havingentered into their very souls, and takenfull possession thereof. The kind ofman whom we are not surprised at hearingof, to-day, upon the banks of theFly River; in a few months more inthe interior of Tibet; again on the trackof Stanley, or with Gordon in Khartoum.

So it had been with Francis Drury,194ever seeking after fortune in the wildplaces of the world; in quest, so oftenin vain, of a phantasmal Eldorado—luredon, ever on, by visions of what theunknown contained. Ghauts wild androcky had re-echoed the report of hisrifle; his footsteps had fallen lightly onthe pavements of the ruined cities ofMontezuma, sombre and stately as theprimeval forest which hid them; andhis skiff had cleft the bright Southernrivers that Waterton loved so well to explore,but gone farther than ever thenaturalist, adventurous and daring as hetoo was, had ever been. At length, ashe laughingly told his friend, fortunehad, on the diamond fields of Klipdrift,smiled upon him, with a measured smile,‘twas true, but still a smile; and now,after an absence of some years, he hadtaken the opportune chance of a passagein the Decatur, and was off home to seehis mother and sister, from whom hehad not heard for nearly two years.

Leslie was rather a contrast to theother, being as quiet and thoughtful asDrury was full of life and spirits, andhad been trying his hand at sheep-farmingin Cape Colony, but with ratherscanty results; in fact, having sunkmost of his original capital, he was nowtaking with him to Australia very littlebut his African experience.

A strong friendship between these twowas the result of but a few days’ intimacy,during which time, however, asthey were the only passengers, they naturallysaw a great deal of each other; soit came to pass that Leslie heard allabout his friend’s sister, golden-hairedMargaret Drury; and often, as in themiddle watches he paced the deck alone,he conjured up visions to himself, smilingthe while, of what this girl, of whomher brother spoke so lovingly and proud195ly,and in whom he had such steadfastfaith as a woman amongst women, couldbe like.

The Decatur was now, with a strongwesterly wind behind her, fast approachingthe latitude of that miserable mid-oceanicrock known as the Island of St.Paul, when suddenly a serious mishapoccurred. The ship was “runningheavy” under her fore and main topsailsand a fore topmast staysail, the breezehaving increased to a stiff gale, whichhad brought up a very heavy sea; whensomehow—for these things, even at aBoard of Trade inquiry, seldom do getclearly explained—one of the two menat the wheel, or both of them perhaps,let the vessel “broach-to,” paying thepenalty of their carelessness by takingtheir departure from her for ever, incompany with binnacle, skylights, hencoops,&c., and a huge wave whichswept the Decatur fore and aft, from hertaffrail to the heel of her bowsprit, washingat the same time poor Francis Drury,who happened to be standing under thebreak of the poop, up and down amongstloose spars, underneath the iron-boundwindlass, dashing him pitilessly againstwood and iron, here, there, and everywhere,like a broken reed; till when atlast, dragged by Leslie out of the rolling,seething water on the maindeck, theroving, eager spirit seemed at last tohave found rest; and his friend, as hesmoothed the long fair hair from off theblood-stained forehead, mourned forhim as for a younger brother.

The unfortunate man was speedilyascertained to be nothing but a mass offractures and terrible bruises, such as nohuman frame under any circumstancescould have survived; and well thesufferer knew it; for in a brief intervalof consciousness, in a moment’s respitefrom awful agony, he managed to drawsomething from around his neck, whichhanding to his friend in the semi-darknessof the little cabin, whilst abovethem the gale roared, and shrieked, officersand men shouted and swore, andthe timbers of the old Decatur groanedand creaked like sentient things—hewhispered, so low that the other had tobend down close to the poor disfiguredface to hear it, “For Mother and Maggie;I was going to tell you about—it,and—Good-bye!” and then with one196convulsive shudder, and with the dark-blueeyes still gazing imploringly up intothose of his friend, his spirit took itsflight.

The gale has abated, the courses areclewed up, topsails thrown aback, andthe starry flag flies half-mast high, asthey “commit his body to the deep, tobe turned into corruption; looking forthe resurrection of the body, when thesea shall give up her dead.” A sudden,shooting plunge into the sparkling water,and Francis Drury’s place on earth willknow him no more. Gone is the gallantspirit, stilled the eager heart forever, and Leslie’s tears fall thick andheavy—no one there deeming themshame to his manhood—as the bellyingcanvas urges the ship swiftly onward onher course.

Only a Quandong stone, of ratherunusual size, covered with little silverknobs or studs, and to one end of whichwas attached a stout silver chain. Leslie,as he turned it over and over in hishand, thinking sadly enough of its lateowner, wondering much what he hadbeen about to communicate when Deathso relentlessly stepped in. The valueof the thing as an ornament was but atrifle, and, try as he might, Leslie couldfind no indication that there was aughtbut met the eye: a simple Australianwild-peach stone converted into a trifle,rather ugly than otherwise, as is the casewith so many so-called curios. Still, ashis friend’s last thought and charge, itwas sacred in his sight; and putting itcarefully away, he determined on landingat Melbourne, now so near, to makeit his first care to find out Drury’smother and his sister.

“Drury, Drury! Let me see! Yesof course. Mother and daughterbrother too sometimes; rather a wildyoung fellow; always ‘on the go’ somewhere or other, you know. Yes; theyused to live here; but they’ve beengone this long time; and where to, nomore than I can tell you; or I thinkanybody else about here either.”

So spake the present tenant of “AcaciaCottage, St. Kilda.” in response toLeslie’s inquiries at the address, to obtainwhich he had overhauled the effecs197of the dead man, finding it at the commencementof a two-year-old letter fromhis mother, directed to “Algoa Bay;”finding, besides, some receipts of diamondssold at Cape Town, and a letterof credit on a Melbourne bank for fivehundred pounds; probably, so Lesliethought to himself, that “measuredsmile” of which the poor fellow hadlaughingly spoken to him in the earlierdays of their brief companionship.

The above was the sum-total of theinformation he could ever—after manypersistent efforts, including a fruitlesstrip to Hobart—obtain of the family ortheir whereabouts; so, depositing thefive hundred pounds at one of the principalbanking institutions, and insertingan advertisement in the Age and Argus,Leslie having but little spare cash, andhis own fortune lying still in deepestshadow, reluctantly, for a time at least,as he promised himself, abandoned thequest.

Kaloola was one of the prettiest pastoralhomesteads in the north-westerndistricts of Victoria; and its owner, asone evening he sat in the broad veranda,and saw on every side, far as the eyecould reach, land and stock all callinghim master, felt that the years that hadpassed since the old Decatur dropped heranchor in Port Phillip had not passedaway altogether in vain; and althoughominous wrinkles began to appear aboutthe corners of John Leslie’s eyes, andgray hairs about his temples, the man’sheart was fresh and unseared as when,on a certain day twelve long years ago,he had shed bitter tears over the oceangrave of his friend. Vainly throughoutthese latter years had he endeavored tofind some traces of the Drurys. Thedeposit in the Bank of Australasia hadremained untouched, and had by nowswollen to a very respectable sum indeed.Advertisements in nearly everymetropolitan and provincial newspaperwere equally without result; even “privateinquiry” agents, employed at nosmall cost, confessed themselves at fault.Many a hard fight with fortune hadJohn Leslie encountered before heachieved success; but through it all,good times and bad, he had never forgottenthe dying bequest left to him onthat dark and stormy morning in the198Southern Ocean; and now, as risingand going to his desk he took out theQuandong stone, and turning it overand over, as though trying once againto finish those last dying words left unfinishedso many years ago, his thoughtsfled back along memory’s unforgottenvale, and a strong presentiment seemedto impel him not to leave the trinket behind,for the successful squatter was onthe eve of a trip to “the Old Country,”and this was his last day at Kaloola;so, detaching the stone from its chain,he screwed it securely to his watch-guard,and in a few hours more hadbidden adieu to Kaloola for some timeto come.

It was evening on the Marine Paradeat Brighton, and a crowd of fashionablydressed people were walking up anddown, or sitting listening to the musicof the band. Amongst these latter wasour old friend John Leslie, who hadbeen in England some three or fourmonths, and who now seemed absorbedin the sweet strains of Ulrich’s Goodnight,my Love, with which the musicianswere closing their evening’s selection;but in reality his thoughts were far awayacross the ocean, in the land of hisadoption; and few dreamed that thesun-browned, long-bearded, middle-agedgentleman, clothed more in accordancewith ideas of comfort than of fashion,and who sat there so quietly everyevening, could, had it so pleased him,have bought up half the gay loungerswho passed and repassed him with manya quizzical glance at the loose attire, insuch striking contrast to the Britishfashion of the day.

Truth to tell, Leslie was beginning tolong for the far-spreading plains of hisAustralian home once more; his was aquiet, thoughtful nature, unfitted for thegay scenes in which he had lately foundhimself a passive actor, and he was—savefor one sister, married years ago,and now with her husband in Bermuda—alonein the world; and he thinksrather sadly, perhaps, as he walks slowlyback through the crowd of fashionablesto the Imperial, where he is staying:“And alone most likely to the end.”

He had not been in his room manyminutes before there came a knock atthe door; and, scarcely waiting for an199swer,in darted a very red-faced, verystout, and apparently very flurried oldgentleman, who, setting his gold eyeglassesfirmly on his nose, at once began:“Er—ah, Mr. Leslie, I believe?Got your number from the porter, yousee—great rascal, by the way, that porter;always looks as if he wanted something,you know—then the visitors’book, and so. Yes; it’s all right sofar. There’s the thing now!”—glancingat the old Quandong stone whichstill hung at Leslie’s watch-chain. “I”—hewent on—”that is, my name isRaby, Colonel Raby, and—— Dearme, yes; must apologise, ought to havedone that at first, for intrusion, and allthat kind of thing; but really, yousee”—— And here the old gentlemanpaused, fairly for want of breath, hispurple cheeks expanding and contracting,whilst, instead of words, he emitteda series of little puffs; and John, whilstasking him to take a seat, entertainedrather strong doubts of his visitor’s sanity.

“Now,” said he at length, when heperceived signs that the colonel wasabout to recommence, “kindly let meknow in what way I can be of use toyou.”

“Bother take the women!” ejaculatedthe visitor, as he recovered his breathagain. “But you see, Mr. Leslie, itwas all through my niece. She caughtsight of that thing—funny-looking thing,too—on your chain whilst we were onthe Parade this evening, and nearlyfainted away—she did, sir, I do assureyou, in Mrs. Raby’s arms, too, sir; andif I had not got a cup of water from thedrinking fountain, and poured it overher head, there would most likely havebeen a bit of a scene, sir, and then—— Weare staying in this house, you know.

We saw you come in just behind us;and so—of course it’s all nonsense, butthe fact is”——

“Excuse me,” interrupted Leslie,who was growing impatient; “but mayI ask the name of the lady—your niece,I mean?”

“My niece, sir,” replied the colonel,rather ruffled at being cut short, “isknown as Miss Margaret Drury; and ifyou will only have the kindness to convinceher as to the utter absurdity of anidea which she somehow entertains that200that affair, charm, trinket, or whateveryou may call it, once belonged to abrother of hers, I shall be extremelyobliged to you, for really”—relapsingagain—“when the women once gethold of a fad of the kind, a man’s peaceis clean gone, sir, I do assure you.”

“I am not quite sure,” remarkedLeslie, smiling, “that in this case atleast it will not turn out to be a ‘fad.’How I became possessed of this stone,which I have every reason to believeonce belonged to her brother, and which,through long years, I have held in trustfor her and her mother, is quite capableof explanation, sad though the storymay be. So, sir, I shall be very pleasedto wait on Miss Drury as soon as maybe convenient to her.”

A tall, dark-robed figure, beyond thefirst bloom of maidenhood, but stillpassing fair to look upon, rose on Leslie’sentrance; and he recognised at aglance the long golden hair, and calmeyes of deepest blue, of poor Drury’soft-repeated description.

Many a sob escaped his auditor as hefeelingly related his sad story.

“Poor Francie,” she said at last—“poor,dear Francie! And this is theold Quandong locket I gave him as aparting gift, when he left for those terriblediamond fields! A lock of my hairwas in it. But how strange it seemsthat through all these years you havenever discovered the secret of openingit. See!” and with a push on one ofthe stud-heads and a twist on another,a short, stout silver pin drew out, andone half of the nut slipped off, disclosingto the astonished gaze of the pair,nestling in a thick lock of golden threadsfiner than the finest silk, a beautiful diamond,uncut, but still, even to the unpractisedeyes of Leslie, of great value.

This, then, was the secret of theQuandong stone, kept so faithfully forso long a time. This was what thatdying friend and brother had tried, buttried in vain, with his last breath to disclose.

It was little wonder that Leslie’s inquiriesand advertisements had been ineffectual,for about the time Drury hadreceived his last letter from home, thebank in which was the widow’s modest201capital failed, and mother and daughterwere suddenly plunged into poverty direand complete. In this strait they wroteto Colonel Raby, Mrs. Drury’s brother,who, to do him justice, behaved nobly,bringing them from Australia to England,and accepting them as part andparcel of his home without the slightestdelay. Mrs. Drury had now been deadsome years; and though letter after letterhad been addressed to Francis Druryat the Cape, they had invariably returnedwith the discouraging indorsement,“Not to be found,” The Rabys,it seemed, save for a brief interval yearly,lived a very retired kind of life onthe Yorkshire wolds; still, MargaretDrury had caused many and persistentinquiries to be made as to the fate ofher brother, but, till that eventful even202ingon the Marine Parade, without beingable to obtain the slightest clue.

As perhaps the reader has already divined,John Leslie was, after all, notfated to go through life’s pilgrimagealone. In fair Margaret Drury he founda loving companion and devoted wife;and as, through the years of good andevil hap,

so did John Leslie more nearly realisewhat a rare prize he had won.

At beautiful Kaloola, Mr. and Mrs.Leslie still live happily, and the oldQuandong stone, with its occupant stillundisturbed, is treasured amongst theirmost precious relics.—Chambers’s Journal.

203

DE BANANA.

The title which heads this paper isintended to be Latin, and is modelledon the precedent of the De Amicitia,De Senectute, De Corona, and othertime-honored plagues of our innocentboyhood. It is meant to give dignityand authority to the subject with whichit deals, as well as to rouse curiosity inthe ingenuous breast of the candid reader,who may perhaps mistake it, at firstsight, for negro-English, or for thename of a distinguished Norman family.In anticipation of the possible objectionthat the word “Banana” is not strictlyclassical, I would humbly urge the preceptand example of my old friend Horace—enemyI once thought him—whoexpresses his approbation of those happyinnovations whereby Latium was graduallyenriched with a copious vocabulary.I maintain that if Banana, bananæ, &c.,is not already a Latin noun of the firstdeclension, why then it ought to be, andit shall be in future. Linnæus indeedthought otherwise. He too assigned theplant and fruit to the first declension, buthanded it over to none other than ourearliest acquaintance in the Latin language,Musa. He called the bananaMusa sapientum. What connection hecould possibly perceive between thatwoolly fruit and the daughters of theægis-bearing Zeus, or why he shouldconsider it a proof of wisdom to eat aparticularly indigestible and nightmare-begettingfood-stuff, passes my humblecomprehension. The muses, so far as Ihave personally noticed their habits, alwaysgreatly prefer the grape to thebanana, and wise men shun the one atleast as sedulously as they avoid theother.

Let it not for a moment be supposed,however, that I wish to treat the usefuland ornamental banana with intentionaldisrespect. On the contrary, I cherishfor it—at a distance—feelings of thehighest esteem and admiration. We areso parochial in our views, taking us asa species, that I dare say very few Englishpeople really know how immenselyuseful a plant is the common banana.To most of us it envisages itself merelyas a curious tropical fruit, largely importedat Covent Garden, and a capitalthing to stick on one of the tall dessert-disheswhen you give a dinner-party, becauseit looks delightfully foreign, andjust serves to balance the pine-apple atthe opposite end of the hospitable mahogany.Perhaps such innocent readerswill be surprised to learn that bananasand plantains supply the principal food-stuffof a far larger fraction of the humanrace than that which is supportedby wheaten bread. They form the veri204tablestaff of life to the inhabitants ofboth eastern and western tropics. Whatthe potato is to the degenerate descendantof Celtic kings; what the oat is tothe kilted Highlandman; what rice isto the Bengalee, and Indian corn to theAmerican negro, that is the muse ofsages (I translate literally from the immortalSwede) to African savages andBrazilian slaves. Humboldt calculatedthat an acre of bananas would supplya greater quantity of solid food tohungry humanity than could possiblybe extracted from the same extent ofcultivated ground by any other knownplant. So you see the question is nosmall one: to sing the praise of thisLinnæan muse is a task well worthy ofthe Pierian muses.

Do you know the outer look and aspectof the banana plant? If not, thenyou have never voyaged to those delusivetropics. Tropical vegetation, as ordinarilyunderstood by poets and painters,consists entirely of the coco-nut palmand the banana bush. Do you wish topaint a beautiful picture of a rich ambrosialtropical island à la Tennyson—asummer-isle of Eden lying in darkpurple spheres of sea?—then you introducea group of coco-nuts, whisperingin odorous heights of even, in the veryforeground of your pretty sketch, justto let your public understand at aglance that these are the delicious poeticaltropics. Do you desire to createan ideal paradise, à la Bernardin de St.Pierre, where idyllic Virginies die ofpure modesty rather than appear beforethe eyes of their beloved but unweddedPauls in a lace-bedraped peignoir?—thenyou strike the keynote by sticking inthe middle distance a hut or cottage,overshadowed by the broad and gracefulfoliage of the picturesque banana.(“Hut” is a poor and chilly word forthese glowing descriptions, far inferiorto the pretty and high-sounding originalchaumière.) That is how we dothe tropics when we want to work uponthe emotions of the reader. But it isall a delicate theatrical illusion; a trickof art meant to deceive and imposeupon the unwary who have never beenthere, and would like to think it all genuine.In reality, nine times out of ten,you might cast your eyes casually aroundyou in any tropical valley, and if there205didn’t happen to be a native cottagewith a coco-nut grove and a bananapatch anywhere in the neighborhood,you would see nothing in the way ofvegetation which you mightn’t see athome any day in Europe. But whatpainter would ever venture to paint thetropics without the palm trees? Hemight just as well try to paint the desertwithout the camels, or to represent St.Sebastian without a sheaf of arrowssticking unperceived in the calm centreof his unruffled bosom, to mark and emphasisehis Sebastianic personality.

Still, I will frankly admit that thebanana itself, with its practically almostidentical relation, the plantain, is a realbit of tropical foliage. I confess to asettled prejudice against the tropicsgenerally, but I allow the sunsets, thecoco-nuts, and the bananas. The truestem creeps underground, and sends upeach year an upright branch, thicklycovered with majestic broad greenleaves, somewhat like those of the cannacultivated in our gardens as “Indianshot,” but far larger, nobler, and handsomer.They sometimes measure fromsix to ten feet in length, and their thickmidrib and strongly marked divergingveins give them a very lordly and gracefulappearance. But they are apt inpractice to suffer much from the furyof the tropical storms. The wind ripsthe leaves up between the veins as faras the midrib in tangled tatters; sothat after a good hurricane they lookmore like coco-nut palm leaves thanlike single broad masses of foliage asthey ought properly to do. This, ofcourse, is the effect of a gentle andbalmy hurricane—a mere capful of windthat tears and tatters them. After areally bad storm (one of the sort whenyou tie ropes round your wooden houseto prevent its falling bodily to pieces, Imean) the bananas are all actually blowndown, and the crop for that season utterlydestroyed. The apparent stem,being merely composed of the overlappingand sheathing leaf-stalks, hasnaturally very little stability; and thesoft succulent trunk accordingly givesway forthwith at the slightest onslaught.This liability to be blown down inhigh winds forms the weak point ofthe plantain, viewed as a food-stuffcrop. In the South Sea Islands, where206there is little shelter, the poor Fijian,in cannibal days, often lost his onemeans of subsistence from this cause,and was compelled to satisfy the pangsof hunger on the plump persons of hisimmediate relatives. But since the introductionof Christianity, and of adwarf stout wind-proof variety of banana,his condition in this respect, I amglad to say, has been greatly ameliorated.

By descent, the banana bush is a developedtropical lily, not at all remotelyallied to the common iris, only thatits flowers and fruit are clustered togetheron a hanging spike, instead ofgrowing solitary and separate as in thetrue irises. The blossoms, which, thoughpretty, are comparatively inconspicuousfor the size of the plant, show the extraordinarypersistence of the lily type; foralmost all the vast number of species,more or less directly descended fromthe primitive lily, continue to the veryend of the chapter to have six petals,six stamens, and three rows of seeds intheir fruits or capsules. But practicalman, with his eye always steadily fixedon the one important quality of edibility—thesum and substance to most peopleof all botanical research—has confinedhis attention almost entirely to thefruit of the banana. In all essentials(other than the systematically unimportantone just alluded to) the bananafruit in its original state exactly resemblesthe capsule of the iris—that pretty podthat divides in three when ripe, andshows the delicate orange-coated seedslying in triple rows within—only, inthe banana, the fruit does not open;in the sweet language of technical botany,it is an indehiscent capsule; andthe seeds, instead of standing separateand distinct, as in the iris, are embeddedin a soft and pulpy substance whichforms the edible and practical part of theentire arrangement.

This is the proper appearance ofthe original and natural banana, beforeit has been taken in hand and cultivatedby tropical man. When cutacross the middle, it ought to showthree rows of seeds, interspersed withpulp, and faintly preserving some dimmemory of the dividing wall whichonce separated them. In practice,however, the banana differs widely fromthis theoretical ideal, as practice often207will differ from theory; for it hasbeen so long cultivated and selectedby man—being probably one of thevery oldest, if not actually quite theoldest, of domesticated plants—that ithas all but lost the original habit ofproducing seeds. This is a commoneffect of cultivation on fruits, and itis of course deliberately aimed at byhorticulturists, as the seeds are generallya nuisance, regarded from thepoint of view of the eater, and theirabsence improves the fruit, as long asone can manage to get along somehowwithout them. In the pretty littleTangierine oranges (so ingeniously corruptedby fruiterers into mandarins),the seeds have almost been cultivatedout; in the best pine-apples, and inthe small grapes known in the driedstate as currants, they have quite disappeared;while in some varieties ofpears they survive only in the formof shrivelled, barren, and useless pippins.But the banana, more than anyother plant we know of, has managed formany centuries to do without seedsaltogether. The cultivated sort, especiallyin America, is quite seedless, andthe plants are propagated entirely bysuckers.

Still, you can never wholly circumventnature. Expel her with a pitchfork,tamen usque recurrit. Now naturehas settled that the right way to propagateplants is by means of seedlings.Strictly speaking, indeed, it is the onlyway; the other modes of growth frombulbs or cuttings are not really propagation,but mere reduplication by splitting,as when you chop a worm in two,and a couple of worms wriggle offcontentedly forthwith in either direction.Just so when you divide a plantby cuttings, suckers, slips, or runners:the two apparent plants thus producedare in the last resort only separate partsof the same individual—one and indivisible,like the French Republic. Seedlingsare absolutely distinct individuals;they are the product of the pollen ofone plant and the ovules of another,and they start afresh in life with somechance of being fairly free from the hereditarytaints or personal failings ofeither parent. But cuttings or suckersare only the same old plant over andover again in fresh circumstances, trans208plantedas it were, but not truly renovatedor rejuvenescent. That is thereal reason why our potatoes are nowall going to—well, the same place as thearmy has been going ever since the earliestmemories of the oldest officer in thewhole service. We have gone on growingpotatoes over and over again fromthe tubers alone, and hardly ever fromseed, till the whole constitution of thepotato kind has become permanentlyenfeebled by old age and dotage. Theeyes (as farmers call them) are only budsor underground branches; and to plantpotatoes as we usually do is nothingmore than to multiply the apparentscions by fission. Odd as it may soundto say so, all the potato vines in a wholefield are often, from the strict biologicalpoint of view, parts of a single much-dividedindividual. It is just as thoughone were to go on cutting up a singleworm, time after time, as soon as hegrew again, till at last the one originalcreature had multiplied into a wholecolony of apparently distinct individuals.Yet, if the first worm happened to havethe gout or the rheumatism (metaphoricallyspeaking), all the other worms intowhich his compound personality hadbeen divided would doubtless sufferfrom the same complaints throughoutthe whole of their joint lifetimes.

The banana, however, has very longresisted the inevitable tendency to degenerationin plants thus artificially andunhealthily propagated. Potatoes haveonly been in cultivation for a few hundredyears; and yet the potato constitutionhas become so far enfeebled by thepractice of growing from the tuber thatthe plants now fall an easy prey to potatofungus, Colorado beetles, and athousand other persistent enemies. Itis just the same with the vine—propagatedtoo long by layers or cuttings, itshealth has failed entirely, and it can nolonger resist the ravages of the phylloxeraor the slow attacks of the vine-diseasefungus. But the banana, thoughof very ancient and positively immemorialantiquity as a cultivated plant,seems somehow gifted with an extraordinarypower of holding its own in spiteof long-continued unnatural propagation.For thousands of years it hasbeen grown in Asia in the seedless condition,and yet it springs as heartily as209ever still from the underground suckers.Nevertheless, there must in the end besome natural limit to this wonderfulpower of reproduction, or rather oflongevity; for, in the strictest sense,the banana bushes that now grow in thenegro gardens of Trinidad and Demeraraare part and parcel of the very sameplants which grew and bore fruit a thousandyears ago in the native compoundsof the Malay Archipelago.

In fact, I think there can be but littledoubt that the banana is the very oldestproduct of human tillage. Man, wemust remember, is essentially by origina tropical animal, and wild tropicalfruits must necessarily have formed hisearliest food-stuffs. It was among themof course that his first experiments inprimitive agriculture would be tried;the little insignificant seeds and berriesof cold northern regions would only veryslowly be added to his limited stock inhusbandry, as circumstances pushedsome few outlying colonies northwardand ever northward toward the chillierunoccupied regions. Now, of all tropicalfruits, the banana is certainly theone that best repays cultivation. It hasbeen calculated that the same area whichwill produce thirty-three pounds ofwheat or ninety-nine pounds of potatoeswill produce 4,400 pounds of plantainsor bananas. The cultivation of thevarious varieties in India, China, andthe Malay Archipelago dates, says DeCandolle, “from an epoch impossibleto realise.” Its diffusion, as that greatbut very oracular authority remarks,may go back to a period “contemporarywith or even anterior to that of the humanraces.” What this remarkablyillogical sentence may mean I am at aloss to comprehend; perhaps M. deCandolle supposes that the banana wasoriginally cultivated by pre-human gorillas;perhaps he merely intends to saythat before men began to separate theysent special messengers on in front ofthem to diffuse the banana in the differentcountries they were about to visit.Even legend retains some trace of theextreme antiquity of the species as acultivated fruit, for Adam and Eve aresaid to have reclined under the shadowof its branches, whence Linnæus gave tothe sort known as the plantain the Latinname of Musa paradisiaca. If a plant210was cultivated in Eden by the grand oldgardener and his wife, as Lord Tennysondemocratically styled them (beforehis elevation to the peerage), we mayfairly conclude that it possesses a veryrespectable antiquity indeed.

The wild banana is a native of theMalay region, according to De Candolle,who has produced by far the mostlearned and unreadable work on theorigin of domestic plants ever yet written.(Please don’t give me undue creditfor having heroically read it through outof pure love of science: I was one ofits unfortunate reviewers.) The wildform produces seed, and grows in CochinChina, the Philippines, Ceylon,and Khasia. Like most other largetropical fruits, it no doubt owes its originaldevelopment to the selective actionof monkeys, hornbills, parrots, andother big fruit-eaters; and it shareswith all fruits of similar origin one curioustropical peculiarity. Most northernberries, like the strawberry, the raspberry,the currant, and the blackberry,developed by the selective action ofsmall northern birds, can be popped atonce into the mouth and eaten whole;they have no tough outer rind or defensivecovering of any sort. But big tropicalfruits, which lay themselves out forthe service of large birds or monkeys,have always hard outer coats, becausethey could only be injured by smalleranimals, who would eat the pulp withouthelping in the dispersion of the usefulseeds, the one object really held inview by the mother plant. Often, as inthe case of the orange, the rind evencontains a bitter, nauseous, or pungentjuice, while at times, as in the pine-apple,the prickly pear, the sweet-sop,and the cherimoyer, the entire fruit iscovered with sharp projections, stinginghairs, or knobby protuberances, on purposeto warn off the unauthorised depredator.It was this line of defence thatgave the banana in the first instance itsthick yellow skin; and looking at thematter from the epicure’s point of view,one may say roughly that all tropicalfruits have to be skinned before theycan be eaten. They are all adapted forbeing cut up with a knife and fork, ordug out with a spoon, on a civilised dessert-plate.As for that most deliciousof Indian fruits, the mango, it has been211well said that the only proper way to eatit is over a tub of water, with a coupleof towels hanging gracefully across theside.

The varieties of the banana are infinitein number, and, as in most other plantsof ancient cultivation, they shade offinto one another by infinitesimal gradations.Two principal sorts, however,are commonly recognised—the true bananaof commerce, and the commonplantain. The banana proper is eatenraw, as a fruit, and is allowed accordinglyto ripen thoroughly before beingpicked for market; the plantain, whichis the true food-stuff of all the equatorialregion in both hemispheres, is gatheredgreen and roasted as a vegetable, or, touse the more expressive West Indiannegro phrase, as a bread-kind. Millionsof human beings in Asia, Africa, America,and the islands of the Pacific Oceanlive almost entirely on the mild and succulentbut tasteless plantain. Somepeople like the fruit; to me personallyit is more suggestive of a very flavorlessover-ripe pear than of anything else inheaven or earth or the waters that areunder the earth—the latter being themost probable place to look for it, as itstaste and substance are decidedly watery.Baked dry in the green state “it resemblesroasted chestnuts,” or rather bakedparsnip; pulped and boiled with waterit makes “a very agreeable sweet soup,”almost as nice as peasoup with brownsugar in it; and cut into slices, sweetened,and fried, it forms “an excellentsubstitute for fruit pudding,” having aflavor much like that of potatoes à lamaître d’hôtel served up in treacle.

Altogether a fruit to be sedulouslyavoided, the plantain, though millionsof our spiritually destitute Africanbrethren haven’t yet for a moment discoveredthat it isn’t every bit as good aswheaten bread and fresh butter. Missionaryenterprise will no doubt beforelong enlighten them on this subject, andcreate a good market in time for Americanflour and Manchester piece-goods.

Though by origin a Malayan plant,there can be little doubt that the bananahad already reached the mainland ofAmerica and the West India Islands longbefore the voyage of Columbus. WhenPizarro disembarked upon the coast ofPeru on his desolating expedition, the212mild-eyed, melancholy, doomed Peruviansflocked down to the shore andoffered him bananas in a lordly dish.Beds composed of banana leaves havebeen discovered in the tombs of the Incas,of date anterior, of course, to theSpanish conquest. How did they getthere? Well, it is clearly an absurdmistake to suppose that Columbus discoveredAmerica; as Artemus Wardpertinently remarked, the noble RedIndian had obviously discovered it longbefore him. There had been intercourseof old, too, between Asia and theWestern Continent; the elephant-headedgod of Mexico, the debased traces ofBuddhism in the Aztec religion, thesingular coincidences between India andPeru, all seem to show that a stream ofcommunication, however faint, once existedbetween the Asiatic and Americanworlds. Garcilaso himself, the half-Indianhistorian of Peru, says that thebanana was well known in his nativecountry before the conquest, and thatthe Indians say “its origin is Ethiopia.”In some strange way or other, then,long before Columbus set foot upon thelow sandbank of Cat’s Island, the bananahad been transported from Africa orIndia to the Western hemisphere.

If it were a plant propagated by seed,one would suppose that it was carriedacross by wind or waves, wafted on thefeet of birds, or accidentally introducedin the crannies of drift timber. So thecoco-nut made the tour of the worldages before either of the famous Cooks—theCaptain or the excursion agent—hadrendered the same feat easy andpracticable; and so, too, a number ofAmerican plants have fixed their homein the tarns of the Hebrides or amongthe lonely bogs of Western Galway.But the banana must have been carriedby man, because it is unknown in thewild state in the Western Continent;and, as it is practically seedless, it canonly have been transported entire, inthe form of a root or sucker. An exactlysimilar proof of ancient intercoursebetween the two worlds is afforded usby the sweet potato, a plant of undoubtedAmerican origin, which was neverthelessnaturalised in China as early asthe first centuries of the Christian era.Now that we all know how the Scandinaviansof the eleventh century went to213Massachusetts, which they called Vine-land,and how the Mexican empire hadsome knowledge of Acadian astronomy,people are beginning to discover thatColumbus himself was after all an egregioushumbug.

In the old world the cultivation of thebanana and the plantain goes back, nodoubt, to a most immemorial antiquity.Our Aryan ancestor himself, ProfessorMax Müller’s especial protégé, had alreadyinvented several names for it,which duly survive in very classical Sanskrit.The Greeks of Alexander’s expeditionsaw it in India, where “sagesreposed beneath its shade and ate of itsfruit, whence the botanical name, Musasapientum.” As the sages in questionwere lazy Brahmans, always celebratedfor their immense capacity for doingnothing, the report, as quoted by Pliny,is no doubt an accurate one. But theaccepted derivation of the word Musafrom an Arabic original seems to mehighly uncertain; for Linnæus, whofirst bestowed it on the genus, calledseveral other allied genera by such cognatenames as Urania and Heliconia.If, therefore, the father of botany knewthat his own word was originally Arabic,we cannot acquit him of the highcrime and misdemeanor of deliberatepunning. Should the Royal Society getwind of this, something serious woulddoubtless happen; for it is well knownthat the possession of a sense of humoris absolutely fatal to the pretensions ofa man of science.

Besides its main use as an article offood, the banana serves incidentally tosupply a valuable fibre, obtained fromthe stem, and employed for weavinginto textile fabrics and making paper.Several kinds of the plantain tribe arecultivated for this purpose exclusively,the best known among them being theso-called manilla hemp, a plant largelygrown in the Philippine Islands. Manyof the finest Indian shawls are wovenfrom banana stems, and much of therope that we use in our houses comesfrom the same singular origin. I knownothing more strikingly illustrative ofthe extreme complexity of our moderncivilisation than the way in which wethus every day employ articles of exoticmanufacture in our ordinary life withoutever for a moment suspecting or in214quiringinto their true nature. Whatlady knows when she puts on her delicatewrapper, from Liberty’s or fromSwan and Edgar’s, that the materialfrom which it is woven is a Malayanplantain stalk? Who ever thinks thatthe glycerine for our chapped handscomes from Travancore coco-nuts, andthat the pure butter supplied us from thefarm in the country is colored yellowwith Jamaican annatto? We break atooth, as Mr. Herbert Spencer haspointed out, because the grape-curersof Zante are not careful enough aboutexcluding small stones from their stockof currants; and we suffer from indigestionbecause the Cape wine-grower hasdoctored his light Burgundies with Brazilianlogwood and white rum, to makethem taste like Portuguese port. Takemerely this very question of dessert, andhow intensely complicated it really is.The West Indian bananas keep companywith sweet St. Michaels from the Azores,and with Spanish cobnuts from Barcelona.Dried fruits from Metz, figs fromSmyrna, and dates from Tunis lie sideby side on our table with Brazil nutsand guava jelly and damson cheese andalmonds and raisins. We forget whereeverything comes from nowadays, inour general consciousness that they allcome from the Queen Victoria StreetStores, and any real knowledge of commonobjects is rendered every day moreand more impossible by the bewilderingcomplexity and variety, every day increasing,of the common objects themselves,their substitutes, adulterates, andspurious imitations. Why, you probablynever heard of manilla hemp before,until this very minute, and yet you havebeen familiarly using it all your lifetime,while 400,000 hundredweights of thatuseful article are annually imported intothis country alone. It is an interestingstudy to take any day a list of marketquotations, and ask oneself about everymaterial quoted, what it is and whatthey do with it.

For example, can you honestly pretendthat you really understand the useand importance of that valuable objectof everyday demand, fustic? I rememberan ill-used telegraph clerk in a tropicalcolony once complaining to me thatEnglish cable operators were so disgracefullyignorant about this important215staple as invariably to substitute for itsname the word “justice” in all telegramswhich originally referred to it.Have you any clear and definite notionsas to the prime origin and final destinationof a thing called jute, in whose solemanufacture the whole great and flourishingtown of Dundee lives and movesand has its being? What is turmeric?Whence do we obtain vanilla? Howmany commercial products are yieldedby the orchids? How many totally distinctplants in different countries affordthe totally distinct starches lumped togetherin grocers’ lists under the absurdname of arrowroot? When you ask forsago do you really see that you get it?and how many entirely different objectsdescribed as sago are known to commerce?Define the use of partridgecanes and cohune oil. What objectsare generally manufactured from tucum?Would it surprise you to learn that Englishdoor-handles are commonly madeout of coquilla nuts? that your wife’sbuttons are turned from the induratedfruit of the Tagua palm? and that theknobs of umbrellas grew originally inthe remote depths of Guatemalan forests?Are you aware that a plant calledmanioc supplies the starchy food ofabout one-half the population of tropicalAmerica? These are the sort of inquirieswith which a new edition of “Mangnall’sQuestions” would have to befilled; and as to answering them—why,even the pupil-teachers in a LondonBoard School (who represent, I suppose,the highest attainable level of humanknowledge) would often find themselvescompletely nonplussed. The fact is,tropical trade has opened out so rapidlyand so wonderfully that nobody knowsmuch about the chief articles of tropicalgrowth; we go on using them in an uninquiringspirit of childlike faith, muchas the Jamaica negroes go on using articlesof European manufacture aboutwhose origin they are so ridiculously ignorantthat one young woman once askedme whether it was really true that cottonhandkerchiefs were dug up out of theground over in England. Some dimconfusion between coal or iron andManchester piece-goods seemed to havetaken firm possession of her infantileimagination.

That is why I have thought that a216treatise De Banana might not, perhaps,be wholly without its usefulness to theEnglish magazine-reading world. Afterall, a food-stuff which supports hundredsof millions among our belovedtropical fellow-creatures ought to bevery dear to the heart of a nation whichgoverns (and annually kills) more blackpeople, taken in the mass, than all theother European powers put together.We have introduced the blessings ofBritish rule—the good and well-paidmissionary, the Remington rifle, the red-cottonpocket-handkerchief, and the useof “the liquor called rum”—into somany remote corners of the tropicalworld that it is high time we should beginin return to learn somewhat aboutfetishes and fustic, Jamaica and jaggery,bananas and Buddhism. We know toolittle still about our colonies and dependencies.“Cape Breton an island!”cried King George’s Minister, the Duke217of Newcastle, in the well-known story,“Cape Breton an island! Why, so itis! God bless my soul! I must goand tell the King that Cape Breton’s anisland.” That was a hundred yearsago; but only the other day the Boardof Trade placarded all our towns andvillages with a flaming notice to theeffect that the Colorado beetle had madeits appearance at “a town in Canadacalled Ontario,” and might soon be expectedto arrive at Liverpool by Cunardsteamer. The right honorables and otherhigh mightinesses who put forth thenotice in question were evidently unawarethat Ontario is a province as bigas England, including in its bordersToronto, Ottawa, Kingston, London,Hamilton, and other large and flourishingtowns. Apparently, in spite of competitiveexaminations, the schoolmasteris still abroad in the Government offices.—CornhillMagazine.

218

TURNING AIR INTO WATER.

It has not yet been done; but thefollowing telegrams, received on the 9thand 16th of April, 1883, from Cracow,by the Paris Academy of Sciences, showthat chemists have come very near doingit. “Oxygen completely liquefied;the liquid colorless like carbonic acid.”“Nitrogen liquefied by explosion; liquidcolorless.” Thus the two elementsthat make up atmospheric air have actuallybeen liquefied, the successful operatorbeing a Pole, Wroblewski, whohad worked in the laboratory of theFrench chemist, Cailletet, learnt hisprocesses, copied his apparatus, andthen, while Cailletet, who owns a greatiron-foundry down in Burgundy, waslooking after his furnaces, went off toPoland, and quietly finished what hismaster had for years been trying after.Hence heart-burnings, of which moreanon, when we have followed the chaseup to the point where Cailletet took itup. I use this hunting metaphor, forthe liquefaction of gases has been formodern chemists a continual chase, asexciting as the search for the philosopher’sstone was to the old alchemists.

Less than two hundred and fifty yearsago, no one knew anything about gas ofany kind. Pascal was among the firstwho guessed that air was “matter” likeother things, and therefore pressed onthe earth’s surface with a weight proportionedto its height. Torricelli hadmade a similar guess two years before,in 1645. But Pascal proved that theseguesses were true by carrying a barometerto the top of the Puy de Dôme nearClermont. Three years after, Otto vonGuerecke invented the air-pump, andshowed at Magdeburg his grand experiment—eighthorses pulling each way,unable to detach the two hemispheres ofa big globe out of which the air hadbeen pumped. Then Mariotte in France,and Boyle in England, formulated the“Law,” which the French call Mariotte’s,the English Boyle’s, that gases arecompressible, and that their bulk diminishesin proportion to the pressure. Butelectricity with its wonders threw pneumaticsinto the background; and, tillFaraday, nothing was done in the wayof verifying Boyle’s Law except by VanMarum, a Haarlem chemist, who, happeningto try whether the Law appliedto gaseous ammonia, was astonished tofind that under a pressure of six atmospheresthat gas was suddenly changed219into a colorless liquid. On Van Marum’sexperiment Lavoisier based his famousgeneralisation that all bodies willtake any of the three forms, solid, fluid,gaseous, according to the temperatureto which they are subjected—i.e., thatthe densest rock is only a solidifiedvapor, and the lightest gas only a vaporisedsolid. Nothing came of it, however,till that wonderful bookbinder’sapprentice, Faraday, happened to readMrs. Marcet’s Conversations while hewas stitching it for binding, and therebyhad his mind opened; and, managingto hear some of Sir H. Davy’s lectures,wrote such a good digest of them,accompanied by such a touching letter—”Dofree me from a trade that I hate,and let me be your bottle-washer”—thatthe good-hearted Cornishman tookthe poor blacksmith’s son, then twenty-oneyears old, after eight years of book-stitching,and made him his assistant,“keeping him in his place,” nevertheless,which, for an assistant in thosedays, meant feeding with the servants,except by special invitation.

This was in 1823, and next year Faradayhad liquefied chlorine, and soon didthe same for a dozen more gases, amongthem protoxide of nitrogen, to liquefywhich, at a temperature of fifty degreesFahrenheit, was needed a pressure ofsixty atmospheres—sixty times the pressureof the air—i.e., nine hundredpounds on every square inch. Why,the strongest boilers, with all theirthickness of iron, their rivets, their carefulhammering of every plate to guardagainst weak places, are only calculatedto stand about ten atmospheres; nowonder then that Faraday, with nothingbut thick glass tubes, had thirteen explosions,and that a fellow-experimenterwas killed while repeating one of his experiments.However, he gave out his“Law,” that any gas may be liquefiedif you put pressure enough on it. That“if” would have left matters muchwhere they were had not Bussy, in 1824,argued: “Liquid is the middle statebetween gaseous and solid. Cold turnsliquids into solids; therefore, probablycold will turn gases into liquids.” Heproved this for sulphurous acid, by simplyplunging a bottle of it in salt andice; and it is by combining the two,cold and pressure, that all subsequent220results have been attained. How toproduce cold, then, became the problem;and one way is by making steam.You cannot get steam without borrowingheat from something. Water boilsat two hundred and twelve degreesFahrenheit, and then you may go onheating and heating till one thousanddegrees more heat have been absorbedbefore steam is formed. The thermometer,meanwhile, never rises above twohundred and twelve degrees, all this extraheat becoming what is called latent,and is probably employed in keepingasunder the particles which when closertogether form water. The greater theexpansive force, the more heat becomeslatent or used up in this way. This explainsthe paradox that, while the steamfrom a kettle-spout scalds you, you mayput your hand with impunity into thejet discharged from a high-pressure engine.The high-pressure steam, expandingrapidly when it gets out of confinement,uses up all its heat (makes it all“latent”) in keeping its particles distinct.It is the same with all other vapors:in expanding they absorb heat,and, therefore, produce cold; and,therefore, as many substances turn intosteam at far lower temperatures thanwater does, this principle of “latentheat,” invented by Black, and, afterlong rejection, accepted by chemists,has been very helpful in the liquefyingof gases by producing cold.

The simplest ice-machine is a hermetically-sealedbottle connected with anair-pump. Exhaust the air, and thewater begins to boil and to grow cold.As the air is drawn off, the water beginsto freeze; and if—by an ingenious device—thesteam that it generates is absorbedinto a reservoir of sulphuric acid,or any other substance which has a greataffinity for watery vapor, a good quantityof ice is obtained. This is the practicaluse of liquefying gases; naturally,they all boil at temperatures much belowthat of the air, in which they existin the vaporised state that follows afterboiling. Take, therefore, your liquefiedgas; let it boil and give off its steam.This steam, absorbing by its expansionall the surrounding heat, may be usedto make ice, to cool beer-cellars, to keepmeat fresh all the way from New Zealand,or—as has been largely done at221Suez—to cool the air in tropical countries.Put pressure enough on your gasto turn it into a liquid state, at the sametime carrying away by a stream of waterthe heat that it gives off in liquefying.Let this liquid gas into a “refrigerator,”where it boils and steams, and drawsout the heat; and then by a sucking-pumpdrive it again into the compressor,and let the same process go on ad infinitum,no fresh material being needed,nothing, in fact, but the working of thepump. Sulphurous acid is a favoritegas, ammonia is another; and—besidesthe above practical uses—they havebeen employed in a number of startlingexperiments.

Perhaps the strangest of these is gettinga bar of ice out of a red-hot platinumcrucible. The object of using platinumis simply to resist the intense heatof the furnace in which the crucible isplaced. Pour in sulphurous acid andthen fill up with water. The cold raisedby vaporising the acid is so intense thatthe water will freeze into a solid mass.Indeed, the temperature sometimes goesdown to more than eighty degrees belowfreezing. A still more striking experimentis that resulting from the liquefyingof nitrous oxide—protoxide of nitrogen,or laughing-gas. This gas needs,as was said, great pressure to liquefy itat an ordinary temperature. At freezingpoint only a pressure of thirty atmospheresis needed to liquefy it. Itthen boils if exposed to the air, radiatingcold—or, rather, absorbing heat—tillit falls to a temperature low enoughto freeze mercury. But it still, wonderfulto say, retains the property which,alone of all the gases, it shares withoxygen—of increasing combustion. Amatch that is almost extinguished burnsup again quite brightly when thrust intoa bag of ordinary laughing-gas; while abit of charcoal, with scarcely a sparkleft in it, glows to the intensest whiteheat when brought in contact with thissame gas in its liquid form, so that youhave the charcoal at, say, two thousanddegrees Fahrenheit, and the gas at someone hundred and fifty degrees belowzero. Carbonic acid gas is just the oppositeof nitrous oxide, in that itquenches fire and destroys life; but,when liquefied, it develops a like intensecold. Liquefy it and collect it under222pressure, in strong cast-iron vessels, andthen suddenly open a tap and allow thevapor to escape. In expanding, itgrows so cold—or, strictly speaking, absorbs,makes latent, so much heat—thatit produces a temperature low enoughto turn it into fog and then into frozenfog, or snow. This snow can be gatheredin iron vessels, and mixed witheither it forms the strongest freezingmixture known, turning mercury intosomething like lead, so that you canbeat the frozen metal with wooden malletsand can mould it into medals andsuch-like.

Amid these and such-like curious experiments,we must not forget the “Law”that the state of a substance dependson its temperature—solid when it isfrozen hard enough, liquid under sufficientpressure, gaseous when free frompressure and at a sufficiently high temperature.But though first Faraday, andthen the various inventors of refrigerating-machines—Carré,Tellier, Natterer,Thilorier—succeeded in liquefyingso many gases, hydrogen and the twoelements of the atmosphere resisted allefforts. By plunging oxygen in the sea,to the depth of a league, it was subjectedto a pressure of four hundred atmospheres,but there was no sign of liquefaction.Again, Berthelot fastened atube, strong and very narrow, and full ofair, to a bulb filled with mercury. Themercury was heated until its expansionsubjected the air to a pressure of sevenhundred and eighty atmospheres—allthat the glass could stand—but the airremained unchanged. Cailletet managedto get one thousand pressures bypumping mercury down a long, flexiblesteel tube upon a very strong vessel, fullof air; but nothing came of it, exceptthe bursting of the vessel, nor was thereany more satisfactory result in the caseof hydrogen.

One result, at any rate, was established—thatthere is no law of compressionlike that named after Boyle or Mariotte,but that every gas behaves in away of its own, without reference to anyof the others, each having its own “criticalpoint” of temperature, at which, undera certain pressure, it is neither liquidnor gaseous, but on the border-landbetween the two, and will remain in thiscondition so long as the temperature re223mainsthe same. Hence, air being justin this state of gaseo-liquid, the firststep towards liquefying it must be tolower its temperature, and so get rid ofits vapor by increasing its density.The plan adopted, both by Cailletet inParis, and by Raoul Pictet (heir of agreat scientific name) in Geneva, was tolower the temperature by letting offhigh-pressure steam. This had been sosuccessful in the case of carbonic acidgas as to turn the vapor into snow; andin 1877 Cailletet pumped oxygen into aglass tube, until the pressure was equalto three hundred atmospheres. Hethen cooled it to four degrees Fahrenheitbelow zero, and, opening a valve, letout a jet of gaseous vapor, which, whileexpanding, caused intense cold, loweringthe temperature some three hundreddegrees, and turning the jet of vaporinto fog. Here, then, was a partialliquefaction, and the same was effectedin the case of nitrogen. Pictet didmuch the same thing. Having set upat Geneva a great ice-works (his refrigeratingagency being sulphurous acid ina boiling state), he had all the necessaryapparatus, and was able to subject oxygento a pressure of three hundred andtwenty atmospheres, and by means ofcarbonic acid boiling in vacuo, to coolthe vessel containing it down to morethan two hundred degrees Fahrenheitbelow zero. He could not watch thecondition in which the gas was; but itwas probably liquefied, for, when avalve was suddenly opened, it began tobubble furiously, and rushed out in theform of steam. Pictet thought he hadalso succeeded in liquefying hydrogen,the foggy vapor of the jet being of asteely grey color; for hydrogen has longbeen suspected to be a metal, of whichwater is an oxide, and hydrochloricacid a chloride. Nay, some solid fragmentscame out with the jet of vapor,and fell like small shot on the floor,and at first the sanguine experimenterthought he had actually solidified thelightest of all known substances. This,however, was a mistake; it was someportion of his apparatus which had gotmelted. Neither had the liquefactionof oxygen or nitrogen been actually witnessed,though the result had been seenin the jet of foggy vapor.

Cailletet was on the point of trying224his experiment over again in vacuo, soas to get a lower temperature, when thetelegrams from Wroblewski showed thatthe Pole had got the start of him.Along with a colleague, Obszewski,Cailletet’s disloyal pupil set ethyleneboiling in vacuo, and so brought thetemperature down to two hundred andseventy degrees Fahrenheit below zero.This was the lowest point yet reached,and it was enough to turn oxygen into aliquid a little less dense than water,having its “critical point” at about onehundred and sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheitbelow zero. A few days after, nitrogenwas liquefied by the same pair of experimenters,under greater atmosphericpressure at a somewhat higher temperature.

The next thing is to naturally ask:What is the use of all this? That remainsto be proved. The most unlikelychemical truths have often broughtabout immense practical results. Allthat we can as yet say is, that there isnow no exception to the law that matterof all kinds is capable of taking thethree forms, solid, aqueous, gaseous.

The French savans are not contentwith saying this. They are very indignantat Wroblewski stealing Cailletet’scrown just as it was going to be placedon the Frenchman’s head. It wassharp practice, for all that a scientificdiscoverer has to look to is the famewhich he wins among men. The Academytook no notice of the interlopingPoles, but awarded to Cailletet the LacazePrize, their secretary, M. Dumas,then lying sick at Cannes, expressingtheir opinion in the last letter he everwrote. “It is Cailletet’s apparatus,”says M. Dumas, “which enabled theothers to do what he was on the point ofaccomplishing. He, therefore, deservesthe credit of invention; the others aremerely clever and successful manipulators.What has been done is a greatfact in the history of science, and it willlink the name of Cailletet with those ofLavoisier and Faraday,” So far M.Dumas, who might, one fancies, havesaid something for Pictet, only a fortnightbehind Cailletet in the experimentwhich practically liquefied oxygen. Hiscase is quite different from Wroblewski’s,for he and Cailletet had beenworking quite independently, just as225Leverrier and Adams had been whenboth discovered the new planet Neptune.Such coincidences so often happenwhen the minds of men are turnedto the same subject. Well, the scientificworld is satisfied now that the elementsof air can be liquefied; but Iwant to see the air itself liquefied, aswhat it is—a mechanical, not a chemicalcompound. For from such liquefaction,one foresees a great many usefulresults. You might carry your airabout with you to the bottom of minesor up in balloons; you might even,perhaps, store up enough by-and-by tolast for a voyage to the moon.—All theYear Round.

THE HEALTH AND LONGEVITY OF THE JEWS.
BY P. KIRKPATRICK PICARD, M.D., M.R.C.S.

226

In these days, when sanitation claimsa large share of attention, and whenquestions relating to the public healthare canvassed and discussed on allsides, it may be of service to ask whatlessons are to be learned from the diet,habits, and customs of the Jews. It isnot generally known that their healthand longevity are superior to those ofother races, a fact which has been notedby careful observers from early times inthis and other countries. An experiment,extending over thousands ofyears, has been made as to the sanitaryvalue of certain laws in the Mosaiccode. The test has been applied in themost rigid way, and if it had failed atany period in their eventful history,their name alone, like that of the Assyrianand Babylonian, would have remainedto testify to their existence as anation. The three deadly enemies ofmankind—war, famine, and pestilence—haveat times been let loose upon them.They have stood firm as a rock againstthe crushing power of oppression, whenexercised at the call of political or religiousantipathy. They have been pursuedwith relentless persecution, fromcity to city, and from one country toanother, in the name of our holy religion.Restricted as to their trade, singledout to bear the burden of special taxation,confined in the most miserable andunhealthy quarters of the towns wherethey were permitted to dwell, living inthe constant fear of robbery without redress,of violence without succor, ofpoverty without relief, of assaults againsttheir persons, honor, and religion withouthope of protection; in spite of woeafter woe coming upon them, like the227waves of a pitiless sea, they have notbeen broken to pieces and swallowedup, leaving not a wreck behind. Noother race has had the fiery trials thatthey have gone through, yet, like thethree Hebrew youths in the furnace, thesmell of fire is not found on them. To-daytheir bodily vigor is unequalled,and their moral and mental qualities areunsurpassed.

How has it happened that, after beingcompassed about for centuries with somany troubles, they have at the presenttime all the requisites that go to form agreat nation, and are, in numbers, energy,and resources, on a level with theirforefathers in the grandest period oftheir history? It is not enough to saythat all this has come to pass accordingto the will of God, and that their continuedexistence is owing to His interventionon their behalf. No doubt it isa miracle in the sense that it is contraryto all human experience, for no othernation has lived through such periloustimes of hardship and privation. Butas it was in the wilderness so it has beenin all their wanderings down the streamof time; the miracle was supplementedby the use of means, without whichGod’s purpose regarding them wouldhave failed. The blessing of long lifeand health, promised to them by themouth of Moses, has not been withheld.Several texts might be quoted, but onewill suffice. In Deuteronomy iv. 40,we read,228 “Thou shall keep thereforehis statutes, and his commandments,that it may go well with thee, and withthy children after thee, and that thoumayest prolong thy days upon the earth,which the Lord thy God giveth thee, forever.” With a promise so rich withblessing, conditional on their obedience,they have through all the ages beenmonuments of God’s faithfulness, andare to this day in the enjoyment of itsadvantages.

The following statistics, for which Iam indebted to the kindness of Dr. A.Cohen, who has collected them fromdifferent sources, will serve to provetheir superiority in respect of health andlongevity. In the town of Fürth, accordingto Mayer, the average durationof life amongst the Christians was 26years, and amongst the Jews 37 years.During the first five years of childhoodthe Christian death-rate was 14 per cent.and the Jewish was 10 per cent. Thesame proportion of deaths, it is said,exists in London. Neufville has foundthat in Frankfort the Jews live elevenyears longer than the Christians, andthat of those who reach the age of 70years 13 are Christians and 27 are Jews.In Prussia, from 1822 to 1840, it hasbeen ascertained that the Jewish populationincreased by 3-1/2 per cent. morethan the Christian, there being 1 birthin 28 of the Jews to 1 in 25 of the Christians,and 1 death in 40 of the Jews to1 in 34 of the Christians.

These data are sufficient to verify thestatement that the Jews are endowedwith better health and greater longevitythan Christians. It will therefore beinferred that some peculiarity existswhich gives them more power of resistingdisease, and renders them less susceptibleto its influence. In virtue ofthis property their constitution readilyaccommodates itself to the demands ofa climate which may be too severe forother non-indigenous races. Take asan example the statistics of the town ofAlgiers in 1856. Crebassa gives the followingparticulars—Of Europeans therewere 1,234 births and 1,553 deaths; ofMussulmans 331 births and 514 deaths;of Jews 211 births and 187 deaths.These numbers afford a remarkable illustrationof the “survival of the fittest.”

Their unusual freedom from diseaseof particular kinds has been often noticed,and amounts nearly to immunityfrom certain prevalent maladies, such asthose of the scrofulous and tuberculoustype, which are answerable for about afifth of the total mortality. Their com229parativesafety in the midst of destructiveepidemics has often been the subjectof comment, and was formerly usedas evidence against them, on the maliciouscharge of disseminating disease.At the present day, and in consonancewith the spirit of the age, the matterhas come within the scope of the scientificinquirer, with the view of ascertainingthe cause of this exceptional condition.

A peculiarity of this sort must lie inthe nature of things in the distinctivecharacter of their food, habits, and customs.Their more or less strict adherenceto the requirements of the Mosaiclaw, and to the interpretation of it givenin the Talmud, are familiar to all whocome in contact with them. To thiscode we must therefore look for an explanationof the facts under review;and here it may be stated that no prominenceis given to one set of laws overanother. They all begin with the formula,“And the Lord spake unto Moses,saying,” thus making no difference inpoint of importance between the laws ofworship and those of health. Theselatter, therefore, carried with them thesanctions of religion, and were as mucha matter of obligation as any other religiousduty. It will thus be easily seenhow the interweaving of the several lawsrelating to health and worship had theeffect of giving equal permanence toboth, so that as long as the one was observedthe other would be in force.Though many of the details might appeararbitrary, a fuller knowledge ofsanitary science has revealed a meaningnot recorded in the sacred text. Moses,who was versed in all the learning of theEgyptians, was evidently acquaintedwith the laws of health, which he embodiedin his code under divine direction.Those who are firm believers inthe inspiration of the Scriptures willhave no difficulty in believing that principles,given by God for the preservationof the health of the Israelite inolden times, and to which he is stillobedient with great apparent benefit,are likely to be beneficial in their effecton the general community. Truths ofthis kind are like the laws of nature,universally applicable. They nevergrow old by lapse of time or effete byforce of circumstances.

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This part of the Mosaic code is mainlyconcerned with details relating tofood, cleanliness, the prevention of disease,and the disinfection of diseasedpersons and things. The Jews observein eating flesh-food the great primarylaw, which was given to Noah after theFlood (Gen. ix. 4): “But the fleshwith the life thereof, which is the bloodthereof, shall ye not eat,” It was enforcedin the Mosaic dispensation (Lev.xvii. 10), under the penalty of being cutoff for disobedience, and in the Christianera was confirmed at the Council ofJerusalem (Acts xv. 20), when the ApostleJames, as president, gave sentencethat the Gentiles who are turned to Godshould abstain from blood. To thisday the animal (whether beast or bird)is killed with a sharp knife in such away that the large blood vessels in theneck discharge the blood most freely,and so drain the flesh to the utmost extentpossible, and as an additional precautionthe veins, which in certainplaces are difficult to empty, are removedbefore the part can be used asfood; so that it would appear everyneedful measure is adopted to preventthe ingestion of the forbidden fluid.On this account game that is shot is noteaten by the orthodox Jew, as the bloodis retained by that mode of death.

Before the slain animal is pronouncedkosher, or fit for food, a careful searchis made by experts for any evidence ofdisease. These men have to satisfy theShechita Board, which takes cognisanceof these matters, that they have a competentknowledge of morbid structuresbefore being authorised to affix the officialseal, without which no meat is consideredwholesome. That this practiceis far from being unnecessary may begathered from the fact that in a recenthalf-yearly report presented to the boardthe following particulars occur:—Oxenslain, 12,473, kosher, 7,649; calvesslain, 2,146, kosher, 1,569; sheep slain,23,022, kosher, 14,580. These numbersshow that out of 37 beasts slain 14were rejected as unsound, and not allowedto be eaten by the Jew. Theless-favored Christian, not being undersuch dietary restrictions, would have nohesitation in buying and consuming thiscondemned meat. It is even allegedthat a larger proportion of diseased ani231malsthan is here stated is exposed forsale in the Metropolitan Meat Market,and used as food by purchasers of allclasses. Whether this be so or not, thefact remains that the Jewish portion ofthe community have the sole benefit ofarrangements specially designed for themaintenance of health. This state ofthings demands urgent attention, andhas surely a claim prior to many othersubjects which occupy the time of ourlegislators.

The Mosaic law, in forbidding theuse of blood as food, gives as the reasonthat the blood is the life. It follows,therefore, if the animal be unhealthy itsblood may be regarded as unhealthy.But as the blood may be diseased withoutexternal or even internal evidencesuch as is open to common observation,the total prohibition of it obviates therisk that might otherwise be incurred.

Modern science has discovered in thecirculation of diseased animals microscopicorganisms of different forms,each characteristic of some particulardisease. They are parasitic in theirnature, growing and multiplying in theliving being, though they are capable ofpreserving their vitality outside thebody. Some, like the bacillus, whichis supposed to cause tuberculosis, mayeven be dried without losing their vitalproperties, and on entering the systembe able to produce the disease proper tothem. Others will develop in dead organicsubstances, but increase moreabundantly in living structures. Theyare very plentiful in the atmosphere ofcertain localities, and settling on exposedwounded surfaces, or finding theirway into the lungs and effecting a lodgmentin the blood and tissues, they generate,each after its kind, specific infectivediseases. When the blood becomesimpregnated by any special organism, adrop may suffice to propagate the diseaseby inoculation in another animal.The mode of entrance of these morbidgerms may be by inhalation, by inoculation,and by the ingestion of poisonousparticles with the food. Any personliving in unhygienic circumstances, andwhose system is from any cause in acondition suited for the reception ofthese organisms, cannot safely eat meatwhich may contain them in the blood.In the splenic fever of cattle, for in232stance,which is communicable to man,these germs are exceedingly numerous,and the same may be said of the otherspecific febrile diseases. Eventuallythere is a deposit of morbid material inthe tissues, where the process of developmentgoes on till a great change inthe once healthy structures is effected.

With the light derived from recent investigationwe are able to understandthe wisdom and foresight of the Mosaicinjunction as well as appreciate its supremeimportance. The Jew, like theChristian, is exposed to the inroads ofdisease when he breathes an infected atmosphereand eats tainted food, providedhe is susceptible at the time to themorbific influence, but he is protectedby a dietary rule at the point where theChristian is in danger. The Jew whoconforms to the law of Moses in thisparticular must have a better chance ofescaping the ravages of epidemics thanthose who are not bound by these restrictions.This hygienic maxim goesfar to explain the comparative freedomof the Jewish race from the large classof blood diseases.

The examination of the carcass is alsonecessary with the view of determiningthe sound or unsound condition of themeat. At one time it was doubted thatthe complaints from which animalssuffer could be communicated by eatingtheir flesh, but the evidence of eminentauthorities has definitely settled thequestion. Such bovine diseases as theseveral varieties of anthrax, the footand mouth disease, and especially tuberculosis,are now believed to be transmissiblethrough ingested meat. It hasbeen proved that the pig fed with tuberculousflesh becomes itself tuberculous,and the inference is fair that man mightacquire the disease if subjected to thesame ordeal. This last disease is verycommon amongst animals, and is nowrecognised as identical with that whichis so fatal to the human race. It is consideredhighly probable that the widespreadmortality caused by this maladyis due in a great degree to the consumptionof the milk and meat of tuberculousanimals. That the milk supply shouldbe contaminated is a very serious affairfor the young, who are chiefly fed on it.The regular inspection of all dairies byskilled officials is imperatively necessary233to ward off a terrible and growing evil;just as a similar inspection of slaughter-housesis demanded in the interests ofthe meat-eating portion of the community.

Temperance is a noteworthy featurein the habits of the Jews. Their moderationin the use of alcoholic drinks isdeserving of the highest commendation.Very rarely are they rendered unfit forbusiness by over-indulgence in this debasingvice. In no class of Jewish societyis excessive drinking practised.The poorest, in their persons, families,and homes, present a marked contrastto their Christian neighbors in the samesocial position. The stamp on thedrunkard’s face is very seldom seen onthe countenance of a Jew. He is notto be found at the bar of a public-house,or hanging idly about its doorswith drunken associates. His house ismore attractive by reason of the thriftthat forms the groundwork of his character.Domestic broils, so common anincident in the life of the hard-drinkingpoor, are most unusual. When work isentrusted to him insobriety does not interferewith the due and proper performanceof it, hence his industry meetswith its reward in the improvement ofhis circumstances. This habit of temperanceamid abounding drunkenness,more or less excessive, is probably oneof the causes of the protection affordedto him during the prevalence of someepidemic diseases, such as typhus, cholera,and other infectious fevers. Hiscomparative freedom from the ravagesof these terrible complaints has beenchronicled by observers, both mediævaland modern, and is now a subject ofcommon remark. The latest instanceof this immunity is furnished by therecords of the deaths from cholera inthe south of France, where it is affirmedthat out of a considerable Jewish populationin the infected districts onlyseven fell victims to the disease, a factwhich ought to receive more than apassing notice in the interests of humanity.

Another point that may be mentionedis the provision made by the JewishBoard of Guardians for the indigentpoor. It has been said that no knownJew is allowed to die in a workhouse.When poverty, or sickness involving the234loss of his livelihood, occurs, charitysteps in and bestows the help whichplaces him above want, and tides himover his bodily or pecuniary distress.The mother is also seasonably providedwith medical and other comforts whenher pressing need is greatest. In thisway they are saved from the diseases incidentalto lack of food, and after anattack of illness are sooner restored tohealth than the majority of the poor,who linger on in a state of convalescencelittle better than the ailment itself,and often sink into permanent badhealth from the scanty supply of thenecessary nourishment which their exhaustedframes require.

In enumerating the causes which havemade the Jewish people so strong andvigorous, particular mention must bemade of their observance of the Sabbath.This day was appointed for thedouble purpose of securing a set portionof time for the worship of God, and ofaffording rest to the body wearied withits six days’ labors. The secularisingof this holy day in the history of theFrench nation has demonstrated theneed of a day of rest and the wisdom ofits institution by a merciful Creator,even before there was a man to till theground. Obedience to this primeval law,renewed amid the thunders of Sinai,and repeated on many subsequent occasionsby Moses and the prophets, is stillheld by the Jews to be as strictly bindingon them as any other religious obligation.Of the physical blessings derivablefrom keeping the Sabbath daythey have had the benefit for many longcenturies when other nations were sunkin heathenism and ignorant of the divineordinance made to lighten their laborsand recruit their strength. In Christiancountries where the Sunday is kept sacred,or observed as a holiday, anotherday of rest in addition to their own Sabbathis obtained, thus fortifying themagainst the crushing toil and nervousstrain of modern life. The loss accruingfrom this enforced abstinence frombusiness worries is more than counter-balancedby the gain in nerve powerwith which periodical cessation fromany harassing employment is compensated.This is doubtless one of thefactors which have helped to invigorateboth mind and body, and to develop in235them those high qualities for which theyare justly distinguished.

To sum up—the longevity of the Jewis an acknowledged fact. In his surroundingshe is on a par with his Christianneighbor. If the locality in whichhe dwells is unhealthy, he also suffers,but to a less degree. If the climate isungenial, its influence tells on him too,but with less injurious effect. His vigoroushealth enables him to resist theonset of disease to which others succumb.These advantages are for themost part owing to his food, his temperatehabits, and the care taken of him insickness and poverty. No doubt he isspecially fortunate in inheriting a constitutionwhich has been built up by attention,for many centuries, to hygienicdetails. His meat is drained of blood,so that by that means morbid germs arenot likely to be conveyed into his system.It is also most carefully inspectedso as to prevent the consumption ofwhat is unsound, hence his comparativeimmunity from scrofulous and tuberculousforms of disease.

How can the benefits which the Jewsenjoy be shared by other races? In regardto food, whatever prejudice maystand in the way of draining the bloodfrom the animal, it ought surely to bedone when there is the least suspicionof unhealthy symptoms; but there canbe no doubt about the urgent necessityfor a strict supervision of our meatmarkets, so as to prevent the sale of diseasedfood. Legislation ought to makesuch regulations as will render impossiblethe continuance of an evil which, byoversight or otherwise, is dangerous tothe general health. Temperance is avirtue within the reach of everybody,and is now widely practised by allclasses, and the gain in improved healthwill soon be apparent in the lesseningof ailments due to drunkenness. Charityis as much the duty of the Christianas of the Jew, and it is a dishonor tothe Master whom the former professesto serve if he shuts up his bowels ofcompassion when the poor, who havealways claims upon him, call in vain forthe needed help. They ought never tobe allowed to languish in sickness andpoverty till the friendly hand of deathbrings a grateful relief to all theirtroubles.

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The Bible is regarded by some scientistsas an old-fashioned book; but itsteaching in relation to hygiene, eventhey will confess, has not become antiquated.It must be credited with havinganticipated and recorded for our instructionand profit doctrines which are nowaccepted as beyond dispute in this departmentof knowledge. In the Mosaiclaw are preserved sanitary rules, thehabitual observance of which by the Jew,from generation to generation, has madehim superior to all other races in respectof health and longevity.—Leisure Hour.

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THE HITTITES.26
BY ISAAC TAYLOR.

The reconstruction, from newly exhumedmonuments, of the history ofthe East, has been the great work ofthe present century. The startling revelationsarising from the deciphermentof the Egyptian records were followedby results, still more surprising, affordedby the buried cities of Assyria andBabylonia, and by glimpses into theprehistoric life of Greece obtained fromthe excavations of Dr. Schliemann onthe sites of Troy and Mycenæ. If anyone will take the trouble to look intosuch a book as Rollin’s “Ancient History,”and compare it with Duncker’s“History of Antiquity,” or with theuseful series of little volumes publishedby the Christian Knowledge Societyunder the title of “Ancient Historyfrom the Monuments,” it will be possibleto estimate the completeness of thereconstruction of our knowledge. Thusthe legendary story of Sesostris, as recordedby Herodotus, has given placeto the authentic history of the reigns ofthe conquering monarchs of the NewEmpire, Thothmes III., Seti I., andRameses II., while the Greek romanceof Sardanapalus is replaced by the contemporaryannals of Assurbanipal; and,more wonderful than all, we discoverthat Semiramis herself was no mortalQueen of Babylon, but the celestialQueen of the Heavenly Host, the planetVenus, the morning star as she journeysfrom her eastern realm, the evening staras she passes onward to the west insearch of her lost spouse the sun, andto be identified with the Babyloniangoddess Istar, the Ashtaroth of the Bible,whose rationalized myth was handeddown by Ctesias as sober history.

To these marvellous reconstructions238another of hardly less interest and importancemust now be added. Themost notable archæological achievementof the last ten years has beenthe recovery and installation of theHittite Empire as one of the earliestand most powerful of the great Orientalmonarchies. Dr. Wright, in the opportunevolume whose title stands at thehead of this notice, has established aclaim to have rescued from probabledestruction some of the most importantHittite inscriptions; to have been thefirst to suggest the Hittite origin of theinscribed stones from Hamath whosediscovery in 1872 excited so much speculation;and has now added to our obligationsby placing before the world ina convenient form nearly the whole ofthe available materials bearing on thequestion of Hittite history and civilization.

Our readers will probably remembera signed article on the Hittites, fromthe pen of Dr. Wright, which appearedin this Review in 1882. This articlehas been expanded by its author intoa goodly volume, and has been enrichedwith considerable additions of new andvaluable material which bring it well upto the present standard of knowledge.Among these additions are facsimiles ofthe principal Hittite inscriptions, mostof which have already appeared in thetransactions of the Society of BiblicalArchæology, and are now revisedby Mr. Rylands; while Sir C. Wilsonand Captain Conder have contributed auseful map indicating the sites whereHittite monuments have been found;and Professor Sayce adds a valuableappendix containing the results of hislatest researches as to the deciphermentof the Hittite script.

Till within the last twenty years all239men had been used to think of the Hittitesas an obscure Canaanitish tribe, ofmuch the same importance as the Hivitesor the Perizzites, with whom it was thecustom to class them. It is true that ifread between the lines, as we are nowable to read it, the Biblical narrativeindicated that while other Canaanitishtribes were of small power and importance,and were soon exterminated orabsorbed into the Hebrew nationality,the Hittites stood on altogether anotherfooting. The Hittites are the first andthe last of these tribes to appear on thescene. As early as the time of Abrahamwe find them lords of the soil at Hebron;and in the time of Solomon, and even ofElisha, they are a mighty people, inhabitinga region to the north of Palestine,and distinguished by the possession ofnumerous war chariots, then the chiefsign of military power. Though we arenow able to perceive that this is the truesignification of the references to them inthe old Testament, yet it was from thenewly recovered monuments of Egyptand Assyria that the facts were actuallygleaned, and it was shown that for morethan a thousand years the Hittite powerwas comparable to that of Assyria andEgypt.

It is only by slow degrees that thisresult has been established. The firstlight came from Abusimbel, in Nubia,midway between the first and secondcataracts of the Nile, where Rameses II.,the most magnificent of the Egyptiankings, at a time when the Hebrews werestill toiling in Egyptian bondage, causeda vast precipice of rock to be carvedinto a stupendous temple-cave, to whosewalls he committed the annals of hisreign and the records of his distant campaigns.On one of the walls of thistemple is pictured a splendid battle scene,occupying a space of 57 feet by 24, andcontaining upwards of 1100 figures.This represents, as we learn from thehieroglyphic explanation, the great battleof Kadesh, fought with the “vilepeople of the Kheta”—a battle whichalso forms the theme of the poem ofPentaur, the oldest epic in the world,still extant in a papyrus now preservedin the British Museum. In spite ofthe grandiloquent boasts of these records,we gather that the battle wasindecisive; that Rameses had to retire240from the siege of Kadesh, narrowly escapingwith his life; the campaign beingended by the conclusion of a treaty onequal terms with the King of the Kheta—atreaty which was followed a yearlater, by the espousal by Rameses of adaughter of the hostile king.

About twenty years ago it was suggestedby De Rougé that this powerfulnation of the Kheta might probably beidentified with the Khittim, or Hittites,of the Old Testament; and this conclusion,though never accepted by someeminent Egyptologists, such as Chabasand Ebers, gradually won its way intofavor, and has been recently confirmedby Captain Conder’s identification ofthe site of Kadesh, where the battle depictedon the wall at Abusimbel wasfought. From other inscriptions welearn that for five hundred years theKheta resisted with varying success theattacks of the terrible conquerors of theeighteenth and nineteenth dynasties,their power remaining to the last substantiallyunshaken. The story is nowtaken up by the Assyrian records, whichprove that from the time of Sargon ofAccad—who must be assigned to thenineteenth century B.C., if not to a muchearlier period—down to the reigns ofTiglath Pileser I. (B.C., 1130), and forfour hundred years afterwards, till thereigns of Assur-nazir-pal and ShalmanezerII., the Khatti of Hamath andCarchemish were the most formidableopponents of the rising power of Assyria,their resistance being only brought to aclose by the defeat of their King Pisiris,and the capture of Carchemish, theircapital, in 717 B.C., by Sargon II., theking who also destroyed the monarchyof Israel by the capture of Samaria.

It seemed strange that no monumentsshould have been discovered belongingto a people powerful enough to withstandfor twelve centuries the assaults ofEgypt and Assyria. At last, in 1872,certain inscriptions from Hamath on theOrontes, in a hieroglyphic picture-writingof a hitherto unknown character,were published in Burton and Drake’s“Unexplored Syria.” Dr. Wright, in1874, published an article in “The Britishand Foreign Evangelical Review,”suggesting that these monuments werein reality records of the Hittite race.This conjecture, though much ridiculed241at the time, has gradually fought its wayto universal acceptance, mainly owing tothe skilful advocacy of Professor Sayce,who, in ignorance of Dr. Wright’s suggestion,arrived independently at thesame conclusion, and shortly afterwardsidentified a monument at Karabel, nearEphesus, described by Herodotus as afigure of Sesostris, as the effigy of aHittite king. Subsequent discoveries ofHittite monuments in other parts ofAsia Minor, taken in conjunction withthe Biblical notices, and the Egyptianand Assyrian records, prove that at someremote period a great Hittite empiremust have extended from Hebron to theBlack Sea, and from the Euphrates tothe Ægean; while it is now generallyadmitted that, to some extent, the art,the science, and the religion of prehistoricGreece must have been derivedultimately from Babylon, having beentransmitted, first to the Hittite cityof Carchemish, and thence to Lydia,through the Hittite realm in Asia Minor.It is now believed by many scholars ofrepute that the Ephesian Artemis mustbe identified with the great Hittite goddessAtargatis, and ultimately with theBabylonian Istar; that the Niobe ofHomer, whose effigy may still be seenon Mount Sipylus, near Smyrna, wasan image of Atargatis, whose armedpriestesses gave rise to the Greek legendof the Amazons, a nation of femalewarriors; that the Euboic silver stand242ardwas based upon the mina of Carchemish;and that in all probability thecharacters found on Trojan whorls bySchliemann, as well as certain anomalousletters in the Lycian alphabet, andeven the mysterious Cypriote syllabaryitself were simply cursive forms descendedfrom the Hittite hieroglyphsused in the inscriptions on the pseudo-Niobeand the pseudo-Sesostris in Lydia,and pictured on the stones obtained byDr. Wright from Hamath, and by Mr.George Smith from Carchemish.

The arguments by which scholars havebeen led to these conclusions, togetherwith the existing materials on whichfuture researches must be based, havebeen collected by Dr. Wright in a handyvolume, which we have great pleasure inheartily commending to all students ofBiblical archæology as a substantialcontribution to our knowledge.

When the Turks permit the moundsat Kadesh and Carchemish, which concealthe ruined palaces and temples ofthe Hittite capitals, to be systematicallyexplored, and when the Hittite writingshall be completely deciphered, we mayanticipate a revelation of the earliesthistory of the world not inferior, possibly,in interest and importance, to thoseastonishing discoveries which have madeknown to this generation the buried secretsof Babylon, Nineveh, and Troy.—BritishQuarterly Review.

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AUTOMATIC WRITING, OR THE RATIONALE OF PLANCHETTE.
BY FREDERICK W. H. MYERS.

Among all the changes which are takingplace in our conceptions of variousparts of the universe, there is nonemore profound, or at first sight moredisquieting, than the change which, atthe touch of Science, is stealing over ourconception of ourselves. For each of usseems to be no longer a sovereign statebut a federal union; the kingdom ofour mind is insensibly dissolving into arepublic. Instead of the ens rationale ofthe schoolmen, protected from irreverenttreatment by its metaphysical abstraction;instead of Descartes’ impalpablesoul, seated bravely in its pinealgland, and ruling from that tiny fortressbody and brain alike, we have physiologistand psychologist uniting in pullingus to pieces,—in analyzing into theirsensory elements our loftiest ideas,—intracing the diseases of memory, volition,intelligence, which gradually distort uspast recognition,—in showing how onemay become in a moment a differentperson altogether, by passing through afit of somnambulism, or receiving asmart blow on the head. Our past self,with its stores of registered experience,continually revived in memory, seems tobe held to resemble a too self-consciousphonograph, which should enjoy anagreeable sense of mental effort as its244handle turned, and should preface itsinevitable repetitions by some triumphantallusion to its own acumen. Ourpresent self, this inward medley ofsensations and desires, is likened to thatmass of creeping things which is termedan “animal colony,”—a myriad rudimentaryconsciousnesses, which acquirea sort of corporate unity because oneend of the amalgam has to go first andfind the way.

Or one may say that the old viewstarted from the sane mind as the normal,permanent, definite entity fromwhich insanity was the unaccountableaberration; while in the new view it israther sanity which needs to be accountedfor; since the moral and physicalbeing of each of us is built up from incoördinationand incoherence, and themicrocosm of man is but a micro-chaosheld in some semblance of order by alax and swaying hand, the wild teamwhich a Phaeton is driving, and whichmust needs soon plunge into the sea.Theories like this are naturally distastefulto those who care for the dignity ofman. And such readers may perhapsturn aside in impatience when I say thatmuch of this paper will be occupied bysome reasons for my belief that thisanalysis of human consciousness mustbe carried further still; that we mustface the idea of concurrent streams ofbeing, flowing alongside but unmingledwithin us, and with either of which ouractive consciousness may, under appropriatecircumstances, be identified.Many people have heard, for instance,of Dr. Azam’s patient, Félida X., whopasses at irregular intervals from oneapparent personality into another, memoryand character changing suddenly asshe enters her first or her second stateof being. Such cases as hers I believeto be but extreme examples of an alternationwhich is capable of being evokedin all of us, and which in some slightmeasure is going on in us every day.Our cerebral focus (to use a metaphor)often shifts slightly, and is capable ofshifting far. Or let me compare myactive consciousness to a steam-tug, andthe ideas and memories which I summoninto the field of attention to thebarges which the tug tows after it. Thenthe concurrent streams of my being arelike Arve and Rhone, contiguous but245hardly mingling their blue and yellowwaves. I tug my barges down theRhone, my consciousness is a blue consciousness,but the tail barge swings intothe Arve and back again, and bringstraces of the potential yellow consciousnessback into the blue. In Félida’scase tug and barges and all swerve suddenlyfrom one stream into the other;the blue consciousness becomes the yellowin a moment and altogether. Transitionsmay be varied in a hundredways, and it may happen that the life-streamsmix together, and that there isa memory of all.

Moreover, there seems no reason toassume that our active consciousness isnecessarily altogether superior to theconsciousnesses which are at presentsecondary, or potential only. We mayrather hold that super-conscious may bequite as legitimate a term as sub-conscious,and instead of regarding our consciousness(as is commonly done) as athreshold in our being, above whichideas and sensations must rise if wewish to cognize them, we may prefer toregard it as a segment of our being, intowhich ideas and sensations may entereither from below or from above; say athermometric tube, marking ordinarytemperatures, but so arranged that watermay not only rise into it, by expansion,from the bottom, but also fall into it, bycondensation, from the top.

Strange and extravagant as this doctrinemay seem, I shall hope to showsome ground for it in the present paper.I shall hope, at least, to show not onlythat our unconscious may interact withour conscious mental action in a moredefinite and tangible manner than isusually supposed, but also that this unconsciousmental action may actuallymanifest the existence of a capital andcardinal faculty of which the consciousmind of the same persons at the sametime is wholly devoid.

For the sake of brevity I shall selectone alone out of many forms of unconsciousaction which may, if rightly scrutinized,afford a glimpse into the recessesof our being.27

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I shall take automatic writing; and Ishall try, by a few examples from amongthe many which lie before me, to showthe operation, first, of unconsciouscerebral action of the already recognizedkind, but much more complex and definitethan is commonly supposed to bediscernible in waking persons; and,secondly, of telepathic action,—of thetransference, that is to say, of thoughtsor ideas from the conscious or unconsciousmind of one person to the consciousor unconscious mind of anotherperson, from whence they emerge in theshape of automatically written words orsentences.

I shall be able to cover a corner onlyof a vast and unexplored field. I ventureto think that the phenomena of automaticwriting will before long claimthe best attention of the physiologicalpsychologist. They have been longneglected, and I can only conjecturethat this neglect is due to the eagernesswith which certain spiritualists haveclaimed such writings as the work ofShakespeare, Byron, and other improbablepersons. The message given hastoo often fallen below the known grammaticallevel of those eminent authors,and the laugh thus raised has drownedthe far more instructive question as towhence in reality the automatic rubbishcame. Yet surely to decline to investigate“planchette” because “the trail ofKatie King is over it all,” is very muchas though one refused to analyse themeteorite at Ephesus because the town-clerkcried loudly that it was “an imagewhich fell down from Jupiter.”

Automatic writing in its simplest formis merely a variety of the tricks of unconsciousaction to which, in excitedmoments, we are all of us prone. Thesurplus nervous energy escapes alongsome habitual channel—movements ofthe hand, for instance, are continued orinitiated; and among such hand-movements—drummingof tunes, piano-playing,drawing, and the like—writing naturallyholds a prominent place. There247is incipient graphic automatism whenthe nervous student scribbles Greekwords on the margin of the paper onwhich he is striving to produce a copy ofiambics. If the paper be suddenlywithdrawn he will have no notion whathe has written. And more, the wordswritten will sometimes be imaginarywords, which have needed some faint unconsciouschoice in order to preserve alook of real words in their arrangementof letters. A complete graphic automatismis seen in various morbid states.A man attacked by a slight epileptiformseizure while in the act of writing willsometimes continue to write a few sentencesunconsciously, which, althoughprobably nonsensical, will often be correctin spelling and grammar. Again,in the case of certain cerebral troubles,the patient will write the wrong word—say,“table” for “chair;”—or at leastsome meaningless sequence of letters,in which, however, each letter is properlyformed. In each of these cases,therefore, there is graphic automatism.And they incidentally show that to writewords in a sudden state of unconsciousness,or to write words against one’swill, is not necessarily a proof that anyintelligence is at work besides one’s own.

Still further; in spontaneous somnambulism,the patient will often write longletters or essays. Sometimes these areincoherent, like a dream; sometimesthey are on the level of his waking productions;sometimes they even seem torise above it. They may contain at anyrate ingenious manipulations of dataknown to his waking brain, as where abaffling mathematical problem is solvedduring sleep.

From the natural or spontaneouscases of graphic automatism let us passon to the induced or experimental cases.I will give first a singular transitionalinstance, where there is no voluntarymuscular action, but yet a previous exerciseof expectant attention is necessaryto secure the result.

My friend Mr. A., who is much interestedin mental problems, has practisedintrospection with assiduity andcare. He finds that if he fixes his attentionon some given word, and thenallows his hand to rest laxly in the writingattitude, his hand presently writesthe word without any conscious volition248of his own; the sensation being asthough the hand were moved by somepower other than himself. This happenswhether his eyes are open or shut,so that the gaze is not necessary to fixthe attention. If he wills not to write,he can remove his hand and avert theaction. But if he chooses a movementsimpler than writing, for instance, if heholds out his open hand and stronglyimagines that it will close, a kind ofspasm ensues, and the hand closes, eventhough he exert all his voluntary forceto keep it open.

It is manifest how analogous theseactions are to much which in bygonetimes has been classed as possession.Mr. A. has the very sensation of beingpossessed,—moved from within by someagency which overrules his volition, andyet we can hardly doubt that it is merelyhis unconscious influencing his consciouslife. The act of attention, so to say,has stamped the idea of the projectedmovement so strongly on his brain thatthe movement works itself out automatically,in spite of subsequent efforts toprevent it. The best parallel will bethe case of a promise made during thehypnotic trance, which the subject isirresistibly impelled to fulfil on waking.28From this curious transitional case wepass on to cases where no idea of thewords written has passed through thewriter’s consciousness. It is not easyto make quite sure that this is the case,and the modus operandi needs some consideration.

First we have to find an automaticwriter. Perhaps one person in a hundredpossesses this tendency; that is, ifhe sits for half an hour on a dozenevenings, amid quiet surroundings andin an expectant frame of mind, with his249hand on pencil or planchette, he willbegin to write words which he has notconsciously thought of. But if he seesthe words as he writes them he will unavoidablyguess at what is coming, andspoil the spontaneous flow. Some personscan avoid this by reading a bookwhile they write, and so keeping eyesand thoughts away from the message.29Another plan is to use a planchette;which is no occult instrument, but simplya thin piece of board supported ontwo castors, and on a third leg consistingof a pencil which just touches thepaper. A planchette has two advantagesover the ordinary pencil; namely, thata slighter impulse will start it, and thatit is easier to write (or rather scrawl)without seeing or feeling what you arewriting. These precautions, of course,are for the operator’s own satisfaction;they are no proof to other people thathe is not writing the words intentionally.That can only be proved to others if hewrites facts demonstrably unknown tohis conscious self; as in the telepathiccases to which we shall come furtheron. But as yet I am only giving freshexamples of a kind of mental actionwhich physiology already recognizes:examples, moreover, which any readerwho will take the requisite trouble canprobably reproduce, either in his ownperson or in the person of some trustedfriend.

I lately requested a lady whom I knewto be a careful observer, but who wasquite unfamiliar with this subject, to trywhether she could write with a pencilor planchette, and report to me the result.Her experience may stand astypical.

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“I have tried the planchette,” she writes, “andI get writing, certainly not done by my handconsciously; but it is nonsense, such as Mebew.I tried holding a pencil, and all I got was mmor rererere, then for hours together I got this:Celen, Celen. Whether the first letter was Cor L I could never make out. Then I got ICelen. I was disgusted, and took a book andread while I held the pencil. Then I gotHelen. Now note this fact: I never make Hlike that (like I and C juxtaposed); I make itthus: (like a printed H). I then saw that thething I read as I Celen was Helen, my name.For days I had only Celen, and never for onemoment expected it meant what it did.”

Now this case suggests several curiousanalogies. First, there is an analogywith those cases of double consciousnesswhere the patient in the“second state” has to learn to writeanew. He learns more rapidly than helearnt as a child, because the necessaryadjustments do already exist in hisbrain, although he cannot use them inthe normal manner. So here, too, thehidden other self was learning to write,but learnt more rapidly than a childlearns, inasmuch as the process wasnow but the transference of an organizedmemory from one stream of theinner being to another. But, secondly,we must observe (and now I am referringto many other cases besides thecase cited) that the hidden self does notlearn to write just as a child learns, butrather by passing through the stages firstof atactic, then of amnemonic agraphy.That is to say, first, the pencil scrawlsvaguely, like the patient who cannotform a single letter; then it writes thewrong letters or the wrong words, likethe patient who writes blunderingly, orchooses the letters JICMNOS for JamesSimmonds, JASPENOS for James Pascoe,&c.; ultimately it writes correctly,though very likely (as here, and in acase of Dr. Macnish’s) the handwritingof the secondary self30 (if I may suggesta needed term) is different from thehandwriting of the primary.

Once more: the constant repetitionof the same word (which I have seen tocontinue with automatic writers even formonths) is more characteristic of aphasiathan of agraphy. And we may justremark in passing that vocal automatismpresents the same analysis with morbidaphasia which graphic automatism presentswith morbid agraphy. When theenthusiasts in Irving’s church first yelledvaguely, then shouted some meaninglesswords many hundred times, and then251gave a “trance-address,” their secondaryself (I may suggest) was attaining articulatespeech through just the stagesthrough which an aphasic patient willsometimes pass.31 The parallel is atleast a curious one; and if the theorywhich traces the automatic speech ofaphasic patients to the right (or less-used)cerebral hemisphere be confirmed,a singular light might be thrown on thelocus of the second self.

But I must pass on to one more caseof automatic writing, a case which I selectas marking the furthest limit towhich, so far as I am at present aware,pure unconscious cerebration in thewaking state can go. Mr. A., whom Ihave already mentioned, is not usuallyable to get any automatic writing except(as described above) of a word on whichhis attention has been previously fixed.But at one period of his life, when hisbrain was much excited by over-study,he found that if he held a pencil andwrote questions the pencil would, in afeeble scrawling hand, quite unlike hisown, write answers which he could innowise foresee. Moreover, as will beseen, he was not only unable to foreseethese answers, he was sometimes unableeven to comprehend them. Many ofthem were anagrams—transpositions ofletters which he had to puzzle over beforehe could get at their meaning.This makes, of course, the main importanceof the case; this proof of the concurrentaction of a secondary self so entirelydissociated from the primary consciousnessthat the questioner is almostbaffled by his own automatic replies.The matter of the replies is on the usuallevel of automatic messages, which areapt to resemble the conversations of acapricious dream. The interest of thisform of self-interrogation certainly doesnot lie in the wisdom of the oracle received.

I abridge Mr. A.’s account, and givethe answers in italics.

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“‘What is it,’ said Mr. A., ‘that now movesmy pen?’ Religion. ‘What is religion?’Worship. Here arose a difficulty. AlthoughI did not expect either of these answers, yet,when the first few letters had been written, Iexpected the remainder of the word. Thismight vitiate the result. But now, as if theintelligent wished to prove by the manner ofanswering, that the answer could be due to italone, and in no part to mere expediency, mynext question received a singular reply.‘Worship of what?’ Wbwbwbwb. ‘Whatis the meaning of wb?’ Win, buy. ‘What?’Knowledge. On the second day the first questionwas—‘What is man?’ Flise. My penwas at first very violently agitated, which hadnot been the case on the first day. It wasquite a minute before it wrote as above. Onthe analogy of wb I proceeded: ‘What does Fstand for?’ Fesi. ‘L?’ ‘;Le.’ ‘I?’ ‘;Ivy.’‘S?’ Sir. ‘E?’ Eye. ‘Is Fesi le ivy, sir,eye, an anagram?’ Yes. ‘How many wordsin the answer?’ Four.”

Mr. A. was unable to shift these lettersinto an intelligible sentence, andbegan again on the third day with thesame question:

“‘What is man?’ Tefi, Hasl, Esble, Lies.‘Is this an anagram?’ Yes. ‘How manywords in the answer?’ Five. ‘Must I interpretit myself?’ Try. Presently I gotout, Life is the less able. Next I tried theprevious anagram, and at last obtained Everylife is yes.”

Other anagrams also were given, aswfvs yoitet (Testify! vow!); ieb; iovogf wle (I go, vow belief!); and in replyto the question, “How shall I believe?”neb 16 vbliy ev 86 e earf ee (Believeby fear even! 1866). How unlikelyit is that all this was due to mereaccident may be seen by any one whowill take letters (the vowels and consonantsroughly proportioned to the frequencyof their actual use), and try tomake up a series of handfuls completelyinto words possessing any grammaticalcoherence or intelligible meaning. Nowin Mr. A.’s case all the professed anagramswere real anagrams (with oneerror of i for e); some of the sentenceswere real answers to the questions; andnot even the absurdest sentences werewholly meaningless. In the two firstgiven, for instance, Mr. A. was inclinedto trace a reference to books latelyread; the second sentence alluding tosuch doctrines as that “Death solvesmysteries which life cannot unlock;”the first to Spinoza’s tenet that all existenceis affirmation of the Deity. Weseem therefore to see the secondary selfstruggling to express abstract thought253with much the same kind of incoherencewith which we have elsewhere seen itstruggle to express some concrete symbol.To revert to our former parallel,we may say that “Every life is yes”bears something the same relation to athought of Spinoza’s which the lettersJICMNOS bear to the name James Simmonds.

Let us consider, then, how far wehave got. Mr. A. (on the view heretaken) is communing with his secondself, with another focus of cerebral activitywithin his own brain. And I imaginethis other focus of personality tobe capable of exhibiting about as muchintelligence as one exhibits in an ordinarydream. Mr. A. awake is addressingMr. A. asleep; and the first replies,Religion, Worship, &c., are very muchthe kind of answer that one gets if oneaddresses a man who is partially comatose,or muttering in broken slumber.Such a man will make brief replieswhich show at least that the words ofthe question are caught, though perhapsnot its meaning. In the next place, theanswer wb must, I think, as Mr. A. suggests,be taken as an attempt to proveindependent action, a confused inchoateresponse to the writer’s fear that hiswaking self might be suggesting thewords written. The same trick of language—abbreviationby initial letters,occurs on the second day again; andthis kind of continuity of character, whichautomatic messages often exhibit, hasbeen sometimes taken to indicate thepersisting presence of an extraneousmind. But perhaps its true parallelmay be found in the well-known casesof intermittent memory, where a personrepeatedly subjected to certain abnormalstates, as somnambulism or the hypnotictrance, carries on from one access intoanother a chain of recollections of whichhis ordinary self knows nothing.

In Mr. A.’s case, however, some personsmight think that the proof of anindependent intelligence went muchfurther than this; for his hand wroteanagrams which his waking brain tookan hour or more to unriddle. And certainlythere could hardly be a clearerproof that the answers did not passthrough the writer’s primary consciousness;that they proceeded, if from himselfat all, from a secondary self such as254I have been describing. But furtherthan this we surely need not go. Theanswers contain no unknown facts, nonew materials, and there seems no reasonà priori why the dream-self shouldnot puzzle the waking self; why its fantasticcombinations of old elements ofmemory should not need some pains tounravel. I may perhaps be permittedto quote in illustration a recent dreamof my own, to which I doubt not thatsome of my readers can supply parallelinstances. I dreamt that I saw writtenin gold on a chapel wall some Greekhexameters, which, I was told, were thework of an eminent living scholar. Igazed at them with much respect, butdim comprehension, and succeeded incarrying back into waking memory thebulk of one line:—ὁ μὲν κατὰ γᾶν θαλερὸνκύσε δακνόμενον πῦρ. On waking,it needed some little thought to showme that κατὰ γᾶν was a solecism for ὑπὸγᾶν, revived from early boyhood, andthat the line meant: “He indeed beneaththe earth embraced the ever-burning,biting fire.” Further reflection remindedme that I had lately been askedto apply to the Professor in question foran inscription to be placed over thetomb of a common acquaintance. Thematter had dropped, and I had notthought of it again. But here, I cannotdoubt, was my inner self’s prevision ofthat unwritten epitaph; although thedrift of it certainly showed less tact andfine feeling than my scholarly friendwould have exhibited on such an occasion.

Now just in this same way, as itseems to me, Mr. A.’s inner self retracedthe familiar path of one of his childishamusements, and mystified the wakingman with the puzzles of the boy. Itmay be that the unconscious self movesmore readily than the conscious alongthese old-established and stable mnemonictracks, that we constantly retraceour early memories without knowing it,and that when some recollection seemsto have left us it has only passed into astorehouse from which we can no longersummon it at will.

But we have not yet done with Mr.A.’s experiences. Yielding to the suggestionthat these anagrams were thework of some intelligence without him,he placed himself in the mental attitude255of colloquy with some unknown being.Note the result:

“Who art thou? Clelia. Thou art a woman?Yes. Hast thou ever lived upon the earth?No. Wilt thou? Yes. When? Six years.Wherefore dost thou speak with me? E ifClelia el.”

There is a disappointing ambiguityabout this last very simple anagram,which may mean “I Clelia feel,” or,“I Clelia flee.”

But mark what has happened. Mr.A. has created and is talking to a personagein his own dream. In otherwords, his secondary self has producedin his primary self the illusion that thereis a separate intelligence at work; andthis illusion of the primary self reactson the secondary, as the words whichwe whisper back to the mutteringdreamer influence the course of a dreamwhich we cannot follow. The fact,therefore, of Clelia’s apparent personalityand unexpected rejoinders do notso much as suggest any need to lookoutside Mr. A’s mind for her origin.The figures in our own ordinary dreamssay things which startle and even shockus; nay, these shadows sometimes evendefy our attempts at analyzing themaway. On the rare occasions, so briefand precious, when one dreams andknows it is a dream, I always endeavorto get at my dream-personages and testtheir independence of character by afew suitable inquiries. Unfortunatelythey invariably vanish under my perhapstoo hasty interrogation. But a shrewdNorthumbrian lately told me the followingdream, unique in his experience,and over which he had often pondered.

“I was walking in my dream,” he said,“in a Newcastle street, when suddenly I knewso clearly that it was a dream, that I thought Iwould find out what the folk in my dreamthought of themselves. I saw three foundrymensitting at a yard door. I went up andsaid to all three: ‘Are you conscious of a realobjective existence?’ Two of the men staredand laughed at me. But the man in the middlestretched out his two hands to his two matesand said, ‘Feel that,’ They said, ‘We dofeel you,’ Then he held out his hand to me,and I told him that I felt it solid and warm;then he said: ‘Well, sir, my mates feel thatI am a real man of flesh and blood, and youfeel it, and I feel it. What more would youhave?’ Now I had not formed any notion ofwhat this man was going to say. And I couldnot answer him, and I awoke.”

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Now I take this self-assertive dream-foundry-manto be the exact analogue ofClelia. Let us now see whether anythingof Clelia survived the excited hourwhich begat her.

“On the fourth day,” says Mr. A., “I beganmy questioning in the same exalted mood,but to my surprise did not get the same answer.‘Wherefore,’ I asked, ‘dost thou speak withme?’ (The answer was a wavy line, denotingrepetition, and meaning.—‘Wherefore dost thouspeak with me?’) ‘Do I answer myself?’ Yes.‘Is Clelia here?’ No. ‘Who is it, then, nowhere?’ Nobody. ‘Does Clelia exist?’ No.‘With whom did I speak yesterday?’ No one.‘Do souls exist in another world?’ Mb. ‘Whatdoes mb mean? ’May be.”

And this was all the revelation whichour inquirer got. Some further anagramswere given, but Clelia came nomore. Such indeed, on the view hereset forth, was the natural conclusion.The dream passed through its stages,and faded at last away.

I have heard of a piece of Frenchstatuary entitled “Jeune homme caressantsa Chimère.” Clelia, could thesculptor have caught her, might havebeen his fittest model; what else couldhe have found at once so intimate andso fugitive, discerned so elusively withoutus, and yet with such a root within?

I might mention many other strangevarieties of graphic automatism; as reversedscript, so written as to be read ina mirror;32 alternating styles of handwriting,symbolic arabesque, and thelike. But I must hasten on to the objecttowards which I am mainly tending,which is to show, not so much the influenceexercised by a man’s own mind onitself as the influence exercised by oneman’s mind on another’s. We havebeen watching, so to say, the psychicwave as it washed up deep-sea productson the open shore. But the interestwill be keener still if we find that wavewashing up the products of some far-offclime; if we discover that there hasbeen a profound current with no surface257trace—a current propagated by an unimaginedimpulse, and obeying laws asyet unknown.

The psychical phenomenon here alludedto is that for which I have suggestedthe name Telepathy; the transferenceof ideas or sensations from oneconscious or unconscious mind to another,without the agency of any of therecognized organs of sense.

Our first task in the investigation ofthis influence has naturally been to assureourselves of the transmission ofthought between two persons, both ofthem in normal condition; the agent,conscious of the thought which hewishes to transmit, the percipient, consciousof the thought as he receives it.

The “Proceedings” of the Societyfor Psychical Research must for a longtime be largely occupied with experimentsof this definite kind. But, ofcourse, if such an influence truly exists,its manifestations are not likely to beconfined to the transference of a nameor a cypher, a card or a diagram, fromone man’s field of mental vision to another’s,by deliberate effort and as apreconcerted experiment. If Telepathybe anything at all, it involves one of theprofoundest laws of mind, and, likeother important laws, may be expectedto operate in many unlooked for ways,and to be at the root of many scatteredphenomena, inexplicable before. Especiallymust we watch for traces of itwherever unconscious mental action isconcerned. For the telepathic impact,we may fairly conjecture, may often bea stimulus so gentle as to need someconcentration or exaltation in the percipient’smind, or at least some inhibitionof competing stimuli, in order toenable him to realize it in consciousnessat all. And in fact (as we have shownor are prepared to show), almost everyabnormal mental condition (consistentwith sanity) as yet investigated yieldssome indication of telepathic action.

Telepathy, I venture to maintain, isan occasional phenomenon in somnambulismand in the hypnotic state; it isone of the obscure causes which generatehallucinations; it enters into dreamand into delirium; and it often rises toits maximum of vividness in the swoonthat ends in death.

In accordance with analogy, there258fore,we may expect to find that automaticwriting—this new glimpse into ourdeep-sea world—will afford us somefresh proof of currents which set obscurelytowards us from the depths ofminds other than our own. And wefind, I believe, that this is so. Hadspace permitted it, I should have likedto detail some transitional cases, tohave shown by what gradual steps wediscover that it is not always one man’sintelligence alone which is concerned inthe message given, that an infusion offacts known to some spectator only maymingle in the general tenor which thewriter’s mind supplies. Especially Ishould have wished to describe some attemptsat this kind of thought-transferenceattended with only slight or partialsuccess. For the mind justly hesitatesto give credence to a palmary group ofexperiments unless it has been preparedfor them by following some series ofgradual suggestions and approximateendeavor.

But the case which I am about to relate,although a culminant, is not anisolated one in the life-history of the personsconcerned. The Rev. P. H. Newnham,Rector of Maker, Devonport, experiencedan even more striking instanceof thought-transference with Mrs. Newnham,some forty years ago, before theirmarriage; and during subsequent yearsthere has been frequent and unmistakabletransmission of thought from husbandto wife of an involuntary kind, althoughit was only in the year 1871 thatthey succeeded in getting the ideastransferred by intentional effort.

Mr. Newnham’s communication consistsof a copy of entries in a note-bookmade during eight months in 1871, atthe actual moments of experiment. Mrs.Newnham independently corroboratesthe account. The entries had previouslybeen shown to a few personal friends,but had never been used, and were notmeant to be used, for any literary purpose.Mr. Newnham has kindly placedthem at my disposal, from a belief thatthey may serve to elucidate importanttruth.

“Being desirous,” says the first entry in Mr.Newnham’s note-book, “of investigating accuratelythe phenomena of ‘planchette,’ myselfand my wife have agreed to carry out aseries of systematic experiments, in order to259ascertain the conditions under which the instrumentis able to work. To this end the followingrules are strictly observed:

“1. The question to be asked is written downbefore the planchette is set in motion. Thisquestion, as a rule, is not known to the operator.[The few cases were the question wasknown to Mrs. Newnham are specially markedin the note-book, and are none of them citedhere.]

“2. Whenever an evasive, or other, answeris returned, necessitating one or more newquestions to be put before a clear answer canbe obtained, the operator is not to be madeaware of any of these questions, or even of thegeneral subject to which they allude, until thefinal answer has been obtained.

“My wife,” adds Mr. Newnham, “alwayssat at a small low table, in a low chair, leaningbackwards. I sat about eight feet distant,at a rather high table, and with my back towardsher while writing down the questions.It was absolutely impossible that any gestureor play of feature on my part could have beenvisible or intelligible to her. As a rule shekept her eyes shut; but never became in theslightest degree hypnotic, or even naturallydrowsy.

“Under these conditions we carried on experimentsfor about eight months, and I have309 questions and answers recorded in mynote-book, spread over this time. But the experimentswere found very exhaustive of nervepower, and as my wife’s health was delicate,and the fact of thought-transmission had beenabundantly proved, we thought it best to abandonthe pursuit.

“The planchette began to move instantlywith my wife. The answer was often halfwritten before I had completed the question.

“On finding that it would write easily, I askedthree simple questions, which were knownto the operator, then three others unknown toher, relating to my own private concerns.All six having been instantly answered in amanner to show complete intelligence, I proceededto ask:

“(7) Write down the lowest temperature herethis week. Answer: 8. Now, this reply atonce arrested my interest. The actual lowesttemperature had been 7·6°, so that 8 was thenearest whole degree; but my wife said atonce that, if she had been asked the question,she would have written 7, and not 8; as shehad forgotten the decimal, but remembered myhaving said that the temperature had been downto 7 something,

“I simply quote this as a good instance, atthe very outset, of perfect transmission ofthought, coupled with a perfectly independentreply; the answer being correct in itself, butdifferent from the impression on the consciousintelligence of both parties.

“Naturally, our first desire was to see if wecould obtain any information concerning thenature of the intelligence which was operatingthrough the planchette, and of the method bywhich it produced the written results. Werepeated questions on this subject again andagain, and I will copy down the principal questionsand answers in this connection.

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“(13) Is it the operator’s brain or some externalforce that moves the planchette? Answer‘brain’ or ‘force.’ Will.

“(14) Is it the will of a living person, or ofan immaterial spirit distinct from that person?Answer ‘person’ or ‘spirit.’ Wife.

“(15) Give first the wife’s Christian name;then my favorite name for her. (This was accuratelydone.)

“(27) What is your own name? Only you.

“(28) We are not quite sure of the meaningof the answer. Explain. Wife.

“The subject was resumed on a later day.

“(118) But does no one tell wife what towrite? if so, who? Spirit.

“(119) Whose spirit? Wife’s brain.

“(120) But how does wife’s brain knowmasonic secrets? Wife’s spirit unconsciouslyguides.

“(190) Why are you not always influencedby what I think? Wife knows sometimes whatyou think. (191) How does wife know it?When her brain is excited, and has not beenmuch tried before. (192) But by what meansare my thoughts conveyed to her brain? Electrobiology.(193) What is electrobiology? Noone knows. (194) But do not you know? No,wife does not know.

“My object,” says Mr. Newnham, “inquoting this large number of questions and replies[many of them omitted here] has beennot merely to show the instantaneous and unfailingtransmission of thought from questionerto operator, but more especially to call attentionto a remarkable character of the answersgiven. These answers, consistent and invariablein their tenor from first to last, did notcorrespond with the opinion or expectation ofeither myself or my wife. Something whichtakes the appearance of a source of intelligencedistinct from the conscious intelligence ofeither of us was clearly perceptible from thevery first. Assuming, at the outset, that ifher source of percipience could grasp myquestion, it would be equally willing to replyin accordance with my request, in questions(13) (14) I suggested the form of answer; butof this not the slightest notice was taken.Neither myself nor my wife had ever taken partin any form of (so-called) ‘spiritual’ manifestationsbefore this time; nor had we any decidedopinion as to the agency by whichphenomena of this kind were brought about.But for such answers as those numbered (14),(27), (144), (192), (194), we were both of ustotally unprepared; and I may add that, so faras we were prepossessed by any opinion whatever,these replies were distinctly opposed tosuch opinions. In a word, it is simply impossiblethat these replies should have been eithersuggested, or composed, by the conscious intelligenceof either of us.”

Mr. Newnham obtained some curiousresults by questioning “planchette”, onMasonic archæology—a subject whichhe had long studied, but of which Mrs.Newnham knew nothing. It is to beobserved, moreover, that throughout the261experiments Mrs. Newnham “was quiteunable to follow the motions of theplanchette. Often she only touched itwith a single finger; but even with allher fingers resting on the board shenever had the slightest idea of whatwords were being traced out,” In thiscase, therefore, we have Mrs. Newnhamignorant at once of all three points:—ofwhat was the question asked; of whatthe true answer would have been; andof what answer was actually being written.Under these circumstances theanswer showed a mixture—

(1) Of true Masonic facts, as knownto Mr. Newnham;

(2) Of Masonic theories, known tohim, but held by him to be erroneous;

(3) Of ignorance, sometimes, avowed,sometimes endeavoring to conceal itselfby subterfuge.

I give an example:—

“(166) Of what language is the first syllableof the Great Triple R. A. word? Don’t know.(167) Yes, you do. What are the three languagesof which the word is composed? Greek,Egypt, Syriac. First syllable (correctly given),rest unknown. (168) Write the syllable whichis Syriac. (First Syllable correctly written.)(174) Write down the word itself. (First threeand last two letters were written correctly, butfour incorrect letters, partly borrowed from anotherword of the same degree, came in the middle.)(176) Why do you write a word of whichI know nothing? Wife tried hard to catch theword, but could not quite catch it.”

So far the answers, though imperfect,honestly admit their imperfection. Thereis nothing which a second self of Mrs.Newnham’s, with a certain amount ofaccess to Mr. Newnham’s mind, mightnot furnish. But I must give one instanceof another class of replies—replieswhich seem to wish to concealignorance and to elude exact inquiry.

“(182) Write out the prayer used at the advancementof a Mark Master Mason. AlmightyRuler of the Universe and Architect ofall worlds, we beseech Thee to accept this ourbrother whom we have this day received into themost honorable company of Mark Master Masons.Grant him to be a worthy member of our brotherhood;and may he be in his own person a perfectmirror of all Masonic virtues. Grant thatall our doings may be to Thy honor and glory,and to the welfare of all mankind.

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“This prayer was written off instantaneouslyand very rapidly. For the benefit of thosewho are not members of the craft, I may saythat no prayer in the slightest degree resemblingit is made use of in the Ritual of any Masonicdegree; and yet it contains more thanone strictly accurate technicality connected withthe degree of Mark Mason. My wife hasnever seen any Masonic prayers, whether in‘Carlile’ or any other real or spurious Ritualof the Masonic Order.”

There was so much of this kind ofuntruthful evasion, and it was so unlikeanything in Mrs. Newnham’s character,that observers less sober-minded wouldassuredly have fancied that some Puckor sprite was intervening with a “thirdintelligence” compounded of aimlesscunning and childish jest. But Mr.Newnham inclines to a view fully in accordancewith that which this paper hasthroughout suggested.

“Is this third intelligence,” he says, “analogousto the ‘dual state,’ the existence of which,in a few extreme and most interesting cases, isnow well established? Is there a latentpotentiality of a ‘dual state’ existing in everybrain? and are the few very striking phenomenawhich have as yet been noticed and publishedonly the exceptional developments of astate which is inherent in most or in allbrains?”

And alluding to a theory, which hasat different times been much discussed,of the more or less independent actionof the two cerebral hemispheres, heasks:—

“May not the untrained half of the organof mind, even in the most pure and truthfulcharacters, be capable of manifesting tendencieslike the hysterical girl’s, and of producing atall events the appearance of moral deficiencieswhich are totally foreign to the well-trainedand disciplined portion of the brain which isordinarily made use of?”

In this place, however, it will beenough to say that the real cause forsurprise would have been if our secondaryself had not exhibited a character insome way different from that which werecognize as our own. Whatever otherfactors may enter into a man’s character,two of the most important are undoubtedlyhis store of memories and hiscænesthesia, or the sum of the obscuresensations of his whole physical structure.When either of these is suddenlyaltered, character changes too—a changefor an example of which we needscarcely look further than our recollectionof the moral obliquities and incoherencesof an ordinary dream. Ourpersonality may be dyed throughoutwith the same color, but the apparenttint will vary with the contexture ofeach absorptive element within. Andnot graphic automatism only, but other263forms of muscular and vocal automatismmust be examined and comparedbefore we can form even an empiricalconception of that hidden agency, whichis ourselves, though we know it not.In the meantime I shall, I think, beheld to have shown that, in the vastmajority of cases where spiritualists areprone to refer automatic writing to someunseen intelligence, there is really novalid ground for such an ascription. Iam, indeed, aware that some cases of adifferent kind are alleged to exist—caseswhere automatic writing has communicatedfacts demonstrably not known tothe writer or to any one present. Howfar these cases can satisfy the very rigorousscrutiny to which they ought obviouslyto be subjected is a question whichI may perhaps find some other opportunityof discussing.

But for the present our inquiry mustpause here. Two distinct argumentshave been attempted in this paper: thefirst of them in accordance with recognizedphysiological science, though withsome novelty of its own; the secondlying altogether beyond what the consensusof authorities at present admits.For, first, an attempt has been made toshow that the unconscious mental actionwhich is admittedly going on within usmay manifest itself through graphic automatismwith a degree of complexityhitherto little suspected, so that a manmay actually hold a written colloquywith his own waking and responsivedream; and, secondly, reason has beengiven for believing that automatic writingmay sometimes reply to questionswhich the writer does not see, and mentionfacts which the writer does not know,the knowledge of those questions orthose facts being apparently derived bytelepathic communication from the consciousor unconscious mind of anotherperson.

Startling as this conclusion is, it willnot be novel to those who have followedthe cognate experiments on other formsof thought-transference detailed in the“Proceedings” of the Society for PsychicalResearch.33 And be it noted that264our formula, “Mind can influence mindindependently of the recognized organsof sense,” has been again and againforeshadowed by illustrious thinkers inthe past. It is, for instance, but a moregeneralized expression of Cuvier’s dictum,“that a communication can undercertain circumstances be established betweenthe nervous systems of two persons.”Such communication, indeed,like other mental phenomena, may bepresumed to have a neural as well as apsychical aspect; and if we prefer touse the word mind rather than brain, itis because the mental side is that whichprimarily presents itself for investigation,and in such a matter it is well toavoid even the semblance of theory untilwe have established fact.

Before concluding, let us return for amoment to the popular apprehensions towhich my opening paragraphs referred.Has not some reason been shown forthinking that these fears were premature?that they sprang from too ready anassumption that all the discoveries ofpsycho-physics would reveal us as smallerand more explicable things, and that theanalysis of man’s personality would end265in analysing man away? It is not, onthe other hand, at least possible thatthis analysis may reveal also faculties ofunlooked-for range, and powers whichour conscious self was not aware of possessing?A generation ago there weremany who resented the supposition thatman had sprung from the ape. But onreflection most of us have discerned thatthis repugnance came rather from pridethan wisdom; and that with the race,as with the individual, there is moretrue hope for him who has risen by educationfrom the beggar-boy than for himwho has fallen by transgression fromthe prince. And now once more itseems possible that a more searchinganalysis of our mental constitution mayreveal to us not a straitened and materialized,but a developing and expandingview of the “powers that lie foldedup in man.” Our best hope, perhaps,should be drawn from our potentialitiesrather than our perfections; and thedoubt whether we are our full selvesalready may suggest that our true subjectiveunity may wait to be realizedelsewhere.—Contemporary Review.

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SCIENTIFIC VERSUS BUCOLIC VIVISECTION.
BY JAMES COTTER MORISON.

To judge from appearances, we arethreatened with a new agitation againstvivisection. The recent controversycarried on in the columns of the Timesrevealed an amount of heat on the subjectwhich can hardly fail to find somenew mode of motion on the platform, oreven in Parliament. It is evident thatpassions of no common fervor have beenkindled, at least, in one party to the controversy,and efforts will probably bemade to work the public mind up to asimilar temperature. The few observationswhich follow are intended to have,if possible, a contrary effect. The questionof vivisection should not be beyondthe possibility of a rational discussion.When antagonism, so fierce and uncompromising,exists as in the present case,the presumption is that the disputantsargue from incompatible principles.Neither side convinces or even seriouslydiscomposes the other, because they arenot agreed as to the ultimate criteria ofthe debate.

It is evident that the first and mostimportant point to be decided, is:“What is the just and moral attitude ofman towards the lower animals?” or toput the question in another form:“What are the rights of animals asagainst man?” Till these questionsare answered with some approach todefiniteness, we clearly shall float aboutin vague generalities. Formerly, animalshad no rights; they have very fewnow in some parts of the East. Manexercised his power and cruelty uponthem with little or no blame from themass of his fellows. The improvedsentiment in this respect is one of thebest proofs of progress that we have toshow. Cruelty to animals is not onlypunished by law, but reprobated, wemay believe—in spite of occasional brutalities—bygeneral public opinion. The267point on which precision is required is,how far this reformed sentiment is toextend? Does it allow us to use animals(even to the extent of eating them)for our own purposes, on the conditionof treating them well on the whole, ofnot inflicting upon them unnecessarypain; or should it logically lead to completeabstention from meddling withthem at all, from interfering with theirliberty, from making them work for us,and supplying by their bodies a chief articleof our food? Only the extreme sectof vegetarians maintains this latter view,and with vegetarians we are not for themoment concerned; and I am notaware that even vegetarians oppose thelabor of animals for the uses of man.Now, what I would wish to point out is,that if we do allow the use of animalsby man, it is a practical impossibility toprevent the occasional, or even the frequentinfliction of great pain and sufferingupon them, at times amounting tocruelty; that if the infliction of crueltyis a valid argument against the practiceof vivisection, it is a valid argumentagainst a number of other practices,which nevertheless go unchallenged.The general public has a right to askthe opponents of vivisection why theyare so peremptory in denouncing one,and relatively a small form of cruelty,while they are silent and passive in referenceto other and much more commonforms. We want to know the reason ofwhat appears a very great and palpableinconsistency. We could understandpeople who said, “You have no moreright to enslave, kill, and eat animalsthan men; à fortiori, you may not vivisectthem.” But it is not easy to seehow those who do not object, apparently,to the numberless cruel usagesto which the domesticated animals areinevitably subjected by our enslavementof them, yet pass these all by and fixtheir eyes exclusively on one minuteform of cruelty, singling that out for exclusiveobloquy and reprobation. MissCobbe (Times, Jan. 6) says, “The wholepractice (of vivisection) starts from awrong view of the use of the lower animals,and of their relations to us.”That may be very true, but I question ifMiss Cobbe had sufficiently consideredthe number of “practices” which herprinciples should lead her to pronounce268as equally starting from a wrong view ofthe use of the lower animals, and of theirrelation to us.

It is clear that the anti-vivisectionistsare resolute in refusing the challengerepeatedly made to them, either to denouncethe cruelties of sport or to holdtheir peace about the cruelties of vivisection.One sees the shrewdness buthardly the consistency or the courage oftheir policy in this respect. Sport is atime-honored institution, the amusementof the “fine old English gentleman,”most respectable, conservative,and connected with the landed interest;hostility to it shows that you are a lowradical fellow, quite remote from thefeeling of good society. Sport is thereforelet alone. The lingering agonyand death of the wounded birds, theanguish of the coursed hare, the miseryof the hunted fox, even when not aggravatedby the veritable auto da fé ofsmoking or burning him out if he hastaken to earth, the abominable cruelty ofrabbit traps; these forms of cruelty and“torture,” inasmuch as their sole objectis the amusement of our idle classes,do not move the indignant compassionof the anti-vivisectionist. The sportsmanmay steal a horse when the biologistmay not look over a hedge. The constantcruelty to horses by ill-fitting harness,over-loading, and over-drivingmust distress every human mind. Atight collar which presses on the windpipeand makes breathing a repeatedpain must in its daily and hourly accumulationproduce an amount of sufferingwhich few vivisectionists could equalif they tried. Look at the forelegs ofcab horses, especially of the four-wheelerson night service, and mark theirknees “over,” as it is called, whichmeans seriously diseased joint, probablynever moved without pain. The effortsof horses to keep their feet in “greasy”weather on the wood pavement are horribleto witness. To such a nervous animalas the horse the fear of falling is avery painful emotion; yet hundreds ofomnibuses tear along at express speedevery morning and evening, with loadswhich only the pluck of the animals enablesthem to draw, and not a step ofthe journey between the City and theWest End is probably made without thepresence of this painful emotion. Every269day, in some part of the route, a horsefalls. Then occurs one of the most repulsiveincidents of the London streets,the gaping crowd of idlers, throughwhich is heard the unfailing prescriptionto “sit on his head,” promptly carriedout by some officious rough, who hasno scruples as to the “relations of thelower animals to us.” Again, in warthe sufferings and consumption of animalsis simply frightful. Field-officers—someof whom, it appears, are opposedto vivisection—are generallyrather proud, or they used to be, ofhaving horses “shot under them.” Butthis cannot occur without considerabletorture to the horses. The number ofcamels which slipped and “split up”in the Afghan war has been variouslystated between ten and fifteen thousand.In either case animal suffering musthave been on a colossal scale. Now thepoint one would like to see cleared upis, why this almost boundless field ofanimal suffering is ignored and the relativelyminute amount of it produced inthe dissecting-rooms of biologists soloudly denounced.

But what I wish particularly to callattention to is the practice of vivisectionas exercised by our graziers and breedersall over the country on tens of thousandsof animals yearly, by an operationalways involving great pain and occasionaldeath. In a review intended forgeneral circulation the operation I referto cannot be described in detail, butevery one will understand the allusionmade. It is performed on horses, cattle,sheep, pigs, and fowls. With regardto the horses the object is to makethem docile and manageable. The eminentVeterinary-Surgeon Youatt, in hisbook on the Horse (chap. xv.), speaksof it as often performed “with haste,carelessness, and brutality:” but evenhe is of opinion “that the old methodof preventing hæmorrhage by temporarypressure of the vessels while they areseared with a hot iron must not perhapsbe abandoned.” He objects strongly toa “practice of some farmers,” who, bymeans of a ligature obtain their end, but“not until the animal has suffered sadly,”and adds that inflammation anddeath frequently ensue.

With regard to cattle, sheep, andpigs, the object of the operation is to270hasten growth, to increase size, and toimprove the flavor of the meat. Themutton, beef, and pork on which wefeed are, with rare exceptions, the fleshof animals who have been submitted tothe painful operation in question. Inthe case of the female pig the correspondingoperation is particularly severe;while as to fowls, the pain inflictedwas so excruciating in the opinion ofan illustrious young physiologist, whomscience still mourns, that he on principleabstained from eating the flesh ofthe capon.

Now there is no doubt that here wehave vivisection in its most extensiveand harsh form. More animals aresubjected to it in one year than havebeen vivisected by biologists in half-a-century.It need not be said that anæstheticsare not used, and if they were orcould be they would not assuage thesuffering which follows the operation.It will surely be only prudent for theopponents of scientific vivisection to informus why they are passive and silentwith regard to bucolic vivisection.They declare that knowledge obtainedby the torture of animals is impure, unholy,and vitiated at its source, and theyreject it with many expressions of scorn.What do they say to their daily foodwhich is obtained by the same means?They live by the results of vivisectionon the largest scale—the food they eat—andthey spend a good portion oftheir lives thus sustained in denouncingvivisection on the smallest scale becauseit only produces knowledge. It is truethat they are not particular to concealtheir suspicion that the knowledgeclaimed to be derived from vivisectionis an imposture and a sham. Do theynot, by the inconsistencies here brieflyalluded to, their hostility to allegedknowledge, and their devotion to verysubstantial beef and mutton, the oneand the other the products of vivisection,expose themselves to a suspicionbetter founded than that which theyallow themselves to express? Theyquestion the value of vivisection, maynot the single-mindedness of their hostilityto it be questioned with betterground? Biology is now the frontierscience exposed for obvious reasons tothe odium theologicum in a marked degree.The havoc it has made among271cherished religious opinions amply accountsfor the dislike which it excites.But it is difficult to attack. On theother hand, an outcry that its methodsare cruel, immoral, and revolting mayserve as a useful diversion, and evengive it a welcome check. The Puritans,it was remarked, objected to bear-baiting,not because it hurt the bear,but because it pleased the men. Maywe not say that vivisection is opposed,not because it is painful to animals, butbecause it tends to the advancement ofscience?

The question recurs, What is ourproper relation to the lower animals?May we use them? If so, abuse andcruelty will inevitably occur. May wenot use them? Then our civilisationand daily life must be revolutionised toa degree not suggested or easy to conceive.—FortnightlyReview.

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NOTES ON POPULAR ENGLISH.
BY THE LATE ISAAC TODHUNTER.

I have from time to time recordedsuch examples of language as struck mefor inaccuracy or any other peculiarity;but lately the pressure of other engagementshas prevented me from continuingmy collection, and has compelled me torenounce the design once entertained ofusing them for the foundation of a systematicessay. The present article containsa small selection from my store,and may be of interest to all who valueaccuracy and clearness. It is only necessaryto say that the examples are notfabricated: all are taken from writersof good repute, and notes of the originalplaces have been preserved, though ithas not been thought necessary to encumberthese pages with references. Theitalics have been supplied in those caseswhere they are used.

One of the most obvious peculiaritiesat present to be noticed is the use of theword if when there is nothing reallyconditional in the sentence. Thus weread: “If the Prussian plan of operationswas faulty the movements of theCrown Prince’s army were in a high degreeexcellent.” The writer does notreally mean what his words seem to imply,that the excellence was contingenton the fault: he simply means to maketwo independent statements. As anotherexample we have: “Yet he neverfounded a family; if his two daughterscarried his name and blood into the familiesof the Herreras and the Zuñigos,his two sons died before him.” Hereagain the two events which are connectedby the conditional if are reallyquite independent. Other examples follow:273“If it be true that Paris is anAmerican’s paradise, symptoms are notwanting that there are Parisians whocast a longing look towards the institutionsof the United States.” “If M.Stanilas Julien has taken up his positionin the Celestial Empire, M. Léon deRosny seems to have selected the neighboringcountry of Japan for his ownspecial province.” “But those who aremuch engaged in public affairs cannotalways be honest, and if this is not anexcuse, it is at least a fact.” “But if aCambridge man was to be appointed,Mr.—— is a ripe scholar and a goodparish priest, and I rejoice that a placevery dear to me should have fallen intosuch good hands.”

Other examples, differing in some respectsfrom those already given, concurin exhibiting a strange use of the wordif. Thus we read: “If the late rumorsof dissension in the Cabinet had beenwell founded, the retirement of half hiscolleagues would not have weakened Mr.Gladstone’s hold on the House of Commons.”The conditional propositionintended is probably this: if half hiscolleagues were to retire, Mr. Gladstone’shold on the House of Commonswould not be weakened. “If a bigbook is a big evil, the Bijou Gazetteerof the World ought to stand at the summitof excellence. It is the tiniest geographicaldirectory we have ever seen.”This is quite illogical: if a big book isa big evil, it does not follow that a littlebook is a great good. “If in the mainI have adhered to the English version,it has been from the conviction that ourtranslators were in the right.” It israther difficult to see what is the precise274opinion here expressed as to our translators;whether an absolute or contingentapproval is intended. “If youthink it worth your while to inspect theschool from the outside, that is foryourself to decide upon.” The decisionis not contingent on the thinking it worthwhile: they are identical. For the lastexample we take this: “... but if itdoes not retard his return to office itcan hardly accelerate it.” The meaningis, “This speech cannot accelerate andmay retard Mr. Disraeli’s return tooffice.” The triple occurrence of it isvery awkward.

An error not uncommon in the presentday is the blending of two differentconstructions in one sentence. Thegrammars of our childhood used to condemnsuch a sentence as this: “He wasmore beloved but not so much admiredas Cynthio.” The former part of thesentence requires to be followed by than,and not by as. The following are recentexamples:—“The little farmer [inFrance] has no greater enjoyments, if somany, as the English laborer.” “I findpublic-school boys generally more fluent,and as superficial as boys educatedelsewhere.” “Mallet, for instance, recordshis delight and wonder at theAlps and the descent into Italy in termsquite as warm, if much less profuse, asthose of the most impressible moderntourist.” An awkward construction, almostas bad as a fault, is seen in the followingsentence:—“Messrs.—— havingsecured the co-operation of some ofthe most eminent professors of, andwriters on, the various branches of science....”

A very favorite practice is that ofchanging a word where there is no correspondingchange of meaning. Takethe following example from a voluminoushistorian:—“Huge pinnacles of barerock shoot up into the azure firmament,and forests overspread their sides, inwhich the scarlet rhododendrons sixtyfeet in height are surmounted by treestwo hundred feet in elevation.” In apassage of this kind it may be of littleconsequence whether a word is retainedor changed; but for any purpose whereprecision is valuable it is nearly as badto use two words in one sense as oneword in two senses. Let us take someother examples. We read in the usual275channels of information that “Mr. Gladstonehas issued invitations for a full-dressParliamentary dinner, and LordGranville has issued invitations for a full-dressParliamentary banquet.” Again weread: “The Government proposes todivide the occupiers of land into fourcategories;” and almost immediatelyafter we have “the second class comprehends ...”:so that we see thegrand word category merely stands forclass. Again: “This morning the Czardrove alone through the Thiergarten,and on his return received Field-MarshalsWrangel and Moltke, as well asmany other general officers, and thengave audience to numerous visitors.Towards noon the Emperor Alexander,accompanied by the Russian GrandDukes, paid a visit....” “Mr. Ayrton,according to Nature, has acceptedDr. Hooker’s explanation of the letterto Mr. Gladstone’s secretary, at whichthe First Commissioner of Works tookumbrage, so that the dispute is at anend.” I may remark that Mr. Ayrtonis identical with the First Commissionerof Works. A writer recently in a sketchof travels spoke of a “Turkish gentlemanwith his innumerable wives,” andsoon after said that she “never saw himaddress any of his multifarious wives.”One of the illustrated periodicals gave apicture of an event in recent Frenchhistory, entitled, “The National GuardsFiring on the People.” Here the changefrom national to people slightly concealsthe strange contradiction of guardiansfiring on those whom they ought toguard.

Let us now take one example in whicha word is repeated, but in a rather differentsense: “The Grand Duke ofBaden sat next to the Emperor William,the Imperial Crown Prince of Germanynext to the Grand Duke. Next came theother princely personages.” The wordnext is used in the last instance in notquite the same sense as in the formertwo instances; for all the princely personagescould not sit in contact with theCrown Prince.

A class of examples may be found inwhich there is an obvious incongruitybetween two of the words which occur.Thus, “We are more than doubtful;”that is, we are more than full of doubts:this is obviously impossible. Then we276read of “a man of more than doubtfulsanity.” Again we read of “a morethan questionable statement”: this is Isuppose a very harsh elliptical constructionfor such a sentence as “a statementto which we might apply an epithetmore condemnatory than questionable.”So also we read “a more unobjectionablecharacter.” Again: “Let theSecond Chamber be composed of electedmembers, and their utility will bemore than halved.” To take the halfof anything is to perform a definite operation,which is not susceptible of moreor less. Again: “The singular andalmost excessive impartiality and powerof appreciation.” It is impossible toconceive of excessive impartiality. Otherrecent examples of these impossiblecombinations are, “more faultless,”“less indisputable.” “The high antiquityof the narrative cannot reasonablybe doubted, and almost as little itsultimate Apostolic origin.” The ultimateorigin, that is the last beginning, of anythingseems a contradiction. The commonphrase bad health seems of the samecharacter; it is almost equivalent tounsound soundness or to unprosperousprosperity. In a passage already quoted,we read that the Czar “gave audience tonumerous visitors,” and in a similarmanner a very distinguished lecturerspeaks of making experiments “visibleto a large audience.” It would seemfrom the last instance that our languagewants a word to denote a mass of peoplecollected not so much to hear an addressas to see what are called experiments.Perhaps if our savage forefathershad enjoyed the advantages of coursesof scientific lectures, the vocabularywould be supplied with the missingword.

Talented is a vile barbarism whichColeridge indignantly denounced: thereis no verb to talent from which such aparticiple could be deduced. Perhapsthis imaginary word is not common atthe present; though I am sorry to seefrom my notes that it still finds favorwith classical scholars. It was usedsome time since by a well-known professor,just as he was about to emigrateto America; so it may have been merelyevidence that he was rendering himselffamiliar with the language of his adoptedcountry.

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Ignore is a very popular and a verybad word. As there is no good authorityfor it, the meaning is naturally uncertain.It seems to fluctuate between wilfullyconcealing something and unintentionallyomitting something, and this vaguenessrenders it a convenient tool for an unscrupulousorator or writer.

The word lengthened is often used insteadof long. Thus we read that suchand such an orator made a lengthenedspeech, when the intended meaning isthat he made a long speech. The wordlengthened has its appropriate meaning.Thus, after a ship has been built by theAdmiralty, it is sometimes cut into twoand a piece inserted: this operation,very reprehensible doubtless on financialgrounds, is correctly described as lengtheningthe ship. It will be obvious onconsideration that lengthened is not synonymouswith long. Protracted and prolongedare also often used instead oflong; though perhaps with less decidedimpropriety than lengthened.

A very common phrase with controversialwriters is, “we shrewdly suspect.”This is equivalent to, “weacutely suspect.” The cleverness of thesuspicion should, however, be attributedto the writers by other people, and notby themselves.

The simple word but is often usedwhen it is difficult to see any shade ofopposition or contrast such as we naturallyexpect. Thus we read: “Therewere several candidates, but the choicefell upon—— of Trinity College.”Another account of the same transactionwas expressed thus: “It was understoodthat there were several candidates;the election fell, however, upon—— ofTrinity College.”

The word mistaken is curious as beingconstantly used in a sense directly contraryto that which, according to its formation,it ought to have. Thus: “Heis often mistaken, but never trivial andinsipid.” “He is often mistaken”ought to mean that other people oftenmistake him; just as “he is often misunderstood”means that people oftenmisunderstand him. But the writer ofthe above sentence intends to say that“He often makes mistakes.” It wouldbe well if we could get rid of this anomaloususe of the word mistaken. I supposethat wrong or erroneous would278always suffice. But I must admit thatgood writers do employ mistaken in thesense which seems contrary to analogy;for example, Dugald Stewart does so,and also a distinguished leading philosopherwhose style shows decidedtraces of Dugald Stewart’s influence.

I shall be thought hypercritical perhapsif I object to the use of sanction asa verb; but it seems to be a comparativelymodern innovation. I must,however, admit that it is used by thetwo distinguished writers to whom I alludedwith respect to the word mistaken.Recently some religious services in Londonwere asserted by the promoters tobe under the sanction of three bishops;almost immediately afterwards letters appearedfrom the three bishops in whichthey qualified the amount of their approbation:rather curiously all three usedsanction as a verb. The theology of thebishops might be the sounder, but as toaccuracy of language I think the inferiorclergy had the advantage. By an obviousassociation I may say that if anywords of mine could reach episcopal ears,I should like to ask why a first charge iscalled a primary charge, for it does notappear that this mode of expression iscontinued. We have, I think, second,third, and so on, instead of secondary,tertiary, and so on, to distinguish thesubsequent charges.

Very eminent authors will probablyalways claim liberty and indulge in peculiarities;and it would be ungrateful tobe censorious on those who have permanentlyenriched our literature. Wemust, then, allow an eminent historianto use the word cult for worship or superstition;so that he tells us of an indecentcult when he means an unseemlyfalse religion. So, too, we must allowanother eminent historian to introduce aforeign idiom, and speak of a man ofpronounced opinions.

One or two of our popular writers onscientific subjects are fond of frequentlyintroducing the word bizarre; surelysome English equivalent might be substitutedwith advantage. The author ofan anonymous academical paper a fewyears since was discovered by a slightpeculiarity—namely, the use of the wordones, if there be such a word: this occurredin certain productions to whichthe author had affixed his name, and so279the same phenomenon in the unacknowledgedpaper betrayed the origin whichhad been concealed.

A curious want of critical tact was displayedsome years since by a reviewerof great influence. Macaulay, in his Lifeof Atterbury, speaking of Atterbury’sdaughter, says that her great wish was tosee her papa before she died. The reviewercondemned the use of what hecalled the mawkish word papa. Macaulay,of course, was right; he used thedaughter’s own word, and any personwho consults the original account willsee that accuracy would have been sacrificedby substituting father. Surelythe reviewer ought to have had sufficientrespect for Macaulay’s reading andmemory to hesitate before pronouncingan off-hand censure.

Cobbett justly blamed the practice ofputting “&c.” to save the trouble ofcompleting a sentence properly. Inmathematical writings this symbol maybe tolerated because it generally involvesno ambiguity, but is used merely as anabbreviation the meaning of which is obviousfrom the context. But in otherworks there is frequently no clue toguide us in affixing a meaning to thesymbol, and we can only interpret itspresence as a sign that something hasbeen omitted. The following is anexample: “It describes a portion ofHellenic philosophy: it dwells upon eminentindividuals, inquiring, theorising,reasoning, confuting, &c., as contrastedwith those collective political and socialmanifestations which form the matter ofhistory....”

The examples of confusion of metaphorascribed to the late Lord Castlereaghare so absurd that it might havebeen thought impossible to rival them.Nevertheless the following, though insomewhat quieter style, seems to me toapproach very nearly to the best of thosethat were spoken by Castlereagh orforged for him by Mackintosh. A recentCabinet Minister described the errorof an Indian official in these words:“He remained too long under the influenceof the views which he had imbibedfrom the Board.” To imbibe aview seems strange, but to imbibe anythingfrom a Board must be very difficult.I may observe that the phrase ofCastlereagh’s which is now best known,280seems to suffer from misquotation: weusually have, “an ignorant impatienceof taxation”; but the original form appearsto have been, “an ignorant impatienceof the relaxation of taxation.”

The following sentence is from a voluminoushistorian: “The decline of thematerial comforts of the working classes,from the effects of the Revolution, hadbeen incessant, and had now reached analarming height.” It is possible to ascendto an alarming height, but it issurely difficult to decline to an alarmingheight.

“Nothing could be more one-sidedthan the point of view adopted by thespeakers.” It is very strange to speakof a point as having a side; and thenhow can one-sided admit of comparison?A thing either has one side or it hasnot: there cannot be degrees in one-sidedness.However, even mathematiciansdo not always manage the wordpoint correctly. In a modern valuablework we read of “a more extended pointof view,” though we know that a pointdoes not admit of extension. This curiousphrase is also to be found in twoeminent French writers, Bailly andD’Alembert. I suppose that what ismeant is, a point which commands amore extended view. “Froschammerwishes to approach the subject from aphilosophical standpoint.” It is impossibleto stand and yet to approach.Either he should survey the subject froma stand-point, or approach it from a starting-point.

“The most scientific of our Continentaltheologians have returned backagain to the relations and ramificationsof the old paths.” Here paths andramifications do not correspond; nor isit obvious what the relations of pathsare. Then returned back again seems toinvolve superfluity; either returned orturned back again would have been better.

A large school had lately fallen intodifficulties owing to internal dissensions;in the report of a council on the subjectit was stated that measures had beentaken to introduce more harmony and goodfeelings. The word introduce suggeststhe idea that harmony and good feelingcould be laid on like water or gas byproper mechanical adjustment, or couldbe supplied like first-class furniture by aLondon upholsterer.

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An orator speaking of the uselessnessof a dean said that “he wastes his sweetnesson the desert air, and stands like anengine upon a siding.” This is a strangecombination of metaphors.

The following example is curious asshowing how an awkward metaphor hasbeen carried out: “In the face ofsuch assertions what is the puzzledspectator to do.” The contrary proceedingis much more common, namelyto drop a metaphor prematurely or tochange it. For instance: “Physicsand metaphysics, physiology and psychology,thus become united, and thestudy of man passes from the uncertainlight of mere opinion to the region ofscience.” Here region corresponds verybadly with uncertain light.

Metaphors and similes require to beemployed with great care, at least bythose who value taste and accuracy. Ihope I may be allowed to give one exampleof a more serious kind than thosehitherto supplied. The words like lostsheep which occur at the commencementof our Liturgy always seem to me singularlyobjectionable, and for two reasons.In the first place, illustrationsbeing intended to unfold our meaningare appropriate in explanation and instruction,but not in religious confession.And in the second place the illustrationas used by ourselves is not accurate;for the condition of a lost sheepdoes not necessarily suggest that consciouslapse from rectitude which is theessence of human transgression.

A passage has been quoted with approbationby more than one critic fromthe late Professor Conington’s translationof Horace, in which the followingline occurs:—

Now the word endless here is extremelyawkward; for if the babble never ends,how can anything come after it?

To digress for a moment, I may observethat this line gives a good illustrationof the process by which what iscalled Latin verse is often constructed.Every person sees that the line is formedout of Shakespeare’s “after life’s fitfulfever he sleeps well.” The ingenuityof the transference may be admired, butit seems to me that it is easy to givemore than a due amount of admiration;282and, as the instance shows, the adaptationmay issue in something borderingon the absurd. As an example in Latinversification, take the following. Everyone who has not quite forgotten hisschoolboy days remembers the line inVirgil ending with non imitabile fulmen.A good scholar, prematurely lost to hiscollege and university, having for an exerciseto translate into Latin the passagein Milton relating to the moon’s peerlesslight finished a line with non imitabilelumen. One can hardly wonder at thetendency to overvalue such felicitous appropriation.

The language of the shop and themarket must not be expected to be veryexact: we may be content to be amusedby some of its peculiarities. I cannotsay that I have seen the statement whichis said to have appeared in the followingform: “Dead pigs are looking up.”We find very frequently advertised,“Digestive biscuits”—perhaps digestiblebiscuits are meant. In a catalogueof books an Encyclopædia of Mental Scienceis advertised; and after the namesof the authors we read, “invaluable,5s. 6d.”: this is a curious explanationof invaluable.

The title of a book recently advertisedis, Thoughts for those who are Thoughtful.It might seem superfluous, not tosay impossible, to supply thoughts tothose who are already full of thought.

The word limited is at present verypopular in the domain of commerce.Thus we read, “Although the spacegiven to us was limited.” This we canreadily suppose; for in a finite buildingthere cannot be unlimited space. Booksellerscan perhaps say, without impropriety,that a “limited number will beprinted,” as this may only imply thatthe type will be broken up; but theysometimes tell us that “a limited numberwas printed,” and this is an obvioustruism.

Some pills used to be advertised forthe use of the “possessor of pains inthe back,” the advertisement being accompaniedwith a large picture representingthe unhappy capitalist tormentedby his property.

Pronouns, which are troublesome toall writers of English, are especially embarrassingto the authors of prospectusesand advertisements. A wine company283return thanks to their friends, “and, atthe same time, they would assure themthat it is their constant study not onlyto find improvements for their convenience....”Observe how the pronounsoscillate in their application betweenthe company and their friends.

In selecting titles of books there isroom for improvement. Thus, a QuarterlyJournal is not uncommon; thewords strictly are suggestive of a QuarterlyDaily publication. I remember,some years since, observing a noticethat a certain obscure society proposedto celebrate its triennial anniversary.

In one of the theological newspapersa clergyman seeking a curacy states asan exposition of his theological position,“Views Prayer-book.” I should hopethat this would not be a specimen of theordinary literary style of the applicant.The advertisements in the same periodicalexhibit occasionally a very unpleasantblending of religious and secular elements.Take two examples—“Needle-womanwanted. She must be a communicant,have a long character, and be agood dressmaker and milliner.” “Prettyfurnished cottage to let, with goodgarden, etc. Rent moderate. Churchwork valued. Weekly celebrations.Near rail. Good fishing.”

A few words may be given to samepopular misquotations. “The last infirmityof noble minds” is perpetuallyoccurring. Milton wrote mind notminds. It may be said that he meansminds; but the only evidence seems tobe that it is difficult to affix any othersense to mind than making it equivalentto minds: this scarcely convinces me,though I admit the difficulty.

“He that runs may read” is oftensupposed to be a quotation from theBible: the words really are “he mayrun that readeth,” and it is not certainthat the sense conveyed by the popularmisquotation is correct.

A proverb which correctly runs thus:“The road to hell is paved with goodintentions,” is often quoted in the farless expressive form, “Hell is pavedwith good intentions.”

“Knowledge is power” is frequentlyattributed to Bacon, in spite of LordLytton’s challenge that the words cannotbe found in Bacon’s writings.

“The style is the man” is frequently284attributed to Buffon, although it hasbeen pointed out that Buffon said somethingvery different; namely, that “thestyle is of the man,” that is, “the styleproceeds from the man.” It is somesatisfaction to find that Frenchmen themselvesdo not leave us the monopoly ofthis error; it will be found in Arago;see his Works, vol. iii. p. 560. A commonproverb frequently quoted is, “Theexception proves the rule;” and it seemsuniversally assumed that proves heremeans establishes or demonstrates. It isperhaps more likely that proves heremeans tests or tries, as in the injunction,“Prove all things.” [The proverb infull runs: Exceptio probat regulam incasibus non exceptis.]

The words nihil tetigit quod non ornavitare perpetually offered as a supposedquotation from Dr. Johnson’s epitaphon Goldsmith. Johnson wrote—

It has been said that there is a doubt asto the propriety of the word tetigit, andthat contigit would have been better.

It seems impossible to prevent writersfrom using cui bono? in the unclassicalsense. The correct meaning is knownto be of this nature: suppose that acrime has been committed; then inquirewho has gained by the crime—cui bono?for obviously there is a probability thatthe person benefited was the criminal.The usual sense implied by the quotationis this: What is the good? thequestion being applied to whatever isfor the moment the object of depreciation.Those who use the words incorrectlymay, however, shelter themselvesunder the great name of Leibnitz, forhe takes them in the popular sense: seehis works, vol. v., p. 206.

A very favorite quotation consists ofthe words “laudator temporis acti;” butit should be remembered that it seemsvery doubtful if these words by themselveswould form correct Latin; the sepuero which Horace puts after them arerequired.

There is a story, resting on no goodauthority, that Plato testified to the importanceof geometry by writing over hisdoor, “Let no one enter who is not ageometer.” The first word is oftengiven incorrectly, when the Greek words285are quoted, the wrong form of the negativebeing taken. I was surprised tosee this blunder about two years sincein a weekly review of very high pretensions.

It is very difficult in many cases tounderstand precisely what is attributedto another writer when his opinions arecited in some indirect way. For example,a newspaper critic finishes a paragraphin these words: “unless, indeed,as the Pall Mall Gazette has said that itis immoral to attempt any cure at all.”The doubt here is as to what is the statementof the Pall Mall Gazette. Itseems to be this: it is immoral to attemptany cure at all. But from other considerationsforeign to the precise languageof the critic, it seemed probable that thestatement of the Pall Mall Gazette was,unless, indeed, it is immoral to attemptany cure at all.

There is a certain vague formulawhich, though not intended for a quotation,occurs so frequently as to demandnotice. Take for example—“...the sciences of logic and ethics,according to the partition of Lord Bacon,are far more extensive than we areaccustomed to consider them.” No precisemeaning is conveyed, because wedo not know what is the amount ofextension we are accustomed to ascribeto the sciences named. Again: “Ourknowledge of Bacon’s method is muchless complete than it is commonly supposedto be.” Here again we do notknow what is the standard of commonsupposition. There is another awkwardnesshere in the words less complete:it is obvious that complete does not admitof degrees.

Let us close these slight notes withvery few specimens of happy expressions.

The Times, commenting on the slovenlycomposition of the Queen’s Speechesto Parliament, proposed the cause of thefact as a fit subject for the investigationof our professional thinkers. The phrasesuggests a delicate reproof to those whoassume for themselves the title of thinker,implying that any person may engage inthis occupation just as he might, if hepleased, become a dentist, or a stock-broker,or a civil engineer. The wordthinker is very common as a name ofrespect in the works of a modern dis286tinguishedphilosopher. I am afraid,however, that it is employed by himprincipally as synonymous with a Comtist.

The Times, in advocating the claimsof a literary man for a pension, said,“he has constructed several useful school-books.”The word construct suggestswith great neatness the nature of theprocess by which school-books are sometimesevolved, implying the presence ofthe bricklayer and mason rather than ofthe architect.

[Dr. Todhunter might have addedfeature to the list of words abusivelyused by newspaper writers. In onenumber of a magazine two examples occur:“A feature which had been welltaken up by local and other manufacturerswas the exhibition of honey in variousapplied forms.” “A new featurein the social arrangements of the CentralRadical Club took place the other evening.”]—Macmillan’sMagazine.

287

LITERARY NOTICES.

The Dictionary of English History. Editedby Sidney S. Low, B. A., late Scholar ofBalliol College, Oxford, Lecturer on ModernHistory, King’s College, London; and F. S.Pulling, M. A., late Professor of ModernHistory, Yorkshire College, Leeds. NewYork: Cassell & Company, Limited.

The first thought that suggests itself upontaking up Messrs. Cassell & Company’s “Dictionaryof English History” is “why wasthis important work not done long ago?” Thewant of such a book of reference is not a newone but has been long felt by students andamateurs of history. Indeed there is hardly aman or woman who has not at some time orother felt the need of furbishing up his or herhistorical knowledge at short notice. Onemay hunt the pages of a history by the hourand not find the date or incident he wants toknow about. The editors of this stout volume,Sidney J. Low, B.A. and F. S. Pulling, M.A.,have made the successful attempt to give aconvenient handbook on the whole subject ofEnglish history and to make it useful ratherthan exhaustive. The present work is not anencyclopædia, and the editors are aware thatmany things are omitted from it which mighthave been included, had its limits been wider,and its aim more ambitious. To produce abook which should give, as concisely as possible,just the information, biographical, bibliographical,chronological, and constitutional,that the reader of English history is likelyto want is what has been here attempted. Theneeds of modern readers have been kept inview. Practical convenience has guided themin the somewhat arbitrary selection that theyhave been compelled to make, and their planhad been chosen with great care and aftermany experiments. It should be said thatthough the book is called a Dictionary of Eng288lishHistory that the historical events of Scotland,Ireland and Wales are included. Thecontributors for special articles, have beenselected from among the best-known historicalwriters in England, and no pains have beenspared to make this book complete in the fieldit has aimed to cover.

That high authority, the London Athenæum,has the following words of praise for thiswork:—

“This book will really be a great boon toevery one who makes a study of English history.Many such students must have desiredbefore now to be able to refer to an alphabeticallist of subjects, even with the briefest possibleexplanations. But in this admirable dictionarythe want is more than supplied. Fornot only is the list of subjects in itself wonderfullycomplete, but the account given of eachsubject, though condensed, is wonderfully completealso. The book is printed in doublecolumns royal octavo, and consists of 1119pages, including a very useful index to subjectson which separate articles are not given.As some indication of the scale of treatmentwe may mention that the article on LordBeaconsfield occupies nearly a whole page,that on Bothwell (Mary’s Bothwell) exactly acolumn, the old kingdom of Deira somethingmore than a column, Henry VIII. three pages,Ireland seven and a half pages, and the NormanConquest three pages exactly. Under thehead of ‘King,’ which occupies in all rathermore than seven pages, are included, in smallprint, tables of the regnal years of all the Englishsovereigns from the Conquest. There isalso a very important article, ‘Authorities onEnglish History,’ by Mr. Bass Bullinger,which covers six and a quarter pages, andwhich will be an extremely useful guide to anyone beginning an historical investigation.

289

“Many of the longer articles contain all thatcould be wished to give the reader a conciseview of an important epoch or reign. Of thisMrs. Gardiner’s article on Charles I. is a goodexample. Ireland is in like manner succinctlytreated by Mr. Woulfe Flanagan in seven anda half pages, and India by Mr. C. E. Black insix, while the Indian Mutiny of 1857-8 has anarticle to itself of a page and a half by Mr.Low. Institutions also, like Convocation,customs like borough English, orders of mensuch as friars, and officers like that of constable,have each a separate heading; and thename of the contributors—including, besidesthose already mentioned, such men as Mr.Creighton, Profs. Earle, Thorold Rogers, andRowley, and some others whose qualificationsare beyond question—afford the student aguarantee that he is under sure guidance as tofacts.”

Personal Traits of British Authors.Wordsworth, Coleridge, Lamb, Hazlitt,Leigh Hunt, Procter. Edited by EdwardT. Mason. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.

Ibid. Byron, Shelley, Moore, Rogers,Keats, Southey, Landor.

Ibid. Scott, Hogg, Campbell, Chalmers,Wilson, De Quincey, Jeffrey.

Mr. Mason, the compiler of these volumes,has a keen sense of that taste which exists inall people (and certainly it is a kind of curiositynot without its redeeming side) whichprompts a hearty appetite for personal gossipabout appearance, habits, social traits, methodsof work and thought concerning distinguishedmen. Yet there is another side to the question,however interesting such information maybe. This is specially in gossip about authors.The literary worker puts the best part of himselfin his writings. Here all the noble impulses ofhis nature find an outlet, and in many cases hethinks it sufficient to give this field for hishigher traits, and puts his lower ones alone intoaction. No man is a hero to his valet. A toonear acquaintance, and that is just what theeditor of these volumes seeks to give us, is alwaysdisillusioning. The conception whichthe author gives of himself in his books is oftensadly sullied and belittled, when we come toknow the solid body within the photosphere ofglory, which his genius radiates. Yet it is aswell that we should know the real man as wellas what is commonly known as the ideal man.It enables us to guard against those speciousenthusiasms, which may be dangerously arousedby the brilliant sophistries of poetry or rhetoric.290Knowing the actual lives and habits of greatmen is like an Ithuriel spear, often, when westudy teachings by its test. But putting asidethe desirability of knowing intimately the livesof great authors on the score of literature ormorals, it cannot be denied that such informationis of a fascinating sort. Mr. Mason hasgathered these personal descriptions and criticismsfrom all sorts of sources. Literary contemporaries,accounts of friends and enemies,the confessions of authors themselves, familyrecords, biographies, magazine articles, booksof reminiscence—in a word every kind of materialhas been freely used. Authors are shownin a kaleidoscopic light from a great variety ofstand-points, and we have the slurs and sneersof enemies as well as the loving admiration offriends. Descriptions are pointed with racy andpungent anecdotes, and it is but just to say thatwe have not found a dull line in these volumes.Mr. Mason has performed his work with excellenteditorial taste. There is a brief and well-writtennotice appended to the chapter on eachauthor, and a literary chronology, the latter ofwhich will be found very useful for handy reference.These racy volumes ought to find a widepublic, and we think, aside from their charm forthe general reader, the literary man will findhere a well-filled treasury of convenient anecdoteand illustration, which, in many cases, willsave him the toil of weary search. In thesedays of many books, such works have a specialuse which should not be ignored.

Italy from the Fall of Napoleon I. in1815, to the Death of Victor Emmanuelin 1878. By John Webb Probyn. NewYork: Cassell & Company, Limited.

“Italy from the Fall of Napoleon I., in 1815,to the Death of Victor Emanuel, in 1878,” byJohn Webb Probyn, is just ready from thepress of Cassell & Company. In noticing thisimportant work we can do no better than toquote from the author’s preface. “The purposeof this volume,” writes Mr. Probyn,291 “isto give a concise account of the chief causesand events which have transformed Italy froma divided into a united country. A detailedhistory of this important epoch would fill volumes,and will not be written for some time tocome. Yet it is desirable that all who are interestedin the important events of our timeshould be able to obtain some connected accountof so striking a transformation as thatwhich was effected in Italy between the years1815 and 1878. It has been with the objectof giving such an account that this volume hasbeen written.” Mr. Probyn lived in Italyamong the Italians while this struggle wasgoing on, and he writes from a close knowledgeof his subject.

Harriet Martineau (Famous WomenSeries). By Mrs. F. Fenwick Miller. Boston:Roberts Brothers.

The distinguished woman who forms thesubject of this biography is less known andread in America than she should be, and it isto be hoped that this concise, lucid and well-writtenaccount of her life and work will awakeninterest in one whose literary labors will meritperusal and study. Miss Martineau was oneof the precursors of that movement for thelarger life and mental liberty of her sex, whichto-day has assumed formidable proportions, andindulged, we need hardly say, many strangevagaries. Miss Martineau began to write atan early age and soon began to impress herselfon the public mind, though it was for along time suspected that she was a man. Thewhole tone of her mind and intellectual sympathieswas eminently masculine, though onthe emotional and moral side of her nature shewas intensely feminine. An early love disappointment,as has been the case with not afew literary women, shut her out from thatcircle of wifehood and motherhood in whichshe would have been far more happy than shewas ordained to be by fate. Yet the worldwould have been a loser, so true is it that itis often by virtue of those conditions whichsacrifice happiness that the most precious fruitsof life are bestowed on the world. It wouldbe interesting to follow the literary career ofMiss Martineau, if space permitted, as her lifewas not only rich in its own results but interwovenwith the most aggressive, keen and significantliterary life of her age. To the worldat large Miss Martineau, who had a philosophicalmind of the highest order, is best knownas the translator of Comte, of whose systemshe was an enthusiastic advocate. Her translationof Comte’s ponderous “Positive Philosophy,”published in French in six volumes,which she condensed into three volumes oflucid and forcible English, is not merely amasterpiece of translation, but a monument ofacumen. So well was her work done, thatComte himself adapted it for his students’ use,discarding his own edition. So it came to passthat Comte’s own work fell out of use, andthat his complete teachings became accessibleonly to his countrymen through a retranslationof Miss Martineau’s original translation and292adaptation. Remarkable as were her philosophicalpowers, her work in the domain ofimagination, though always hinging on aserious purpose, was of a superior sort. A keenand successful student of political economy,she wrote a series of remarkable tales, basedon various perplexing problems in this line ofthought and research. In addition to these,her pathetic and humorous tales are full ofcharm, and distinguished by a style equallycharming and forcible. She might have beena great novelist had not her fondness forphilosophical studies become the passion ofher life. She was an indefatigable contributorto newspapers and magazines on a great varietyof subjects, though she generally wrote anonymously.It was for this reason that herliterary labors, which were arduous in the extreme,were comparatively ill-paid, and thatlife, even in her old age, was no easy strugglefor her. The work, among her voluminouswritings, on which her fame will probablyrest as on a corner-stone, is “A History ofthe Thirty Years Peace.” This is a history ofher own time, pungent, full of powerful color,though often sombre, impartial yet searching,characterized by the sternest love of truth, andcouched in a literary style of great force andclearness. She showed the rare power of discussingevents which were almost contemporary,as calmly as if she were surveying aremote period of antiquity. The Athenæumsaid of this book on its publication: “Theprinciples which she enunciates are based oneternal truths, and evolved with a logical precisionthat admits rhetorical ornament withoutbecoming obscure or confused.” Another remarkablework was “Eastern Life,” the fruitof research in the East. In this she made abold and masterly attack on the dogmatic beliefsof Christianity. The end and object ofher reasoning in this work is: That men haveever constructed the Image of a Ruler of theUniverse out of their own minds; that allsuccessive ideas about the Supreme Being haveoriginated from within and been modified bythe surrounding circumstances; and that alltheologies, therefore, are baseless productionsof the human imagination and have noessential connection with those great religiousideas and emotions by which men are constrainedto live nobly, to do justly, and tolove what they see to be the true and right.The publication of this book raised a storm ofopprobrium, for England was then far moreilliberal than now. Yet it is a singular factthat, in spite of her free-thinking, Harriet293Martineau had as her intimate friends andwarm admirers some of the most pious andsincere clergymen of the age. She died in1876 at the age of seventy-four, after a life ofexemplary goodness and brilliant intellectualactivity, honored and loved by all who knewher, even by those who dissented most widelyfrom her beliefs. She was among those whoploughed up the mental soil of her time mostsuccessfully, and few, either men or women,have written with more force, sincerity andsuggestiveness on the great serious questionsof life.

Weird Tales by E. T. W. Hoffman. NewTranslation from the German, with a BiographicalMemoir, by J. T. Beally, B.A.In two volumes. New York: Charles Scribner’sSons.

Hoffman, the German romancer, to mostEnglish readers who know of him, is a nomenet preteria nihil, yet in his own land he is aclassic. His stories are mostly short tales ornovelettes, for he appears to have lacked thesustained vigor and concentration for thelonger novel, like our own Poe, to whom hehas been sometimes likened in the characterof his genius. Yet how marvellously unlikePoe’s are the stories in the volumes before us!The intense imaginativeness, logical coherenceand lofty style which mark Poe are absent inHoffman. Yet, on the other hand, the latter,who like his American analogue revels intopics weird and fantastic, if not horrible, relievesthe sombre color of his pictures withflashes of homely tenderness and charminghumor, of which Poe is totally vacant.

Hoffman, who was well born, though notof noble family, received an excellent education.He studied at Königsburg University,where he matriculated as a student of jurisprudence,and seems to have made enough proficiencyin this branch of knowledge to havejustified the various civil appointments whichhe from time to time received during hisstrange and stormy life, only to forfeit themby acts of mad folly or neglect. He was byturns actor, musician, painter, litterateur, civilmagistrate and tramp. Gifted with brilliantand versatile talents, there was probably nevera man more totally unbalanced and at themercy of every wind of passion and capricethat blew. Had he possessed a self-directingpurpose, a steady ideal to which he devotedhimself, it is not improbable that his geniusmight have raised him to a leading placein German literature. Yet perhaps his talents294and tastes were too versatile for any very greatachievement, even under more favorable conditions.As matters stand he is known to theworld by his short tales, in which he uses freelythe machinery of fantasy and horror, thoughhe never revolts the taste, even in his wildestmoods. Yet some of his best stories areentirely free from this element of the strainedand unnatural, and show that it was throughno lack of native strength and robustness ofmind, that he selected at other times the mostabnormal and perverse developments of actionand character as the warp of his literary textures.Hoffman’s stories are interesting fromtheir ingenuity, a certain naïve simplicitycombined with an audacious handling of impossibleor improbable circumstances, and acharming under-current of pathos and humor,which bubbles up through the crust at the mostunexpected turns. We should hardly regardthese stories as a model for the modern writer,yet there is a quality about them which farmore artistic stories might lack. It is singularto narrate that some of his most agreeable andobjective stories, where he completely escapesfrom morbid imaginings, are those he wrotewhen dying by inches in great agony, for he,too, like Heine—a much greater and subtlergenius—lay on a mattrass grave, though formonths and not for years. The stories collectedin the volumes under notice contain thosewhich are recognized by critics as his best, andwill repay perusal as being excellent representationsof a school of fiction which is nowat its ebb-tide, though how soon it will comeagain to the fore it is impossible to prophecy,as mode and vogue in literary taste go throughthe same eternal cycle, as do almost all othermundane things.

FOREIGN LITERARY NOTES.

Paul Ivanovich Ogorodnikof, who diedlast month at the age of fifty-eight, was destinedfor the army, but, being accused of participationin political disturbances, was confinedin the fortress of Modlin. After his release heobtained employment in the Railway Administration,whereby he was enabled to amass asum sufficient to cover the cost of a journeythrough Russia, Germany, France, England,and North America, of which he published anaccount. He was subsequently appointedcorrespondent of the Imperial GeographicalSociety in North-East Persia, and on his returnhome he devoted his exclusive attention to295literature. His most interesting works, perhaps,are “Travels in Persia and her CaspianProvinces,” 1868, “Sketches in Persia,” 1868,and “The Land of the Sun,” 1881. But hewas the author of various other works andnumerous contributions to periodical literature,and in 1882 his “Diary of a Captive” waspublished in the Istorichesky Vyestnik.

The opening of the new college at Poona,India, which took place recently under themost favorable auspices, is noteworthy asmarking the first important attempt of educatednatives in the Bombay presidency to takethe management of higher education into theirown hands. The college has been appropriatelynamed after Sir James Fergusson, who hasalways taken a great interest in the measuresfor its establishment, and during whose tenureof office as Governor of Bombay (now drawingto a close) such marked progress has beenmade in education in that presidency.

The first part of the second series of thePalæographical Society’s facsimiles, now readyfor distribution to subscribers, contains twoplates of Greek ostraka from Egypt, on whichare written tax-gatherers’ receipts for impostslevied under the Roman dominion, A.D.39-163; and specimens of the Curetonian palimpsestHomer of the sixth century; the BodleianGreek Psalter of about A.D. 950; theGreek Gospels, Codex T, of the tenth century;and other Greek MSS. There are also platesfrom the ancient Latin Psalter of the fifth centuryand other early MSS. of Lord Ashburnham’slibrary; Pope Gregory’s “Moralia,” inMerovingian writing of the seventh century;the Berne Virgil, with Tironian glosses of theninth century; the earliest Pipe Roll, A.D.1130; English charters of the twelfth century;and drawings and illuminations in the BodleianCædmon, the Hyde Register, the AshburnhamLife of Christ, and the Medici Horæ latelypurchased by the Italian Government.

Prince B. Giustiniani has placed in thehands of the Pope, in the name of his friendLord Ashburnham, a precious manuscript fromthe library of Ashburnham House. It containsletters by Innocent III. written duringthe years 1207 and 1209, and taken from thearchives of the Holy See when at Avignon atthe beginning of the fifteenth century. Theletters are fully described in the Bibliothèquede l’École des Chartes.

One of the late General Gordon’s minorcontributions to literature is a brief memoirof Zebehr Pasha, which he drew up for the in296formationof the Soudanese. General Gordoncaused the memoir to be translated into Arabic,and we believe that copies of it are still inexistence. It was written during the General’sfirst administration of the Soudan.

The memoirs of the late Rector of Lincolnwill appear shortly, Mrs. Mark Pattison havingfinished correcting the proofs. Much difficultyhas been experienced in verifying quotations,frequently made without reference or clue toauthorship. In one or two instances only theattempt has been reluctantly abandoned inorder not indefinitely to delay publication.Mrs. Mark Pattison leaves England in Februaryfor Madras, where she will spend nextsummer as the guest of the Governor and Mrs.Grant Duff at Ootacamund. Her work on industryand the arts in France under Colbert isnow far advanced towards completion.

A “national” edition of Victor Hugo’sworks is about to be brought out in Paris byM. Lemonnyer as publisher, and M. GeorgesRichard as printer. The plan of this new editionhas been submitted by these gentlemen toM. Victor Hugo, who has given them the exclusiveright to bring out, in quarto shape, thewhole of his works. The publication will consistof about forty volumes, which are each tocontain five parts, of from eighty to a hundredpages. One part will appear every fortnight,or about five volumes a year, and thefirst part of the first volume, which will containthe Odes and Ballads, is to appear on February26, which is the eighty-third anniversary of thepoet’s birth. The price will be 6 frs. per part,or 30 frs. per volume, so that the total cost ofthe forty volumes will be close upon £50.There will be also a few copies upon Japanand China paper of special manufacture, whilethe series will be illustrated with four portraitsof the poet, 250 large etchings, and 2,500 lineengravings. The 250 large etchings will be bysuch artists as Paul Baudry, Bonnat, Cabanel,Carrier-Belleuse, Falguière, Léon, Glaize,Henner, J.-P. Laurens, Puvis de Chavannes,Robert Fleury, etc., while the line engravingswill be by L. Flameng, Champollion, MaximeLalanne, and others.

The festival at Capua in commemoration ofthe bi-centenary of the birth of the distinguishedantiquary and philologist, Alessio SimmacoMazzocchi, which should have been held lastautumn, but was postponed on account of thecholera, was celebrated on January 25. Themeeting in the Museo Campano was attendedby a large number of visitors from the neigh297boringtowns and from Naples, and speecheswere delivered by the Prefect (CommendatoreWinspeare), Prof. F. Barnabei, and severalothers.

Dr. Martineau’s new book, “Types ofEthical Theory,” will be issued in a week ortwo by the Clarendon Press. The authorseeks the ultimate basis of morals in the internalconstitution of the human mind. He firstvindicates the psychological method, then developsit, and finally guards it against partialapplications, injurious to the autonomy of theconscience. He is thus led to pass under reviewat the outset some representative of eachchief theory in which ethics emerge from metaphysicalor physical assumptions, and at theclose the several doctrines which psychologicallydeduce the moral sentiments from self-love,the sense of congruity, the perception ofbeauty, or other unmoral source. The part ofthe book intermediate between these twobodies of critical exposition is constructive.

The Spelling Reform Association of Englandhave adopted, as a means of encouragingthe progress of their cause, a new plan speciallycalculated to secure the adhesion of printers andpublishers. They offer to supply experiencedproof-readers free of cost, who are prepared toassist in producing books and pamphlets “inany degree of amended or fonetic spelling.”

Some interesting materials towards a memoirof the late Bishop Colenso have been derivedfrom an unexpected source. A gentleman inCornwall heard that a bookseller in Staffordshirehad for sale a collection of the bishop’sletters. This coming to the knowledge of Mr.F. E. Colenso, the latter purchased them atonce, and found that they consisted of lettersranging from 1830 to the middle of the bishop’suniversity career. The collection also includestwo letters from the bishop’s college tutorwhich show the high estimation in which theyoung man was held by those who werebrought into contact with him at Oxford.

It is understood that the late Henry G.Bohn’s collection of Art books, though comparativelyfew in number—said to be less than800—forms a perfectly unique library of reference,and in many languages. We hearthat it includes splendidly bound folio editionsof engravings from the great masters in almostevery known European gallery. Mr. Bohn’sgeneral private library—a substantial but byno means extensive one considering his colossaldealings with books—is not likely to be298sold. It may not be generally known that helent nearly 1,400 volumes to the Crystal PalaceExhibition some years ago, and lost themall in the fire there.

Messrs. Tillotson and Son, of the BoltonJournal, who are the originators of the practiceof publishing novels by eminent writers simultaneouslyin a number of newspapers in England,the United States, and in the colonies,announce that they intend shortly to publish,instead of a serial novel of the usual three-volumesize, what they call an “Octave of ShortStories.” The first of these tales, “A RainyJune,” by “Ouida,” will appear on February28th. The other seven writers of the “Octave”are Mr. William Black, Miss Braddon,Miss Rhoda Broughton, Mr. Wilkie Collins,Mr. Thomas Hardy, Mr. Joseph Hatton, andMrs. Oliphant.

Dr. C. Casati, who has just published awork in two volumes entitled Nuovo rivelazionisui fatti in Milano nel 1847-48, is preparing forthe press an edition of the unpublished lettersof Pietro Borsieri, the prisoner of the Spielberg,together with letters addressed to him byseveral of his friends, among whom were Arrivabene,Berchet, Arconati, and Della Cisterna.The correspondence contains many particularsrelating to the sufferings of these patriots in theAustrian prisons, and to the privations sufferedby Borsieri and his companions inAmerica. Dr. Casati will contribute a biographicalsketch of Borsieri and notes in illustrationof the letters.

At the meeting of the Florence Academiadei Lincei (department of historical sciences)on January 18, it was announced that nocompetitors having presented themselves forthe prize offered by the Minister of Public Instructionfor an essay on the Latin poetry publishedin Italy during the eleventh and twelfthcenturies, the competition will remain openuntil April 30, 1888.

Edward Odyniec, the Polish poet and journalist,and friend of Mickiewicz, died in Warsawon January 15. He was born in 1804, andwas educated at the University of Wilna, wherehe was a member of the celebrated society ofthe Philareti. His period of poetic activityfalls chiefly in the time of the romantic movementin Poland. His odes and occasionalpoems were printed in 1825-28, and many ofthem have been translated into German andBohemian. His translations from Byron,Moore, and Walter Scott are greatly admired299in Poland. He also published several dramason historical subjects. Odyniec was editor,first of the Kuryer Wilanski, and afterwards ofthe Kuryer Warszawski, and was highly esteemedas a political writer. He was personallyvery popular in Warsaw, and his funeral wasattended by many thousands of people.

Dr. A. Emanuel Biedermann, Professorof Theology in the University of Zürich, diedin that city on January 26. He was born atWinterthur in 1819, studied theology at Baseland Berlin 1837-41, and in 1843 was electedPfarrer of Münchenstein in the Canton ofBasel-land. In 1850 he was made ProfessorExtraordinarius of Theology in the Universityof Zürich, and in 1864 Professor Ordinarius of“Dogmatik.” His Christliche Dogmatic (Zürich,1864) is the best known of his theologicalwritings. In connection with Dr. Fries hefounded in 1845 the Liberal ecclesiasticalmonthly, Die Kirche der Gegenwart, out ofwhich the still extant Zeitstimmen was developed.

MISCELLANY.

An Aerial Ride.—The recent ascents, firstat Berlin, then at Baden, of Herr Lattemann,who is the inventor and constructor of an entirelynovel miniature balloon, “Rotateur,”are remarkable, if foolhardy, performances.The intrepid aëronaut rises in the air merelysuspended to a balloon by four ropes to aheight of 4,000 feet. The Rotateur has theform of a cylinder, with semi-spherical endsand a horizontal axis. It holds about 9,300cubic feet of ordinary gas, just enough to liftthe weight of a man, without car, anchor, orother apparatus, about 4,000 feet. The balloonmay be revolved round its horizontal axisby two cords attached at the periphery of thecylinder. The aëronaut is able by these cordsto turn the valve, placed below, through whichthe gas is taken in and allowed to escape, whendesired, round either the sides or to the top.This circular hole, as soon as the balloon isfilled, is stretched out by a thick cane to suchan extent longitudinally as to close it almostentirely, only leaving a narrow slit, throughwhich, it is asserted, no gas can escape. Ifthe aëronaut desires to let off the gas, he turnsthe cylinder balloon round its axis by manipulatingthe cords, the opening is moved to theside or top, and the cane removed by sharplypulling the cord attached to it, so that the openingbecomes circular again, and allows the gasto escape. This is the new valve arrangement300—the egg of Columbus—patented by HerrLattemann. For up to the present time thevalve was the Achilles heel of the balloon,because it was placed at the top, sometimesfailing to act, at others not closing air-tight.Herr Lattemann in his ascents wears a strongleather belt, through the rings of which tworopes are drawn, and by which he fastens himselfto the right and left of the balloon net.He thus hangs suspended as in a swing. Twoother ropes, attached to the balloon, and passingthrough other rings in his belt, end instirrups, into which the aërial rider places hisfeet. At his earlier ascents Herr Lattemannused a saddle, which he has now discarded,preferring to stand free in the stirrups. Assoon as the aëronaut has balanced himself inhis ropes, the signal “Off!” is given, and theballoon sails away. Herr Lattemann hashitherto been entirely successful in his ascents,which last about half an hour.

The Condition of Schleswig.—A graphicdescription is given in an article written by acorrespondent of the Times in Copenhagen ofthe treatment to which the Danish inhabitantsof Schleswig are subjected by the Germans.All the efforts of the authorities governing theduchy tend to the goal of crushing, and, if possible,exterminating the Danish language andDanish sentiment. The Danes in Schleswigcling with characteristic toughness to theirlanguage and to the old traditions of theirrace; they hate the Germans; they groan underthe foreign yoke of suppression. Resistingall temptations and all menaces from Berlin,they still turn their regards and their lovetoward the Danish King and the Danish people,and they swear to hold out, even for generations,until the glorious day comes, as it issure to come in the fulness of time, when theGerman chains shall be broken. It would bea very trifling sacrifice for Prussia, that hasmade such enormous gains and risen to thehighest Power in Europe, to give those 200,000or 250,000 Danish Schleswigers back to Denmark,the land of their predilection. Thenorthern part of Schleswig is of no political orstrategical importance to Prussia, and theproof of this is that the fortifications in Alsenand at Düppel are being levelled to the ground.Several instances of these petty persecutionsare given by the correspondent. The namesof towns and villages have been Germanized;railway guards are not permitted to speakDanish; in the public schools primers andsongs and plays are to be in German, and the301children are punished if they speak amongthemselves their maternal language; historyis arranged so as to glorify Germany and disparageDenmark; the Danish colors of redand white are absolutely prohibited; in short,from the cradle to the grave, the DanishSchleswiger is submitted to a process of eradicatinghis original nature and dressing him upin a garb which he hates and detests. Thispetty war is carried on day after day under thesullen resistance and open protests of theSchleswigers, and proves a constant source ofhatred and animosity between two nations destinedby nature to be friends and allies. Oflate the Prussian functionaries in Schleswighave entered upon a system of positive persecutionthat passes all bounds. Last summerseveral excursions of ladies and girls from theDanish districts in Schleswig were arrangedto different places, one to the west coast ofJutland, another to Copenhagen; they camein flocks of two or three hundred, were hospitablyentertained, enjoyed the sights and theliberty to avow their Danish sentiments, andthen they returned to their bondage. Such ofthem as did not carefully hide the red and whitefavors or diminutive flags had to pay amends fortheir carelessness. But the great bulk of themcould not be reached by the law, for, in spiteof all, it has not yet been made a crime inSchleswig to travel beyond the frontier. Withcharacteristic ingeniousness, the Prussian functionariesthen hit upon a new plan, and visitedthe sins of the women and girls upon their husbands,fathers, or brothers. If these turnedout to have, after the cession, optated for Denmark,and to be consequently Danish citizensonly sojourning in Schleswig, they were peremptorilyshown the door and ordered to leavethe duchy within 48 hours or some few days.An edict authorizes any police-master to expelany foreign subject that may prove “troublesome”(lästig), and this term is a very elasticone. If the male relatives were Prussian subjectsno law could be alleged against them,but among these such as filled public charges,particularly teachers and schoolmasters, havebeen summarily dismissed. In this way, farmers,small traders, artisans, dentists, schoolteachers, and so forth, whose wives or sistersor daughters did take part in the excursiontrips, have been mercilessly driven away anddeprived of their means of living. New casesof such expulsions are recorded every day. Asystem of the most petty persecution is at thesame time enforced against those who cannotbe turned out.

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Chinese Notions of Immortality.—Awriter in a recent issue of the North ChinaHerald discusses the early Chinese notions ofimmortality. In the most ancient timesancestral worship was maintained on theground that the souls of the dead exist afterthis life. The present is a part only of humanexistence, and men continue to be after deathwhat they have become before it. Hence thehonors accorded to men of rank in their lifetimewere continued to them after their death.In the earliest utterances of Chinese nationalthought on this subject we find that dualitywhich has remained the prominent feature inChinese thinking ever since. The present lifeis light; the future is darkness. What theshadow is to the substance, the soul is to thebody; what vapor is to water, breath is toman. By the process of cooling steam mayagain become water, and the transformationsof animals teach us that beings inferior to manmay live after death. Ancient Chinese thenbelieved that as there is male and female principlein all nature, a day and a night as inseparablefrom each thing in the universe asfrom the universe itself, so it is with man. Inthe course of ages and in the vicissitudes ofreligious ideas, men came to believe moredefinitely in the possibility of communicationswith supernatural beings. In the twelfth centurybefore the Christian era it was a distinctbelief that the thoughts of the sages were tothem a revelation from above. The “Book ofOdes” frequently uses the expression “Godspoke to them,” and one sage is representedafter death “moving up and down in the presenceof God in heaven.” A few centuriessubsequently we find for the first time greatmen transferred in the popular imaginationto the sky, it being believed that their soulstook up their abode in certain constellations.This was due to the fact that the ideas ofimmortality had taken a new shape, and thatthe philosophy of the times regarded the starsof heaven as the pure essences of the grosserthings belonging to this world. The pureis heavenly and the gross earthly, and thereforethat which is purest on earth ascends tothe regions of the stars. At the same timehermits and other ascetics began to be creditedwith the power of acquiring extraordinarylongevity, and the stork became the animalwhich the Immortals preferred to ride aboveall others. The idea of plants which conferimmunity from death soon sprang up. Thefungus known as Polyporus lucidus was takento be the most efficacious of all plants in guard303ingman from death, and 3,000 ounces of silverhave been asked for a single specimen. Itsred color was among the circumstances whichgave it its reputation, for at this time the fivecolors of Babylonian astrology had been acceptedas indications of good and evil fortune.This connection of a red color with the notionof immortality through the medium of goodand bad luck, led to the adoption of cinnabaras the philosopher’s stone, and thus to theconstruction of the whole system of alchemy.

The plant of immortal life is spoken of inancient Chinese literature at least a centurybefore the mineral. In correspondence withthe tree of life in Eden there was probably aBabylonian tradition which found its way toChina shortly before Chinese writers mentionthe plant of immortality. The Chinese, notbeing navigators, must have got their ideas ofthe ocean which surrounds the world fromthose who were, and when they received acosmography they would receive it with itslegends.—Nature.

An Approaching Star.—One of the mostbeautiful of all stars in the heavens is Arcturus,in the constellation Boötes. In January lastthe Astronomer Royal communicated to theRoyal Astronomical Society a tabulated statementof the results of the observations made atGreenwich during 1883 in applying the methodof Dr. Huggins for measuring the approach andrecession of the so-called fixed stars in directline. Nearly 200 of these observations arethus recorded, twenty-one of which were devotedto Arcturus, and were made from March30 to August 24. The result shows that thisbrilliant scintillating star is moving rapidlytowards us with a velocity of more than fiftymiles per second (the mean of the twenty-oneobservations is 50.78). This amounts to about2,000 miles per minute, 180,000 per hour, 4,320,000miles per day. Will this approachcontinue, or will the star presently appearstationary and then recede? If the motion isorbital the latter will occur. There is, however,nothing in the rates observed to indicateany such orbital motion, and as the observationsextended over five months this has someweight. Still it may be travelling in a mightyorbit of many years’ duration, the bending ofwhich may in time be indicated by a retardationof the rate of approach, then by no perceptiblemovement either towards or away from us,and this followed by a recession equal to itsprevious approach. If, on the other hand, the4,500,000 of miles per day continue, the starmust become visibly brighter to posterity, in304spite of the enormous magnitude of cosmicaldistances. Our 81-ton guns drive forth theirprojectiles with a maximum velocity of 1,400feet per second. Arcturus is approaching uswith a speed that is 200 times greater thanthis. It thus moves over a distance equal tothat between the earth and the sun in twenty-onedays. Our present distance from Arcturusis estimated at 1,622,000 times this. Therefore,if the star continues to approach us at thesame rate as measured last year, it will havecompleted the whole of its journey towards usin 93,000 years.—Gentleman’s Magazine.

Germans and Russians in Persia.—A correspondentof the Novoje Vremja recently hadan opportunity of ascertaining some interestingfacts from a naval officer who is in the serviceof the Shah, and whom he met on board a Persiansteamer in the Caspian Sea. The Persiancavalry is organized and commanded by Russianofficers, while the artillery is commandedand instructed by Germans. The Persian soldiers,however, dislike their German superiors,who treat them very badly and are arrogantto a degree with the native officers. On thecontrary, the Russians are generally popular—soit is said. There is the worst possible feelingbetween the Russians and the Germans, whoseize every opportunity of annoying each other.A short time ago their military manœuvreswere held, attended by the Shah and the wholeCorps Diplomatique. The infantry made asplendid show, and the cavalry, too, was muchadmired, but the firing of the artillery was execrable,and, as ill-luck would have it, the GermanConsul was wounded in the foot. TheShah was furious, whereupon the Germanofficers called out that the ammunition hadbeen tampered with by the Russians. At oncethe Shah ordered an inquiry to be made, theonly consequence of which was to give mortaloffence to the Germans. But it is, perhaps,not necessary to go quite so far as Teheran tofind traces of the profound antagonism existingbetween Russians and Germans. Czar andKaiser may embrace to their hearts’ content,but, strange to say, wherever their subjectsmeet abroad they quarrel. At the market townof Kowno, in the Russian Government districtof Saratoff, a sanguinary encounter took place afew days ago between German settlers and Russianpeasants, who had come from the neighborhoodfor the annual fair. As many as ten werekilled and thirty wounded. The outbreakof a large fire interrupted the fighting, otherwisethe list would have been far more considerable.

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