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VOL. LIII NO. 6

JUNE

1913

PRICE 25 CENTS-

SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE

JUNE

PUBLISHED MONTHLY WITH ILLUSTRATIONS CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS N E W YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER-PRESIDEJ1T G.R.P- S C H r e i * F E W * - 5 E C R E T A R Y

597 599 FIFTH AVE. NEW YORK ~ CONSTABLE & COMPANY LIMITED LONDON

A suffragette is Mrs. Brown Who's cleaning up in Spotless Town. When she discovers wrongs to write, The mails assist her in the fight. De=voted readers high and low Are voting for

SAPOLiO You know that harsh, chemical cleaners give poor suds. T r y this: Lather your hands with Sapolio. Swish them back and forth through a bowl of warm water. See the rich suds form. Now try the same with any other cleaning compound.

Where are the suds? Of course, strong harsh com pounds will remove dirt. (So will sand-paper and caustic soda.) But they give tins a dull, "frosted" surface. In time they grind off the

tin coating. Then your tins rust. If you want tin-ware that shines like a mirror, use Sapolio. It contains no strong chemicals or coarse, in jurious grit. Rub a damp cloth on a cake of Sapolio. Y o u then have a quick, economical cleaner for tin ware, enamel-ware, kitchen knives and forks, pots and kettles, dishes, woodwork and marble. Works without waste. Our Spotless Town booklet tells more about Sapolio and more about Spotless Town. Write for it. Sent free.

Enoch Morgan's Sons Company Sole Manufacturers

New York City

This is the grocer of Spotless Town. He hears your wants and notes them down. He gives you credit for being wise And charges you to use your eyes. The names upon the labels show He deals in real

SAPOLIO

Vol.

LIII.

No. 6.

SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE JUNE 1913

CONTENTS BIRDS OF PASSAGE. Painted Howitt. Reproduced in colors NEW

by John . .

Newton . .

PASSES IN TYROL

.

.

.

.

Frontispiece

C . L . Freeston, F . R . G . S .

. 663

Mary Synon .

.

.679

.

. 686

T H R E E GLORIOUS MOUNTAIN HIGHWAYS W H I C H E N H A N C E T H E CHARMS OF T H E " MOTORIST'S P A R A D I S E . "

W i t h a map, and illustrations from photographs by the Author and others. MRS. A

V A NANDEN

SINGS

STORY O F T H E N O R T H

.

.

.

.

.

COUNTRY.

Illustration by N . C. Wyeth. THE

D A R K F L O W E R . ( T H E L O V E L I F E OF A M A N . ) PART I I — S U M M E R . C H A P T E R S I - V I I . {To

John Galsworthy

be continued.)

"AT THE

EASE ON LETHE

WHARF."

L A N D OF T H E INCAS . Illustrations by the Author.

SOME EARLY

MEMORIES.—V

Poem .

.

Helen Coale Crewe

.

.

.

.

Ernest Peixotto

.

.

.

.

.

Henry Cabot Lodge

699

.

7M

Senator from Massachusetts

THE

ETHICS OF T H E PROFESSION . . Illustrations by Anton Otto Fischer, reproduced in tint.

Gerald Chittenden

729

THE

MAGNIFICENT COMMUNITY . . Illustrations from photographs by the Author.

H . G. D w i g h t

739

THE

CUSTOM OF T H E COUNTRY BOOK III.—CHAPTERS X X I - X X I V .

.

. . . {To be con-

Edith Wharton

.

C . A . Price

.

756

tinned.)

DISCORDS.

Poem

ENGLISH FRIENDS—FROM JOURNALS OF CHARLES Third Paper CATCH.

Poem

.

. 7 7 4

Charles Eliot Norton .

. 775

J o h n K e n d r i c k Bangs

. 786

LETTERS A N D ELIOT NORTON.

E D I T E D BY S A R A N O R T O N A N D M . A .

THE

.

DEWOLFEHOWE.

THE

P O I N T O F V I E W — N e w Aspects of Friendship—and of Friends—Express ing National Characteristics—Weather-Vanes on Churches . . . . . 787

THE

F I E L D O F A R T — T h e Paintings in the Collection of M r . J . Pierpont Morgan. {William Walton.) Illustrated . . . . . . . . . .

791

C o p y r i g h t , 1913, b y C h a r l e s Scribner's Sons. All rights reserved. Entered at N e w Y o r k Post-Office as Second-Class M a i l M a t t e r E n t e r e d as Second-Class M a t t e r at the Post-Office Department, O t t a w a , C a n a d a .

PRICE, 25 CENTS A NUMBER; $3.00 A Y E A R

Index to Advertisements June, 1913 Building—Furnishing Page Amer. Telephone & Telegraph Co. 53 Burns & Bassick Co.—Casters, Tips 62 Stewart Hartshorn—Shade Rollers 60 A. H . Heisey & Co.—Glassware • 63 Hoover Suction Sweeper Co. . . 64 S. Karpen & Bros.—Furniture • • 63 Macbeth-Evans Glass Co. . . . 50 J. L. Mott Iron Works . . . . 61 New Jersey Zinc Co 64 Piedmont Red Cedar Chest Co. . 60 Reed & Barton—Silversmiths • • 57 W. & J. Sloane—Furniture • • 7. 11 Smith & Wesson 60 Theodore B. Starr, Inc 5 Tiffany & Co.—Jewelers . . . . 3

Page Garden Davey Tree Expert Co., Inc. Elliott Nursery

.

.

64 62

.

51 60

Musical Instruments Victor Talking Machine Co. Vose & Sons Piano Co

.

Office Appliances and Stationery Automatic Adding Machine Co. . 68 Esterbrook Pen Mfg. Co. . . . 70 Waterman's Fountain Pens 4th Cover Whiting Paper Co 16

Food Products Page American Sugar Refining Co. . . 54 Anheuser-Busch—Budweiser . • 59 Walter Baker & Co., Ltd. . 4th Cover Buffalo Lithia Springs Water . . 67 Evans' Ale 69 Libby, McNeill & Libbv . . 3d Cover Liqueur Peres Chartreux . . . 66

Page Mellin's Food Co 44 Meyer&Lange—Consomme Cubes 66 Postum . 4th Cover Royal Baking Powder Co. . 4th Cover Shredded Wheat Co 48 White House Coffee 67

Automobiles Page Anderson Electric Carriage Co. . 90 Fisk Rubber Co 88 General Vehicle Co. . . . . . 87 B. F. Goodrich Co 91 Goodyear Tire & Rubber Co. . C4, 85

Kelly-Springfield Tire Co. Timken Detroit Axle Co. United States Tire Co White Automobile Co

. . . . . .

Page 83 89 86 47

Travel—Resorts—Tours A. B. A. Travelers' Cheques . Frank C. Clark—Tours . . . Colorado & Southern Ry. . . Thos. Cook & Son—Tours . . Dean's Bon Voyage Boxes . . Delaware & Hudson R. R. . . Dusseldorf on Rhine Foster & Reynolds Freiburg—Germany y Great Western Railway . . sSk Grindstone Inn SSJk Hamburg-American Line

2

Page . 75 . 74 . 78 . 72 . 74 . 77 72 74 72 . 72 82 . 79

Page Northern Pacific Railway . . . 73 North German Lloyd 72 Old Dominion Line 81 Raymond & Whitcomb—Tours • 72 Scribner's Guide to London . . 80 Scribner's Guide to Paris . . . 80 Temple Tours 72 Union Pacific 79 Wentworth Hotel 78 Where-To-Go Bureau . . 76, 77 j White Pass & Yukon 72 Jw

For announcement of the July number see pages 6, 8, 9, 10

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

3

ADVERTISER

T i f f a n y & Co. JEWELRY PEARLS DIAMONDS SILVER WATCHES CLOCKS STATIONERY TIFFANY & Co's MAIL ORDER DEPARTMENT IS EVER AVAILABLE TO OUT-OF-TOWN CORRESPONDENTS

Fifth Avenue&37-Street NewYork

In answering

advertisements please mention SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

Index to Advertisements June,

1913—Continued

Books, Magazines, Etc. Page The Century Co 13 Craftsman 56 Doubleday, Page & Co. . . . 22, 23 Encyclopaedia Britannica. . . . 21 Harper & Bros 14, 15 Houghton Mifflin Co 17 Life 30 The Macmillan Co 29 National Sportsman 68

North American Review . . . Outdoor World and Recreation Outing Magazine Overland Monthly Scribner's Magazine Notes. . Charles Scribner's Sons—Books Tabard Inn Book Co Vogue John C. Winston Publishing Co.

Page . 20 . 12 18 16 45,46 24-28 18 8 . 19 J

Miscellaneous Page

Page A. A. Clubs of America . . 58 W. F. & J. Barnes—Lathes • 60 Bausch & Lomb Optical Co. 56 Eastman Kodak Co 55 V. J. Evans—Patents 68 Folmer & Schwing—Cameras . • 52 Keeley Cure 68 Merwin Sales Co 68 Munn & Co 68 Numismatic Bank of Texas . . . 68 Waltham Watch Co 49

Cuticura Soap Ivory Soap Lehn & Fink—Pebeco Mennen Co " Mum " Mfg Co ParkTilford Sapolio

Financial Chisholm & Chapman—Bonds . . 65 J. S. & W. S. Kuhn, Inc.—Bonds • 65 N. Y. Real Estate Security Co. . . 65

See pages

STATEMENT

Proprietary Articles

.

7° 92 . . . 69 71 68 71 2d Cover

Schools and Colleges 31 to 43

OF T H EOWNERSHIP, MANAGEMENT, ETC., OF SCRIBNER'S M A G A Z I N E Published monthly, at New York, N . Y .

EDITOR: E d w a r d L . B u r l i n g a m e 153 F i f t h BUSINESS MANAGER: J . R . M i x 153 F i f t h PUBLISHERS: Charles Scribner's Sons 153 F i f t h OWNERS: Charles Scribner's Sons, I n c 153 F i f t h Stockholders h o l d i n g 1 per cent or more of total amount of stock: Charles Scribner, A r t h u r H . Scribner. K n o w n bondholders, mortgagees, and other security holders h o l d i n g 1 cent or more of total amount of bonds, mortgages, or other securities

Ave., N e w York, Ave., N e w York, Ave., N e w York, Ave., N e wYork,

N. Y. N. Y. N. Y. N. Y.

per None.

(Signed) J . R o w l a n d M i x , Business Mgr. S w o r n to a n d subscribed before me this twenty-fourth d a y of M a r c h , 19^3. W . H . Procter, Notary Public, No. 113, N . Y . C o u n t y . Certificate N o . 3 r i 6 filed i n N . Y . C o u n t y R e g i s t e r ' s Office. M y Commission expires M a r c h 30th, 1915. Since filing the above statement, the P . O . address of SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE has been changed to 597-599 F i f t h A v e . , N e w Y o r k , N . Y .

4

For announcement of the July number see pages 6, 8, 9, 10

SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE

5

ADVERTISER

THEODORE B. STARR. I N C . Established 1862

Henri the Second Tea Service

T

H E silversmithsof the Sixteenth Century are responsible for the beautiful motif of this pattern. A l l the classic beauty of design, the exquisite free hand decoration and the rich massiveness w h i c h marked the creations of that period are reflected in this reproduction.

T h e pattern, w h i c h may also be had in D i n n e r Service, Coffee Ser vice, Service Plates and all other pieces of H o l l o w W a r e , lends itself attractively to a F r e n c h Renais sance dining-room. Prices never higher than prevail elsewhere for goods of equal merit.

PEARLS A N D GEMS OF EXCEPTIONAL JEWELRY, WATCHES, BRONZES,

STATIONERY,

QUALITY

CLOCKS L E A T H E R GOODS

5TH AVENUE AND 47 TH, STREET NEW YORK

In answering


MAGAZINE

SCRIBNER'S

6

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

JulySCRIBNER On pages 8 and 9 will be found the an nouncement of the articles and pic tures in color in this number which will give a complete understanding of the wonderful Panama Canal. T h e n u m b e r w i l l be a v e r y n o t a b l e o n e a l s o for its o t h e r c o n t e n t s . T h e t w o greatest n o v e l s of the y e a r

CMrs. Wharton's The Custom of the Country and

C. John Galsworthy's The Dark Flower ( T h e L o v e L i f e of a M a n ) are continued, and both reach situations of absorbing interest.

CMary R. S. Andrews, author of "The Per fect Tribute," contributes one of her delightful stories about college life, "Amici"— full of humor and sentiment.

C.H. G. Dwight

C, Ernest Peixotto

writes of "Mohammedan describes his journey across Holidays," scenes in Con- Titicaca, with a glimpse of stantinople. Bolivia.—Lake Titicaca lies over12,000 feet above the sea

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

7

ADVERTISER

R E P R O D U C T I O N S O F XVIII C E N T U R Y CHIPPENDALE FURNITURE

CHINESE

F U R N I T U R E FOR

T H E SLEEPING R O O M

" T H E work of the XVIII Century English designers had the subtle, home-like, livable qualities that no other style possessed. Many of the models that we show are reproductions of the best of these styles. They are not only authentic in design, in wood and in finish, but every detail of their production has the hall'mark of careful work manship, and the artistic quality of the originals. The construction and workmanship of Sloane Furniture, unequalled by any cabinet maker in the past or present century, will endure for generations, and can be exhibited with pride to the most critical connoisseur. Its charm and design will give the pleasure and satisfaction that can be derived only from the possession of the best. Our Division of Decoration and Furniture is prepared to decorate and furnish the entire house or any portion thereof in a thoroughly artistic and satisfactory manner.

W.

J. SLOANE

Interior Decorators

-

Furniture Makers

Fabrics and Floor Coverings FIFTH

AVE. AND FORTY-SEVENTH

ST., N E W Y O R K

In answering advertisements please mention SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

8

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

T H E

PANAMA

NUMBER

(JULY)

T o w i n g a ship through the C a n a l with electric locomotives

H E next Special Number of Scribner's Magazine, the July issue, will deal with the P A N A M A C A N A L . Joseph Bucklin Bishop, Secretary of the Isthmian Canal Commission, will tell what the Canal will be when finished, how it will be operated, how the water will be let in, how the ships will be lifted from one great lock to another, how they will be towed through the Canal by electric power and sent on their journeys to the ports of all the world. The article makes every reader realize and appreciate the magnitude of the undertaking, the splendid way it has all been accomplished. It will be profusely illustrated in a manner that will make things clear to all.

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

The Effect of the Canal on the World's Trade and on the Commerce of the Pacific Coast of North and South America will be fully described by the one man in the United States best qualified to an swer it, Professor Emory R . Johnson, member of the Canal Commission from 1899 to 1904, and a special appointee by President Taft to report on the Panama Canal traffic tolls and measurement of vessels. Already the nations are planning to send great fleets of passenger and freight vessels through the Canal, and the flags of all the world will be seen flying across the Isthmus. The business of the world will be affected, the Orient and the Occident be comparatively near neighbors, while all South America will be almost at our doors. The Canal built by the United States will be one of the world's wonders and a great commercial benefactor of mankind.

The Defence of the Canal is already under way and some of the giant guns that are to guard it are in place. The reasons which make it necessary to fortify, the questions that enter into its defence, the character and significance of the fortifications, will be the subject of an article by ex-Secretary of War Henry L . Stimson, who will write from expert knowl edge and with the authority that has had in mind all the details.

The Great Exposition in San Francisco in 1915 to celebrate the opening of the Canal, promises to be even more wonderful than the beautiful White C i t y that added so much fame to Chicago. There are beauti ful possibilities in the site drawn for the Exposition in the Golden Gate C i t y , and California is noted for her enterprise and patriotism. Elmer Grey, a well-known architect of the Coast, whose article on " T h e New Suburb of the Pacific Coast" will be remembered, will tell what the Exposition is to be and what it will look like. H e will have the co-operation of all of the landscape artists and architects represented. The article will be richly illustrated.

Wonderful Pictures in Color O merely black and white illustrations of the Panama Canal can begin to give a true impression of either its impressive magni tude or the kaleidoscopic variety of its colors. Color is every where; in the varying strata of the great Culebra Cut, in the giant 105 ton shovels that lift their great loads as lightly as a feather, in the stupendous gates of the locks with their red paint, in the gran ite walls of the locks themselves, in the waters of the Chagres River, the Spill way and Gatun Lake, the skies and floating clouds. In the tropic sunlight all this color is accentuated and made more vivid. The Panama Number w i l l have a series of photographs made directly from na ture i n the natural colors. They represent the very last and most skilled effects in color photography and reveal the scenes of the Canal with all the realism and convincing truth of a personal visit.

9

10

SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

An Editorial in the NEW YORK TIMES on

Mrs. Wharton's The

Custom of the Coun "Edith Wharton is surely the luckiest of our authors. With hardly a hint of the propagandist in her literary make-up and no disposition to deal with so-called * prob lems ' in a sociological way, she arouses a large amount of comment and discussion with each new novel before it has finished its course as a serial. Already Undine Spragg is almost as much talked about as Lily Bart was^ while 'The House of Mirth* was appearing in monthly instalments. Yet 'The Custom of the Country* is not nearly finished, and some months must elapse before the readers of Scribner's Magazine learn the result of her experiences. At present the lovely daughter of the house of Spragg, who has married a poet who thought her worthy of her given name, at first, and afterward learned not to associate her with poetical ideals, seems a very common type, but very carefully studied. Her beauty impresses all men who meet her; she is not inherently dull, but she is obviously mis placed in life. Already one can imagine conditions under which Mrs. Ralph Marvell might have made her^ life useful and beneficent. Perhaps this is because of the humanizing touch in Mrs. Wharton's portrayal, as that, and not the details of her unhappy experiences, was the making of Lily Bart as a heroine of fiction."

SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE

11

ADVERTISER

The above illustration shows one of our modem reproductions of an Ancient Chinese Rug, having a tawny yellow ground with porcelain blue and peach blow shades in the design.

I N T E R E S T I N G

C H I N E S E

R U G S

| H E designs of the Old Chinese Rugs are not merely applica' tions of ornament arranged to please the eye, but each color combination and symbol have their appropriate meaning and purpose in the philosophy and religion from which they emanate. W e have a very select collection of Genuine Antique Chinese Rugs in designs which are interesting to both the layman and the connoisseur. Our many reproductions are not simply Chinese in effect, but are faithful replicas of the genuine Antique Rugs of the Ming and Tsing Dynasties, possessing all the interest and beauty of the original. These Rugs afford a range of size unobtainable in the antique specimens. Mentioned below are a few which can be supplied immediately in Rugs of the design illustrated above : 8 ft. x 8 ft. 12 ft. x II ft.

9 ft. x 9 ft. 12 ft. x 12 ft.

12 ft. x 9 ft. 14 ft. x 12 ft.

12 ft. x 10 ft. 16 ft. x 13 ft.

It would be a pleasure to give you more complete information regarding our facilities for weaving these reproductions in required dimensions.

W . & J. SLOANE FIFTH

AVE. AND FORTY-SEVENTH

SAN FRANCISCO

ST.,

N E W YORK

W A S H I N G T O N , D. C .

Direct Importers of Eastern Rugs through Our Own Representatives in PERSIA Meshed Sullanabad Tabreez

TURKEY Constantinople Smyrna

INDIA

CHINA

Amritsar [Bombay

Pekin Tientsin Chefoo and Taku


TRANS-CAUCASIA Tifiis Kerkl

MAGAZINE

SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE

12

JUNE NUMBER

EDITED

ADVERTISER

OutdoorWorld recreation AND

BY C A S P A R

25 cents a copy,

$2.50 a year

WHITNEY

Mr. Whitney's name as Editor and Author stands for enter tainment, knowledge, experience; as an outdoor man, for achievement, efficient championship of wild-life protection, conservation, fair play. In this field no man in America is so widely recognized as he, and none more favorably known.

FULL of the VACATION SPIRIT A FEW OF THE REFRESHING AND INSPIRING FEATURES Hunting the Rare Spectacled Bear Of which there is only one in cap tivity—A tale by the only white man who has killed one. The Ways of the Butcher Bird Many birds kill that they"may live, but the Shrike kills for the very lust of it. A Game of Horsemanship

The Twins Go A-Fishing Stuffy and Spindle fall foul the wrong boat and some barbed wire. Flapjacks Many are so called which mostly, are pancakes and never have been or ever shall be the real thing. Gypsying for the Family Why Baseball Gets You

Camping in the City Outskirts

The Outdoor Americans—in Pictures

A Cheap Vacation that Pays Big

The Record Makers—in Snapshots

Beating the Tiger to It

Giving the Trees a Square Deal

The Outdoor World and Recreation is a popular magazine built for men and women, and illustrated with photos of their play-days. It is an outdoor enthusiast that stands for recreation, wild-life protection, conservation and fair play. S e n d 10 cents i n c o i n or s t a m p s for a s a m p l e copy a n d we w i l l s e n d y o u (as l o n g as they last) the M a y n u m b e r , i n c l u d i n g the d o u b l e page a r t s u p p l e m e n t , " A S u m m e r E v e n i n g , " together w i t h o u r special "get a c q u a i n t e d " s u b s c r i p t i o n offer. O U T D O O R W O R L D P U B L I S H I N G C O M P A N Y , 8 D u a n e S t . , New Y o r k .


MAGAZINE

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Fascinating for its tropical color, its intense reality, its racy humor

Z O N E P O L I C E M A N 88 By HARRY A. FRANCK Author of "A Vagabond Journey Around the World'' As good as a trip to the Canal Zone is reading of this breezy new book. Better than most trips. For Harry Franck gets away from conventional beaten paths, and roams in out-of-the-way places. It is the real Canal Zone his book pictures. A n d his gift of sharing his experiences and adven tures with his reader makes this the book of books for all who want an absorbing travel book, and the best description yet written of the Canal Zone. Many

pictures.

Price

$2.00

net;

postage

12

cents

A New Novel by the Author of "The Helmet of Navarre"

THE SCARLET RIDER By BERTHA RUNKLE The story of the bonniest of lasses, winsome Lettice, and her two lovers, and of the mysterious Scarlet Rider. A gallant tale of baffling mystery and young blood and rare adventure, stirringly told—no better has been written in many a day. Frontispiece in color by Botli.

Price $1.35 net; postage 12 cents

JACK LONDON'S NEW BOOK

THE ABYSMAL BRUTE By

the Author

of "The

Call

of the

Wild"

Here is one of the strangest, most human and fascinating characters L o n d o n has ever drawn, a bruiser who is a scholar as well. A n d the story is of the prizering, a real man's story, big and vigorous and thrilling. A veritable crosssection of a strange phase of A m e r i c a n life. Frontispiece by Grant.

T H E CENTURY CO.

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Union Square


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DESERT GOLD By Zane Grey " S-s-h — steady — keep quiet, a n d follow m e " — s o , t r e a d i n g softly w i t h a new guide, we v a n i s h i n t o the n i g h t — i n t o adventure along the A r i z o n a - M e x i c o border i n search of desert g o l d — a n d we find life free a n d u n afraid. T h e A m e r i c a n filibusters, the A p a c h e s , a n d the l o y a l Y a q u i are alive i n this allur i n g purple sage c o u n t r y , and so is Mercedes, a beautiful M e x i c a n g i r l . C r i t i c s tell us t h a t romance is c o m i n g back again. I t has come b a c k — i n this new tale of Zane G r e y ' s . Illustrated.

THE OPENING DOOR By Justus Miles Forman I t looked like a new h e a v e n a n d a n e w earth as the door opened for this g i r l , for b e y o n d the t h r e s h o l d was a new life of r e a l i t y . She passed i n t o i t — a n d so d i d the m a n . T h e newness became i n s t a n t l y electric for both of t h e m — m o d e r n life l i v e d at its f u l l est. M r . F o r m a n tells i n these q u i c k pages a b r i l l i a n t s t o r y of N e w Y o r k t o - d a y , w i t h a sparkle a n d dash w h i c h makes this b y far his most i n t e r e s t i n g n o v e l . Frontispiece.

$1.30 net.

THE COMBINED MAZE By May Sinclair " A real s t o r y about real people, people keenly a n d k i n d l y seen, fearlessly a n d faith fully yet s y m p a t h e t i c a l l y p a i n t e d ; some of t h e m a n d some moments of them flashed u p o n y o u i n a fashion a n d i n words w h i c h belong to genius."—N. Y. Times. Frontispiece.

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ISOBEL By James Oliver Curwood T h i s romance of the N o r t h e r n T r a i l is full of the same m y s t e r y that c h a r a c t e r i z e d the author's " F l o w e r of the N o r t h . " T h e hero, a sergeant of the famous R o y a l N o r t h w e s t M o u n t e d P o l i c e , captures the f u g i t i v e hus b a n d of the o n l y w h i t e w o m a n he has seen for m o n t h s . T h e n , urged b y his c h i v a l r y , he lets h i m escape—to reap l a t e r a n u n e x pected r e w a r d .

$1.35 net.

Frontispiece.

$1.25 net.

Reflections of a Beginning Husband By Edward Sandford Martin I n these essays M r . Martin, in the character of the young husband of a desirable young woman, phi losophizes quaintly on matters in general and particular as they appeared to him in the married state. Post 8vo, $1.20 net.

Scientific Auction Bridge By E . V. Shepard „ , ,

, „ , , ' " • ,

.

,

KNICKERBOCKER WHIST

CLUB.

I have read all the books on auction bridge. E . V . Shepard's is the best of them all. I doubt if a better one will ever be written."—A. L . R O B I N S O N , Vice-President. Flexible cloth, $1.00 net.

The Bend in the Road By Truman A. De Weese "One of the best books for any reader who cares for the bit of blue sky in the midst of the city and who appreciates it all the more from occasional life in the country. It is a very remarkable piece of work, beautifully written, that M r . De Weese contributes to the book world of the day."—Buffalo News. Illustrated. $1.00 net.

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New Leaf Mills

The Turning of Griggsby

By William Dean Howells

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SCHOOLSandCOLLEGES

N E W

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THE

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For G i r l s . College Preparatory and General Course. N u m ber of pupils limited to twelve i n each class. Fireproof b u i l d i n g thoroughly equipped. 160 and 162 West 74th Street.

S C O V I L L E S C H O O L FOR GlRLS R e s i d e n t a n d day p u p i l s . G e n e r a l a n d s p e c i a l courses. I n d i v i d u a l work. S o c i o l o g y , M u s i c , A r t , S l i d e I l l u s t r a t i o n s . E u r o p e a n travel party sailingJ u n e 7. Itineraries. S u m m e r term J u l y 7 to A u g u s t 30. M o s t favorable arrangements for s t u d y a n d appreciation of c i t y advantages. D e l i g h t f u l l s u m m e r h o m e , v e r a n d a h , a n d l a w n . 2042 F i f t h A v e n u e , N e w Y o r k . T H E

H O L B R O O K

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" A school that is better than the catalogue." 500 ft. elevation, commanding a 40-mile view of the H u d s o n . 30 miles from N e w Y o r k . Complete equipment. A l l sports. College preparatory. Character references required. Catalogue on request. Ossining-on-Hudson, N e w Y o r k .

THE

FINCH

G R A H A M

SCHOOL

F o r Girls. Established i n r 8 i 6 . Resident and day pupils. G e n eral and college preparatory courses. U n r i v a l e d location over looking Riverside P a r k and the H u d s o n . H o w a r d D . M i n e r , P r i n c i p a l ; M a r y Josephine W h i t e , Assistant P r i n c i p a l . 42 Riverside D r i v e (at 76th St.), N e w Y o r k C i t y . C O M S T O C K

S C H O O L

A School for Y o u n g Ladies. 52 East 72nd Street. One block from F i f t h Avenue and Central P a r k . Regular and special courses. M u s i c , A r t , Languages, a n d , D o m e s t i c Science. Unusual oppor tunities for social life and the advantages of N e w Y o r k . M i s s L y d i a D a y , P r i n c i p a l ; M i s s F a n n y C . Neale, V i c e - P r i n c i p a l . H E A T H C O T E

H A L L

T h e Misses L o c k w o o d ' s Collegiate School for Girls. A country school w i t h a l l the advantages of the metropolis. F a c u l t y of sixteen instructors. Superior opportunities for M u s i c and D r a w ing. Healthful outdoor life. 40 minutes from G r a n d Central Station. Scarsdale, N e w Y o r k . M i s s

S C H O O L

A boarding and day school for girls from sixteen to twenty years of age, corresponding to college, w h i c h develops individuality, cultivates the h u m a n interests and sympathies, and is abreast of m o d e m thought. C u r r i c u l u m includes Psychology, Ethics, Economics, Sociology, L a w , E n g l i s h , L i v i n g Languages, M u s i c and A r t . N e w fireproof ten-story building equipped with every appliance essential to safety and comfort. Basket-ball and tennis court. M r s . Jessica Garretson F i n c h , A . B . , L L . B . , P r i n c i p a l , 6r East 77th Street, N e w Y o r k C i t y .

VICINITY

B A N G S

A N D

M I S S

W H I T O N

The only C o u n t r y School for Girls i n N e w Y o r k C i t y . A private school park of 35 acres. T w e n t y - t h i r d year. " A R e a l S c h o o l . " Certificate admits t o colleges. A d v a n c e d special courses. U n equalled advantages i n music. Riverdale Avenue, C i t y of N e w Y o r k . ELINOR C O M S T O C K M U S I C S C H O O L M i s s C o m s t o c k , a p u p i l o f L e s c h e t i z k y , established a b o a r d i n g a n d d a y school i n 1910 where e n v i r o n m e n t is a n i n c e n t i v e to serious w o r k a n d w h e r e a musical e d u c a t i o n may be perfected. E n g l i s h L i t e r a t u r e , F r e n c h , Psy c h o l o g y , A r t a n d Classic D a n c i n g . P r e p a r a t i o n for C o n c e r t s a n d Operas. E l i n o r C o m s t o c k , P r i n c i p a l , 1000 M a d i s o n A v e . , N . Y .

M R S .

H A Z E N ' S

S U B U R B A N

S C H O O L

FOR

G I R L S

Half-hour from G r a n d Central Station, N e w Y o r k . Mrs. J O H N C U N N I N G H A M H A Z E N , Principal, Pelham Manor, New York.

K N O X SCHOOL at Briarcliff Minor TawytwnonHiidsaft

B R A N T W O O D

HALL

S C H O O L

FOR

GIRLS

28 minutes from N e w Y o r k . I n Lawrence P a r k , k n o w n for beauty and health. M u c h outdoor life. M o d e r n attractive buildings. G y m n a s i u m with swimming pool. M u s i c , A r t , General and P r e paratory Courses. Certificate privileges. B r o n x v i l l e , N . Y . M I S S

S P E N C E S

B O A R D I N G A N D

DAY

S C H O O L

F o r G i r l s . N u m b e r in each class limited to eight pupils. R e moved from 6 West 48th Street to new fireproof b u i l d i n g 30 West 55th Street. Residence 26 West 55th Street. H O R A C E

M A N N

S C H O O L

of Teachers College, C o l u m b i a University. F o r B o y s and A l l grades. P h y s i c a l E d u c a t i o n B u i l d i n g open on Saturday. athletic field. Afternoon study-hours. Opens M o n d a y , Sept. Circulars. Address Samuel T . D u t t o n , Supt., B r o a d w a y and 120th St., N e w


MAGAZINE

Girls. New 22nd. York.

31

SCHOOLS Y O R K

N E W

CITY

A N D COLLEGES

ST. P A U L S S C H O O L Healthfully located i n beautiful Garden C i t y , L o n g Island, 18 miles from N e w Y o r k . Buildings completely equipped. Gym nasium, swimming pool, fine athletic fields. Prepares for any College or scientific school. Competent master at the head of each department. A

N E W

(CONTINUED)

L O W E R S C H O O L F O RY O U N G E R BOYS For information and Catalog address W a l t e r R . M a r s h , Headmaster, B o x 10, Garden C i t y , L . I .

T H E GARDNER SCHOOL FOR GIRLS Resident a n d D a y P u p i l s . (57th year.) Exclusive location. Regular and Special Courses. M u s i c , A r t , E l o c u t i o n . Physical culture. E s t h e t i c dancing. Outdoor life. C i t y advantages with delightful home life. Catalog F on request. 607 Fifth Avenue, N e w Y o r k C i t y . COLLEGIATE SCHOOL FOR BOYS A College Preparatory School w i t h strong P r i m a r y a n d Junior Grades. M o d e r n school building. Large gymnasium. 275th year begins Sept. 30. 241-243 West 77th St., between B r o a d w a y and West E n d Avenue, N e w Y o r k , N . Y . A . F . Warren, Headmaster. T H E SEMPLE BOARDING A N D DAY SCHOOL F o r G i r l s . B u i l d i n g directly opposite Central P a r k . Regular and Special Courses. Languages, M u s i c , A r t , etc. Social recreation. Out-of-door sports. Foreign travel. M r s . T . Darrington Semple, P r i n c i p a l , 241 Central P a r k West, comer 84th Street, N e w Y o r k .

Y O R K

S T A T E

(CONTINUED)

New York Military Academy Cornwall-on-Hudson New Academic Building, Barracks, Mess H a l l a n d G y m n a sium, comprising the most complete F i r e p r o o f M i l i t a r y School establishment i n the U n i t e d States. Beautiful loca tion i n the H u d s o n R i v e r H i g h l a n d s , four miles from W e s t Point. Certificates accepted b y a l l colleges. P r a c t i c a l C o m mercial Course w i t h shops, laboratories, etc. S u m m e r Session. Special course and t r a i n i n g for W e s t P o i n t can didates. R e g u l a r A r m y officer a n d equipment from W a r Department. Infantry, C a v a l r y a n d Cadet B a n d (special rates to good musicians). Separate department for Young: Boys. F o r catalogue address T h e C o m m a n d a n t .

Manlius Schools MANLIUS, N. Y.

N E W

Y O R K

S T A T E Beautiful

P E E K S K I L L

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school for boys Verbeck Hall Separate care a n d attention. Send today for

CASCADILLA N. Y . Has Prepared over 1000 Boys for

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Cascadilla offers a t h o r o u g h scholastic training, congenial living and unsur passed opportunities for physical de velopment. Beautiful situation near C o r n e l l . Small classes. Prepares for all colleges a n d business life. Certifi cate privilege. Athletic field. Recrea tion b u i l d i n g . G y m n a s i u m . N a v y out fit of rowing machines, shells, etc. R e g istration 1912-13 from 24 states and 7 foreign countries. F a r m o f 150 acres. T e r m s $675 to $775. W r i t e for catalogue. C.V.

PARSELL, A.M.,

Country

Location

C o l l e g e Preparatory a n d Business Courses. M o s t successful a n d h i g h l y beneficial m i l i tary training', resulting i n the development o f y o u n g m e n o f character, personality and efficiency. F o r nine years ranked by U . S. Government as " Distinguished Institution." the supreme honor g r a n t e d . A l l the influences of a well-regulated family life.

St. John's School

A C A D E M Y

8 i s t year. College Preparatory a n d Business Courses. Junior School. Peekskill, N e w Y o r k .

Ithaca,

Healthful

Principal.

'One of the best pre paratory institu tions i n the connt r y . " — President S c h u r m a n of Cornell.

WM.

VERBECK,

from 8 to 14. Watchful

catalogue

President

Box G .

MACKENZIE SCHOOL Careful preparation for higher business careers, college, and schools of engineering. Catalogue o n request. Dobbs-Ferry-on-Hudson, New York. SAINT AGNES SCHOOL FOR GIRLS Founded i n 1870 by the R i g h t R e v e r e n d W i l l i a m C r o s w e l l Doane, Bishop of A l b a n y . General and college preparatory courses. Cer tificate privileges. M u s i c and art, arts and crafts, domestic science, secretarial training. P h y s i c a l training a n d playground work. M i s s M a t i l d a G r a y , H e a d of the School, A l b a n y , N e w Y o r k .

M R S .

M A R S H A L L ' S

S C H O O L

F O R L I T T L E

G I R L S

A boarding and day school for girls under fifteen. BriarcliS Manor, New York.

E m m a W i l l a r d School For Girls On the hills 400 ft. above the city of Troy. Four beautiful new, fireproof buildings, the gift of Mrs. Russell Sage. Campus 30 acres. Tennis courts, hockey, basketball. Gymnasium, with swimming pool, bowling alleys. Resident nurse. A broad variety of work, including college preparation and courses for girls not going to college. Special advantages in Music and Art. Practical courses in Domestic Science. Certificate admits to Wellesley, Smith, Vassar and Mt. Holyoke Colleges. Illustrated catalogue on request. Miss ELIZA HELLAS, Ph.B., Principal, Troy, N. Y.

i R V i N G SCHOOL FOR

B O Y S

Tarrytown on-Hndson, N. Y.

Twenty-five miles from New York, in the beautiful, historic " Irving " country. 76th year. 22 years under present Head Master. New site and build ings, 1904. Prepares for all colleges and technical schools. Individual as well as class instruction. Athletic Field. Swimming Pool. New Gymnasium ready this fall. Summer Camp, Bantam Lake, Litchfield Hills, Conn. 1100 feet altitude. Address J . M. F U R M A N , A . M., Head Master, Box 9 0 3

32


MAGAZINE

„

SCHOOLS NEW

AND COLLEGES

Y O R K

S T A T E

(CONTINUED)

Mrs. Dawk School For Girla For

circular address

Mrs. Maru E.Dow,

Principal,

Briarcliff Manor, R Y

Glen Eden

RIVERVIEW ACADEMY

A Boarding School for Girls IN T H E HIGHLANDS POUGHKEEPSIE, N E W Y O R K Academic, College Preparatory and Finish ing Courses. Music, Art, Elocution, Domes tic Science. Outdoor life a specialty. Horse back riding, coasting, skating, games, danc ing, physical culture. Sight-seeing in New York City. No entrance examinations. Ideal climate. Three buildings; twelve acres. Select, limited membership. Refined home life; training in morals and manners. For illustrated booklet address the Director, DR.

FREDERIC MARTIN

TERMS;

TOWNSHND

$600 a

year

" A Good School."—John Burroughs. ^ A Boys' School designed to promote manliness, selfreliance, love of study, and good scholarship. Scientific development of the body under trained directors. ^ Seventy-seven years of consecutive management have given the school exceptional knowledge of boys. Modern equipment, thorough instruction. l[ For catalogue address C. C. GAINES, H.A.,

HIGHER RYE

SEMINARY

A girls' school, one hour from New York. Diploma for college preparatory and general course. Certificate privilege to Vassar, Smith, Wellesley and Mount Holyoke. Unusual advantages in music. Physical training, riding and outdoor sports. Mrs. Life, The Misses Stowe, Principals, Rye, New York.

ST.

J O H N ' S

For

Castle

Miss C. E. Mason's Suburban School

Girls a n d Young W o m e n Tar

rytown-on-Hudson, N. Y .

In

EDUCATION

FOR

Y.

W O M E N

The William Smith College, opened 1908, by the corporation of Hobart College (established 1825), for the separate instruction of women, offers unusual advantages. Instruction by entire Hobart College faculty. Four-year courses leading to A . B . and B.S. degrees, also courses in pedagogy and domestic science. New Dormitory and Gymnasium—Beautiful Secluded Campus (24 acres)—Large Library—Pleasant Home Life—Social Advan tages. For catalogues and information address Dean Milton H . Turk, Ph.D., William Smith College, Geneva, N . Y . W A L L C O U R T

S C H O O L

For M a n l y B o y s . Special opportunities for q u i c k c o l l e g e preparation. M i l i tary d r i l l . Parental d i s c i p l i n e . G y m n a s i u m . S w i m m i n g pool. A t h l e t i c field. M a n l y sports encouraged. J u n i o r H a l l , a separate school for boys u n d e r 13. Catalogue. Rev. W . A . R a n n e y , A . M . , P d . B . , P r i n c i p a l , O s s i n i n g - o n - H u d s o n , New Y o r k .

The

LL.D., Principal, Box 705, Poutfhkeepsie, N.

Miss Goldsmith's School for Girls. (Formerly The Wells School.) Thorough preparation for any college. General academic and special courses. Esthetic dancing, boating, tennis, hockey, track work. Booklet. Address Miss Anna R . Goldsmith, A.B., Prin cipal, Aurora, Lake Cayuga, N . Y . Ing courses almost as varied and broad as many of the best collegesi The buildings, five in number, are large and modern. Located in the midst of a beautiful tract of fourteen acres of grove and lawn on one of the most magnificent heights along the Hudson, with a thirty-mile view of the river. While practically a country school, the location, only forty minutes from New York, gives every city advantage. For catalogue address SS^?, MISS 0. E. MASON. LL. M „ *" Lock Box 707

answering advertisements please mention SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

32a

SCHOOLS N E W M O U N T

Y O R K

P L E A S A N T

S T A T E

AND COLLEGES M A S S A C H U S E T T S

( C O N T I N U E D )

Miss

A C A D E M Y

F o u n d e d in 1814. Prepares for college, scientific school or business. R a t i o n alized military system. M a n u a l t r a i n i n g . M O U N T P L E A S A N T H A L L is for boys under 13. S U M M E R C A M P i n the Berkshires, under M r . Brusie's per sonal charge, is for boys under 15. S e n d for catalogue. Charles F r e d e r i c k Brusie, B o x 508, Ossining-on-Hudson, N . Y . M O H E G A N

L A K E

O S S I N I N G

S C H O O L

F O R

B U R N H A M

M A N O R

S C H O O L

For Girls. Eighteen miles from New York City. General and Col lege Preparatory Courses. Certificate privileges. Special advan tages in Music and Languages. For circular, address Miss Hull and Miss Huntington, Principals, Larchmont Manor, New York.

M I S S

C A P E N ' S

S C H O O L

F O R

.

.

G I R L S

C H U R C H ' S

S C H O O L

F O R

G I R L S

Resident and day pupils. General, 'College Domestic Science Courses. Advanced work for Schoolhouse, 6 Gloucester Street, Res.dence, 401 Beacon Street,

Preparatory and older girls. I . 1 B

o

Miss C H A M B E R L A Y N E S S C H O O L F O R G General, Special, and College Preparatory Courses. The Fenway 28, Boston.

s

t

o

n

M

a

s

s

M A N S I O N

FOR GIRLS

Park

38 minutes from Boston. Thorough preparation for college. Advanced courses for graduates of high schools. Household Arts. Music. Arts and Crafts. Large grounds for all outdoor sports. Experienced instructors in charge of all athletics. New Gymnasium and Swimming Pool. For catalogue address M i s s O L I V E S. P A R S O N S , L o w e l l , Mass. C A M B R I D G E

S C H O O L

F O R

Principal

G I R L S

Primary, General and College Preparatory Courses. Native teachers in modern languages. Art Department. New Residence adjoins Playground and School House. Tennis, basketball and gymnastics. Resident and day pupils. Address Miss Ruth Coit, Headmistress, 36 Concord Avenue, Cambridge, Massachusetts. M O N S O N

A C A D E M Y

F O R

B O Y S

n o t h year. Fifteen miles from Springfield. Over 2000 graduates have entered college. Certificate privilege. New brick and stone buildings. Gymnasium, new athletic field. Rate S250 to $350. Fund for boys of proven worth. Henry Franklin Dewing, Principal, Monson, Mass. L E S L E Y

N O R M A L

G R A D E

S C H O O L

F O R

Kl N D E R G A R T N

D E A N

F O R

F O R

B O Y S

A C A D E M Y

C U S H I N G

A C A D E M Y

Endowment permits all the advantages of a high-priced school for $300 a year. College certificate. Music. Six buildings. New Dormitory. Laboratories. Athletic field. Gymnasium. Co-edu cational. Write for illustrated booklet. H . S. Cowell, A . M . , Principal, Ashburnham, Massachusetts. T H E

W E S T O N

S C H O O L

F O R

G I R L S

A city school with country advaptages. Fits girls for life as well as for examinations. Mrs. Elisabeth Mathews-Richardson, A.B.; Miss Lucy Jane Dow, A . B . , Principals. 43 St. James Street, Roxbury, Boston, Massachusetts. W I L B R A H A M

A C A D E M Y

Fits Boys for Life and for College Work. Remodelled Rich Hall, one of the most convenient, comfortable and complete dormitory homes in New England. Gaylord W. Douglass, Headmaster, Wilbraham, Massachusetts.

E R S E M E R S O N

T E A C H E R S

C O L L E G E

S C H O O L

Young men and young women find here a home-like atmosphere, thorough and efficient training in every department of a broad culture, a loyal and helpful school spirit. Liberal endowment permits liberal terms, $300 per year. Special Course in Domestic Science. For catalogue and information address Arthur W . Peirce, L i t t . D . , Principal, Franklin, Mass.

W O M E N

Educates for "The Business of Being a Woman." A . B . degree. Healthful location. 17 buildings. 100 acres. Membership limited. Liberal endowment. Also Wheaton Seminary courses supervised by the College. Catalog. Rev. Samuel V . Cole, D . D . , L L . D . , President, Norton, Mass. (30 miles from B O S T O N ) .

C O L L E G E

O F

O R A T O R Y

Largest School of Oratory, Literature and Pedagogy in America. Summer Sessions. 33rd year opeMJ Sept. 23rd. Address Harry Seymour Ross, Dear* Huntington Chambers, Boston.

Courses given by Harvard educators. Prepares for kindergarten, playground, first, second and third grades. A limited number of resident pupils. Mrs. Edith Lesley Wolfard, Principal, 29 Everett Street, Cambridge, Massachusetts. W H E A T O N

H A L L

The fall term begins Wednesday, Sept. r 7 t h , 1013. For entrance • requirements, address the Principal, Dr. G . S. White, Wellesley Hills, Massachusetts.

Hall School Hill

S C H O O L

For Girls. In historic Quincy. Attractive estate, 6 miles from Boston. Ample grounds. Outdoor sports. Special and gradu ate courses. Advantages in Music, Art, Languages. Domestic Science. College preparation and certificate. Mrs. Horace M . \\ illard. Principal, Wollaston (Quincy), Massachusetts.

R O C K R I D G E

Faces Rogers Fort

I R L S

Miss GUILD A N D M I S S E V A N S ' S C H O O L 32d year. College preparatory and general courses. Special ad vantages in Art, Music, Languages and Household Arts. Visitors cordially welcomed. Send for catalogue. 2o-3r Fairfield Street, corner Commonwealth Avenue, Boston.

ROGERS

32b

F O R G I R L S

For many years known as " T h e Burnham School." 37th year opens September r8th, T913. Correspondence should be addressed to Miss B . T . Capen, Principal, Northampton, Mass.

Q U I N C Y

M A S S A C H U S E T T S

A N D

S C H O O L

S C H O O L

A homelike school for boys eight to sixteen. We train our boys to be accurate, energetic students, straight-forward and manly. Number of pupils limited. Individual instruction. Abundant means for exercise and recreation. Terms $5oo-$6oo. Catalogue. Albert Somes. A . M . , Aurora-on-Cayuga. New York.

T H E

G I R L S

Founded by Mary A. Burnham in iSyj, is continuing without interruption under the direction of Miss Helen E . Thompson and Miss Martha C. Burnham. Preparatory, Graduating and Special Courses. Correspondence should be addressed to Miss Helen E . Thompson, Headmistress, Northampton,_Mass.

M I S S

H A L L

Vassar Preparatory School for girls. Refers to D r . James M . Taylor, Pres. Vassar College; D r . W m . A r n o l d S h a n k l i n , Pres. Wesleyan University; D r . Talcott W i l l i a m s , D i r e c t o r Pulitzer School o f J o u r n a l i s m , C o l u m b i a University. Certificate admits to Vassar a n d other leading colleges. Address E l l e n C l i z b e Bartlett, A . B . , P r i n c i p a l , B o x 807, Poughkeepsie, N e w Y o r k . S O M E S

F O R

G I R L S

Suburban to New York. 46th Year. Academic, Music, Art and College Preparatory Courses. Certificate privileges. Post Gradu ate and special work. Separate house for younger girls. Yearbook on request. Principals, Clara C. Fuller, Martha J . Naramore, Ossining-on-Hudson, N . Y . P U T N A M

S C H O O L

General and College Preparatory Courses. Resident and day pupils. „ . . . Miss Mary Law McClintock, Principal, 4 Arlington Street, Boston, Mass. T H E

S C H O O L

T h o r o u g h preparation for C o l l e g e , T e c h n i c a l S c h o o l or Business. A v e r age number of pupils to a class, eight. M o d e r n b u i l d i n g s . Healthful loca tion on M o h e g a n L a k e . Physical Culture a n d Athletics under competent Director. Booklet. A . E . L i n d e r . A . M . , C h a s . H . Smith, A . M . , Principals, B o x 61, M o h e g a n L a k e , Westchester C o u n t y , N e w Y o r k .

M C C L I N T O C K S


P O W D E R

P O I N T

S C H O O L

F O R

B O Y S

Land and water sports. Athletic fields. Running Track, e mod ern buildings. 16 acres. Summer camp in Maine. College or business preparation. Upper and Lower Schools. Addres Henry P. Moulton, Jr., Director, or Ralph K . Bearce, A.M., Headmaster, 45 King Ca:sar Road, Duxbury, Massachusetts.


MAGAZINE

SCHOOLS

A N DC O L L E G E S

M A S S A C H U S E T T S

(CONTINUED)

H O M E S C H O O L FOR G I R L S

SEA PINES

Distinctively Devoted to Developing Personalities G e n u i n e h a p p y home life ; personal attention a n d care. Growing- g i r l s inspired b y wholesome a n d beautiful ideals o f useful w o m a n h o o d . T h e Cape climate is e x c e p t i o n a l l y f a v o r a b l e f o r a n o u t d o o r life, w h i c h w e make attractive a n d refining. O n e h u n d r e d acres; pine groves, 1000 feet of seashore, ponies. H y g i e n e a n d morals are observed especially for results i n health, character a n d education. G y m n a s t i c s , M u s i c , H a n d i w o r k , Domestic Arts. F r e n c h , G e r m a n , Spanish — native teachers. A l l branches o f study under patient a n d enthusiastic instructors. Address Rev.Thomas Bickford, Miss Faith Bickford, Principals, P.O. Box G , Brewster, Cape Cod, Mass.

BRADFORD A C A D E M Y F O R

Y O U N G W O M E N B R A D F O R D , MASS. 110th year. T h i r t y miles from Boston, i n the beautiful M e r r i m a c V a l l e y . E x t e n s i v e g r o u n d s a n d modern equipment. Certificate admits to l e a d i n g colleges. G e n e r a l course o f five years and two years' course for H i g h S c h o o l graduates. A d d r e s s Miss L A U R A A . K N O T T , A . M . , P r i n c i p a l .

A School

Abbot Academy

For Girls 23 Miles from Boston

A N D O V E R , MASS.

College Preparatory Coarse with Certificate rights. General Course

F o u n d e d 1828 Situated i n a famous N e w E n g l a n d t o w n . Campus o f 23 acres, with grove, tennis court a n d athletic fields. F o u r large b u i l d i n g s with m o d e r n equipment, c o n t a i n i n g art g a l l e r y , laboratories, assembly hall with new pipe o r g a n , g y m n a s i u m and recreation r o o m . E s t a b l i s h e d reputation i n educational circles tor scholarship a n d character. L o n g , successful history. M o d e r n spirit a n d methods. MISS B E R T H A B A I L E Y , Principal.

The MacDuffie School For Girls Springfield, M a s s . Principals: John MacDuflie (Harvard) Mrs. John MacDuffie (Radcliffe)

Lasell Seminary

Beautiful grounds. C o u n t r y w a l k s a n d drives. H o w a r d H a l l — t h e school b u i l d i n g . M a n s i o n H o u s e — r e s i d e n c e for y o u n g e r g i r l s . S e n i o r H o u s e — r e s i d e n c e of the upper class. W e l l equipped g y m n a s i u m . O u t d o o r athletics. T e n n i s tournaments, h o r s e b a c k r i d i n g . College certificate. G e n e r a l C o u r s e s . D o m e s t i c Science. W r i t e for year b o o k .

Courses i n Language, Literature, Science, Music and A r t , with thoro instruction i n the theory and practice of Household Economics. Training- is given i n the A r t of Entertaining, House F u r n i s h i n g and Management, Marketing, Cooking, Dressmaking and Millinery. Tennis, Boating, S w i m m i n g , Riding;and otlier sports are encouraged. Address

Mount Ida School

G. M. WINSLOW, Ph. D., Principal,

W r i t e for

Anborndale, Massachusetts. Ten Miles from Boston

110

Woodland Road

New

Y e a r Book


for GIRLS from 6 miles Boston Preparatory: finishing school. A d v a n c e d Elective Courses. F o r high school graduates. College Certificate Privilege. H i g h School graduation not necessary for entrance. Piano, V o i c e , V i o l i n , Pipe O r g a n , with Noted M e n . Domestic Science, Gymnasium with swimming pool. Exceptional opportunities, with a delightful home life. 88 Summit Street

NEWTON, MAGAZINE

MASS.

32c

S C H O O L S M

A

S

S

A

C

H

U

S

E

T

T

S

A N D

C O L L E G E S M I C H I G A N


MICHIGAN

COLLEGE OF

MINES

F. W . McNair, President. Located in the Lake Superior district. Mines and mills accessible for College work. For Year Book and Booklet of Views apply to President or Secretary, Houghton, Michigan.

W O R C E S T E R £»

ACADEMY

ffi,

160 boys prepared In last 4 years tor 31 different colleges and pro fessional schools. Alumni in 43 states and 15 foreign countries. Enrollment represents 25 states and 10 foreign countries. Classical and scientific courses for general education. Faculty of 20 experi enced men. Standards of scholarship the highest. School spirit broad and democratic. Only boys of high character admitted. Schol arship aid for worthy boys. Organized play gives boys graded physical training. Equipment unusually complete. Catalogue. I>. W . Aberoroui blc.LL. !>., 9? Providence St., Worcester,Masa. W A L N U T

HILL

S C H O O L

A College Preparatory School for Girls. Seventeen miles from Boston. Forty Acres. Athletic Fields. Four Buildings. Gym nasium. Miss Conant, Miss Bigelow, Principals, Natick, Mass.

T H E

L I G G E T T

M

C H R I S T I A N

D O M E S T I C

S C I E N C E

S C H O O L

One and two year Normal and Home-Making Courses. Trains for teachers of cookery, sewing, matrons, dietitians, housekeepers. The O D l y school devoted solely to Normal Domestic Science train ing. Graduates occupy exceptional positions. Address Mrs. F . A. Wethered, 97 Institute Road, Worcester, Mass. P E R R Y

K I N D E R G A R T E N

N O R M A L

S C H O O L

Prepares for Kindergarten, Primary and Playground positions. Mrs. Annie Moseley Perry, Principal, 18 Huntington Avenue, Boston, Massachusetts.

I

S

S

O

U

R

I

C O L L E G E

and Conservatory of Music for Young Women. 63rd year. Located in a "city whose business is education." 20 college-trained in structors. 5 large buildings. 20-acre campus for outdoor sports. Home care. For year book write Mrs. L . W. St. Clair-Moss, President, 660 College Place, Columbia, Missouri. LINDENWOOD

W O R C E S T E R

S C H O O L

Formerly the Detrcit Home and Day School. Established 1878. Equipment modern. Twenty-five received in School Family. The Misses Liggett, Principals, Detroit, Michigan.

JUNIOR

C O L L E G E

FOR

W O M E N

Established 1831. Fully accredited by the University of Missouri. Two years' university work. Music and Art. Regular Domestic Science course with diploma. Preparatory Department. Only 50 minutes from St. Louis. Terms $330 per year. George Frederic Ayres, Ph.D., Pres., Box 282, St. Charles, M o . C O T T E Y

C O L L E G E

FOR

W O M E N

Junior College and College Preparatory Courses. Character-building em phasized. Domestic Science with diploma. Music (B. M. degree). Art, Expression, and Business Courses. Ideal Christian home. Outdoor sports. Reasonable rates. For catalogue address Mrs. V. A. C. Stockard, President and Founder, Nevada, Missouri.

M A I N E A L L E N

S C H O O L

FOR

B O Y S

A school where boys are made self-reliant. Preparation for all colleges and scientific schools. Teacher for every 6 boys. Music, Manual Training. Drawing. 6 buildings. Gymna sium. Swimming Pool. Athletic Field. Junior School for younger boys. Catalogue. West Newton, Mass.

M I S S F A U L K N E R ' S H O U S E OF EDUCATION

For the Training of Gentlewomen. Dedham, Massachusetts.

A B B O T T ,

A

H O M E

S C H O O L

FOR

B O Y S

Unusual, equipment. Three homes. Separate Schoolhouse. Sepa rate Gymnasium. Athletic field. Three tennis courts. 30 acres. Exhilarating climate. Winter sports. College preparatory and business courses. 12th year opens Sept. 24th. Terms $700. Address Headmaster, Farmirrgton, Maine. W A Y N F L E T E

S C H O O L

FOR

G I R L S

Two acres for outdoor sports. Outdoor classrooms and sleeping porches, if desired. Separate residence and school building. Cer tificate to college. Domestic Science. Limited number allows personal care. Write for booklet. Miss Crisfield, Miss Lowell, Principals, Portland, Maine. t

M i s s

H A L L ' S

For Girls.

S C H O O L

Miss Mira H . Hall, Principal, Pittsfield, Mass.

T

E

N

N

E

S

S

E

E

W A R D - B E L M O N T H O W A R D

S E M I N A R Y

A Real Country School for Girls. 25 miles from Boston. 10 acres for outdoor sports. College certificate. Two years' course for high school graduates. Domestic Science. Art and Music studios. Miss Sarah E . Laughton, A . M . , Principal, West Bridgewater, Massachusetts.

Uniting and continuing Belmont College for Young Women (24th Year), and Ward Seminary for Young Ladies Ugth Year). Opens Sept. 25th. Academic, College Preparatory, Music, Art, Expression. Domestic Science, Physical Education. Apply today. Registration limited. Jennie Taylor Masson, Registrar, Nashville, Tenn.

C A L I F O R N I A

T E N A C R E

A school for twenty-five young girls. Preparatory to Dana Hall. Terms $850. Miss Helen Temple Cooke, Dana Hall, Wellesley, Mass. H O U S E

IN

T H E

P I N E S

A school for girls. Intermediate and academic courses. Lan guages—native teachers. Music, Household Arts. Every atten tion, not only to habits of study, but to each girl's health and happiness. Miss Cornish and Miss Hyde, Principals, Norton, Massachusetts (40 minutes from Boston).

D A N F O R T H

S C H O O L

The country life school for boys. Estate of 200 acres. 22 miles from Boston. James Chester Flagg, A . B . , Master, Box S, Framingham, Mass.

32d

GIRLS'

C O L L E G I A T E

S C H O O L .

" CASA DE R O S A S "

Twenty-second year begins September 25th. Accredited at leading colleges. Music, art, gymnasium, domestic science. Beautiful buildings, fine equipment. Limited number of resident pupils. Miss Parsons and Miss Dennen, Principals, Adams and Hoover Streets, Los Angeles, California.

V

T H E

V E R M O N T

E

R

M

A C A D E M Y

O

N

FOR

T

B O Y S

An ideal school for wholesome training and thorough education. Special attention to life in the open. Certificate to Colleges. Lower school for younger boys. Terms $400—8500. George B. Lawson, A . M . , D . D . , Principal, Saxtons River, Vermont.


MAGAZINE

SCHOOLS

AND COLLEGES N E W

J E R S E Y

Peddie Institute NsS) ^

In choosing a school for your boy, you place character and scholarship foremost in your requirements. So do we in selecting our boys. We have an enviable record for fitting boys for college and for life. And we have 250 enthusiastic boys here. We prepare for all colleges and engineering schools. Thorough business course. Location nine miles from Princeton; region unsurpassed for health. Modern equipment. Sixty-acre campus, ath letic field, gymnasium with indoor track and swimming pool. Laboratories, library, observatory, museum. Summer camp. Rates $400 to #500. Lower School for boys 11 to 14 years. 48th year opens Sept. 24th, 1913. Write today for catalogue and booklets. II. W . S W E T L A N 1 ) , A . M . , H e a d m a s t e r , Box G, Hi htstonn, N. J .

Nnv Fireproof" Dormitory

K

IVY

HALL

M I S S

M A C D O N A L D A N D M I S S S C H O O L

F I N N ' S

F O R G I R L S

College preparatory and finishing courses. Certificate admits to Wellesley, Smith, M t . H o l y o k e , Vassar. Exceptional advantages i n music. Boating, basket-ball a n d other out door sports. Bridgeton, N . J . (near Philadelphia). K E N T

P L A C E

OUR AIM—"The Best Boys' School in America'

S C H O O L

F O R G I R L S

M r s . P a u l , M i s s W o o d m a n , Principals. H a m i l t o n W . M a b i e , President of B o a r d of Directors. College Preparatory and Gen eral Courses, Domestic Science. N e w school building. G y m n a sium. I n the Jersey H i l l s , 20 miles from N e w Y o r k . Circulars on request. Summit, N e w Jersey. A medium-priced school with a high-class equipment. Modern buildings of brick and steel, well furnished, in mountain air: every advantage offered by other schools, legardless ot price; lake, gymnasium, s w i in in i n g pool. Certificate privileges Conservatory advantages i n M u s i c , in c l u d i n g pipe o r organ. G i rArt, l s H o m e E c o n o m i c s , Expression, A twoyears course in college subjects for high school graduates. Catalogue. JONATHAN M. MEEKER, Ph. D., D. D., Principal Box s, Hackettstown, N. J .

Centenary collegiate

insitute

1

PRINCETON

PREPARATORY

SCHOOL

College preparatory school for boys over fourteen. R a p i d prog ress possible because of limited number of pupils (60) a n d free dom from rigid class organization. Excellent equipment and facil ities i n the way of buildings and grounds. Special attention given to Athletics and moral welfare. 40th year. Personal inspection invited. F o r year book, address J . B . Fine, Headmaster, Princeton, N e w Jersey.

Miss B E A R D - S S C H O O L F o r G i r l s . A. country school 13 miles from N e w Y o r k C i t y . C o l lege preparatory and special courses. M u s i c , A r t , and Domestic Science. Illustrated catalogue o n request. Address M i s s Lucie C . Beard, Orange, N . J .

Bordentown Military Institute Bordentown-on-the-Delaware, N . J . 3 9 tli

Year

P u r p o s e : O u r purpose is the i n d i v i d u a l de velopment of the boy's character a n d schol arship for the work of the w o r l d i n college, scientific school or business. F a c u l t y : A large, sympathetic, efficient body of experienced instructors. I n s t r u e t i o n : T h o r o u g h i n method a n d result, but flexible enough to suit the i n d i v i d ual needs of each boy.

DWIGHT

SCHOOL

FOR GIRLS. ENGLEWOOD, NEW JERSEY A n e x c e p t i o n a l l y g o o d school, c o m b i n i n g the best features o f the college preparatory a n d finishing school, with special ad vantages for post-graduate work. Beautiful location, suburban N e w Y o r k City. Certificates accepted b y Vassar, Smith, Wellesley a n d W e l l s . Spacious grounds tor outdoor games. G y m n a s i u m . Tennir • Box 607. Miss CREIGHTON and Miss FARRAR, Principals

L o c a t i o n : H e a l t h f u l location on the D e l a ware, halfway between P h i l a d e l p h i a a n d N e w Y o r k . R e m a r k a b l e health record. N o malaria. S c h o o l J L i f e : H i g h standard of social a n d moral student life. Supervised athletics, wholesome food, carefully regulated daily program of work a n d recreation, a n d partial student government i n m i l i t a r y organiza tion a n d drill produce sound bodies, capa ble minds and cheerful dispositions. F o r catalogue, address Rev. T: H . L A N D O N , A . M . , D . D . , Principal Col.

m


T . D.

LANDO.V,

Commandant.

MAGAZINE

33

SCHOOLS AND N E W

Montclair Academy

J E R S E Y

A School for Boys

Invites correspondence or, better, a personal v i s i t f r o m those desiring the best Situated on the Orange Mountains, 15 miles from New York. Complete modern equipment, including Gymnasium, Swimming Pool and Athletic Field. A teacher for every nine boys, making possible individual attention. Certificate accepted by all colleges admitting on certificate. Also offers a practical course for boys not going to college. References required from all applicants for ad mission to the school. Illustrated catalogue a n d copy o f " Your Boy and Our School," which will interest y o u no matter where your b o y Is educated, on request. Address JOHN G. MacVICAR, Headmaster, Bo* 22, Montclair, N. J .

COLLEGES ( C O N T I N U E D )

BLAIR A C A D E M Y V e r y liberally endowed. 65th year. 80 miles from N e w Y o r k . Prepares for any college or technical school. Beautiful, healthful location. F i n e buildings. 100-acre campus. T w o gymnasiums. Illustrated catalogue o n request. J o h n C . Sharpe, A . M . , D . D . , Principal, P . O . B o x N , B l a i r s t o w n , N e w Jersey. M O R R I S T O W N

C A R L T O N

MARY'S

HALL

FOR

GIRLS

General a n d College Preparatory Courses. Exceptional a d vantages i n M u s i c and A r t . Domestic Science Course. Special attention given to Physical Culture a n d Outdoor Sports, also Aesthetic D a n c i n g and Horseback R i d i n g . N e w B u i l d i n g w i t h fine dining hall a n d gymnasium. M r s . Fearnley, P r i n c i p a l , Burlington, N . J . , 18 miles from Philadelphia.

A C A D E M Y

A boarding school for boys, with Catholic laymen as teachers. Seven-acre campus, modern buildings i n the Jersey hills, 21 miles from N e w Y o r k . S m a l l classes, individual t r a i n i n g i n study a n d athletics. Prepares for all colleges or business. Catalogue on request. Resident chaplain. C H A R L E S H . S C H U L T Z , A . M . , Headmaster, Summit, N e w Jersey. K l N G S L E Y S C H O O L FOR B O Y S In the N e w Jersey hills, 22 miles from N e w Y o r k . Prepares for all colleges and scientific schools. I n d i v i d u a l attention i n small classes. Separate residence for younger boys. G y m n a s i u m a n d extensive grounds for athletics and sports. F o r catalogue address J . R . C a m p b e l l , M . A . , Headmaster, B o x 82, Essex Fells, N . J .

THE ST.

S C H O O L

College Preparatory B o a r d i n g School for Boys. Small classes. Supervised sports; new g y m n a s i u m . L o w e r School for boys 10 to 14. A d v i s o r y Board— President H i b b e n . Princeton ; D e a n H u r l b u t . Harvard : Rev. A n s o n Phelps Stokes. J r . , Secretary of Y a l e ; Professor H a l l o c k . C o l u m b i a ; President Pritchett, Carnegie F o u n d a t i o n . M o r r i s t o w n , N e w Jersey.

PENNINGTON

S C H O O L

Governor W O O D R O W W I L S O N said: " D u r i n g the past twenty-five years, I have kept more or less i n touch w i t h Pennington. I con sider i t one of the best Preparatory Schools i n the state." P r e pares for a l l A m e r i c a n colleges a n d technical schools. M e n teachers. N e w G y m n a s i u m . Strong moral and religious atmos phere. Y e a r l y rate $400 to $600. W h y pay more? Investigation solicited. W r i t e F r a n k M a c D a n i e l , A . M . , D . D . , Headmaster, Pennington, N . J .

ILLINOIS

T O D D

S E M I N A R Y

F O R B O Y S

A

1000 feet above the sea. Absolutely healthful. 66 years of successful training of boys 7 to 16 years old. E v e r y graduate has proved himself a man. H i g h l y commended by mothers. O u r i d e a l — " F o r livery T o d d Boy a G o o d Citi zen.*' W r i t e for book a n d information about Northern Summer C a m p . N o b l e H i l l , Principal, Woodstock, 111. ( i hour from Chicago.) N O R T H W E S T E R N

M IL I T A R Y A N D

N A V A L

A C A D E M Y

Highland Park, 111., and Lake Geneva, Wis. A select school with a high standard of Academic work, supplemented by the phys ical, moral and social benefits of a Military and Naval life. Limited enrollment. References required. Catalogue. Address Col. R, P. Davidson, Superintendent, Lake Geneva, Wis. M O N T I C E L L O

S E M I N A R Y

76th year opens Sept. 18th, 1913. School for Y o u n g W o m e n a n d Girls. Pre paratory and Junior College Courses. Domestic Science. M u s i c , A r t . Certificate privileges. F i n e buildings. Well-equipped laboratory. Gymna sium. Beautiful campus, w i t h tennis courts, archery range, basket-ball and hockey fields. Rates moderate. M I S S M A R T I N A C. E R I C K S O N , P r i n . , Godfrey, 111.

Sixiy-jifth

Year

ROCKFORD COLLEGE FOR WOMEN

Founded in 1857.

I L L I N O I S

BOY'S W H O L E

TIME

E a c h hour of a boy's life at L a k e Forest is finely filled. H e is taught to meet, not to shirk, the responsibilities of life, and consequently he succeeds a n d be comes a good citizen. Prepares for a n y college, university or technical school. House System. Non - Military. Five buildings. W r i t e for catalogue. Head master, B o x 108, L a k e Forest A c a d e m y , L a k e Forest, Illinois.

W O M A N ' S

C O L L E G E

A Standard College—One of the Best. F u l l College a n d Prepara tory Courses. Special advantages i n M u s i c , A r t , Expression, Home Economics. Students from 26 states. W r i t e for catalogue. Address T h e Registrar, B o x H , Jacksonville, 111.

Western

Military Academy

A L T O N , I L L . A preparatory school not excelled b y any s i m i l a r institution any-

ROCKFORD. I L L .

B . A . a n d B . S. Broad culture, with elective vocational courses that fit for life and for selfsupport. Faculty in close touch with the girls. Chosen body of students. Health and safety para mount. Pure air, pure artesian water, fine campus. New fire-proof dormitory, electric light, steam heat. G o o d table. Catalogue. B o x 3. JULIA

34

H . GULLIVER,

PHD.,

LL.D.,

PRES.

aence advisable. Col. A. M. Jackson. A. M . , Supt., Box 77


MAGAZINE

SCHOOLS

AND COLLEGES C O N N E C T I C U T

O H I O


RUMSEY HALL

CORNWALL CONN.

OXF0RD.OHI0.1 LOUIS H . S C H U T T E , M . A . , Headmaster. B o x H

presents college life and educational op portunities in the forms most attractive to serious-minded students. Complete curriculum with highest standards i n every department. Faculty of brilliant attainment. Music courses are equal to Conservatory Study. Art and Domestic Science special features. Western College aims to secure symmetrical development in physical health, mental and religious culture. 350 acres including 90 acres of

The Taconic School FOR

GIRLS.

LakeTllle, Conn.

Overlookingra Beautiful L a k e in the Berkshire Hills. Girls taught how to study. T h o r o u g h college preparation. M u s i c , A r t , Literature, Domestic Science. N e w gymnasium. Tennis, basketball, boating. W i n t e r sports. Catalogue on request. M i s s Lilian Dixon, A. B „ Principal Miss Catharine Burrowes A. B. Associate Principal

campus of extreme beauty .College f a r m and dairy. N e w G y m n a s i u m , tennis, golf. N o preparatory department. Graduates eligible to best positions.

illustrated literature sent on request. HARY A. SAWYER, A. II., Litt. II., Dean. Box 33, O X F O R D , O . (One hour from Cincinnati)

G L E N

D A L E

C O L L E G E

F O RW O M E N

A N D G I R L S

One of the most beautifully located and healthful surroundings in America. Every condition for thorough courses and liberal culti vation. Art, Music, Expression, Household Science. Terms moderate. Miss R. J . DeVore, President, Glendale, Ohio (suburban to Cincinnati). H A R C O U R T

P L A C E

S C H O O L

In a college town overlooking- the valley of the Kokosing. Three admirable building's. College and final Preparatory work, also Special Courses for High School graduates. Music, Art, History, Literature, Domestic Science, Physical Training. Certificate admits to Wellesley and Vassar. Catalogue. Miss Harriette Merwin, Principal, Gambier, Ohio. T H E

B A R T H O L O M E W - C L I F T O N

S C H O O L

F O R G I R L S

An attractive home department. Prepares for the best colleges. Advanced course for High School Graduates. Music, Art, Languages, Travel Classes and Domestic Science. Miss E . A . Ely, A . M . , and Miss M . F . Smith, Principals, Box S, Evanswood, Clifton, Cincinnati, Ohio.

T H E

In the country.

S A L I S B U R Y

S C H O O L

W Y K E H A M

Miss HOWE A N D M I S S MAROT'S S C H O O L For girls desiring general, advanced and college preparatory courses. Unusual advantages in Modern Languages, Music, Art and Physical Training. Thirty acres. Mansion house and cottages. All outdoor sports. Circular on request. Thompson, Conn.

M i s s Davies, P r i n c i p a l . Washington, Connecticut.

G A T E W A Y

A School for Girls of all ages. Miss Alice E . Reynolds, Principal, St. Ronaq Terrace, New Haven, Connecticut.

A School for Girls. The Misses Tewksbury, Principals, New Milford, Litchfield County, Connecticut.

F O R G I R L S

M A R G A R E T ' S

S C H O O L

C U R T I S

S C H O O L

F O RY O U N G

B O Y S

Two hours from New York. A wholesome life in the foothills of the Berkshires. Constant and careful attention to individual develop ment. Separate room for each boy. 50 acres. Gymnasium. Write for booklet. Frederick S. Curtis, Principal, Brookfield Center, Conn. T H E

I N G L E S I D E

S C H O O L

College Preparatory and Diploma Courses. Thirty-ninth year. Modern equipment. Miss Emily Gardner Munro, A . M . , Principal, Waterbury, Connecticut. T H E

T H E

P H E L P S

College Preparatory and Elective courses. Intermediate depart ment. Music, Art. Resident teacher in charge of gymnasium and outdoor life. Tennis, Basket Ball, Riding. For catalogue address The Misses Peck, Principals, Wallingford, Connecticut. S A I N T

R I S E

A Country School for Girls.

One hour from New York City. Greenwich, Connecticut.

A school for 6 s boys. In the Berkshire Hills. 180 acres. Modern buildings. New gymnasium. $850.00. Address Rev. Geo. E . Quaile, M.A., Salisbury, Conn.

T H E

C O N N E C T I C U T

E L Y S C H O O L

For Girls.

C A T H A R I N E

A I K E N

S C H O O L

F O R G I R L S

Number limited. 45 minutes from New York. College certificate. General courses. A l l outdoor sports. Address Mrs. Harriet Beecher Scoville Devan (A.B. Wellesley), Prin., Stamford, Conn.

In answering advertisements please mention SCRIBNER

S

MAGAZINE

35

SCHOOLS

AND COLLEGES

P E N N S Y L V A N I A

" Why Should I Send My Son to a Military School?" In answer to the above question, from a mother, Col. CHAS. E . H Y A T T , President of

Pennsylvania Military College CHESTER, P A . sent the telegram here reproduced: THE

WESTERN

UNION

26,000 OFFICES 'N AMERICA

Mrs.

J. PORTER

TELEGRAPH

COMPANY

CABLE SERVICE TO ALL THE WORLD

ASHEROOK,

Bridgeboro, New Jersey. Military education trains for exercise of power and dis charge of responsibility; gives a personal standard of duty based upon obedience to lawful authority ; uses precept, example and wide range of disciplinary duty as agencies in making character; compels thought of others and their interests; continually imposes self-restraint, discipline for continuous effort, for emergencies, for sacrifice. Under no other system can one so surely or so fully find himself; aims to make the body a responsive and capable machine; the mind an alert, efficient, forceful agency; the soul a correct interpreterof and motive power for right. Col. CHAS. E . H Y A T T , President. A fuller presentation of what this great school has to offer is contained in our catalogue, which we shall be glad to send upon request. PREPARATORY AND COLLEGIATE COURSES. Degrees granted in Civil Engineering (C. E.) Chemistry (B. S.) Art (A. B.)

EVELOPS women of culture and personality. But d o e s far more: discovers each student's ambi tious and abilities along practical lines, and fits her for any remunera tive vocation which she may need or desire to pursue later in life. And doeB each thoroughly. Early train ing for possible emergencies is most wise and prudent. No daughter should be left unprepared.

College Preparatory;College Departments; Conservatory of M u s i c ; A r t , A r t s a n d Crafts, Oratory. Courses i n Domestic Arts and Sciences. Secretaryship, Normal Gymnastics, N o r m a l K i n dergarten as e l e c t i v e s . S w i m m i n g P o o l , Athletic F i e l d and new G y m n a s i u m . R o o m s with private bath. M o d e r a t e terms. A p p l y for catalogue to

Ogontz

School For Young Ladies

Founded 1850 Securing i n d i v i d u a l and complete development of each pupil. A unique and flexible adaptation of both classes and individual in struction in language, litera ture, history, music, science, art, economics and domes tic s c i e n c e . Experienced faculty, a v e r a g i n g one teacher to every five girls. Advantages of exceptional SOUTH WING—MAIN BUILDING carefully supervised physical social and home life, together w i t h Ogontz School. Modernly exercise, are marked features of e q u i p p e d buildings, delight fully situated i n a beautiful suburban park of 65 acres. 2 0 minutes to P h i l a d e l p h i a , affording the exceptional edu cational advantages of the city. For catalog and views address Miss A B B Y A . S U T H E R L A N D Principal Ogontz School P- O . Penna. PERKIOMEN SEMINARY High-Grade Academy. Co-educational. Small classes. Honor Men in leading colleges. Music, Elocution, Domestic Science, Agriculture. Strongly moral. No profanity, liquor, tobacco, or hazing. $350.00 to $400.00. Catalogue free. Rev. O- S. Kriebel, D . D . , Principal, Box 106, Pennsburg, Pa.

Birmingham

School For Girls

Beautiful mountain situation, noted for its pure, healthy air. Special care given to the development of character and social training. Motto: "Sound Mind in a Sound Body." Mod ern equipment, 6 home-like buildings,100 acres of park land. Academic and College Prepara tory courses. Music, Domestic Science. Gym nasium. Athletic Field ; Physical Director. Main Line P. R. R. Catalogue on request. A. R. GR.IER, Pres., Box H , Birmingham, Pa,

Beechwood A Cultural and Practical School M. H. REASER. Ph. D., Pres. For Rev. D. R. KERR, D. D., LL. D., Associate Young Jenkintown, Pa.{23 minutes from Philadelphia) Women

SWARTHMORE Preparatory School F o r B o y s A thoroughly efficient home school for boys. E l e v e n miles from P h i l a d e l p h i a in a residential and college suburb, without saloons or factories. Unqualifiedly endorsed by its neighbors. Special advantages of college environment. Remarkable health record for twenty years due to perfected water and sewage systems, sanitary, modern b u i l d i n g s , and wholesome reg ulation o f exercise a n d habits. A m p l e provision for indoor a n d out door athletics under faculty supervision. U n u s u a l l y adequate preparation for college. Instructors of success ful experience a n d culture. " U n i t s y s t e m " of promotion b y subject. A unique record i n the properly balanced development of boys, men tally, morally, physically, socially. Junior S c h o o l for smaller boys, w i t h separate dormitory. F o r de tailed information address A r t h u r H . T o m l i n s o n . Swarthmore. P a .

36

Entrance to one of the Main Buildings

Miss Marshall's School For Girls

O a k Lane,

Philadelphia

A S c h o o l o f m a n y advantages. Situated i n P h i l a d e l p h i a ' s most beautiful suburb. C o l l e g e Preparatory, G e n e r a l and Special Courses. M u s i c , A r t , E l o c u t i o n . Supervised A t h l e t i c s o n the spacious S c h o o l G r o u n d s . Cata. logue. M i s s E . S. M A R S H A L L , O A K L A N E , P H I L A D E L P H I A , P A .


MAGAZINE

SCHOOLS

AND COLLEGES

PENNSYLVANIA

The Baldwin School

T H E

MISSES SHIPLEYS SCHOOL

Preparatory

-to Bryn

(CONTINUED)

Mawr

College

Instruction : I n d i v i d u a l instruction of l i m i t e d num b e r of pupils b y specialists i n a l l departments. A n aver age of one teacher to every s i x girls. T w o resident F r e n c h teachers. Courses: D i p l o m a i n College Preparatory and A c a d e m i c Courses. Certificate admits to V a s s a r , S m i t h a n d Wellesley. Situation: I n healthful suburb, w i t h the special edu c a t i o n a l a n d social opportunities of situation opposite B r y n M a w r College. B u i l d i n g : S p e c i a l l y designed C o l o n i a l b u i l d i n g , w i t h every appointment for h o m e l i k e comfort. N e w class rooms i n the autumn. Athletics: Supervised, indoors a n d outdoors, b y resi dent E n g l i s h D i r e c t o r . N e w g y m n a s i u m i n process of construction. Y o u n g e r P u p i l s : Instruction and daily life v a r i e d to suit the personality, health a n d mental needs of each c h i l d .

for

Girls

BRYN MAWR PENNA

Prepares for Bryn M a w r , Smith, Vassar a n d W e l lesley Colleges. A 1 s o strong general course with diploma. Exclusive possession for the entire year of the fire proof stone building and extensive grounds makes possible many improvements before the opening of the next school year. Jane L . Brownell, A . M , , Head of the School. Elizabeth Forrest Johnson, A.B.,Associate Head of the School For catalogue address T h e B a l d w i n School, P . O . B o x F . B r y n M a w r , P a .

F o r catalogue, address The

Secretary, B o x J , B r y n

Mawr,

Pa.

MercersburgAcademy Mercersburg, Pa.

WILLIAM MANN IRVINE, L L . D. Headmaster, Box 104

St. Lukes School

FOR BOYS

is " a thorough and honest school, the kind of school to -which se?isible parents desire to send their sons."—BISHOP W'HITAKER T h e uniform success of our graduates i n life, both at college a n d in business, is proof of our sound methods i n t r a i n i n g boys from 10 to 18 years o f age. T h e refinement o f our home-life a n d the careful i n d i v i d u a l i n struction b y experienced teachers produce i n o u r students con tentment, culture, a n d scholarship. Our situation is healthful, naturally beautiful, a n d free from u n desirable influences. Our g r o u n d s are large, 30 acres i n a l l . O u r b u i l d i n g s are new. Athletics are encouraged both o n the large athletic field a n d i n the g y m n a s i u m , but are closely supervised as a n essential part o f a boy's education. Our l i m i t e d number o f students permits special attention to each b o y ' s health, morals, scholarship, a n d comfort. Y o u c a n wisely trust your boy to our care. F o r illustrated cat alogue, with further details, address C H A R L E S H E N R Y S T R O U T , A . M . , Headmaster W a y n e , P a . (14 miles from P h i l a d e l p h i a )

G E O R G E

S C H O O L '

U n d e r management o f Society o f F r i e n d s . E n d o w e d . T h o r o u g h c o l l e g e preparation. G e n e r a l course, e m p h a s i z i n g E n g l i s h , Science, M a n u a l T r a i n i n g , Domestic S c i e n c e . N e w s w i m m i n g p o o l . A t h l e t i c fields. 227 acres o n N e s h a m i n y Creek, 25 miles north o f P h i l a d e l p h i a . G e o r g e A . Walton, A . M . , Principal, George School P . O . , B u c k s Co., Pennsylvania. Miss C O W L E S ' S C H O O L F O R G I R L S ( H i g h l a n d Hall.1 E m m a M i l t o n Cowles, A . 6., H e a d o f S c h o o l . Prepares for all colleges. Certificate privileges. S t r o n g general course. M u s i c , A r t , a n d Domestic S c i e n c e . Healthful location. G y m n a s i u m , S w i m m i n g P o o l and S l e e p i n g P o r c h . R e s i d e n t P h y s i c a l D i r e c t o r . F o r catalogue address T h e Secretary, H o l l i d a y s b u r g , P e n n s y l v a n i a . T H E

B E S T

M E D I U M

for school advertising is the one which has weight and influence in the homes where the advantages of the Private School are recognized, appreciated and acted upon. Such a medium builds up an institution by supplying it with students who will be a credit to it.

Walnut Lane School FOR GIRLS. 56th Y e a r . I n the heart o f beautiful, historic G e r m a n t o w n . C u l t u r a l a d vantages o f the city c o m b i n e d w i t h the health o f the country. G e n e r a l course. Special courses for H i g h S c h o o l graduates. Certificate admits to W e l l e s l e y , Vassar, S m i t h , M t . H o l y o k e . M u s i c , A r t , E l o c u t i o n , Domestic Science, S e w i n g . E x c e p t i o n a l social life with i n d i v i d u a l care. P h y s i c a l culture, tennis, b a s k e t b a l l , riding. Miss S. EDNA JOHNSTON. A . B., Prin., Germantown, Philadelphia


MAGAZINE

37

SCHOOLS AND COLLEGES P E N N S Y L V A N I A

M A R Y L A N D

(CONTINUED)

WYOMING SEMINARY College Preparation, Business, Domestic Science, Music, Elocu tion. Co-educational. Fine buildings. 69th year opens Sept. 17th. Catalogue. L . L . Sprague, D . D . , President, Kingston, Penna. FRANKLIN AND MARSHALL ACADEMY Founded 1787. Enters about 40 boys to colleges each year. Modern dormitories. Laboratories, gymnasium, athletic field. $125,000 in recent improvements. Good health record. Terms moderate. Catalog. T . G . Helm, A . M . ; E . M . Hartman, A . M . , Principals, Lancaster, Pennsylvania. WILSON COLLEGE FOR W O M E N Beautiful situation i n the C u m b e r l a n d V a l l e y . E x t e n s i v e campus, approved water supply. G o o d social atmosphere, strong faculty, h i g h intellectual standards, solid and thorough work. Courses lead to B . A . degree. G o o d department of music. Catalogue and book of views on request. A n n a J a n e M c K e a g , P h . D . , L L . D . , President, Chambersburg, P a . T H E M I S S E S SCHOOL Prepares for B r y n o f pupils limited. who have entered sports. 15th year

KIRK'S COLLEGE

ONE OF T W E L V E SCHOOL BUILDINGS

The Tome School T T 7 I T H its endowment of over two and a h a l f m i l " ' lion dollars, it c a n limit its enrolment to boys of high character. It has a f a c u l t y of u n u s u a l strength and size. It has created a n unique type of school life. It can give m u c h individual atten tion through its special tutors. Its graduates take high honors i n the leading colleges a n d technical schools. E a c h boy has his own room. It has the most beautiful school buildings a n d grounds i n A m e r i c a . It has one hundred and seventy-five acres, on w h i c h are a nine-hole g o l f course, five athletic fields, swimming pool, quarter-mile cinder t r a c k , tennis courts and batting cage. Its tuition of $700 would have to be fifty per cent greater were it not for its endowment. The L O W E R S C H O O L F O R L I T T L E B O Y S offers all the advantages of the U p p e r F o r m s w i t h the spe cial benefit of a separate dormitory and a separate organization.

PREPARATORY

M a w r and other colleges. Certificate privileges. N u m b e r Special schedule arranged for each. Percentage of pupils B r y n M a w r College unusually large. Gymnastics, outdoor opens October 2, 1913. B r y n M a w r , P a .

P E N N HALL School for Girls. C o l l e g e Preparatory, M o d e r n L a n g u a g e , M u s i c , A r t a n d Domestic Science Courses. Certificate privileges. A l l outdoor sports. R o o m s with private bath. H o t e l Gladstone, Chelsea, A t l a n t i c City, N . J . , occupied b y school d u r i n g M a y each year. Rates, $4^5- Catalogue a n d views. Address F r a n k S. M a g i l l , A . M . , P r i n . , B o x B , Chambersburg, P e n n s y l v a n i a . Miss SAYWARD'S SCHOOL FOR GIRLS I n suburb o f P h i l a d e l p h i a . College preparatory and special courses. Cer tificate admits to leading colleges. M u s i c department. Physical training, outdoor sports, horseback r i d i n g , s w i m m i n g . Grounds and b u i l d i n g to b e enlarged. Develops character, m i n d and body. M i s s S. Janet Sayward, P r i n c i p a l , Overbrook, Pennsylvania.

N E W

Illustrated Book on Request

H A M P S H I R E

T H O M A S S T O C K H A M B A K E R , P h . D . , Director Port Deposit, M a r y l a n d

Holderness School FOR BOYS Plymouth, N . H . Prepares for Colleges a n d T e c h n i c a l Schools. R a n k s w i t l i the highest grade schools o f N e w E n g l a n d , yet the tuition is moderate. I n d i v i d u a l influences a n d instruction. N e w gymnasium. A t h l e t i c field, r u n n i n g track. 34th year. Rev.

1853

M a r y l a n d

C o l l e g e

f o r

W o m e n

w u

LORIN WEBSTER, L . H. D., Rector

T H E PHILLIPS EXETER ACADEMY Unusual opportunities for boys of exceptional character and ability. 133rd year opens Sept. 17th, 1913. Catalogue and views. Address Harlan P. Amen, Principal, Exeter, New Hampshire.

Music HALL GORDON HALL CENTRE HALL GRACE HALL T h e most ideal C o l l e g e i n the country i n Size, a v o i d i n g the strain of great numbers; History, o f 60 successful years; Location, suburbs of Baltimore, near W a s h i n g t o n , 500 ft. elevation; Strength o f its various courses o f study l e a d i n g to degrees; n e w fireproof buildings; private baths; s w i m m i n g pool. G y m n a s i u m , F i e l d Sports. Two and three-year courses for High School graduates; Superior Music Conservatory; Graduate Schools of Domestic Science and Elocution; Non-sectarian; elevating home life. F o r catalogue and view book address C H A R L E S W. G A L L A G H E R , D.D., Box G , Lutherville, M d .

N O T R E D A M E OF M A R Y L A N D R H O D E

MOSES

BROWN

I S L A N D

SCHOOL

Upper School—Thorough preparation for college and technical school. Athletic fields and gymnasium with swimming pool. Lower School—Special home care and training of younger boys. Graded classes. Outdoor sports. Catalog. Seth K . Gifford, Ph.D., Principal, Providence, R. I.

38

A College for Women—conducted by the School Sisters of Notre Dame to train the body, mind and spirit—to develop true woman hood. Magnificent buildings in a beautiful park of 70 acres. Row ing, basketball, tennis, hockey. Instructors all specialists. Regu lar and elective courses. Music, Art. Write for catalog. Charles Street Avenue, Baltimore, Maryland.

T H E

GIRLS' LATIN

SCHOOL

Admits to Vassar, Wellesley, Smith, Goucher and M t . Holyoke. l t y of experienced, college-trained, Christian women. A healthful, happy home in a charming city. 24th year. Catalog. Miss Wilmot, A . B . , Headmistress, Baltimore, M d . A

f a c u


MAGAZINE

SCHOOLS

AND

W A S H I N G T O N ,

COLLEGES D. C.

All the attractive features of the large and the small school

For Girls Washington, D . C. (Suburbs)

National Park Seminary

A Junior College with Preparatory Department and two years of collegiate work. Rational courses of great range. Opportunities for social development, intimate teaching and companionships. The school life of the girl a preparation for the real life of the woman. Specialists in Music, Art, Elocution, Domestic Science,

Arts and Crafts, Secretarial branches, Library Methods, Business Law. Modern Gymnasium—indoor and open-air sports. Bowling, Swimming, Riding. Democracy of life and consideration for the individual. Descriptive illustrated volume, mailed to parents interested in the choice of a school for their daughters. Address the REGISTRAR, NATIONAL PARK SEMINARY, Box 102, Forest Glen, Maryland.

G U N S T O N

H A L L

B E L C O U R T

A School for Girls. Established 1892. Preparatory and Academic Courses. Two years Post-graduate and College work. Music, Art, and Expression. Building specially planned for the school. Athletics. Mrs. Beverley R. Mason, Principal; Miss E . M . Clark, L L . A . , Associate, 1906 Florida Ave., Washington, D . C . M I S S

M A D E I R A ' S

S C H O O L

N A T I O N A L

For Girls. College preparatory with certificate privilege to Vassar, Smith and Wellesley. Complete academic course for pupils not going to college. T w o years' advanced course for High School graduates. Music and art. Gymnasium and athletics. Miss Lucy Madeira, A.B. (Vassar), 1326 19th St., Washington, D . C . M A R T H A

W A S H I N G T O N

S E M I N A R Y

S C H O O L

F O R

G I R L S

C O L L E G E

For Girls and Y o u n g W o m e n . L o c a t e d w i t h i n N a t i o n a l C a p i t a l ; park of 10 acres; choicest educational and social advantages ; refined associations, most beautiful home life. Preparatory, Certificate a n d C o l l e g e Courses. M u s i c , A r t , E l o c u t i o n , D o m e s t i c Science. Literature o n request. A d d r e s s F. Menefee, President, W a s h i n g t o n , D . C . C H E V Y

S C H O O L

For Girls. F r e n c h Residence. E l e c t i v e , Preparatory, Academic a n d t w o years' Collegiate Courses. N e w $50,000 additional fireproof b u i l d i n g . G y m nasium, s w i m m i n g pool. Basketball, tennis. Literature, Psychology. Civics, by M e r r i l l E . Gates, P h . D . , L L . D - , L . H . D . , ex-President Amherst Colleg-e. M i s s A l i c e A . Bristol, Principal, M i n t w o o d PI. and 19th St., W a s h i n g t o n , D . C .

FaiRMONT

C A T H E D R A L

Fireproof building. Accommodation for 100 boarding pupils. In Cathedral Close of 40 acres. Unrivalled music, art and special courses. Certificates to college. The Bishop of Washington, President Board of Trustees; Mrs. Barbour Walker, M . A . , Prin., Mount St. Alban, Washington, D . C . W A S H I N G T O N

For Young Women. In finest residential section of National Capital. _ Two years' course for High School graduates, general and special courses. Domestic Science. Outdoor sports. $600$800. Edward W. Thompson, Principal, 1601 Connecticut Ave., Washington, D . C . B R I S T O L

S E M I N A R Y

H o m e and D a y S c h o o l for G i r l s . U n e x c e l l e d l o c a t i o n . Course l e a d i n g t o d i p l o m a , c o l l e g e preparatory, a n d special courses. Certificate admits to c o l l e g e . E x c e p t i o n a l opportunities i n M u s i c , A r t , E x p r e s s i o n , a n d L a n g u a g e s . Social a n d educational advantages of the Capita!. O u t d o o r sports. A d d r e s s M r s . M . B . S o m e r v e l l , P r i n c i p a l , W a s h i n g t o n , D . C .

C H A S E

S E M I N A R Y

A home school, preparatory and finishing, for young ladies. L i t erature, Music, Art, Elocution and Domestic Science. Campus of eleven acres for outdoor sports. Healthful location in Washing ton's " Suburb Beautiful." Artesian water. Mr. and Mrs. S. N . Barker, Principals, Washington, D . C .

A Home] School L Girls

National Cathedral School A

W A S H I N G T O N ,

Suburban School

on Mount St. Alban, Washington, D . C . A great school for boys, offering exceptional advan tages in the preparation for colleges and for business. Students have unusual opportunity to hear and know men prominent in public life. Remarkably healthful location; /magnificent grounds; 45 acres; fine athletic field; large gym nasium. Modern buildings. The Bishop of Washington (Episcopal) President Board of Trustees. Send today for cata logue. Address E . L. GREGG, Headmaster, B o r 1 0 2 .

D . C .

Regular and Special Courses. Music, Art, Expression. Travel Class. Outdoor Sports. Playground adjoining. Literature on request.

I N D I A N A

E L M H U R S T

Only high grade non-sectarian country school for girls in the Middle West. Number limited to twenty-four. R. D . 6, Box 2 , Connersville, Indiana.

R O S E

P O L Y T E C H N I C

I N S T I T U T E

A College of Engineering. Courses in Mechanical, Electrical, Civil and Chemical Engineering and Architecture. Extensive shops, wellequipped laboratories in all departments, expenses low. 30th year. For catalogue and professional register of alumni, address C . L . Mees, President, Terre Haute, Indiana.

TUDOR

HALL

S C H O O L

FOR GIRLS

Day School, 160 pupils; Boarding pupils, 30. Certificate admits to Vassar, Wellesley, Smith, Cornell, M t . Holyoke. Acad mic courses for pupils not going to college. Music, Art, Voice Culture, Household Science. Native French and German Teachers. Bible study in all departments. 12th year opens September 24th. Miss Fredonia Allen, Ph.B. (Cornell). Principal, 1360 N . Meridian St., Indianapolis, Ind.


MAGAZINE

39

SCHOOLS

AND COLLEGES V I R G I N I A

Staunton Military Academy An Ideal Home School for Manly Boys 380

Boys from 45 States last session. Largest Private Academy in United Boys from JO to 20 years old prepared for the Universities, Government Academies or Business

States.

i,6oo feet above sea-level; pure, dry, bracing mountain air of the famous proverbially healthful and beautiful Valley of the Shenandoah. Pure mineral spring waters. High moral tone. Pa rental discipline. Military training develops obedience, health, manly carriage. Fine shady lawns, expensively equipped gymnasium, swimming pool, athletic park. All manly sports encour aged. Daily drills and exercises in open air. Boys from homes of culture and refinement only desired. Personal, individual instruction by our lulorial system. Standards and traditions high. Academy lifty-lhree years old. New $150,000 barracks, full equipment, absolutely fire-proof. Charges $360. Handsome catalogue free. Address C A P T A I N W M . G. K A B L E ,

Virginia College For

Women.

ROANOKE, VA.

One of the leading Schools in the South. Modern buildings. Extensive campus. Located in the Valley of Virginia, famed for health and beauty of scenery. Elec t i v e , Prepara tory a n d C o l lege Courses. Music, Art, E x pression, D o mestic Science. S u p e r v i s e d ath letics. Students from 32 States. For catalogue address

P h . D., Principal, Staunton, V a .

Sweet Briar College A College for Women, of the grade of Vassar, W e l l e s l e y , S m i t h and Bryu M a w r . F o u r years of collegiate a n d t w o years o f preparatory work are g i v e n . L o c a t e d in the foothills ot the B l u e R i d g e M o u n t a i n s on an estate of 3002 acres. H e a l t h conditions unsurpassed. O n South ern Railroad, south o f W a s h i n g t o n . E i g h t h year opens September 23rd, 1913. Catalogue and views sent upon application. Dr. M A R Y K . B E N E D I C T , President, Box 108 S W E E T BRIAR, VA. ADMINISTRATION BUILDING

M A T T I E P . H A R R I S , President, Roanoke, V a . Mrs. Gertrude Harris Boatwriglit, Vice-Pres.

STUART HALL (Formerly The Virginia Female Institute.) A Church School for Girls in the Blue Ridge Mountains. Diploma for general and music courses. College preparation. Founded 1843. Maria Pendleton Duval, Principal, Staunton, Virginia.

R A N D O L P H - M A C O N BOYS

ACADEMY FOR

A B R A N C H O F T H E R A N D O L P H - M A C O N S Y S T E M . In the Valley of Virginia. Equipment cost $100,000. Large gifts make rates $250 a year. Prepares for College or Scientific Schools. Gymna sium and Athletics. 22nd Session opens Sept. 23rd. Address C H A S . L . M E L T O N , A . M . , Principal, Box 408, Front Royal, Va.

SOUTHERN FEMALE COLLEGE 51st Y e a r . $250 to $350. Historic School for G i r l s , after highest V i r g i n i a standards. Social training. F i v e b u i l d i n g s with g y m n a s i u m . R e g u l a r and special courses. M u s i c , A r t . E x p r e s s i o n . Etfrtnestic* Science. Ideal climate. Steam Heat, E l e c t r i c E i g h t s , Outdoor Athletics. ' . R e a l h o m e life. Arthur K y l e Davis, A . M . , 214 C o l l e g e Place, Petersburg, V a . T H E C H A T H A M E P I S C O P A L I N S T I T U T E FOR G I R L S College Preparatory. Literary, Music, Art, Expression and Busi ness Courses. Certificate admits to leading colleges. New build ings. Ten-acre campus. Athletics. Gymnasium. Terms mod erate. Catalogue and Views. Mrs. Elizabeth M a y Willis, B.P., Prin., Box 10, Chatham, Virginia. MARY BALDWIN SEMINARY FOR Y O U N G LADIES Term begins Sept. n t h , 1013. Located in Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. Unsurpassed climate, beautiful grounds and modem appointments. Students from 34 States. Terms Moderate. Pupils enter any time. Send for catalogue. Miss E . C . Weimar, Principal, Staunton, Virginia.

Hollins College ForW oYoung men Founded 1842. College Course (4 years), College Preparatory (2 years), Music, Art, etc. On an estate of 700 acres, i n the beautiful Valley of Virginia, 7 miles north of Roanoke. Buildings equipped for 250 students and 35 officers and teachers. Catalogue and views.

Miss M A T T Y L . C O C K E , President,

40


B o x 308, H o l l i n s , V i r g i n i a

MAGAZINE

1

SCHOOLS

AND

COLLEGES

CORRESPONDENCE SCHOOLS

T H E UNIVERSITY O F

HOME STUDY

CHICAGO

Correspondence-Study Dept. affera 350 class-room courses to non-resident 3tudents. One may thus do part work for a Bach elor's decree. Elementary courses in many sub jects, others for Teachers, Writers. Accountants, Bankers, Business Men. Ministers, Social Workers, Etc. Begin any time.

U.of C.(Div. F) Chicago. III. DEAF

AND HARD-OF-HEARING

PERSONS CAN

Do Y o u Want A Trained Man's Position?

LEARN

LIP-READING AT HOME

Lessons by m a i l ; copyrighted; easy, rapid system; results uniformly satisfac tory; age no hindrance; terms moderate. D a v i d G r e e n e , S o u t l i i n g t o n , Ct., F o r m e r l y of New Y o r k .

MUSIC AND

DRAMATIC

AMERICAN ACADEMY OF

DRAMATIC

ARTS

Connected with JVIr. C h a r l e s Fr ohman's Empire Theatre and Companies

ARTS

Franklin H . Sargenl President F o r Catalogue a n d I n f o r m a t i o n , apply t o

F O U N D E D

I N 1*84

T h e Secretary, Room 150, C a r n e g i e Hall, New York T H E

W I L S O N - G R E E N E

S C H O O L

O F

M U S I C

For Y o u n g Ladies. Vocal, Piano, Dramatic A r t , Languages, Opera, Concert, Oratorio, and Church. T h i s exclusive home music school .offers the most unique and unusual musical and social advantages of any school in America. Ideal location. Thomas E v a n s Greene, M r s . Wilson-Greene, 2647 Connecticut A v e . , Washington, D . C .

THE

BEST W A Y TO A D V E R T I S E

A

Summer Camp

The trained man is the man in touch with the chief. He is also first in line for promotion. You can be the man " in front." It is all a matter of having the right knowledge that will put you ahead of the other fellow. " But it is too late," you say. " M y age is against me ; I have long hours. M y school ing is limited ; my income small." You are the very man the International Correspondence Schools can help. For over 21 years the I. C. S. has been training men for better positions. No matter how old you are, how little time you have or what your education—the I. C. S. can train you in your own home to become an expert in some particular line of work. Mark and mail the attached coupon NOW. It places you under no obligation and brings you all the information as to how the I. C. S. can make you a trained man.

S C R I B N E R ' S M A G A Z I N E gives special a t t e n t i o n to " S u m m e r C a m p " announce ments.

I t is consulted b y people a l l over

the c o u n t r y desirous of finding a suitable place for their c h i l d r e n d u r i n g the summer. The

present season is d e v e l o p i n g a great

d e m a n d for summer camps—places where boys a n d girls from the p r i v a t e schools m a y spend their vacations most t o their l i k i n g — i n the w i l d s — a n d under the per sonal supervision of those t h o r o u g h l y c o m

INTERNATIONAL

C O R R E S P O N D E N C E SCHOOLS

1

Box938, SCRANTON, P A . Explain, without further obligation on my part, how I can qualify forthe position before which I mark X . Salesmanship Electrical Engineer E l e c . L i g h t i n g Supt. Telephone Expert A r c h i tect B u i l d i n g Contractor Architectural Draftsman Structural Engineer Concrete Construction M e d i a n . Engineer Mechanical Draftsman Civil Engineer Mine Superintendent Stationary E n g i n e e r PUumbing & Steam Fitting Gas E n g i n e s

Civil Service Bookkeeping Stenography & Typewriting Window Trimming Show C a r d W r i t i n g Lettering and Sign Painting Advertising Commercial Illustrating Industrial Designing Commercial Law Automobile Running English Branches Poultry Farming Teacher Spanish Agriculture French Chemist German

petent to undertake such outings. A n announcement of y o u r offering can not be placed where i t w i l l have better p u b l i c i t y or b r i n g surer results t h a n under this heading i n this M a g a z i n e . 41

SCHOOLS

AND

COLLEGES

FOREIGN STUDY A N D TRAVEL

Aloha Tour F o r Y o u n g Ladies Seven months in the most, interesting places of Europe with opportunities for studying the life, customs and languages of the various peoples. Itinerary includes England (and the English Lakes), Belgium, France (including the Chateau re gion of Touraine), Switzerland (winter sports), Germany, the Tyrol and Italy (Venice, Florence, Rome, Naples). About 1 2 girls in the party and three companion-teachers. Free in struction in French given en tour by a graduate of Smith College. Accommodation at first-class pensions and small hotels. The best concerts, plays and operas are frequently attended in various cities. Moderate charge of $1300. Write for folder with complete description of tour. Address Mr. and Mrs. E . L . Gl LICK (Aloha Camp (or Girls) Lyme Road, Hanover, N. H.

VILLA S T . G E O R G E S 60, R u e Borghese, N e u i l l y , Paris. M i l e . C o r n i q u e t receives from ten to twelve y o u n g ladies desirous o f l e a r n i n g F r e n c h , M u s i c , etc. T h e House is situated close to the Bois d e B o u l o g n e a n d is quite modern. Special professors are attached to the establishment. F o r prospectus apply as above to M i l e . C o r n i q u e t . LES C H A R M E T T E S B o i s g u i l l a u m e - l e s - R o u e n , F r a n c e . A l i m i t e d n u m b e r of y o u n g ladies of g o o d social s t a n d i n g are received to complete their k n o w l e d g e of F r e n c h . M u s i c , S i n g i n g , D a n c i n g , P a i n t i n g , F e n c i n g , R i d i n g , etc. T h e H o u s e is situated i n a healthy district a n d stands i n the centre o f a large park. Prospectus from M m e . Ceulemans d ' H o m b e e c k . T H E COIT S C H O O L FOR A M E R I C A N BOYS Thorough preparation for any college or school. Speaking German. Individual instruction. Travel. Entrance exams, of Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and Board held at the School. Circular, address Leslie D . Bissell, Ph.D., Konradstrasse 14, Munich, Germany. CHATEAU D ESOISY , ., A School for Girls. 45 minutes from Paris. Chateau built 1650. Modern equipment. 12-acrepark. French home life. Languages, Music. General courses. University credit. Selected teachers. Moderate tuition. Address Directeur Williamson de Visme, Soisy-sous-Etiolles, S-et-O. T

MR. SARGENT'S TRAVEL S C H O O L FOR BOYS "An experience worth more than can be obtained in any other way." Europe and Round the World in alternate years. Prepares for college or business. Write for catalog. Porter E . Sargent, 50 Congress St., Boston, Mass.

T H E T H OM P SO N- B A L D A S S ER O N I S C H O O L O FT R A V E L F O R G I R L S Sails i n October w i t h P r i n c i p a l for 13th school year of travel a n d study abroad. U s u a l courses. M u s i c no extra. E x t e n s i v e itinerary through eight countries. M r s . H e l e n Scott, Sec'y, Central A v e . , D o v e r , N . H .

Miss MAY'S TRAVEL SCHOOL For girls. Three months' residence, Paris. Three months in Florentine Villa. Two months' travel. French, Italian, History, Art, Literature, oth year. Address for booklet, Miss Edith May, 7 Denton Road, Wellesley, Mass.

FOREIGN S T U D Y A N D T R A V E L FOR G I R L S Villa du Roule School, Paris, France. Principals, Miss Margue rite Gibson, Miss Anna Seaborn. All classes in French. Travel in France, Africa, Sicily, Italy. Winter sports in Switzerland. For circular address Miss E . G. Holden, 60 Broadway, New York.

SUMMER

AN

IDEAL

CAMPS

SUMMER FOR GIRLS

IN T H E M O U N T A I N S O F NEW

HAMPSHIRE

Twenty-four hours a day for twenty-five girls on the shores of beautiful Newfound Lake in the White Mountains, under the most perfect physical and social conditions. Boating, swimming, tennis, mountain climbing, ath letic dancing, and all out-door sports and exercises supervised by a graduate of the Department of Hygiene and Physical Educa tion of Wellesley College. Large rustic Club House. Abundance of plain wholesome food. Pur est of spring water. A care fully kept herd of cows. Farm produce.

42


PASQUANEY N A T U R E

C L U B

9th Season — July 1st to Sep tember 1 st. Camp Director is camp mother with girls ol her own. Never a homesick girl here and not an accident or a day's serious illness in 8 seasons. Ages range from 10 to 20. Special tutoring with competent instruc tors if desired. Direct by rail from Boston or New York to Bristol, N . H . , then 7 miles by coach. A free, joyous, happy Summer assured. Write me about your daughter. M R S . H A S S A N , DIRECTOR PASQUANEY NATURE CLUB B R I S T O L , N. H .

MAGAZINE

SUMMER

Camps

CAMP

UTOPIA

FOR BOYS

(Sixth Year) CANADA Boys' summer, athletic and educational camp, Lake Utopia, New Brunswick, Canada. Trout and Salmon fishing. Swimming and canoeing. Baseball. Land and water sports. Ages 10 to 20. Tutoring by college gradu ates of high standing. Send for booklet. J . B. Brine, Director, 108-110 West 34th St., New York City.

RECREATION

CAMP

REST

QUINIBECK,

L A K E

RECUPERATION FAIRLEE,

K A M P K I L L K A R E , S U M M E R C A M P FOR B O Y S ON L A K E C H A M P L A I N Seventh Season. Senior and Junior departments. Ideal location. Complete equipment. Exclusive patronage. Excellent cuisine. Supervisors are college graduates. Address for Booklet 11, Ralph F . Perry, Pennington, N . J . A L O H A C A M P S FOR G l R L S L a k e M o r e y , V t . , a n d L a k e K a t h e r i n e , N . H . N i n t h Season. H e a l t h f u l l o c a t i o n . P u r e water. Safe sanitation. W a t e r sports. T e n n i s , g o l f and handcrafts. N a t u r e study, horseback r i d i n g , m o u n t a i n e e r i n g . Sub stantial house. B o a r d floor tents. E x p e r i e n c e d councillors. G i r l s ' wel fare o u r first care. Booklet. M r . a n d M r s . E . L . G u l i c k , 50 L y m e R o a d , Hanover, N . H .

ACADIA,

L A K E

WINNEFESATJKEE,

j

-

V E R M O N T

A V a c a t i o n C a m p for G i r l s where G i r l s L i v e in B u n g a l o w s . I n v i g o r a t i n g air, pure water, thorough sanitation. C a m p farm of 36 acres. A m p l e courts aijd fields for tennis, basket-ball, base-ball, and other land sports. Spacious new h a l l with open fire, for d a n c i n g a n d theatricals. S w i m m i n g taught. D i v i n g tower a n d fleet o f canoes. Horse-back r i d i n g , h i k i n g , and excur sions. J e w e l w o r k i n g , w e a v i n g , basketry, and leather. E q u a l Proprietors a n d D i r e c t o r s : F r a n k L . Bryant, E r a s m u s H a l l H . S.; W i l l i a m W . C l e n d e n i n , W a d l e i g h H . S.; A n n a A . D o d g e , Camp Quinibeck; Marcus A . Preston, C a m p Q u i n i b e c k . F o r information and booklet address W i l l i a m \ V . C l e n d e n i n , W a d l e i g h H . S., N e w Y o r k C i t y .

C A M P

Outdoor Life For Your B o y In the s u m m e r y o u r boy yearns for the great outdoor life i n the vast green fields, on the water a n d i n the cool, quiet w o o d . A s u m m e r vacation at C u l v e r w i l l develop v i g o r and nerve, u p - b u i l d h i m in b o d y a n d m i n d a n d prepare h i m for another w i n t e r of study o r w o r k . A N a v a l S c h o o l . a C a v a l r y School, and a Woodcraft School u n der D a n B e a r d . Name cat alogue of school that in terests y o u . A d d r e s s The Superintendent

N. H .

A Home Camp for Young Girls. Fifth Season. All outdoor sports, fine grove and beach; under care of experienced physician. Councillor positions all filled. Illustrated booklet. J . Grant Quimby, M . D . , Lakeport, N . H .

CULVER Summer Schools Culver, Indiana. (On Lake Maxinkuckee)

_

CAMP CHAMPLAIN A n Ideal Summer C a m p for Boys on L a k e C h a m p l a i n . T w e n t i e t h Year. J u n e 27th to A u g u s t 29th. E v e r y convenience for safety and comfort. Waterproof tents with floors. A l l land and water sports. T r i p s to A d i r o n d a c k s . L e a d e r s carefully chosen college men. L a r g e A s s e m b l y H a l l . Best of food. C a m p p h y s i c i a n . N o mosquitoes or malaria. L o n g distance phone. N u m b e r limited. B o o k l e t upon application. J . Clark R e a d , A . M . , Berkeley School, 72nd St., N e w Y o r k .

C A M P

W O N P O S E T ,

BANTAM

LAKE,

CONNECTICUT

Boys' camp. 100 miles from New York. Le Roy Mercer, T e d Meredith, Don Lippincott, Counsellors. Write for Booklet. Robert Tindale, Box F , 31 East 71st St., New York City.

ST. R E G I S C A M P FOR B O Y S , I N THE ADIRONDACKS Free tutoring in all subjects by experienced graduates. All land and water sports. Character building. Terms moderate. Dr. P. R. Langdon, Saranac Lake, N . Y .

C A M P W I N N I S Q U A M FOR B O Y S O N L A K E C H A M P L A I N , M I L T O N , V T . Mountain, river, lake trips. Land and water contests. Our own saddle horses, launch, and canoes; 2 baseball diamonds; 3 tennis courts. Cottages and tents. Send for booklet and Log. M . H . Moody, Box 61, Waterbury, Vt.

C A M P POK-O'-MOONSHINE On Long Pond, Adirondacks. Unquestionably one of the finest camps in the country. 8th season. Sio.ooo equipment. Address Dr. C . A . Robinson, Principal, Peekskill Academy, Peekskill, N . Y .

Q U A N S E T T H E C A P E C O D C A M P F O E G I R L S . Ninth Season. Swimming, canoeing, sailing taught under safest conditions. Exceptional training in Land Sports. Original musical comedy under able leadership. Weaving. Send for illustrated booklet. Mrs. E . A . W . Hammatt, 15 Water Street, Newton Centre, Mass.

S O S AWAGAMI NG C A M P FOR B O Y S 10 to 20 years. Mountain air, pine forests. Fishing, canoeing, tutoring. On Lake Superior. 30 miles above Marquette, Mich. Careful supervision. Terms moderate. Winter outdoor school near Ft. Myers, Fla. Write for beautifully illustrated booklet. Clarence E . Snyder, A . M . , Winnetka, 111.

C A M P W A C H U S E T T Lake Asquam, Holderness, N . H . Eleventh season. Boating, canoeing, fishing, swimming, water and land sports. Instruction by a specialist in Natural History. Tutoring if desired. Highest references. No tents. Fisher huts. Circular. Rev. Lorin Webster, L . H . D . , Holderness School, Plymouth, N . H .

ADIRONDACKS—CAMP RlVERDALE L O N G L A K E , N . Y . Wilderness camp for boys in a famous hunting and fishing region. Mountain climbing, mastery of the woods, of the water and of boats. Boys become Boy Scouts of America. Strong tutoring. Frank S. Hackett, Headmaster, Riverdale Country School, Riverdale-on-Hudson, New York City.

S A R G E N T C A M P FOR G I R L S PETERBORO, N . H . On our own lake. Dr. D . A . Sargent, Pres. A l l field and water sports. Amateur theatricals, Music. Food from farm. Songs and stories around the camp fire. Address The Secretary, 8 Everett St., Cambridge, Mass.

KINEO C A M P S FOR BOYS I N M A I N E A N D N . H . " M o s t carefully c o n d u c t e d and select, most completely e q u i p p e d for a l l sports; the best table of any boys' camps i n America."—Parent's letter. T w o younger boys' camps, $200 and $150; three for older boys, $175 to $225. Irving K . M c C o l l , Hotel M c A l p i n , N . Y . City.


MAGAZINE

43

44

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

Nearly 50 years of success

This handsome lad won first prize

Robert Oliver Columbia,

Pearman, Mo.

at the Missouri State Baby Show held in Columbia,Mo., Jan. 13 to 18,1913. On examination by Dr. W . J . Cul vert, Dr. C. W . Green and Mr. Chester Brewer, he scored 96-V2 points out of a possible 100 for his physical condition, perfect development and general health.

He was raised on Mellins Food Buy a bottle of Mellin's Food today and start your baby right. Mellin's Food Company,

Boston, Mass.

61 medals and diplomas awarded In-answering


MAGAZINE

The giant lock gates of the Panama Canal

MAGAZINE There has been no greater achievement i n the world's history than the building of the Panama Canal. I t will have to take a first place among the wonders of human endeavor. N o one can read the story of its building with out realizing something of the stupendous char! acter of the undertaking or miss the appeal it makes to the imagination. Its every aspect is gigantic—from the cutting of the way through a range of mountains to the construction of the massive locks and towering gates. I t is a ro mance of engineering, an epic of the great deeds of men who have brought the accumulated knowledge of the ages to building this huge monument to their skill and wisdom. The J u l y number of S C R I B N E R ' S M A G A Z I N E will be largely devoted to the Panama Canal, and the group of articles i t will contain will make known to the reader not only the canal itself but its significance and value to this country and the world at large. Joseph Bucklin Bishop, Secretary of the Isthmian Canal Commission, will describe the canal and the way it will be operated when completed. He calls his article, very happily, "Panama's Bridge of Water."

t

" W h a t the engineers of the United States Government are constructing at Panama is not a canal through the Isthmus but a bridge of water across and above i t . T h e so-called canal is a huge water-bridge, the first i n the world's history. I t is about 34 miles in length, 87 feet high, with a channel of water through its

NOTES

centre varying in depth from 45 to 87 feet and in width at the bottom from 300 to 1000 feet. The bridge is divided into two sections, G a t u n L a k e and Culebra Cut, the latter being an arm of the former. Access to the bridge by vessels will be by means of water-elevators, six i n d u plicate at either end, each 1000 feet long, n o feet wide, and with a combined lift of 87 feet."

N o w that the canal is nearing completion, thousands are asking what the canal will ac complish, and it is the answer to this question that E m o r y R . Johnson, Special Commissioner of Traffic and Tolls, will give in his article. A n d it is a question that every citizen of the United States may well ask after an expenditure by the nation of some four hundred millions of dollars. " F r o m the days of Columbus the world has desired a canal across the American isthmus, and since the acquisition of California and a frontage on the Pacific the people of the United States have not ceased to consider how the isthmian barrier might be broken through." The canal will have a very great effect upon the saving of time, i n shortening the distances for ocean freighters. F o r instance, the gain between N e w Y o r k and San Francisco over the route through the Straits of Magellan will be 7,873 miles; to Callao, Peru, the gain will be 6,250 miles; between N e w Y o r k and Honolulu, 6,612 miles; Yokohama, 3,281 miles; Australia, 2,822 miles. I n time a steamer between N e w Y o r k and Y o k o h a m a will save fifteen days. 45

46

MAGAZINE

There is really no question relating to the completed canal more vital than its strategic value to this country in the event of war. It will enable our navy to be effective on both oceans with little waste of time, and no one who remembers the trip of the Oregon will ever for get the months it took that splendid ship to make her journey. There is no longer any doubt about our right to fortify, and the rea sons for doing so are very clearly given in an article b y former Secretary of W a r H e n r y L . Stimson, on " T h e Defence of the Panama Canal."

The great exposition that will be held in San Francisco i n 1915 in commemoration of the opening of the Panama Canal gives promise of surpassing anything the world has ever known. N o city is more splendidly situated for such a purpose. " T h e harbor of San Francisco, surrounded as it is by hills, forms a natural, a colossal, and a wonderfully beautiful amphitheatre. It is on the south side of this amphitheatre, facing the hills of M a r i n County and M o u n t Tamalpais, and lying next to the water, that the Exposi tion Grounds are situated." The beautiful buildings at Chicago gave the exposition the name of the White C i t y ; in Cal ifornia there will be color everywhere—in the buildings, in the decorations, in the roofs as you look down from above. A very graphic idea of what the exposition will look like is given in an article b y Elmer Grey i n " T h e PanamaPacific International Exposition of 1915." One feature will be the building of a great wall to shield visitors from the cold winds that blow in from the Golden Gate. Sixty feet in height, it will form "the outer wall of the eight exhi bition palaces"; and will be pierced along the harbor frontage with two monumental gate ways, the Gate of Columbus and the Gate of Balboa. ^»

*r+

In addition to the black-and-white illustra tions accompanying the various articles, a very notable feature of the Panama number will be a series of sixteen full pages in color. These are reproductions of original photographs made directly from nature i n color. T h e y represent the latest wonderful developments i n color photography, and will give all the realism of an actual visit, the impression of the beautiful color that fills the eye on the Isthmus. These pictures are beyond doubt the most real and remarkable presentations of the scenes along the canal yet made.

NOTES

Readers of the magazine who have read M r . Bishop's previous articles, " T h e French at P a n a m a , " "Sanitation of the Isthmus," " A Benevolent Despotism," will have with the articles i n this Panama number a complete his tory of the canal from the beginning. " E v e r y American ought to read it, if only to feel the glow of patriotic pride that it inspires."

H . G . Dwight, in his articles about Constan tinople, is making their readers very familiar with the T u r k i s h capital and with the manners and customs of the people. N o one is better acquainted with his subject, and he succeeds i n giving an impression of all the picturesque and human side of the city of the Golden H o r n . In the next number he will write of " M o h a m medan Holidays," the various religious and other days of celebration. H e says the " true holidays of Islam are connected w i t h the life and teachings of its founder."

T o meet the very wide demand for the ear lier chapters of M r s . Wharton's novel, " T h e Custom of the C o u n t r y , " which began in Jan uary and has taken its place among her most remarkable stories, the publishers have re printed the story i n pamphlet form up to the M a y instalment. It will be sent free to any one upon request. The New York Times said recently of the story i n an editorial: " E d i t h Wharton is surely the luckiest of our authors. W i t h hardly a hint of the propagan dist in her literary make-up and no disposition to deal with so-called 'problems' i n a socio logical way, she arouses a large amount of com ment and discussion with each new novel before it has finished its course as a serial. Already Undine Spragg is almost as much talked about as L i l y B a r t was while ' T h e House of M i r t h ' was appearing i n monthly instalments."

Twelve thousand nine hundred feet above the sea in the centre of a valley between the great Cordilleras of the Andes lies one of the largest lakes of South America. It is celebrated i n Peruvian story and legend and contains some very interesting ruins of the Incas. It was here that M a n c o Capac, first Inca of the last Peruvian dynasty, miracu lously appeared. I n the next number Ernest Peixotto will tell of his journey "Across Titicaca, with a Glimpse of B o l i v i a . " The steamer crosses the lake at night.

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

47

ADVERTISER

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MAGAZINE

48

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

The Happy Health Habit

The happy health habit is not easy to acquire in Summer when the appetite is fickle, when the digestive powers are not i n fullest vigor and when the warm weather necessitates a change in diet. The surest way to get Summer comfort and palate joy is to drop heavy meats and starchy vegetables and eat well-cooked cereals, fresh fruits and fresh vegetables. T h e most deliciously whole some combination for the Summer days is

Shredded Wheat Biscuit W i t h Strawberries —a dish that is appetizing, satisfying and easily digested. One or two Shredded Wheat Biscuits with strawberries or other fresh fruits and cream is not only a rare palate pleasure, but w i l l sup ply all the nutriment needed for a half day's work. Heat the Biscuit in the o v e n to restore crispness ; then cover with strawberries or other berries a n d serve with milk or cream, adding sugar to suit the taste— more nutritious and more wholesome than ordinary "short-cake."

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MAGAZINE

Painted by John Newton

Howitt. BIRDS OF

PASSAGE.

SCRIBNER'S VOL.

LIII

MAGAZINE

JUNE,

N E W

1913

PASSES

NO. 6

IN

TYROL

T H R E E GLORIOUS M O U N T A I N HIGHWAYS W H I C H E N H A N C E T H E C H A R M S OF T H E " MOTORIST'S PARADISE "

By Charles L i n c o l n Freeston, F . R . G . S . A u t h o r of " T h e H i g h - R o a d s of the A l p s , " " T h e Passes of the Pyrenees," etc. ILLUSTRATIONS

FROM

PHOTOGRAPHS

A F T E R a long, detailed, and comprehensive experience of touring i n the Alps, the Apennines, and the Pyre nees, with oft-repeated op portunities of c o m p a r i n g the good roads w i t h the bad, and the bad w i t h the lack of any highway at all, I have come definitely to the conclusion that there is no public work—outside town areas, of course—which is of such wide-spread ben efit, or so completely praiseworthy, as the building of a finely engineered carriageroad over a mountain pass on which there was naught previously but a mule-track, or maybe only a man-trodden path. One premise only must be granted, and that is that mountain scenery is a thing to be admired, and, if admired, to be sought out for its own sake. A t one time I should have thought that the postulate required no stating, and that it would have been as absurd to argue that sunlight was bene ficial to mankind. A series of disillusionments, however, has led me to conclude that it is unsafe to postulate anything in this contradictory world, for since I start ed writing about Alpine passes I have met unadventurous folk galore to whom all mountains are an oppression and snow capped peaks a horror. Show them a pict ure of a landscape of superb beauty and they shiver; confront them w i t h the land scape itself and their chagrin becomes vocal. I n the Alps and Pyrenees alike I

BY

THE AUTHOR

have travelled with people "who sighed for flat pastures and fields of waving corn, and the most harmonious outlines and the most resplendent glaciers left them unadmiring and cold. In the case of pictures only, without any actual experience, the cause of this inappreciation is not far to seek. T o those unfamiliar with the circumstances of travel in Alpine or kindred regions the sight of snow suggests a wintry atmos phere, and they know nothing of the i n effable conjunction of mountain air, i n the vicinity of the glaciers, with brilliant sun shine and wholly agreeable conditions— the more agreeable from the fact that they may be enjoyed at a time when the valley which has been left below is bathed i n sweltering heat. Discomfort is only sug gested by an Alpine photograph to the man who has never seen snow save at low altitudes i n the winter months; and, so far from being unwelcome to the summer tourist, it is hailed with joy, both as a feast to the eye and as the cause of that peculiar quality of " n i p p y " and refreshing atmosphere which must be tasted to be understood. There is nothing i n nature so glorious as the combination of summer light and flowers on the neighboring slopes w i t h snowy pinnacles above, and Alpine travel would be robbed of half its pleas ures if the snow were absent, and one had to depend on the grandeur of the moun tain outlines alone.

Copyright, 1913, b y Charles Scribner's Sons. VOL.

LIII.—60

A N D OTHERS

A l l rights reserved. 663

664

New Passes in T y r o l

Save for one instance—that of an an gler and golfer who declared that a green meadow with a stream, or a links over which he might drive his rubber-core, was to him the height of earthly bliss—the people who have personally traversed my innocent postulate have been of the fair sex. N o r is this subjective dislike of moun-

fore, who can acknowledge sentiments such as these, it is unsafe to regard the love of scenery as universal, and we must leave E u c l i d in unassailed possession of the honor of being the only person who could lay down postulates without fear of contradiction. W i t h scenery, as with other things, it is a case of quot homines,

Sterzing, the junction of the Brenner and Jaufen routes, as seen from above.

tain panoramas confined to women I my self have met, and therefore a matter of possible disproportion; it has lately been expressed openly in print. In a monthly review I read the other day an article by a lady author who descanted on the " ter rible crags of the mighty A l p s , " which "strike a chill to the heart as they rear themselves all unexpectedly, cold and aw ful, above the lower strata of the clouds." N o t content with this, the good lady con fessed to a "sense of divorce and isolation in the face of natural beauty," and found salvation in a fresco in the Church of St. M a r y of the Angels at Lugano! So long as men or women exist, there

tot sententiae,and nothing is immune from attack; e. g., did not D e Quincey say of Keats's poetry that it "belonged essen tially to the vilest collections of wax work filigree or gilt gingerbread"? It may be conceded, moreover, that there is a greater measure of reason i n the point of view which regards the A l p s as an oppression, b y reason of their magnitude, than i n the purely inartistic failure to rec ognize the beauties of an Alpine photo graph or painting. Before the Alps were conquered, indeed, the attitude of man k i n d almost generally toward the moun tains was one of unadulterated fear. It is voiced w i t h frequency i n sixteenth-cen-

New

Passes in T y r o l

tury books of travel, and peaks we now travel thousands of miles to see, the medi aeval wayfarer regarded only in the light of obstacles which were difficult to sur mount. In the main, nevertheless, as no one will deny, this fear of Alpine heights is a thing of the past. W h o wrought the change, and was it the work of many decades and many minds? T h e answer is brief but emphatic. A few roads were made by the Romans, but it was Napoleon the Great who first conceived the idea of storming nature's barriers b y wholesale road-build ing i n high latitudes; and, i n thus setting free men's sense of beauty, he rendered services to humanity which will deserve remembrance long after his lust for con quest is forgiven and forgotten. A t a later period the Alps were conquered anew, and i n a different fashion, b y climbers, mostly English; and then followed the tide of tourist travel, aided chiefly by the growth of the railroad system. B u t while railroads will take holidaymakers i n tens of thousands to certain Alpine centres, and while funiculars and rack-and-pinion lines will carry them in many cases to actual summits, the effect

665

has not been entirely to the good, for whereas some lofty pinnacles, not even excepting the Jungfrau, are too easily at tained, there is too general a reluctance —climbers apart—to go anywhere but where the locomotive leads the way. T h e via media, represented by the mountain road, between attaining a great height b y rail on the one hand, and staying ingloriously several .thousand feet below on the other, is hardly ever chosen, or even admit ted as a possibility, by the ordinary tourist. The motorist knows better. W i t h o u t aspiring to emulate the feats of the rock scrambler, now become a commonplace b y reason of the fact that every peak in the Alps has been scaled and given a name, the man who drives a trusty car may find whole districts which are unknown to the traveller by rail, and may rise to heights which offer the absolute maximum of ar tistic enjoyment. F o r the finest views i n Alpine territory are neither those which are to be obtained from the valley level, nor from the loftiest peak, which, when at tained, often affords a panorama which is in a sense a ploughed field on an exalted scale. The Alpine carriage-road leads the mountain-worshipper to places of suffi-

Street scene i n Sterzing.

Snow-flecked peaks ahead, Jaufen Pass.

cient height to have afforded him un limited variety of scene by the way, from valley to pine-wood, from pine-wood to the upper pastures, or " a l p s , " and from alps to the limit of his climb; and there he may gaze in unrestricted admiration upon often far-reaching vistas or panoramas of still higher mountains. There is hardly a single mountain pass, of the many scores which I have crossed, which does not repay the lover of the pict uresque. Sometimes the actual summit may be restricted i n its outlook, because the road may have been carved through walls of rock; but, even i n these cases, there are almost invariably magnificent perspectives a few yards below the final cutting on one side or the other, and often on each alike. Unlike a railroad, more over, the building of a mountain road i n volves no defacement of the scenery; and, though it simplifies the means of access between one village and another, it brings no inordinate amount of traffic, or per manent structures i n the shape of stations or lines of rail, such as are inseparable from the railroad system. 666

While Switzerland is honey-combed with railroads even i n the non-populous dis tricts, and even the chief mountain roads have ceded place to tunnels, there are many districts i n France where the finest scenery can only be enjoyed from the highway it self. T o realize, however, the full meas ure of what can be accomplished i n the way of giving access to Alpine heights, without the costly and artistically doubt ful expedient of laying down rails, one must needs motor to T y r o l . Words utterly fail to express one's ad miration for the wonders which have been accomplished i n this earthly paradise. A few years ago it was almost a terra incog nita, and its manifold beauties could only be enjoyed b y mountaineers, and even by them i n piecemeal fashion. A transfor mation has been effected, however, of so complete a k i n d that there is hardly one of its most important valleys which is not attainable b y road, although there is plenty of opportunity for the pedestrian to explore more sequestered spots. One need not stay to argue as to whether the altered state of things is as desirable as if

O n the descent nearing the zone of trees, Jaufen Pass.

the whole province were virgin ground. Means of intercommunication must be found for the inhabitants themselves even if the tourist be left out of the question altogether; and, this being so, it is in finitely less desecrating to provide good roads than to introduce the locomotive on rails. I make bold to say, however, that the face of nature has not been despoiled i n T y r o l to the most infinitesimal degree; and, though it is true that foreigners are now brought to what were more or less remote fastnesses, the sum of human hap piness has thereby indubitably been i n creased, and without the wholesale incur sion of travellers b y train-loads which would have been the case if the Tyrolese had succumbed to the feverish energy of their neighbors, the Swiss railroad en gineers. E v e r y tourist i n the Eastern A l p s has heard, of course, of the wonderful Dolomitenstrasse, or " D o l o m i t e s road," which was finally completed in 1 9 0 9 . Almost it seemed to offer the last word i n Alpine road construction, whilst the advantages it conferred on the traveller i n enabling h i m

to go from Bozen to Cortina, through the very heart of the mountains, instead of describing three sides of a rhomboid by way of Brixen, the Pusterthal, and T o b lach, amid much less impressive scenery, were of the most liberal kind. B u t the Tyrolese authorities did not stay their hand by any means after this achieve ment, striking and colossal though it was, and two other schemes have since matured which are of scarcely less importance than the Dolomitenstrasse itself. I refer to the construction of the Jaufen and Broccone roads, each of which is of the highest value as a line of communication, each of per fect quality as a highway, and each pict uresque at every point. [See map, p. 676.] The new Jaufen Pass leads from Ster zing on the Brenner road to St. Leonhard, and there connects with what was former l y a cul de sac road to M e r a n . Quite apart from the added beauties thus unfolded to view, the new road confers a practical convenience which can hardly be overes timated, as it relieves the tourist of the necessity of doubling his track, and is par ticularly beneficial to those who may de667

668

N e w Passes in T y r o l

sire to essay the famous Stelvio Pass, the highest and most wonderful road in E u rope. B y its position the Stelvio is always difficult to work into one's itinerary, but the new link between Sterzing and M e r a n

its one and only street is unusually pleas ing, what with arcades, balconies, and tur rets, and a picturesque old Rathaus. I have seen the town described as " sleepy," but curiously enough have twice passed

St Leonhard ahead, Jaufen Pass.

greatly facilitates the process. The Jau fen road took six years to build, at a cost of 2 , 5 0 0 , 0 0 0 kronen, and has replaced an old path which was so rough that even riding was not recommended. F o r every one alike, therefore, the new pass has opened up a new area of beauty. Sterzing, the starting-point, is a bright little town well known to frequenters of the Brenner route. The appearance of

through it on a Sunday, when it was alive with townsfolk and peasants from the sur rounding villages. N o w , however, that it is a junction with the Jaufen and Brenner roads alike, it is destined to wear even on week-days an air of greater activity than before. If bound for the Jaufen Pass from Inns bruck we cross the Brenner—which I found lately to be better i n surface quality than

N e w Passes i n T y r o l

669

ever—and drive through Sterzing to the village of G a s t e i g , and t h e r e swing to the right. Ster zing stands at a height of 3 , 1 1 6 feet, and G a steig, three kilometres further on, is o n l y 2 0 metres higher; but here the a s c e n t b e g i n s in earnest. T h e road rises to the summit ( 6 , 8 8 9 feet) i n 1 5 kilometres, or 1 8 from Sterzing, and therefore represents an

N e a r i n g the summit, Jaufen Pass.

tical details which may follow because they are extremely difficult to ob tain, and yet are of par amount importance to the driver of a car. R i s i n g with m i n o r w i n d i n g s to the first corner i n a little over two kilometres, we find it to be a sweeping horse shoe bend, the rounding of which is accomplished with ease. Beyond it T h e last corner before the summit, Jaufen Pass, Sterzing side. we obtain an effective view of Sterzing and its average ascent of 3 5 3 feet per mile from the environment of mountains, with the river village and 3 3 5 feet from the town There Eisak winding through the valley six hunare ten c o r n e r s to be rounded i n all. The road is of fine width, being no where of less than 6 5 feet radius on the straight, or less than 3 9 feet on the c o r n e r s . T h e av erage gradient is seven a n d one half per cent, a n d the m a x i m u m is little more, as the rise is comparatively even. F r o m s t a r t to f i n i s h there is not one single danger spot, and, as a piece of road engineer ing, the J a u f e n Pass is perfect. I mention t h e s e and other pracPalace H o t e l , Roncegno.

A panoramic view of the winding road, Broccone Pass.

dred feet below. The road continues ex cellent throughout and is bordered byrectangular pillars all the way, with oc casional fences also. Reaching within two kilometres the second corner, again beauti fully curved, we turn to the right and enter the zone of pines. The road itself is open, however, for some distance. After a time the gradient moderates as the hamlet of K a l c h is approached, but beyond this it again becomes fairly steep. A wood is entered, and the road surface changes from white to brown. In four kilometres or so from its predecessor the third corner is reached—a nice " h a i r p i n " bend. The fourth is less than a kilometre higher and is of the horseshoe type, and then a rather longer interval occurs before the fifth comes into view, followed in less than a kilometre by the sixth, both being of liberal radius. B y this time we have risen to a height of 5 , 5 7 7 feet, or 2 , 4 6 1 feet above Sterzing. There is now an uninterrupted rise of four kilometres, the skilful grading of the 670

road extorting our admiration the while, and at length the belt of pines is left be hind and we emerge onto an " a l p , " or pasture. Then comes a lacet of four cor ners, none of them acute, and, w i t h recur ring views at each turn of the RatschingsT h a l below, we are quickly at the summit, passing a gasthaus and a small chapel. The motorist of experience i n Alpine work will be able to form a fair idea of what this ascent of 3 , 7 7 3 feet implies, according to the power of his individual car; but I may state that on a 38-horse-power D a i m l e r I did most of the journey comfortably on the second speed, w i t h occasional resort to the third, and generally w i t h a nearly closed throttle. T h e old hand at the game keeps his engine cool b y this means. If the pace had been forced the third speed could have been employed for much longer periods. The actual summit is a cutting between banks, but i n a few yards a new and glori ous prospect is displayed; the ascent was picturesque, but the descent is doubly so.

N e w Passes in T y r o l The Jaufenspitze is close at hand, and other snow-flecked peaks—in June, at all events—continue the chain all down the valley, w i t h a vista of a massive group beyond the foot of the pass. A t the time of m y own crossing, these distant peaks were unfortunately shrouded i n rain and mist, and photography was at a discount

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if the car is stopped while he pilots them by. C i v i l i t y always pays when touring, but nowhere more so than in T y r o l , and the peasants are quick to acknowledge passing courtesies. B y the time the sixth corner is reached the zone of trees has been left behind, and the descent has been one of 2 , 1 6 7 FEET IN

T h e V a n o i Bridge, at the foot of the Broccone Pass. The cars shown in the picture are the first to cross after the opening of the bridge.

accordingly; but I have no hesitation in describing the scenery of the Jaufen gen erally as truly grandiose, and even equal to that of the Pordoi itself. F o r a time the road is tranchee, or cut along the side of the mountain slope, and leads i n 2 kilometres to the first corner. The fall from the summit to St. Leonhard is one of 4 , 7 5 7 feet i n 2 0 kilometres, an aver age of 3 8 3 % feet per mile. There are eleven corners to be rounded, but all are of good radius. T h e gradient is such, moreover, that the descent can be made mostly on compression without resort to the brakes. O n the higher slopes one meets hand some cattle, and the drover is duly grateful

about ten kilometres. Corresponding to that on the other side, though rather longer, a virtually straight stretch of six kilometres now occurs without a corner, and with noble prospects throughout. The village of Walten is passed at an alti tude of 4 , 2 6 5 feet, w i t h a gasthaus, soon after crossing a mountain tarn b y a wooden bridge. Deeper and deeper still one descends toward St. Leonhard, but w i t h an easy gradient, while the views tempt the photographer to stop and stop again. T h e y are among the finest to be found on Alpine roads. The next corner is cut through a rock tunnel, which thus robs the one on the


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rent breaks the quietude of one's p r o g r e s s , and the remaining four cor ners, all perfect i n k i n d , bring us down to 2 , 5 4 2 feet, and a straight run to St. L e o n h a r d ( 2 , 1 3 2 feet) ends the journeyover the pass—a m a g nificent experience throughout, and one that I could never tire of re peating. St. L e o n h a r d itself is an attractive spot, and intimately associated i n T h e summit of the Broccone Pass.

F a l z a r e g o Pass of its quondam monopoly, for, though tunnels are com mon and hairpin corners also common, these are the only two instances throughout the A l p s of the rock being bored in s e m i - e l l i p t i c fashion. T h i s seventh change of direction finds us at a 3,477-feet altitude, and the major portion of the d e s c e n t has now been made. T h e p l e a s a n t gush of a mountain tor-

N e a r i n g the foot of the Pass. The village of Ronco in the centre.

T h e descending road, Broccone Pass.

T y r o l e a n h i s t o r y with the patriot Andreas H o fer. A b o v e the t o w n stands a ruined castle, the J a u f e n b u r g . A s I am d e a l i n g w i t h prac tical as well as scenic con siderations, I may men tion here that, if one has come the whole w a y from Innsbruck, the question of luncheon m a y have to be considered b y now, as there is no hotel on the Jaufen Pass between the t e r m i n a l p o i n t s . If M e r a n be preferred as a halting-place, the day's journey should be begun at Sterzing. T h e Jaufen

N e w Passes in T y r o l road,like the Falzarego, has not been built in the too prevalent fashion which awaits the upgrowth of a series of villages before connecting them b y road; it is a through route from town to town, and the villages h a v e yet to f o l l o w . Moreover, the journey b e t w e e n St. Leonhard and M e r a n is not to be m e a s u r e d by distance alone, as we shall see.

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visible, however, when I passed this way last summer, immediately after the open ing of the Jaufenstrasse, and future travel lers may find the conditions more agreea ble accordingly. I should add that when

It affords, indeed, the most i l l u m i n a t i n g ex ample that could well be imagined of the differ ence between a definitely engineered road over a lofty pass and a mere local route of relatively low altitude. T h e drive to M e r a n , i n fact, takes much more time per k i l ometre than the ascent or descent of the Jaufen i t s e l f ! U n t i l the pass was o p e n e d the lower road was barred to mo tor-cars, and before M e ran is reached one sees g o o d r e a s o n why, a l though there is only a difference i n altitude of 1 , 0 8 2 feet between that town and St. Leonhard. The road follows the river Passer, and slow travelling is necessary for a time b y reason of the f r e q u e n t corners. Then it improves some what, with a downward tendency, and one might easily assume that the descent would con tinue to M e r a n . A t a village, however, the road rises unexpectedly above the bed of the river and becomes narrow and tort uous; it rises, moreover, to a fair height. Almost one believes one's self to be on the wrong route, unless forewarned of this i n termediate ascent, which is due, however, to the fact that the river is subject to i n undations, and a road along its banks would be impracticable. E v e n t u a l l y the road begins to descend again, but the jour ney to M e r a n is not an easy one. Signs of widening and other improvements were

T h e Sella group, P o r d o i Pass.

within touch of M e r a n a toll of 1 0 kronen is demanded, presumably toward the cost of the Jaufenstrasse and the improvement of the local road from St. Leonhard. T o the Broccone Pass, i n the opposite corner of T y r o l , it is possible to accord terms of praise no less high than those which I have felt to be but bare justice to the Jaufen. T h e road is so good i n every respect that to drive over it is a sheer de light. Somewhat less majestic, perhaps, than the Jaufen as regards the scenery which it unfolds, because it lies much

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further south, it is nevertheless truly pict uresque throughout, and serves an even more useful purpose than the SterzingM e r a n road as a means of through com munication. F o r the Broccone supplies just the very link that was wanted after the building of the Dolomitenstrasse; and, though that want has now been fulfilled for a couple of years, the road is outlined on no sheet maps, and described at length i n no existing guide-book. E v e n i n works on T y r o l which have been published within the last few months I find merely a passing mention, or no mention at all, of the route i n question, and i n the circumstances I make no apology for referring to it as a new road, or entering herewith upon a descrip tion of its good qualities. E v e r y one who knows T y r o l at all will recollect that at the village of Predazzo there is a conjunction of three passes—the San Lugano, the Pordoi, and the Rolle, respectively. It is impossible to leave the P o r d o i and its continuation, the F a l zarego, out of account, so great are their attractions; but, on the other hand, the scenery of the Rolle is superbly beautiful, and to ignore it is a crime. The expedi ent may be chosen of running up to the summit and back from Predazzo, but it is better far to traverse the pass from end to end. U n t i l the Broccone road was built, however, this would have involved a journey into I t a l y and the passing of custom-houses; but the great point about the Broccone is that it enables one to re main within A u s t r i a n territory through out, as well as to enjoy another mountain journey of abundant attractiveness. Hence I recommend beyond all question that those who wish to see T y r o l at its best should descend the valleys of the Eisak and Adige from Bozen to Trient, thereby avoiding the San Lugano Pass al together, and from the latter town work up to the Dolomites b y way of the V a l Sugana, and thence over the Broccone and Gobbera Passes, the Rolle, the Pordoi, and the Falzarego—a quintet of roads which for quality of surface, marvellous engineering skill, and grandeur of scenery, is unsurpassed i n the whole world. The run from Bozen to Trient is all along the flat, unless the opportunity be taken of going over the M e n d e l Pass—a wise alternative if time permits. T h e n from

Trient one turns eastward for the V a l Sugana, b y way of Pergine and L e v i c o . F r o m the map it might be assumed that the road would be flat, but it undulates pleasantly, and, short of Levico, affords a charming view of a green lake nestling below wooded banks. A t intervals along the route large signs m a y be seen indi cating the distance to Roncegno; observe these carefully, for Roncegno lies slightly off the main road, and must b y all means be given a passing if not a lengthy visit. When the corner is reached, about 3 0 kilometres from Trient, where the by road to Roncegno is encountered, one ascends a short h i l l , to find one's self in what is certainly the most agreeable subAlpine health resort for hundreds of miles around. T h e place is famed for its arsen ical springs, and there are two large hotels here, the G r a n d and the P a r k , both kept b y D r . W a i z , himself a keen motorist, who may be counted upon to give the best advice as to the touring resources of the district, while the standard of his estab lishments is as high as I have ever come across i n m y travels. V e r y rarely do I go out of m y way to mention a hotel by name, but there are times when, for ex ceptional reasons, one must needs do so in the tourist's own interest. Returning eventually to the main road, one must continue eastward for several kilometres, and cross two bridges i n suc cession; the second has white girders. Just before a t h i r d is reached a road to the left leads up to the Broccone Pass; it is easy to overshoot the turn, which is indicated b y a sign-post w i t h the words, "Strigno e Tesino," but i n any case the car can be backed from the t h i r d bridge. A fairly steep rise follows to Strigno, where the ascent becomes steeper still, over bad cobbles. After winding through the village one ascends a fairly good but narrow and sinuous road, and soon the valley is seen down below, w i t h fine mas sifs on the right. T h e hamlet of Bieno is passed, and, ere reaching Pieve Tesino, the road improves and the valley widens. Care is required, however, all the way from the junction near the bridge above mentioned, for some 2 0 kilometres, as the road is a purely local one, and there are sharp corners and occasional cart traffic. T h e fact serves to emphasize the more

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T h e windings of the P o r d o i Pass, in the heart of the Dolomites.

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N e w Passes in T y r o l

forcibly the splendid quality of the Broccone road itself, which begins, after a short descent and rise, at Castel Tesino ( 2 , 8 3 4 feet), where the women wear a picturesque costume. A sign, " P e r Broccone," leaves the way beyond doubt, and

before the village of Forche is reached, and four more to M a l g a M a r a n d e ( 5 , 3 7 5 feet), the highest point, but all are of wide radius, and the changes of direction afford fine retrospective views over the valley below. T h e next two kilometres repre-

M a p showing motor routes through new passes in T y r o l .

one turns to the left, leaving on the right a monument to Garibaldi. T h e ascent to be faced is one of 2 , 4 7 1 feet i n 1 2 ^ kilo metres—an average of 3 2 5 ^ 2 feet per mile —for though the summit of the pass is 1 7 kilometres away, it is, curiously enough, not the highest point on the road. A t first the rise is easy, over a wonder fully good, broad road, but at the C o l della Bagole ( 1 kilometre) one swings to the left, and the gradient thenceforward averages 7 per cent. There are five bends

sent a fall of 9 8 feet, and then a rise of 4 6 feet, i n a like distance, brings us to the summit, its obelisk, and its hospice. Of the views on the descent it is impos sible to speak justly without repetition of commendatory terms already employed; the English language is not equal to the task of describing more than one mountain road in sequence! Nevertheless, however charming, picturesque, or even superbly beautiful an Alpine pass may be, there is generally some feature of variety which

A Dolomitic view, as seen after crossing the Gobbera Pass and entering the R o l l e Pass.

may or may not be capable of definement, but which distinguishes the route from its fellows and makes it worth the crossing. The descent of the Broccone differs suf ficiently from any other i n its prospects to justify the journey, and is in every way enjoyable. B u t even those who are pre pared to take this for granted will ask for practical advice, and I may record the fact that the fall is one of 2 , 8 7 8 feet, or 3 3 1 feet per mile i n 1 4 kilometres, to Ponte Vanoi, a fine stone bridge beyond which there is a rise of 2 2 feet to the end of the road at Canale S. B o v o ( 2 , 4 4 9 feet). The run down to Ronco, the village seen in the middle distance i n m y photographs, is effected b y a lacet of five turns, all of easy radius. A s we pass through the v i l lage smiling children shyly hand us posies, and do not barter, as i n Switzerland, for payment. F r o m Canale S. B o v o there is a rise over a saddle, with a series of well-graded bends, to the Gobbera summit, b y another new road which has displaced a cart-track. The surface is excellent, but the road is slightly narrower than the Broccone. A t

the summit ( 3 , 2 7 7 feet), which is soon at tained in seven kilometres, there is an inn. A n easy winding descent leads down to Imer ( 2 , 1 3 3 feet) i n three kilometres. Here we begin the ascent of the Rolle Pass, and though it involves a rise of 4 , 2 9 1 feet it is unique i n its transcendent beauty from Fiera di Primiero right up to the summit. I have ascended and de scended the Rolle alike, and cannot say which is the more delightful experience; but no tourist should fail to cross this pass if his appreciation of Tyrolean beauty is to be complete. Of the succeeding journey to Predazzo, and thence over the Dolomitenstrasse, I have no space left to speak, and can merely reiterate the fact that this chain of passes from Castel Tesino to Cortina is the most stupendous combination of panoramic beauty w i t h scientific road construction that can be found i n the Alps from end to end, and i n the making of these magnificent highways the Tyrolese authorities have earned alike the gratitude of the road tourist and the unstinted admiration of the whole c i v i l ized world. 677

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Drawn

by N. C.

Wyeth.

W e a l l listened breathless even after the last chord of it ha d ceased to throb.—Page 682.

M R S .

V A N A N D E N

A STORY OF T H E N O R T H

S I N G S COUNTRY

B y Mary Synon W H E NI heard M r s . V a n A n den's song drifting through the white mists of moon light of a N o r t h Country M a y I knew what Radbourne, the c o n s t r u c t i o n superintendent of the Missinaibi R i v e r station, meant that afternoon when he called the chief resident's wife " a butter fly woman w i t h a voice of terrible premo nitions." I remembered having laughed when he had punctured his light gossip of the little group of his neighbors at the camp w i t h the characterization of M r s . V a n A n d e n ; but the recollection of his phrase brought me no thought of laughter as a crooning contralto bore its burden of singing out upon a night of mystic beauty that hung low over the hushed pine woods of the Bush. We were on the veranda of M r s . L o w den's boarding-house, a log eyry on the crest of a hill that sloped sharply down to the river, M r s . Lowden, Gordon Nicolson, and I. T h e station had become head quarters for the contractors who were building the Transcontinental through the Bush when the Right-of-Way had been cleared westward as far as L a k e Nepigon, and the steel ended at the bridge whose skeleton frame spanned the whirling wa ters of the Missinaibi. F r o m where we sat we could see the lights i n the offices, where a score of men were at work on maps, and estimates, and pay-rolls, and blue-prints. W e could see, too, the forge fires of the bridge, where Gordon N i c o l son's crew was toiling on the completion of the superstructure. Down-stream a blazing pine torch marked the point where the white tents of Indians, on their way to James B a y , had risen before the silvery twilight of the forest gloomed into dark ness. Across the river, just to the left of the dim white ribbon of the Right-of-Way, a red-shaded circle of brightness revealed V O L . L I I I . - 61

the only house on the west bank, the one V a n Anden, head of the residency, had built for his wife when she came to the N o r t h in November. I had been watching the scene with the sadness that the returned traveller to a beloved country feels in the realization that i n his absence change has come over the land. Through a long winter i n L o n don I had cherished a memory of golden days i n the Canadian Bush, of a sum mer through which M r s . Lowden moved, flaunting a standard of gay courage, and surrounded by a friendly crowd of eager, ambitious, brave-hearted young railroad builders, of whom none had been blither than Gordon Nicolson. I had journeyed westward and northward i n the keen an ticipation of finding another summer-time of youth, and comradeship, and the hap piness of being with those who do good work well. A n d here, on the first night of m y return, M r s . Lowden, who had once pledged me a friendship such as women seldom give each other, was sunk into depressed silence, while Gordon Nicolson wavered from moods of fitful gladness to moods of frowning gloom. Twice, op pressed by the curious tension of their presence, I had tried to ask Anne Lowden what strain had wrought the change i n her and i n the boys whom I had come to know the year before; and twice her preoccupation forbade m y questioning. B u t I went back to the effort. "Anne," I asked her, "what's come over y o u all?" She did not answer. I had turned to look at her when I heard the first tone of a wild, weird melody that chilled me to terror after one thrill of wonder at its loveliness. Straight from the heart of the mist on the river it rose, less human voice than some fleeting spirit of the N o r t h reaching out long, cold talons to clutch the hearts of those within its reach. Gor679

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Mrs. V a n A n d e n Sings

T h e ripple of mockery i n his pleasantry provoked me to outburst. " I wish that M r s . L o w d e n wouldn't bother about any thing for me. She's worn out w i t h work, and she's worried over something that you know probably better than I d o . " H e paused i n the instant of striking a match to give me a glance of keen searching. " A n d every one is working so h a r d , " I added, " t h a t social interest seems too difficult to be worth the effort." Radbourne puffed slowly on his pipe. " Y o u ' v e been i n L o n d o n , " he said, "long enough to forget that civilized men and women who live i n wildernesses have to fight more than material discomforts. T h e y have to fight themselves and each other, and a something else they don't talk about." " F e a r ? " I dared. " Y o u ' v e hit i t , " he said. " D r e a d of the intangible, they'd call it, if they men tioned it. B u t I shouldn't set it down as that.'' H i s steely blue eyes d i d not soften when he laughed. " I ' m an orthodox American, and so I call it the Personal D e v i l . H e gets us i n a lot of ways. A n d one of the weapons w i t h which we pre tend to fight h i m up here is the civilized habit of sociability. A s the game's played at the Missinaibi station, I ' d say the fight was a draw." F o r a little time he smoked in silence. T h e n he asked me, " Are you sorry you've come b a c k ? " " I ' m not sure." " T h e n don't decide for a while," he ad vised earnestly. " W h e n y o u were here last summer we were all working w i t h hope ahead. N o w we're working i n despair. If we finish the work on contract time, we lose much. If we don't finish it then, we lose more. T h e cords are drawn too taut for us a l l , but they're drawing tightest on the drones." " A r e there drones here?" " Y o u think not? W a t c h the party to night. A n d , b y the way, don't think too hardly of this party. D o y o u remember your first dance up here? W h e n the E n d " I can't flatter myself that far," I told of Steel was east of the Opazatika? Y o u him. see, I haven't forgotten it, and I ' m an old, " S h e doesn't sing to me," he said. married man. A n d don't y o u know that " H a v e you met her yet? N o ? T h e n it was a great event to those party-starv you'll have the pleasure before midnight. ing boys? W e l l , there are some boys like She's coming over to the party w i t h which that out here. We're ninety miles from a town. L e t ' s make it one of M r s . L o w we're celebrating your return." don Nicolson's head sank between his shoulders, and I saw his teeth close on his lower lip. A n n e Lowden was leaning for ward i n the birch chair, staring intently at h i m . She d i d not even glance at me be fore she arose and went into the house, leaving us i n a thrall of silence that en circled the aura of tone. After the last sound of song had winged its way beyond our hearing, Gordon Nicolson repeated the question I had asked. " W h a t ' s come over u s ? " H e scowled as if at some problem i n his bridge-build ing, showing a deep line between his eyes that had not been there the year before. " I don't k n o w , " he said drearily, " b u t you've seen there's something, haven't you?" " O v e r w o r k ? " I hazarded. " P e r h a p s . " H e braced his stooping shoulders against the veranda post. I n the white light he looked pathetically boy ish and pathetically tired. I had the feel ing that he was trying to set into words an elusive thought, and that he might have succeeded had not Radbourne come out of the nearer office and crossed the clear ing toward us, advancing w i t h that cer tainty of authority that becomes char acteristic of construction men. H e was a short man whose stockiness of b u i l d brought into v i v i d contrast Gordon N i c o l son's lithe tallness as they stood close to each other, just as bis cynical analyses of men and motives had a way of bringing out the younger man's more trusting ideal isms. Their friendship had been an i n explicable attachment to me, until I had found from knowing Anne Lowden how little comradeship has to do with manner isms, and opinions, and beliefs. " T h e y want to repeat a wire to you from the Groundhog office," he told Nicolson, tak ing M r s . Lowden's chair as the other man arose to go. H e watched h i m reflectively till he entered the office. T h e n he poured tobacco into the bowl of his bull-dog pipe as he inquired of me, " A n d so the rossignole serenaded y o u ? "

Mrs. V a n A n d e n Sings den's old-fashioned parties for them. Shall we? R i g h t - O ! A n d now, I ' d better let off the lads, or there'll be nothing at all to-night." A s he went back across the clearing he turned to nod to me, calling something I failed to hear before he left me to that curious sense of aloneness that the Northern nights set upon those who come to them. There i n a world of mist and moonlight, with the B u s h winds sighing their endless undertones like the wailing of violoncellos, I drifted into such dreams as only those who know the N o r t h conjure, voiceless dreams of still, unfading beauty. I had gone—how far?—when a sound from with in the house pried open the closed door of my consciousness. I listened. I n an i n stant I knew the sound's portent. A n n e Lowden was sobbing. I found her before the piano i n the lamp-lighted living-room. She turned her back on me as I came close to her. " Isn't it anything y o u can tell m e ? " I pleaded. " It's nothing at a l l , " she protested, but she flung herself on the blanketed army cot by the window. " N o t h i n g but nerves," she tried to explain, raising her self on her elbow. " D o y o u know that I've been three years at the E n d of Steel?" she demanded. " I came here before the Temiskaming road was finished, didn't I? A n d I've worked harder than any other woman i n the N o r t h C o u n t r y has ever worked, haven't I? " H e r voice thickened into sobbing again. " Y o u ' v e done more than that," I tried to soothe her. It was so unlike A n n e Lowden to lose courage after those years of work for her two little boys i n school at Montreal, that I felt as if I were talking to a strange woman as I tried to reason with her. She listened to m y words i n differently. " W h e n I came to the B u s h , " she broke in, " I liked it better than the town. T h e work was hard, but it was work for people who appreciated it. A n d we had such glorious times, didn't we, even last sum mer? It was just like home i n every sta tion along the Steel—until this one." " A n d this?" " T h i s was all right, too, till those women came. M r s . Radbourne was bad enough, with her grand manner, and her laziness, and her boredom, but M r s . V a n

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A n d e n — " She shoved back her hair wearily. " D i d you ever have anything you wanted most of all in the world come so close to you that you had only to reach out for it? A n d then, just as you put out your hand, have some one snatch it away just for malice?" " W h o was he, A n n e ? " " Y o u didn't know h i m , " she said. " H e came after you went, and he's gone now. I've been fighting my battle, and I thought I'd won. B u t to-night when she sang out there on the river, it all came back. A n d when I knew that she was doing it only because—" She broke off suddenly. "There's someone coming up the path," she said, rising from the cot. " W i l l you open the door? " she asked me as she hur ried out from the living-room. I opened the door to a gusty rush of a dozen boys just released from work and eagerly ready for play. They had hardly found lounging-places around the room, invading it with their laughter, when M r s . Lowden came back, revived by the al chemy of her courage to a semblance of her old cheerfulness. If her gayety was hysterical, I was the only one who knew it rang false, for the boys, engineers and time-keepers and office men, boys all of them, as men of the service always stay, caught the glints from the surface of her manner and reflected them with more genial rays. Against her merry protests three of them had already invaded the pantry, emerging triumphant with the Chinese cook's masterpiece of Oriental confection, w i t h which they decorated the table for their anticipatory enjoyment. Renton, the tall American supervisor of the con crete work, was improvising paeans of praise to its workmanship when M r s . R a d bourne, a sleepy-eyed blonde, whose slow languor did not conceal her hostility to Anne Lowden and to me, as Anne's guest and a new woman at the station, came with the Russian engineer from the K a p u skasing residency. B u t even her entrance, followed by Radbourne's, failed to indent the armor of gay pleasure that Anne L o w den's hospitality set around her guests, and I was just beginning to think that m y impression of tense foreboding had been all of m y own imagination, when M r s . V a n Anden came.

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ward, a lilting song that I had thought a l l joy when I heard some students rollicking through it i n M o n t r e a l the week before. The first strains rang out w i t h the lighthearted m i r t h of the chanson u n t i l we saw the blue skies of Provence. T h e n a cloud drifted across the perfect brilliance of the day, not growing, but lingering u n t i l the song ended w i t h a wistful, questioning note of wonder. W e all listened breath less even after the last chord of it had ceased to throb. A n d Gordon Nicolson stared at her w i t h puzzled, uneasy eyes. She whirled around to us before she sang again. H e r gaze met Nicolson's squarely. H e turned to A n n e L o w d e n and M r s . V a n Anden struck an arresting chord impa tiently before she dashed off into the emphatic brilliancy the L i s z t Ballade de mands. E v e r y one but Gordon Nicolson, M r s . Lowden, Radbourne, and I asked her to sing again after she had taken toll of praise for her playing. I knew that I dreaded her singing more than I could ever enjoy it. B u t she turned to me. " Because the Missinaibi station has too " W h a t would y o u like me to s i n g ? " she many fascinations," Radbourne answered. asked. Nicolson was never a quick-tongued man. " I don't know your songs," I said as M r s . Radbourne gave a slow smile to graciously as I could, while the fear of her the Russian engineer, who pretended not was rising i n m y throat. to see it. Out in the dining-room where " D o n ' t y o u ? " she asked nonchalantly. the boys had cleared away the tables and She smiled at Nicolson, ignoring some chairs, some one started the phonograph thing V a n A n d e n started to say. " I shall on a gay two-step. Radbourne asked me sing ' T h o r a , ' " she told h i m , " for I ' m sure to dance with h i m . A s we tried to keep y o u ' l l like i t . " H e gave me one look that step on the rough floor he talked. " I f she did not see, but I feared to answer it. you were a m a n , " he told me, " I ' d swear Katherine V a n A n d e n was to me now the at you. It's considered effective for the most fascinating, baleful woman I had feeling you're cherishing. B u t , instead, ever known, but, however I might regard I ' l l promise to do all I can to hurry the her for her personal use of her power, I completion of the bridge." had to give tribute to the power itself. I added the puzzle of what he meant to A l l the yearning of a l l m y life came over the other problems that m y return had me as she sang the ballad: brought me. Radbourne went out before " I stand in a land of roses, the dancing was over, taking V a n A n d e n But I dream of a land of snow, w i t h h i m . T h e y came back after supper, Where you and I were happy and just as M r s . V a n A n d e n had con In the years of long ago." sented to sing. She had been holding court over five boys, demanding homage When she had done, even the nice boy from them, flirting w i t h them, laughing at from the Glengarry Scotch district, who them, but denying all their requests for had come to the M i s s i n a i b i to do the book her songs until Gordon Nicolson asked her. keeping, had tears i n his eyes. Radbourne T h e n , w i t h the assertion that she hadn't glowered at me so fiercely that I could sung within doors for months, she yielded. have screamed, although I knew i n a She came late, a v i v i d little figurine i n a red crape gown and a red evening cape, calling attention to her absurd little red slippers by her overemphasized story of how her husband, a big, bronzed man who towered behind her, had carried her over the widely set rails of the bridge. " I t was so dark and terrible," she de clared with a little shudder that brought her up against V a n Anden's shoulder, " a n d the great gapings between the ties yawned for me—so!" She stretched her arms so as to form a wide circle. " A n d I was afraid till V a n picked me up as if I ' d been a bag of"—she had a foreign way of pausing sometimes as if in search of a word—"of concrete. A n d he walked across those awful ties without one tremor. D i d n ' t you, Van? " She had hardly given him a coquettish upward glance before she spoke directly to Gordon Nicolson. " H o w soon will the floor of the bridge be fin ished? O r do y o u call it the floor? A n d why does the Missinaibi bridge take longer to finish than any of the others?"

She began w i t h a little ballad of the moment that he hadn't seen me at all. French-Canadian country to the south Anne Lowden was clenching the arms of

Mrs. V a n A n d e n Sings her chair. A n d , if I hadn't known it be fore, I should have known i n that moment that M r s . Radbourne and the Russian en gineer were i n love w i t h each other. A n d Gordon Nicolson's dark eyes were ablaze with a light that reminded me of the first B u s h fire I had ever seen, the threat of tragedy drifting across their flame like smoke before the wind of a forest confla gration. A t the piano Katherine V a n Anden, poised like some tropical insect, banged four meaningless chords before she gave a long look over her shoulder at h i m . T h e n without prelude she sang the K a s h miri Song. Once—when I was sixteen, and m y sis ter used to talk of A m y Finden, whom she had known i n a strange, compelling friend ship—I had revelled i n that tragic out burst of a woman's soul. T h e n I put it away in some corner of m y memory until one night when I heard a D a n i s h contralto singing it i n a L o n d o n concert hall. I was just back from the B u s h then, and that song came to me as the first premonition of evil after long weeks of happiness, clang ing across a harmony of .life. F o r other weeks it pursued me till the fear of hearing it i n a concert programme kept me away from music. F o r just as there were other songs that meant to me gladness, and hope, and joy, that song meant all the trouble, and sin, and sorrow of m y world. A n d here i n Anne Lowden's house the lit tle woman i n scarlet was singing it as no one else ever sang it before, as no one else has ever sung it since. I didn't wait for the end. I couldn't. F i v e men and two women were showing their naked souls— and all of them had been living in the Bush country a little too long. A n n e Lowden looked as if she were seeing white ghosts. Radbourne glared at the Russian engineer with the calculating, murdering hatred of a master of men. M r s . Radbourne was gray with fright. A n d Gordon N i c o l son I slipped out into the dark dining-room, closing the door behind me before I crossed to the window. A storm was gathering to the westward, the lightning flashing above the tossing spires of the jack-pines over the river. T h e night outside had grown so desolate, so terrifying, w i t h the sound of that woman's song coming through the log walls, that I broke down. " If I could

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only s i n g ! " I sobbed as I fell b y the win dow. A quiet voice brought me to m y senses. V a n Anden, big, and shaggy, and calm, and sane, was standing over me. " W h a t is i t ? " he was asking me. " K a t h e r i n e ' s singing? She'll be sorry. She doesn't realize how it affects people.'' E v e n while I knew that he was wrong, his words were consolation. H e talked me into soothed quiet with tales of his wife's strange power in song that was so alien to her own per sonality that he himself had never become quite accustomed to it. " K i t t i e ' s just a dear, spoiled child," he said tenderly. T h e phrase seemed to adjust M r s . V a n Anden into the ordinary ways of life so aptly that I grew ashamed of my outburst. I laughed a little unsteadily, and when the last sound of music had quivered into silence, I went back to the living-room. M r s . V a n Anden, whirling on the piano stool with the restless irresponsibility of the child her husband called her, winked at me audaciously. " N o w , somebody amuse me," she commanded with an imp ish smile at the solemn, startled faces of those who had listened to her singing. The boy from Glengarry broke the spell. " D ' y e play rag-time?" he asked. M r s . Radbourne laughed three notes too high. E v e r y one there but Radbourne and Nicolson began to talk excitedly. W h e n M r s . V a n Anden rose from the piano and crossed to the table Nicolson followed her. There they stood, sorting music and talk ing i n lowered, eager tones till V a n A n d e n came from the other room with a remark about the coming storm. " W e ' d better start for home before it breaks, K a t h erine," he said. " Y o u know how hard it is to cross the bridge when the rails are wet." " I ' m not going to cross the bridge," she said indifferently. " M r . Nicolson will canoe me over the river." V a n Anden sighed. " A s you l i k e , " he said. H e lighted his lantern, bade M r s . Lowden and myself good-night, swung on his hat, and went out. Radbourne went after him, halting at the door. " Y o u ' d better set a watch on the bridge to-night," he told Nicolson. " T h e storm may strike hard on those weak places." " I'll take it myself," Nicolson told h i m . He was circling M r s . V a n Anden's red

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cape about her while the boys were filing out, calling back merry promises to make my visit to the Missinaibi station a time of revelry. T h e Russian was taking M r s . Radbourne home, but before they went he spoke to M r s . V a n Anden. " I n m y coun try," he said, " t h e y would canonize y o u for your song."

a wind that shook the house rattlingly, and a torrent of rain that drove me back from m y watch-tower. I wanted to pray a n d I couldn't remember anything but foolish nursery jingles. I crept back to the win dow, seeking v a i n l y to pierce the veil of rain. I t was hours, I thought, before the storm began to die.- T h e n I saw a tiny light on the other bank, moving down ward toward the river. I n a little while I saw it rising again. There flared out the red-shaded light from M r s . V a n A n den's lamp, a n d I knew that it h a d been V a n Anden's guiding lantern that had brought the two i n the boat to shore. For a long time, drenched as I was, I stayed b y the window. T h e storm, roll ing eastward, left i n its wake the fragrant, sweet odors of the B u s h , the scent of pines rising pungently over them a l l . T h e air grew warmer until the breezes came like caresses. T h e river sounded its lyric lap ping against the stones of the bridge foun dation. T h r o u g h the scattering clouds that rested over the jagged line of the pines across the stream the moon sailed into undimmed splendor. I n its v i v i d , brilliant light I saw the little canoe com ing back across placid waters. After it had reached shore a tall figure climbed to the Right-of-Way and swung to the bridge. Gordon Nicolson h a d come back. The spell of that night's eerie beauty after those hours of stress and storm held me prisoner to its loveliness. T h e power of the N o r t h to call to her men and women, to enchant them, to b i n d them w i t h ties that will draw them back from the far thest places of the earth, came so close that I yielded m y spirit to i t ; and it brought me not peace, but pain, the pain of futile strivings, of finite limitations, and of infinite longings. I was being swept down dark rivers toward unknown seas when a sound, not of w i n d nor of river, struck sharply across m y brain. A whistle, soft yet clear, sounded afar off:

" I f y o u ' d lived i n mine two hundred years ago," said Anne Lowden sharply, " t h e y ' d have burned you at the stake." Katherine V a n Anden raised both hands as if to ward off blows. " H o r r i b l e alter natives!" she laughed. " W h a t would they do with me i n E n g l a n d ? " she de manded of me. " O h , we're ultra-moderns," I said. " W e ' v e learned that a great gift is pur chased at a great price. A n d so w e ' d leave y o u to your own destruction." She watched me from under lowered eyelids before she smiled. " I ' m glad I ' m just modern," she said, " a n d i n Canada now. A r e we ready, M r . N i c o l s o n ? " H e paused, turning to Anne Lowden and myself. " S h a l l y o u be up when I come b a c k ? " he asked. " I ' m afraid not," I said. We left the door open to light them down the path to the river. T h e light ning that had been rising above the pines came blindingly now, and the thunder rolled portentously; but the sound of their laughter came back to us until A n n e closed the door. " Y o u ' r e tired," she said. " Y o u aren't used yet to riding ninety miles on a construction train and having a party all in one day. R u n along to bed." " A r e y o u going n o w ? " " S o o n , " she said. " I have some ac counts to look over." She gave me a lighted lamp to take up stairs with me to the room that was to be mine through m y visit with her. B u t when I came to the upper hall I put out its light and, closing the door of the room, crossed to the window. F o r a little while I could not see in the dense darkness of the night. T h e n the lightning showed the I j = q outlines of the bridge, and i n the next flash ^ 2 = d = ^ ^ J z = s ^ " I found the boat, a little out from shore, tr ^ir* * *s * tossing from one wave to another. Just when the canoe struck mid-stream the In an instant I knew that i t came from storm broke. There came a crash that the direction of the bridge. I leaned out seemed to be rending the forests, a flare to answer. Just then the moon, sunken of light that was falling from sky to earth, in the sky till i t lay level w i t h the R i g h t -

M r s . V a n A n d e n Sings of-Way, showed at the western end of the bridge a woman's figure. She came light ly along the embankment while I watched, straining out to make certain that her coming was no hallucination of m y fancy. E v e n before I heard her softly singing the refrain that the whistle had sounded, I knew that Katherine V a n Anden was crossing the bridge. T h e moonlight re vealed her as clearly as dawn would have done as she stepped from rail to rail, hold ing sometimes to the girders as she picked her precarious path. A l l m y rushing sen sations of shock, of anger, of grief, focussed into the terror of watching her movements. Before she had come half-way she waited, clutching a beam. Gordon N i c o l son was striding out toward her. I heard her throaty laugh. I saw her move away from the steel. T h e n the laugh changed to a cry that moaned through the Bush till I thought that every tree must be echoing answer to it. A n d I saw a flash of something dark between bridge and river. I fell down the stair toward the livingroom i n my haste to get out from the house, but, quick as I was, I found Anne Lowden at the door. " D i d y o u hear that c r y ? " she gasped as I went w i t h her, run ning toward the bridge. I thought that some one was ahead of us on the Right-ofWay, but I could not be sure. There was no one on the bridge. W h e n we came to the forge A n n e Lowden turned to me. "Perhaps one of the men fell. I ' l l come back and tell y o u . " B u t I shook m y head and followed her down the embankment to the river. When we came to the little beach that the sand had made around one of the piers a man's voice stopped us. " W h o ' s there?" it challenged harshly, and R a d bourne arose to confront us. " T a k e her away, M r s . L o w d e n , " he said, nodding to me. " I s he—dead?" "Nicolson? N o . H e ' l l be all right i n a little while. W e ' l l get help to carry h i m home." " L e t me help," A n n e Lowden said. She took the lantern Radbourne had lighted and followed h i m to where a man was

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lying on the sand. " H e ' s conscious," she declared. Nicolson raised himself on his elbow. " S h e ' d gone down," he said slowly, "the third t i m e . " " W h o ' d gone d o w n ? " A n n e Lowden turned sharply from Nicolson. Radbourne answered. " M r s . V a n A n den," he said. "She slipped from the rails. H e plunged after her. B u t he couldn't save her." " M r s . V a n Anden? She was coming across the bridge? A t this time? " Anne's voice kept rising with tension. I gripped a bowlder, waiting Radbourne's answer. " W h a t was she doing? Where was she coming? " Gordon Nicolson tried to rise. I n the dim light under the bridge the lantern cast its rays upon his face, the face of an old man. W h e n he spoke his words seemed to come from a long distance. "She was coming to meet " B u t Radbourne ended the sentence. " She was coming to meet me," he said. " T h a t ' s not true," Nicolson was say ing. " She came because " "She was coming to me, I tell y o u , " Radbourne said. Anne Lowden's arm swept over m y shoulder. " J o h n Radbourne is telling the truth," she said. Radbourne's eyes sought mine i n the dimness. " T h a t ends it for all of us, doesn't it? I ' m sorry to have to tell y o u this, but you know that there are times when nothing but the truth can be said." " I understand," I said. Then I went and knelt beside Gordon Nicolson. I have never heard music since that night without feeling the racking horror of slipping down into the swirling waters of the Missinaibi. F o r I married Gordon Nicolson, as I had promised I would when I met h i m in the N o r t h Country the year before; and though we have come far across the world there are times when Katherine V a n Anden's voice sings down a wind of the night, and comes between us with the slashing swish of a descending sword.

THE

DARK (THE

L O V E

PART

BY

JOHN

LIFE

O F A M A N )

II—SUMMER

G A L S W O R T H Y

G L E A M of a thousand lights; clack and mutter of innu merable voices, l a u g h t e r , footsteps; hiss and rumble of passing t r a i n s t a k i n g gamblers back to N i c e or Mentone; fevered wailing from the violins of four fiddlers w i t h dark-white skins, out side the cafe; and—above, around, be yond, the dark sky and the dark moun tains and the dark sea, like some great dark flower to whose heart is clinging a jewelled beetle. So was M o n t e Carlo on that M a y night of 1 8 8 7 . But M a r k L e n n a n , at one of the little marble-topped tables, was i n too great maze and exaltation of spirit and senses to be conscious of its glare and babel, even of its beauty. H e sat so very still, that his neighbors, w i t h the instinctive aversion of the human creature to what is too remote from its own mood, after one good stare, turned their eyes away as from something ludicrous, almost offensive. H e was lost, indeed, i n memory of the minutes just gone by. F o r it had come at last—after all these weeks of ferment; after all this strange time of perturbation! V e r y stealthily i t had been creeping on him, ever since that chance introduction nearly a year ago, soon after he settled down i n L o n d o n , following those six years of R o m e and Paris. First the merest friendliness because she was so nice about his w o r k ; then respectful admiration be cause she was so beautiful; then p i t y be cause she was so unhappy i n her marriage. If she had been happy, he would have fled. The knowledge that she had been unhap py long before he knew her had kept his conscience still. A n d at last one after noon she said: " A h ! If y o u come out there t o o ! " M a r v e l l o u s l y subtle—the way that one little outslipped saying had 686

FLOWER

worked i n h i m as though it had a life of its own—like a strange b i r d that had flown into the garden of his heart, and estab lished itself w i t h its new song and flutterings, its new flight, its wistful and ever clearer call. One saying; and one moment, a few days later, i n her drawing-room, when he had told her that he was coming, and she d i d not, could not, he felt, look at h i m . Queer, that nothing momentous said, done—or even left undone—had al tered all the future! A n d so she had gone, w i t h her uncle and aunt, under whose wing one might be sure she would meet w i t h no w a y w a r d or exotic happenings. A n d he had received from her this little letter: " H 6 T E L CCEUR D ' O R , MONTE CARLO. " M Y

" the am you

DEAR

MARK:

We've arrived. It is so good to be in sun. T h e flowers are wonderful. I keeping Gorbio and Roquebrune till come. Y o u r friend, OLIVE

CRAMIER."

T h a t letter was the single clear memory he had of the time between her going and his following. H e received i t one after noon, sitting on an old low garden wall w i t h the spring sun shining on h i m through apple-trees i n blossom, and a feeling as if all the desire of the world lay before him, and he had but to stretch out his arms to take it. T h e n confused unrest, all things vague; till at the end of his journey he stepped out of the train at Beaulieu with a furi ously beating heart. Surely he had not expected her to come out from M o n t e Carlo to meet h i m ! A week had gone by since then i n one long effort to be w i t h her a n d appear to others 'as though he d i d not greatly wish to be; two concerts, two walks w i t h her

Summer alone, when all that he had said seemed as nothing said, and all her sayings but ghosts of what he wished to hear; a week of confusion, day and night, until—a few minutes ago—her handkerchief had fallen from her glove on to the dusty road, and he had picked it up, and put it to his lips. Nothing could take away the look she had given h i m then. N o t h i n g could ever again separate her from h i m utterly. She had confessed in it to the same sweet, fear ful trouble that he himself was feeling. She had not spoken, but he had seen her lips part, her breast rise and fall. A n d he had not spoken. W h a t was the use of words? H e felt i n the pocket of his coat. There, against his fingers, was that wisp of lawn and lace, soft, yet somehow alive; and stealthily he took it out. T h e whole of her, with her fragrance, seemed pressed to his tace i n the touch of that lawn border, roughened b y little white stars. M o r e secretly than ever he put it back; and for the first time looked round. These peo ple! T h e y belonged to some world that he had left. T h e y gave h i m the same feel ing that her uncle and aunt had given h i m just now, when they said good-night, fol lowing her into their hotel. T h a t good colonel, that good M r s . E r c o t t ! T h e very concretion of the world he had been brought up i n , of the English point of view; symbolic figures of health, reason, and the straight path, on which at that moment, seemingly, he had turned his back. T h e colonel's profile, ruddy thiough its tan, with gray moustache guiltless of any wax, his cheery, high-pitched: " Good night, young L e n n a n ! " H i s wife's curly smile, her flat, cosey, confidential voice— how strange and remote they had sudden ly become! A n d all these people heie, chattering, drinking—how queer and far away! O r was it just that he was queer and remote to them? A n d getting up from his table, he passed the fiddlers w i t h the dark-white skins, out into the Place. II H E went up the side streets to the back of her hotel, and stood b y the railings of the garden—one of those hotel gardens which exist but to figure in advertise

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ments; w i t h its few arid palms, its paths staring white between them, and a fringe of dusty lilacs and mimosas. A n d there came to h i m the oddest feel ing—that he had been there before, peering through blossoms at those staring paths and shuttered windows. A scent of woodsmoke was abroad, and some dry plant rustled ever so faintly i n what little wind was stirring. W h a t was there of memory in this night, this garden? Some dark sweet thing, invisible; to feel whose pres ence was at once ecstasy, and the irrita tion of a thirst that will not be quenched. H e walked on. Houses, houses! A t last he was away from them; alone on the high-road, beyond the limits of M o n a c o . A n d walking thus through the night he had thoughts that he imagined no one had ever had before h i m . T h e knowledge that she loved h i m had made everything seem sacred and responsible. Whatever he did, he must not harm her. Women were so helpless! F o r i n spite of six years of art i n R o m e and Paris he still had a fastidious rever ence for women. If she had loved her husband she would have been safe enough from h i m ; but to be bound to a compan ionship that she gave unwillingly—this had seemed to him atrocious, even before he loved her. H o w could any husband ask that?—have so little pride—so little pity? The unpardonable thing! W h a t was there to respect i n such a marriage? Only, he must not do her harm! B u t now that her eyes had said, I love you!—what then? It was simply miraculous to know that, under the stars of this warm Southern night, burning its incense of trees and flowers! Climbing up above the road, he lay down. If only she were there beside h i m ! The fragrance of the earth, not yet chilled, crept to his face; and for just a moment it seemed to him that she did come. If he could keep her there forever i n that em brace that was no embrace—in that ghost ly rapture, on this wild fragrant bed that no lovers before had ever pressed, save the creeping things, and the flowers; save sun light and moonlight with their shadows; and the wind kissing the earth! . . . T h e n she was gone; his hands touched nothing but the crumbled pine dust, and the flowers of the wild thyme fallen into sleep.

T h e D a r k Flower

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H e stood on the edge of the little cliff, above the road between the dark moun tains and the sea black with depth. T o o late for any passer-by; as far from what men thought and said and did as the very night itself w i t h its whispering warmth. A n d he conjured up her face, making cer tain of it—the eyes, clear and brown, and wide apart; the close, sweet mouth; the dark hair; the whole flying loveliness! H e leaped down into the road, and ran —one could not walk, feeling this mir acle, that no one had ever felt before, the miracle of love.

Ill I N their most reputable hotel ' L e Coeur d'Or,' long since remodelled and renamed, M r s . Ercott lay i n her brass-bound bed looking b y starlight at the colonel i n his brass-bound bed. H e r ears were care fully freed from the pressure of her pillow, for she thought she heard a mosquito. Companion for thirty years to one whose life had been feverishly punctuated b y the attentions of those little beasts, she had no love for them. It was the one subject on which perhaps her imagination was strong er than her common-sense. F o r i n fact there was not, and could not be, a mos quito, since the first thing the colonel did, on arriving at any place further south than parallel 4 6 of latitude, was to open the windows very wide, and nail w i t h many tiny tacks a piece of mosquito net ting across that refreshing space, while she held h i m firmly b y the coat-tails. T h e fact that other people did not so secure their windows did not at all trouble the colonel, a true Englishman, who loved to act i n his own way, and to think i n the ways of other people. After that they would wait till night came, then burn a peculiar little lamp w i t h a peculiar little smell, and, i n the full glare of the gas light, stand about on chairs, with slippers, and their eyes fixed on true or imaginary beasts. T h e n would fall little slaps, mak ing little messes, and little joyous or dole ful cries would arise: " I ' v e got that one!" " O h , John, I missed h i m ! " A n d i n the middle of the room, the colonel, in pyja mas, and spectacles (only worn in very solemn moments, low down on his nose), would revolve slowly, turning his eyes,

w i t h that look i n them of outfacing death which he had so long acquired, on every inch of wall and ceiling, till at last he would say: " W e l l , D o l l y , that's the l o t ! " A t which she would say, " G i v e me a kiss, dear!" and he would kiss her, and get into his bed. There was, then, no mosquito, save that general ghost of h i m which lingered in the m i n d of one devoted to her husband. Spying out his profile, for he was lying on his back, she refrained from saying: " J o h n , are y o u awake?" A whiffling sound was coming from a nose, to which—originally straight—attention to m i l i t a r y duties had given a slight crook, half an inch below the level of grizzled eyebrows raised a little, as though surprised at the sounds beneath. She could hardly see h i m , but she thought: " H o w good he l o o k s ! " A n d , i n fact, he did. It was the face of a man incapable of evil, having i n its sleep the candor of one at heart a child—that simple candor of those who have never k n o w n how to seek adventures of the m i n d , and have always sought adventures of the body. Then somehow she d i d say: " J o h n ! A r e y o u asleep?" The colonel, instantly alive, as at some old-time attack, answered: "Yes." " T h a t poor young m a n ! " "Which?" " M a r k L e n n a n . H a v e n ' t y o u seen?" "What?" " M y dear, it was under your nose. But you never do see these things!" The colonel slowly turned his head. His wife was an imaginative woman! She had always been so. D i m l y he perceived that something romantic was about to come from her. B u t w i t h that almost professional gentleness of a man who has cut the heads and arms off people i n his time, he answered: " W h a t things?" " H e picked up her handkerchief." "Whose?" " O l i v e ' s . H e put it i n his pocket. I distinctly saw h i m . " There was silence; then M r s . E r c o t t ' s voice rose again, impersonal, far away. " W h a t always astonishes me about young people is the way they think they're not seen—poor dears!" Still there was silence.

Summer "John! Are you thinking?" F o r a considerable sound of breathing was coming from the colonel—to his wife a sure sign. A n d indeed he was thinking. D o l l y was an imaginative woman, but something told h i m that in this case she might not be riding past the hounds. M r s . E r c o t t raised herself. H e looked more good than ever; a little perplexed frown had climbed up w i t h his eyebrows and got caught i n the wrinkles across his forehead. " I ' m very fond of O l i v e , " he said. M r s . E r c o t t fell back on her pillows. In her heart there was just that little sore ness natural to a woman over fifty, whose husband has a niece. " N o doubt," she murmured. Something vague moved deep down i n the colonel; he stretched out his hand. In that strip of gloom between the beds it encountered another hand, which squeezed it rather hard. H e said, " L o o k here, old g i r l ! " and there was silence. M r s . E r c o t t i n her turn was thinking. H e r thoughts were fiat and rapid like her voice, • but had that sort of sentiment which accompanies the mental exercise of women w i t h good hearts. Poor young man! A n d poor Olive! B u t was a wom an ever to be pitied, when she was so pretty as that! Besides, when all was said and done, she had a fine-looking man for husband; in Parliament, w i t h a career, and fond of her—decidedly. A n d their little house i n London, so close to West minster, was a distinct dear; and nothing could be more charming than their cot tage by the river. Was Olive, then, to be pitied? A n d yet—she was not happy. It was no good pretending that she was happy. A l l very well to say that such things were within one's control, but, if you read novels at a l l , y o u knew they weren't. There was such a thing as i n compatibility. O h , yes! A n d there was the matter of difference i n their ages! Olive was twenty-six, Robert Cramier forty-two. A n d now this young M a r k Lennan was i n love w i t h her. W h a t if she were i n love w i t h h i m ! John would realize then, perhaps, that the young flew to the young. F o r men—even the best, like John, were funny! She would never

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dream of feeling for any of her nephews as John clearly felt for Olive. The colonel's voice broke i n on her thoughts. " N i c e young fellow—Lennan! Great p i t y ! Better sheer off—if he's getting—" A n d , rather suddenly, she answered: "Suppose he can't!" "Can't?" " D i d you never hear of a ' grande pas sion'V The colonel rose on his elbow. This was another of those occasions that showed h i m how, during the later years of his service i n Madras and Upper B u r mah, when Dolly's health had not been equal to the heat, she had picked up i n London a queer way of looking at things •—as if they were not—not so right or wrong as—as he felt them to be. A n d he repeated those two French words i n his own way, adding: " Isn't that just what I ' m saying? T h e sooner he stands clear, the better." B u t M r s . Ercott, too, sat up. " B e human," she said. The colonel experienced the same sensa tion as when one suddenly knows that one is not digesting food. Because young Lennan was i n danger of getting into a dishonorable fix, he was told to be human! Really, D o l l y — ! The white blur of her new boudoir cap suddenly impinged on his consciousness. Surely she was not getting—un-English! A t her time of life! " I ' m thinking of Olive," he said; " I don't want her worried with that sort of thing." "Perhaps Olive can manage for herself. In these days it doesn't do to interfere with love." " L o v e ! "muttered the colonel. " W h a t ? Phew!" If one's own wife called this—this sort of—thing, love—then, why had he been faithful to her—in very hot climates—all these years? A sense of waste, and of injustice, tried to rear its head against all the side of h i m that attached certain meanings to certain words, and acted up to them. A n d this revolt gave h i m a feeling, strange and so unpleasant. L o v e ! I t was not a word to use thus loosely! L o v e led to marriage; this could not lead to marriage, except through—the divorce court. A n d suddenly the colonel had a

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vision of his dead brother Lindsay, Olive's father, standing there i n the dark, w i t h his grave, clear-cut, ivory-pale face, under the black hair supposed to be derived from a French ancestress who had escaped from the massacre of Saint Bartholomew. Upright fellow always, Lindsay—even be fore he was made bishop! Queer some how that Olive should be his daughter. N o t that she was not upright; not at a l l ! B u t she was soft! L i n d s a y was not! Imagine h i m seeing that young fellow put ting her handkerchief in his pocket. B u t had young L e n n a n really done such a thing? D o l l y was imaginative! H e had mistaken it probably for his o w n ; if he had chanced to blow his nose, he would have realized. F o r , coupled with the al most childlike candor of his m i n d , the colonel had real administrative vigor, a true sense of practical values; an ounce of illustration was always worth to h i m a pound of theory! D o l l y was given to riding off on theories. T h a n k G o d ! She never acted on 'em! H e said gently: " M y dear! Y o u n g L e n n a n may be an artist and all that, but he's a gentleman! I know old Heatherley his guardian. W h y , I introduced him to Olive myself!" " W h a t has that to do w i t h it? He's i n love with her." One of the countless legion that hold a creed taken at face value, into whose roots and reasons they have never dreamed of going, the colonel was staggered. Like some native on an island surrounded by troubled seas, which he has stared at with a certain contemptuous awe all his life, but never entered, he was disconcerted b y thus being asked to leave the shore. A n d b y his own wife! Indeed, M r s . E r c o t t had not intended to go so far; but there was i n her, as i n all women whose minds are more active than their husbands', a something worrying her always to go a little farther than she meant. W i t h real compunction she heard the colonel say: " I must get up and drink some water." She was out of bed i n a moment. " N o t without b o i l i n g ! " She had seriously troubled h i m , then! N o w he would not sleep—the blood went to his head so quickly. H e would just lie awake, trying not to disturb her. She

could not bear h i m not to disturb her. It seemed so selfish of her! She ought to have known that the whole subject was too dangerous to discuss at night. She became conscious that he was stand ing just behind her; his figure i n its thin covering looked very lean, his face strange l y worn. " I ' m sorry y o u put that idea into m y head!" he said. " I ' m fond of O l i v e . " A g a i n M r s . E r c o t t felt that jealous twinge, soon lost this time i n the motherliness of a childless woman for her hus band. H e must not be troubled! H e should not be troubled. A n d she said: " T h e water's boiling! N o w sip a good glass slowly, and get into bed, or I ' l l take your temperature!" Obediently the colonel took from her the glass, and, as he sipped, she put her hand up and stroked his head. IV I N the room below them the subject of their discussion was lying very wide awake. She knew that she had betrayed herself, made plain to M a r k L e n n a n what she had never until now admitted, to her self. T h a t love-look, which for the life of her she could not keep back, had been fol lowed b y a feeling of having Tost caste.' F o r hitherto the world of women had been strictly divided b y her into those who did and those who d i d not do such things; and to be no longer quite sure to which half she belonged was frightening. B u t what was the good of thinking, of being fright ened—it could not lead to anything. Yesterday she had not k n o w n this would come; and now she could not guess at to morrow! To-night was enough! T o night w i t h its swimming loveliness! Just to feel! T o love and to be loved! A new sensation for her—as different from those excited b y the courtships of her girlhood, or by her marriage, as light from darkness. F o r she had never been i n love, not even w i t h her husband. She knew it now. T h e sun was shining i n a world where she had thought there was none. N o t h i n g could come of it! B u t the sun was shining; and i n that sunshine she must warm herself a little. Quite simply she began to plan what he and she would do. There were six days

Summer left. T h e y had not yet been to Gorbio, nor to Castellar—none of those long walks or rides they had designed to do for the beauty of them. W o u l d he come early to-morrow? W h a t could they do together? N o one should know what these six days would be to her—not even he. T o be with him, watch his face, hear his voice, and now and then just touch h i m ! She could trust herself to show no one. A n d then, it would be—over! Though of course she would see h i m again i n L o n d o n .

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A n d , lying there i n the dark, she thought of their first meeting, one Sunday morn ing, i n H y d e P a r k . T h e colonel religious ly observed church parade, and would even come all the way down to Westmin ster from his flat near Knightsbridge i n order to fetch his -niece up to it. She re membered how during their stroll he had stopped suddenly i n front of an old gentle man with a puffy yellow face and eyes half open. " A h ! M r . Heatherley—you up from Devonshire? H o w ' s your nephew—the— er—sculptor?" A n d the old gentleman, glaring a little, as it seemed to her, from under his eye lids and his gray top hat, had answered: " Colonel Ercott, I think? Here's the fel low h i m s e l f — M a r k ! " A n d a young man had taken off his hat. She only noticed at first that his dark hair grew—not long— but very thick, and that his eyes were very deep-set. T h e n she saw h i m smile; it made his face all eager, yet left it shy; and she decided that he was nice. Soon after, she had gone w i t h the Ercotts to see his 'things'; for it was, of course, and espe cially in those days, quite an event to know a sculptor—rather like having a zebra i n your park. T h e colonel had been de lighted and a little relieved to find that the ' things' were nearly all of beasts and birds. " V e r y interestin' " to one full of curious lore about such, having i n his time killed many of them, and finding himself at the end of it w i t h a curious aversion to killing any more, which—he never put into words.

would have suffered; now that she loved him, she saw that. A t all events she could watch his work, and help it with sym pathy. T h a t could not be wrong. . . . She fell asleep at last, and dreamed that she was i n a boat alone on the river near her country cottage—drifting along among spiky flowers like asphodels, with birds singing and flying round her. She could move neither face nor limbs, but that helpless feeling was not unpleasant, till she became conscious that she was draw ing nearer and nearer to what was neither water nor land, light nor darkness, but simply some unutterable feeling. A n d then she saw, gazing at her out of the rushes on the banks, a great bull head. It moved as she moved—it was on both sides of her, yet all the time, only one. She tried to raise her hands and cover her eyes, but could not—and woke with a sob. . . . It was light. Nearly six o'clock already! H e r dream made her disinclined to trust again to sleep. Sleep was a robber now—of each minute of these few days! She got up, and looked out. The morning was fine, the air warm already, sweet with dew, and heliotrope nailed to the wall outside her window. She had but to open her shut ters and walk into the sun. She dressed, took her sunshade, stealthily slipped the shutters back, and stole forth. Shunning the hotel garden, where the eccentricity of her early wandering might betray the condition of her spirit, she passed through into the road toward the Casino. W i t h out perhaps knowing it she was making for where she had sat with h i m yesterday afternoon, listening to the band. H a t less, but defended by her sunshade, she excited the admiration of the few con noisseurs as yet abroad, strolling i n blue blouses to their labors; and this simple admiration gave her pleasure. F o r once she was really conscious of the grace i n her own limbs, actually felt the gentle vividness of her own face, with its nearly black hair and eyes, and creamy skin— strange sensation, and very comforting!

Acquaintanceship had ripened fast, after that first visit to his studio, and now it was her turn to be relieved that M a r k Lennan devoted himself almost entirely to beasts and birds instead of to the hu man form, so-called divine. A h , yes! she

I n the Casino gardens she walked more slowly, savoring the aromatic trees, and stopping to bend and look at almost every flower; then, on the seat, where she had sat w i t h h i m yesterday, she rested. A few paces away were the steps that led


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to the railway station, trodden upward eagerly b y so many, day after day, night after night, and lightly or sorrowfully de scended. Above her, two pines, a peppertree, and a p a l m mingled their shade—so fantastic the jumbling of trees and souls in this strange place! She furled her sun shade and leaned back. H e r gaze, free and friendly, passed from bough to bough. Against the bright sky, unbesieged as yet b y heat or dust, they had a spiritual look, lying sharp and flat along the air. She plucked a cluster of pinkish berries from the pepper-tree, crushing and rubbing them between her hands, to get their fragrance. A l l these beautiful and sweet things seemed to be a part of her joy at being loved, part of this sudden summer i n her heart. T h e sky, the flowers, that jewel of green-blue sea, the bright acacias, were nothing in the world but love. A n d those few who passed, and saw her sitting there under the pepper-tree, won dered no doubt at the stillness of this 'dame bien mise,' who had risen so early. V I N the small hours, which so many wish were smaller, the colonel had awakened, with the affair of the handkerchief swell ing visibly. H i s niece's husband was not a man that he had much liking for—a taci turn fellow, with possibly a bit of the brute in him, a man who rather rode peo ple down; but, since D o l l y and he were i n charge of Olive, the notion that young Lennan was falling i n love with her under their very noses was alarming to one nat urally punctilious. It was not until he fell asleep again, and woke in full morn ing light, that the remedy occurred to him. She must be taken out of herself! D o l l y and he had been slack; too interested i n this queer place, this queer lot of people! They had neglected her, left her to—! Boys and girls—one ought always to re member! It was not too late. She was old Lindsay's daughter; would not forget herself. Poor old Lindsay—fine fellow; bit too much, perhaps, of the—Huguenot in h i m ! Queer, those throw-backs! H a d noticed it in horses, time and again— white hairs about the tail, carriage of the head—skip generations and then pop out. A n d Olive had something of his look—the

same ivory skin, the same color of eyes and hair! O n l y she was—not severe, like her father, not exactly! A n d once more there shot through the colonel a vague dread, as of a trusteeship neglected. It disap peared, however, i n his bath. H e was out before eight o'clock, a thin upright figure i n hard straw hat, and gray flannel clothes, walking w i t h the inde scribable loose poise of the soldier Eng lishman, w i t h that air, different from the French, German, what-not, because of shoulders ever asserting, through their drill, the right to put on mufti; with that perfectly quiet and modest air of knowing that, whatever might be said, there was only one way of wearing clothes and mov ing legs. A n d , as he walked, he smoothed his drooping gray moustache, considering how best to take his niece out of herself. H e passed along b y the terrace, and stood for a moment looking down at the sea beyond the pigeon-shooting ground. Then he moved on round under the Casino into the gardens at the back. A beauti ful spot! Wonderful care they had taken with the plants! It made him think a lit tle of Tushawore, where his old friend the rajah—precious old rascal—had gardens to his palace rather like these! H e paced again to the front. It was nice and quiet in the early mornings, w i t h the sea down there, and nobody trying to get the better of anybody else. There were fellows never happy unless they were doing some one i n the eye! H e had known men who would ride at the devil himself, make it a point of honor to swindle a friend out of a few pounds! O d d place this ' M o n t e ' — sort of Garden of E d e n gone wrong! A n d all the real, but quite inarticulate, love of nature, which had supported the colonel through deserts and jungles, on trans ports at sea, and i n mountain camps, awoke i n the sweetness of these gardens. H i s dear mother! H e had never forgotten the words w i t h which she had shown him the sunset through the coppice down at old Withes N o r t o n , when he was nine years o l d : " T h a t is beauty, Jack! Do y o u feel it, d a r l i n g ? " H e had not felt it at the time—not he; a thick-headed, scampering youngster. E v e n when he first went to India he had had no eye for a sunset. T h e rising generation were dif ferent. T h a t young couple, for instance,

Summer under the pepper-tree, sitting there w i t h out a word, just looking at the trees. H o w long, he wondered, had they been sitting like that? A n d suddenly something i n the colonel leaped; his steel-colored eyes took on their look of outfacing death. Choking down a cough, he faced about, back to where he had stood above the pigeon-shooting ground. Olive, and that young fellow! A n assignation! A t this time i n the morning! T h e earth reeled. H i s brother's child—his favorite niece! The woman whom he most admired—the woman for whom his heart was softest. Leaning over the stone parapet, no longer seeing either the smooth green of the pigeon-shooting ground, or the smooth blue of the sea beyond, he was moved, dis tressed, bewildered beyond words. B e fore breakfast! T h a t was the devil of i t ! Confession, as it were, of everything. Moreover, he had seen their hands touch ing on the seat. T h e blood rushed up i n his face; he had seen, spied out, what was not intended for his eyes. N i c e position —that! D o l l y , too, last night had seen— B u t that was different. W o m e n might see things—it was expected of them. B u t for a man—a—a gentleman! T h e ful ness of his embarrassment gradually dis closed itself. H i s hands were tied. C o u l d he even consult D o l l y ? H e had the strangest feeling of isolation, of utter sol itude. Nobody—not anybody i n the world—could understand his secret and intense discomfort! T o take up a posi tion—the position he was bound to take up, as Olive's nearest relative and protect or, and—what was it—chaperon, b y the aid of knowledge come at i n such a way, however unintentionally! N e v e r i n all his days i n the regiment—and many deli cate matters affecting honor had come his way—had he had a thing like this to deal with. Poor child! B u t he had no busi ness to think of her like that. N o , indeed! She had not behaved—as—and there he paused, curiously unable to condemn her. Suppose they got up and came that w a y ! H e took his hands off the stone parapet, and made for his hotel. H i s palms were white from the force of his grip. H e said to himself as he went along: " I must con sider the whole question c a l m l y ; I must think it out." T h i s gave h i m relief. W i t h young L e n n a n , at all events, he

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could be angry. B u t even there he found, to his dismay, no finality of judgment. A n d this absence of finality, so unwonted, distressed h i m horribly. There was some thing in the way the young man had been sitting there beside her—so quiet, so almost timid—that had touched h i m . T h i s was bad, by Jove—very bad! T h e two of them, they made somehow a nice couple! Confound it! T h i s would not do! T h e chaplain of the little English church, passing at this moment, called out: " F i n e morning, Colonel E r c o t t ! " T h e colonel saluted, and did not answer. T h e greeting at the moment seemed to h i m pal try. N o morning could be fine that con tained such a discovery. H e entered the hotel, passed into the dining-room, and sat down. N o b o d y was there. T h e y all had their breakfasts upstairs, even D o l l y . Olive alone was i n the habit of supporting him while he ate an English breakfast. A n d suddenly he perceived that he was face to face already w i t h this dreadful situation! T o have breakfast without, as usual, waiting for her, seemed too pointed. She might be coming i n at any minute now. T o wait for her, and have it, with out showing anything—how could he do that? H e was conscious of a faint rustling be hind h i m . There she was, and nothing decided. I n this moment of hopeless con fusion the colonel acted b y pure instinct. H e rose, patted her cheek, and placed a chair. " W e l l , m y dear," he said; " h u n g r y ? " She was looking very dainty, very soft. T h a t creamy dress showed off her dark hair and eyes, which seemed somehow to be—flying off somewhere; yes—it was queer, but that was the only way to put i t ! H e got no reassurance, no comfort, from the sight of her. A n d slowly he stripped the skin from the banana w i t h which he always commenced breakfast. One might just as well be asked to shoot a tame dove or tear a pretty flower to pieces, as be expected to take her to task. E v e n if he could, i n honor. H e sought refuge i n the words: " B e e n o u t ? " and could have bitten his tongue off. Suppose she answered, N o ! B u t she did not so answer. T h e color came into her cheeks, indeed, but she nodded: " Y e s ; it's so lovely."


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H o w pretty she looked saying that! H e had put himself out of court now—could never tell her what he had seen, after set ting, as it were, that trap for her. A n d presently he asked: " Got any plans to-day? " She answered, without flinching i n the least: " M a r k Lennan and I were going to take mules from Mentone up to G o r b i o . " H e was amazed at her steadiness— never, to his knowledge, having encoun tered a woman armored at every point to preserve a love that flies against the world. H o w tell what was under her smile! I n a confusion of feeling that amounted almost to pain, he heard her say: " W i l l y o u and A u n t D o l l y come?" Between his sense of trusteeship and his hatred of spoiling sport; between his knowledge of the danger she was i n and his half-pitying, half-admiring feeling at the sight of her; between real disapproval of an illicit and underhand business (what else was it, after all?) and some dim per ception that here was something he did not begin to be able to fathom, something that perhaps no one but those two them selves could deal with—between these v a rious extremes, he was lost indeed. A n d he stammered out: " I must ask your aunt; she's—she's not very good on a mule." Then, i n an impulse of sheer affection, he said with extreme suddenness: " M y dear, I've often meant to ask: Are you happy at home?" " A t home?" There was something sinister about that repetition. W h y on earth had he asked such an idiotic question? She drank her coffee and got up. A n d the colonel felt afraid of her, standing there—afraid of what she was going to say. H e grew very red. B u t , worse than all, she said absolutely nothing, just shrugged her shoulders with a little smile that went to his heart. VI O N the wild thyme, under the olives be low the rock village of Gorbio, with their mules cropping at a little distance, those two sat after their lunch, listening to the cuckoos. Since their uncanny chance

meeting that morning in the gardens, when they sat w i t h their hands just touching, amazed and elated by their own good fort une, there was not much need to say what they felt, to break w i t h words this rapture of belonging to each other—so shyly, so wildly; so, as it were, without reality. T h e y were like epicures w i t h old wine i n their glasses, not yet tired of its fragrance and the spell of anticipation. A n d so their talk was not of love, but, in that pathetic way of star-crossed lov ers, of the things they loved; leaving out —each other. It was the telling of her dream that made him speak; and when he had spoken, she drew away, and answered: " I t can't—it mustn't b e ! " Then he just clung to her hand. A n d presently, seeing that her eyes were wet, took courage enough to kiss her cheek. Trembling and fugitive indeed that first passage of their love. N o t much of the conquering male in h i m ; nor i n her of the ordinary enchantress. A n d then they went, soberly enough, riding their mules down the stony slopes back to Mentone. B u t in the gray dusty railway carriage on his way back to Beaulieu, he was like a man drugged, staring at where she had sat opposite. T w o hours after, at dinner i n her hotel, between her and M r s . E r c o t t , w i t h the colonel opposite, he knew for the first time what he was faced w i t h . T o watch every thought that passed within him, lest it should b y the slightest sign betray h i m ; to regulate and veil every look, and every word he spoke to her; never for a second to forget that these other persons were actual and dangerous, not merely the insignificant and grotesque shadows that they seemed! I t would be, perhaps, forever a part of his love for her, not to seem to love her. H e d i d not dare dream of fulfilment. H e was to be her friend, and try to bring her happiness—burn and long for her, and not think about reward. T h i s was his first real overwhelming pas sion, and he brought to it all that naivete, that touching quality, of young English men whose secret instinct it is to back away from the full nature of love, even from admitting that it has that nature. T h e y two were to love, and—not to love!

Summer For the first time he understood a little of what that meant. A few stolen adoring minutes now and then, and, for the rest, the presence of a world that must be de ceived. A l r e a d y he had almost a hatred of that orderly, brown-faced colonel, w i t h his eyes that looked so steady, and saw nothing; of that flat, k i n d l y lady, who talked so pleasantly throughout dinner, saying things that he had to answer with out knowing what they signified. H e real ized, w i t h a sense of shock, that he was deprived of all interests i n life but one; not even his work had any meaning apart from her—it lit no fire w i t h i n h i m to hear M r s . E r c o t t praise certain execrable pict ures in the R o y a l A c a d e m y which she had religiously visited the day before leav ing home. A n d as the interminable meal wore on, he began even to feel grief and wonder that Olive could be so smiling, so gay and calm; so, as it seemed to h i m , i n different to this intolerable impossibility of exchanging even one look of love. D i d she really love h i m — c o u l d she love h i m , and show not one little sign of it! A n d suddenly he felt her foot touch his own. It was the faintest sidelong supplicating pressure, withdrawn at once, but it said: ' I know what y o u are feeling; I too am feeling it. D o n ' t blame me!' Character istically, he felt that it cost her dear to make use of that little p r i m i t i v e device of common loves; the touch awoke w i t h i n him only chivalry. H e would burn for ever sooner than cause her the pain of thinking that he was not happy! After dinner, they sat out on a balcony. The stars glowed above the palms; a frog was croaking. H e managed to draw his chair so that he could look at her unseen. H o w deep and softly dark her eyes, when for a second they rested on his! A m o t h settled on her knee—a cunning little creat ure, with its hooded, horned owl's face, and tiny black slits of eyes! W o u l d i t have come so confidingly to any one but her? The colonel knew its name—he had collected it. V e r y common, he said. T h e interest in it passed; but L e n n a n stayed bent forward, gazing at that silk-covered knee. The voice of M r s . E r c o t t , sharper than its wont, said: " W h a t day does R o b e r t say he wants y o u back, m y d e a r ? " H e managed to remain gazing at the moth, VOL.

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even to take it gently from her knee, while he listened to her calm answer. " T u e s d a y , I believe." T h e n he got up, and let the m o t h fly into the darkness; his hands and lips were trembling, and he was afraid of their be ing seen. H e had never known, had not dreamed, of such a violent, sick feeling. T h a t this man could thus hale her home at w i l l ! It was grotesque, fantastic, aw ful, but—it was true! N e x t Tuesday she would journey back away from h i m to be again at the mercy of her fate! T h e pain of this thought made h i m grip the railing, and grit his teeth, to keep himself from crying out. A n d another thought came to h i m : I shall have to go about w i t h this feeling, day and night, and keep it to m y self! T h e y were saying good-night; and he had to smirk and smile, and pretend—to her above all—that he was happy, and he could see that she knew it was pretence. T h e n he was alone, w i t h the feeling that he had failed her at the first shot; torn too between horror of what he suddenly saw before h i m , and longing to be back i n her presence at any cost. . . . A n d all this on the day of that first kiss which had seemed to h i m to make her so utterly his own. H e sat down on a bench facing the Casino. Neither the lights, nor the peo ple passing i n and out, not even the gypsy bandsmen's music, distracted his thoughts for a second. C o u l d it be less than twenty-four hours since he had picked up her handkerchief, not thirty yards away! I n that twenty-four hours he seemed to have known every emotion that man could feel. A n d i n all the world there was now not one soul to whom he could speak his real thoughts—not even to her, because from her, beyond all, he must keep, at any cost, a l l knowledge of his unhappiness. So this was illicit love—as it was called! Loneliness, and torture! N o t jealousy—• for her heart was his; but amazement, outrage, fear. Endless lonely suffering! A n d nobody, if they knew, would care, or p i t y h i m one jot! Was there really, then, as the old Greeks thought, a daemon that liked to play w i t h men, as men liked to stir an earwig and turn it over and put a foot on it i n the end? H e got up and made his way toward the railway station. There was the bench


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where she had been sitting when he came on her that very morning. T h e stars i n their courses had seemed to fight for them then; but whether for joy he no longer knew. A n d there on the seat were still the pepper berries she had crushed and strewn. H e broke off another bunch and bruised them. T h a t scent was the ghost of those minutes when her hand lay against his own. T h e stars in their courses—for joy or sorrow! VII T H E R E was no peace now for Colonel and M r s . E r c o t t . T h e y felt themselves conspirators, and of conspiracy they had never had the habit. Y e t how could they openly deal with anxieties which had arisen solely from what they had chanced secretly to see? W h a t was not intended for one's eyes and ears did not exist; no canon of conduct could be quite so sacred. A s well defend the opening of another per son's letters as admit the possibility of making use of adventitious knowledge. So far tradition, and indeed character, made them feel at one, and conspire freely. B u t they diverged on a deeper plane. M r s . E r c o t t had said, indeed, that here was something which could not be controlled; the colonel had felt i t — a very different thing! Less tolerant in theory, he was touched at heart; M r s . Ercott, i n theory almost approving—she read that danger ous authoress George E l i o t — a t heart felt cold toward her husband's niece. F o r these reasons they could not i n fact con spire without, in the end, saying suddenly: " W e l l , it's no good talking about i t ! " and almost at once beginning to talk about it again.

In proposing to her that mule, the colo nel had not had time, or rather not quite conviction enough as to his line of action, to explain so immediately the new need for her to sit upon it. It was only when, to his somewhat strange relief, she had refused the expedition, and Olive had started without them, that he told her of the meeting i n the gardens, of which he had been witness. She then said at once that if she had known, she would, of course, have put up w i t h anything i n order to go; not because she approved of i n terfering, but because they must think of

Robert! A n d the colonel had said: " D — n the fellow!" A n d there the matter had rested for the moment, for both of them were wondering a little which fellow it was that he had damned. T h a t indeed was the trouble. If the colonel had not cared so much about his niece, and had liked, instead of rather disliking Cramier; if M r s . E r c o t t had not found M a r k L e n nan a 'nice boy,' and had not secretly felt her husband's niece rather dangerous to her peace of m i n d ; if, i n few words, those three had been puppets made of wood and worked b y law, it would have been so much simpler for all concerned. It was the discovery that there was a personal equation in such matters, instead of just a simple rule of three, which disorgan ized the colonel and made h i m almost angry; which depressed M r s . E r c o t t and made her almost silent. . . . These two good souls had stumbled on a problem which has divided the world from b i r t h : Shall cases be decided on their individual merits, or according to formal codes? Beneath an appearance and a vocabu lary more orthodox than ever, the colo nel's allegiance to authority and the laws of form was really shaken; he simply could not get out of his head the sight of those two young people sitting side b y side, nor the tone of Olive's voice, when she had repeated his own regrettable words about happiness at home. If only the thing had not been so hu man ! If only she had been some one else's niece, it would clearly have been her duty to remain unhappy. A s it was, the more he thought, the less he knew what to think. A man who had never had any balance to speak of at his bank, and from the nomadic condition of his life had no exaggerated feeling for a settled social status—deeming society i n fact rather a bore—he d i d not u n d u l y exaggerate the worldly dangers of this affair; neither did he honestly believe that she would burn in everlasting torment if she d i d not succeed in remaining true to ' t h a t great black chap,' as he secretly called Cramier. H i s feeling was simply that it was ' a n awful p i t y ' ; a sort of unhappy conviction that it was not like the women of his family to fall upon such ways; that his dead brother would turn i n his grave; i n two words that it was ' not done.' Y e t he was

Summer by no means of those who, giving latitude to women i n general, fall w i t h whips on those of their own family who take it. O n the contrary, believing that woman i n general should be stainless to the world's eye, he was inclined to make allowance for any individual woman that he knew and loved. A suspicion he had always en tertained, that Cramier was not by breed ing 'quite the clean p o t a t o ' m a y insensi bly have influenced h i m just a little. H e had heard, indeed, that he was not even entitled to the name of Cramier—but had been adopted by a childless man, who had brought h i m up and left h i m a lot of money. There was something in this that went against the grain of the childless colonel. H e had never adopted any one himself. A n d there was a certain lack, about a man who had been adopted as a child, of reasonable guarantee—he was like a non-vintage wine, or a horse w i t h out a pedigree; y o u could not quite rely on what he might do, having no tradition in his blood. H i s appearance too, and manner, somehow lent color to this dis trust. A touch of the tar-brush some where, and a stubborn, silent, pushing fellow. W h y on earth had Olive ever married h i m ! B u t then women were such kittle cattle, poor things; and o l d L i n d say, with his vestments and his views on obedience, must have been a tartar as a father, poor old chap! Besides, Cramier, no doubt, was what most women would call good-looking; more taking to the eye than such a quiet fellow as young L e n nan, whose features were rather anyhow, though pleasant enough, and w i t h a nice smile—the sort of young man one could not help liking, and who certainly would never hurt a fly! A n d suddenly there came the thought: W h y should he not go to young L e n n a n and put it to h i m straight? T h a t he was i n love w i t h Olive? N o t quite—but the way to do it would come to h i m . H e brooded long over this idea, and spoke of it to M r s . E r c o t t , while shaving, the next morning. H e r answer: " M y dear John, b o s h ! " removed his last doubt. Without saying where he was going, he strolled out the moment after break fast—and took a train to Beaulieu. A t the young man's hotel he sent i n his card, and was told that this monsieur had al

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ready gone.out for the day. H i s mood of marching straight up to the guns thus checked, he was left pensive and dis traught. N o t having seen Beaulieu (they spoke of it then as a coming place), he made his way up .an incline. T h e whole hillside was covered with rose-trees. Thousands of these flowers were starring the lower air, and the strewn petals of blown and fallen roses covered the light soil. T h e colonel put his nose to blos soms here and there, but they had little scent, as if they knew that the season was already over. A few blue-bloused peas ants were still busy among them. A n d suddenly he came on young Lennan him self, sitting on a stone and dabbling away with his fingers at a lump of ' p u t t y stuff.' T h e colonel hesitated. A p a r t from ob vious reasons for discomfiture, he had that feeling toward art common to so many of his caste. It was not work, of course, but it was very clever—a mystery to him how any one could do i t ! O n seeing h i m , L e n nan had risen, dropping his handkerchief over what he was modelling—but not be fore the colonel had received a dim i m pression of something familiar. T h e young man was very red—the colonel, too, was conscious suddenly of the heat. H e held out his hand. " N i c e quiet place this," he stammered; "never seen it before. I called at your hotel." N o w that he had his chance, he was completely at a loss. T h e sight of the face emerging from that lump of p u t t y stuff had quite unnerved h i m . T h e no tion of this young man working at it up here all b y himself, just because he was away an hour or two from the original, touched h i m . H o w on earth to say what he had come to say? It was altogether different from what he had thought. A n d it suddenly flashed through h i m : D o l l y was right! She's always right— hang it! " Y o u ' r e busy," he said; " I mustn't i n terrupt y o u . " " N o t at all, sir. It was awfully good of y o u to look me u p . " T h e colonel stared. There was some thing about young L e n n a n that he had not noticed before; a ' D o n ' t take liberties w i t h me!' look, that made things difficult. B u t still he lingered, staring wistfully at

" A t Ease on L e t h e W h a r f "

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the y o u n g m a n , who stood waiting w i t h such politeness. T h e n a safe question shot into his m i n d : " A h ! W h e n do y o u go back to E n g land? We're off on T u e s d a y . " A s he spoke, a puff of w i n d lifted the handkerchief from the modelled face. W o u l d the young fellow put it back? H e did not. A n d the colonel thought: " I t would have been bad form. H e knew I wouldn't take advantage. Y e s ! He's a gentleman!" L i f t i n g his hand to the salute, he said: " W e l l , I must be getting back. See y o u at dinner perhaps." A n d turning on his heel he marched away. T h a t face i n the ' p u t t y stuff' up there by the side of the road accompanied h i m

home. It was bad—it was serious! A n d the sense that he counted for nothing in all this grew and grew i n h i m . H e told no one of where he had been. . . . W h e n the colonel turned w i t h ceremony and left h i m , L e n n a n sat down again on the flat stone, took up his ' p u t t y stuff/ and presently effaced that image. H e sat still a long time, to all appearance watch ing the little blue butterflies p l a y i n g round the red and tawny roses. T h e n his fin gers began to work, feverishly shaping a head; not of a man, not of a beast, but a sort of horned, heavy mingling of the two. There was something frenetic i n the move ment of those rather short, blunt-ended fingers, as though they were strangling the thing they were creating.

( T o be continued.)

" A T

E A S E

O N

L E T H E

W H A R F "

By H e l e n Coale Crewe I H A V E forgotten who m y brother is. T i m e was I knew, and lived and loved w i t h h i m ; Toiled, suffered. N o w , remote and shadowy, d i m , N o heartbeat stirs at his remembered face. In this still place L o v e hath forsworn its opportunities. Y e a , here are no responsibilities. O n l y a drifting w i t h the listless stream Where hollow bubbles, floating, coldly gleam. Wonder itself is idle, purposeless; I cannot guess N o r even dream of ancient sympathies. N o w hath m y soul content. Soft silences, Sinews unloosed from struggle, silken sleep, Are mine; nor tender memories to weep. O n l y unruffled calm; and yet—and yet— Strange, faint regret— I have forgotten who m y brother is!

P e a k s whose m i g h t y cones reach the realms of eternal silence.

T H E

L A N D

O F T H E

INCAS

B y Ernest Peixotto I L L U S T R A T I O N S

A S you cross the backbone of the Andes AA on the Southern R a i l w a y of Peru, leaving behind the dreary waste lands of the upper Cordilleras, devoid of life and vegetation except for the pajonal, the only grass that clothes the highest pla teaus with its stubby golden carpet, where no bit of green has rested the eye since the lovely valley of Arequipa faded from view and the eternal snows of Chachani and M i s t i dropped lower and lower to ward the horizon; after topping the pass at Crucero A l t o , some fifteen thousand feet above the sea, y o u descend the east ward side by loops and gradients about two thousand feet or more. V i c u n a , the sole habitants of these mountain solitudes, graze in the ychu grass b y the tracks and at lower levels llamas and sheep. The flocks and herds increase i n size as you descend. Occasionally clusters of huts appear, i n whose doorways women VOL.

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A U T H O R

are seated weaving ponchos, their mouths muffled against the icy breeze. A chain of lakes now borders the road, one bright and peaceful, the next shaded b y heavy clouds, dark, tragic as the tarn of the House of Usher. Snow-peaks close i n the vista to the left, while ahead opens a broad valley, the great basin of L a k e Titicaca. Y o u quickly realize that y o u are enter ing another world—a strange world shut off from the remainder of our planet b y every barrier that nature could devise. T o the east tower the White Cordillera, beyond which moulder the miasmic j u n gles of the M o n t a n a ; to the west rise the snowy altitudes we have just traversed. Between these two ranges lie a succes sion of highland valleys some ten to thir teen thousand feet above the sea, each separated from the other b y nudos, or knots, of lesser transverse chains of moun tains. 699

T h e village green, Urcos.

These valleys i n our latitudes would be covered w i t h eternal snow. Here under the tropics they blossom w i t h all the prod ucts of the temperate zone, enjoying a cool, invigorating climate and supporting a large population of Indians. T h e y constituted the heart of the an cient empire of the Incas, that amazing despotism that stunned the Spanish con querors w i t h the wisdom of its institu tions, the splendor and the size of its build ings, the rich produce of its fields, and, above all, w i t h the wealth of its mines of gold and silver and its amassed riches of centuries. W h e n the Spaniard came, H u a y n a Capac had already extended his dominions as far north as Quito and as far south as the land of the Araucanian Indians of C h i l i . E v e n most of the sav age tribes of the M o n t a n a owed h i m al legiance, and only the Pacific bounded his territories to the westward. T h e centre of his empire lay i n these high plateaus of the Andes—the fair and fertile valleys of H u a y l a s and Vilcanota, the bare and 700

bleak plains of Cerro de Pasco and T i t i caca's basin. We were now entering the last-named, the most southern of the four, and were then to turn northward to visit the Inca capital, Cuzco, the navel of the kingdom, as its name signifies. It was toward the end of the rainy sea son. So, when we started from Juliaca in the morning, the broad valley lay flecked with numerous pools of water that reflected the deep blue of the sky, mingled with the fleecy white of the small clouds that floated overhead. T h e air, after the night's rain, was of an indescribable rarity and purity, pellucid; so clear, indeed, that the distant Cordilleras showed every va ried marking of their sharp ridges and deep guebradas. N o w and then, as we looked backward, T i t i c a c a came into view, re flecting the hills of indigo-blue that sur round it. Our train had now begun to climb, mounting through bleak pastures until we reached L a R a y a , the summit of one of

T h e L a n d of the those knots of mountains that connect the two main ranges of the Andes. T h e scenery was magnificent. W e were shut i n by great peaks set i n fields of moss or grass that encircle their mighty cones, whose heads reach the realms of eternal silence and eternal snow. T w o little streams rise at the top of the pass. One, the Puchara, starts down the valley we had just ascended, finally to reach the Pacific; the other becomes the Vilcanota that, gathering strength as it proceeds, goes to swell the mighty A m a

Incas

701

zon, emptying into the A t l a n t i c some three thousand miles or more away. A s we descended beside its bubbling waters—so soon, alas, to lose their crys tal pureness—a beautiful valley opened before us hemmed in by frowning moun tains, one of those valleys that the Incas chose as the central seat of their civiliza tion. Their mountain slopes they terraced into rich andenes; they irrigated their fields and gardens, fortified their crags, and dotted their meadows with villages and cities. A t the far end they built Cuzco,

A t the market, Sicuani.

702

T h e L a n d of the Incas

their capital, the great shrine of their deity the Sun, the venerated object of their pil grimage. A s M e c c a is to the M u s s u l m a n or R o m e to the Catholic, so was Cuzco to the Inca. These valleys still remain well tilled, their fields of wheat and barley alternat ing w i t h patches of quinoa, the hardy grain that is indigenous to these mountain plains, their staple of life, thriving at an elevation of thirteen thousand feet. Before six o'clock we pulled into the station at Sicuani, there to remain for the night. Our itinerary had been planned w i t h this i n view, for Sicuani's Sunday-morn ing market is the most notable i n all the region. T h i s being Saturday evening, the llama trains were already arriving. A s we walked about the town after dinner we saw whole troops of these strange beasts being driven into the corrals, craning their long necks, their ears tilted forward, sus picious, always on the alert, afraid to enter unknown enclosures. A s we crossed the two squares on our return to our car, from the tiendas and chinganas that surround them came sad strains of music, sometimes a voice sing ing, sometimes a reedy flute plaintively crooning, sometimes a rude guitar strum ming those sad yaravis, the sole musical expression of the Andean Indian—minor melodies, sad i n theme and modulation, strange i n their wilful syncopations, fitly voicing the melancholy, the sorrow of a down-trodden race. T h e environment of the Inca Indian has had great influence upon his tempera ment. H e combines to a marked degree the nature of the easy-going inhabitant of the tropics w i t h the hardihood and forti tude and capacity for toil of the mountain eer. O n the bleak punas of this upper world of his, this "roof of the earth," as it has been called, his inscrutable expres sion, his silences, and his quiet melancholy accord well w i t h the mysteries of the country. W e were out early next morning, and the sun had not yet risen from behind the mountains, though the sky was bright as we turned into the plaza. Already it was full of people. Here was the movement of the market-place, the bustle of the traders. B u t how quiet!

O n l y silent groups stood about. They smiled once i n a while, but quickly grew grave again; they scarcely ever laughed. A s we listened, the singing of the birds— the numerous trigueras—drowned the hu man voices! T h e natives were constantly arriving. The sky grew brighter and brighter, and suddenly the fiery orb of the sun shot above the mountains and darted its rays in long shafts of light down upon the mar ket-place. T h e chill of the early morn ing was dispelled as if b y magic. Small wonder that the Incas in their bleak tireless mountain homes worshipped h i m as their chief deity! A n d now, under his effulgence, the beauty of this Sunday-morning market be came apparent. The houses around the plaza, hitherto gray and uninteresting, now gleamed white or pale-blue or caught golden reflections under their broad eaves and balconies from the yellow dust of the roadways. U p o n the surrounding hillslopes flocks of llamas and trains of don keys stood silhouetted with silver awaiting a purchaser. A n d the costumes! The men's were undoubtedly the finest. Their ponchos or blankets reaching to the knees were woven i n rich patterns and ornamented with colored fringes; their sturdy sunbrowned calves and feet were bare or pro tected only by rude sandals; upon their heads they wore tight-fitting caps with ear-flaps woven, too, i n intricate designs like those of the poncho but far finer, the best being made of the beautiful vicuna wool, which, under the Incas, was reserved for the nobility alone. T h e i r hair, long, black, and thick, showed front and back, and was clipped round, giving to their clear-cut features and aquiline noses the appearance of those splendid bronze heads modelled b y Donatello and his school. The dominant color note was red—scar let varying through all the gamut of rose and warmed b y intervening stripes of undyed ochre wool. The women wore the bright montero, a gay broad-brimmed hat almost devoid of crown, ornamented w i t h gold or silver galloon, and their principal garment was the llicha or mantle i n which they draped themselves. Before them, spread upon the ground, lay the various strange eat-

Drawn

by E. C.

Peixotto. T h e church of the C o m p a n i a , facing the P l a z a , Cuzco.

703

M o d e r n C u z c o from the river-bank.

ables that they sell: the dried birds and cockroaches; the chuno or white potato (do y o u realize that we owe our common potato to these highlands of Peru?) that, boiled w i t h bits of fish or meat, makes the chupe, their national dish; the roundish grains of the quinoa; the charqui, or jerked meat made of venison or vicuna steaks; the bags of coca leaves that they chew to deaden their senses and efface the effect of cold, hunger, and fatigue as they take their almost superhuman walks. W e started on for Cuzco i n the morning expecting to reach it by night. B u t fate willed otherwise, as you shall see. Along the roads the Indians were hur rying, some afoot, some on donkey-back, and once i n a while we passed a single horseman draped i n his ample poncho. Women, too, walked briskly with babies or incredibly large bundles upon their backs, picking their skirts high above their knees to ford the streams and pools. Beyond San Pablo we could make out the ruins of the great temple of Viracocha, off to the right, half hidden i n a rocky country. E a c h station, as we passed, was full of people, the train being still a novelty, an object of interest. T h e v i l lages became richer. Pottery roofs sup planted the flimsy thatch; substantial walls took the place of rude adobe. T h e now roaring Vilcanota was spanned as at Quiquijana by strong stone bridges. T h e fields were rich and the hills terraced far up toward their summits. A b o u t four hours beyond Sicuani the train stopped at a place called Urcos. 704

U p o n one side of the track stood the sta tion; upon the other a sort of fonda—• eating-house and lodgings combined. N o town was i n sight. T h e minutes passed by, and presently men began to drop off and ask questions of the conductor. H i s replies were evasive. A n hour passed, and we were told that, owing to some trouble on the road ahead, we should re main where we were till evening. So, having nothing better to do, we set out to find the town. H a p p y thought! F o r no sooner had we climbed a wide path, a sort of causeway lined on both sides with giant cacti of all descriptions, than we saw a picturesque red-roofed village ahead of us. W e were walking toward the sun and the llamas and people coming down toward us were edged with gold and silver as the brilliant light caught the long nap of their woolly garments' and fringes. W e soon reached the first mud-built houses and stumbled up the winding rock-paved streets, climb ing higher and higher toward glimpses of gleaming white walls ahead. Suddenly we turned into the village green, for such it truly was, a perfect pastoral hidden i n this mountain valley. E i g h t giant trees (pisonays, I think they are called) shaded its broad expanse, their gnarled trunks girdled w i t h stone seats, their lustrous leaves shining and sparkling in the sunlight. I n the shadows which they cast groups of Indian women squat ted w i t h their children, and over by the village pump another group quietly gos siped. A n old Spaniard, i n his thread-

T h e L a n d of the

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bare black coat and flashy tie, returned glow of the scarlet costumes, the mighty slowly from mass. A broad flight of steps, hills, fat-flanked, gouged by landslides, ornamented w i t h a tall stone crucifix, rose yet tilled to their very summits, com

O n e of the city gates.

at the farthest end and led up to the church, whose single lava-built tower, dark and rich i n tone, contrasted pleasantly with the white arcades that adjoined it. The long afternoon shadows, the ruddy

posed a charming picture, and when we had enjoyed it for some time we mounted the steps to the church. It, too, well repaid our visit. Its walls and ceiling, though white, are almost com-

T h e triple walls of Sachsahuaman.

pletely covered w i t h stencils, executed ap parently b y Indians, like those of the C a l ifornia missions, but far richer in design and bolder and more vigorous i n pattern, and particularly powerful i n tone. T h e y form the background for a multitude of objects: paintings not very good, to be sure, but following the fine old Hispanic tradition and set i n their original richly carved and gilded frames; polychrome statues of saints and martyrs i n the golden niches of side altars, mingled with bits of altar-cloths and laces and old Spanish mirrors. T h e vandal hand of no city an tiquary has as yet defiled this little treas ure-house. M a y m y pen never guide one thither! A s we emerged from the portal, a small voice piped up and asked if we would like to see the lake. The L a k e of Urcos? W h y had that name a familiar sound? Guided b y our small conductor, we soon came upon it set like lovely N e m i i n its round volcanic basin, a mirror reflecting the azure sky. T h e L a k e of Urcos? I was still puzzled, but soon had solved the mystery. N o w I remembered the passage i n Garcilasso. H u a y n a Capac, last of the great Incas, upon the b i r t h of the son that was to succeed h i m , caused to be forged a chain of gold, long enough, we are told, to 706

stretch around the great square at Cuzco. A n d the Inca named his son Huascar, a chain. A t the approach of the Spaniards this triumph of the goldsmith's art, a ver itable fortune, was thrown, according to common belief, into this L a k e of Urcos. Various attempts have been made to dredge its waters and recover the buried treasure, but as yet all i n vain—again re minding us of N e m i and its golden barge of Nero. When we returned to the station we found a telegram from the superintendent at Arequipa telling us that we would be obliged to remain at Urcos all night owing to a landslide on the road ahead. N o w were we glad indeed of our private car, for the rest of the passengers had to make the best of it i n the crowded quar ters of the fonda, four i n a room. The cholos slept upon the benches of their second-class coach. Faithful old Prudenzio, our Indian cook, had been off shop ping i n the town and we enjoyed our good dinner sitting b y the window watching the natives w i t h their long train of llamas or donkeys making their way up the steep pathways that led to their mountain homes. Where do they dwell? Neither house nor village was visible upon these rocky heights, yet doubtless hidden within their


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denies nestle lonely huts protected from the purity of the mountain air. W h a t wintry winds. a happy day, unplanned and unpremedi The water-carriers staggered toward the tated, we had spent quite by chance i n

W a l l s of the palace of Inca R o c c a .

village under the weight of their earthen this peaceful country-side—this wonder ollas; the sad strains of a yaravi floated ful land of the Incas! B u t next morning, when told that we over the meadows; the Vilcanota, rushing to swell the A m a z o n , murmured i n the would not start for Cuzco until noon, I be distance; the stars shone resplendent i n gan to be anxious. W e were at the be-

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H i e L a n d of die Incas

O l d Inca model of Sachsahuaman. Drawn from the original in the collection of Dr. Muniz, Cuzco.

ginning of H o l y Week and I had been especially planning to reach the Inca cap ital on this particular day, the feast of Our L o r d of the Earthquakes—the prin cipal Indian festival of the year. The great procession was to leave the cathe dral at four o'clock, and Urcos is more than two hours' ride from Cuzco. W e spent the morning sketching in the village, however, and i n visiting a hospitable Span ish family, who asked us i n (strangers are a rarity indeed i n Urcos) to regale us with sweetmeats and coffee. A reassuring tele gram awaited us upon our return to the station, telling us that we should leave b y one o'clock. A l l might yet be well. A n d at one we left. A q uick trip through a succession of lovely valleys, where haci endas with long arcades sat embowered i n eucalyptus groves, brought us to the con siderable town of San Jeronimo, really a suburb of Cuzco. T h e railroad here makes an ascent to the city and at each curve of the road we tried to obtain our first glimpse of this sacred city of the Incas. A t last, at a turning, there i t lay w i t h its domes and towers, its ring of encircling mountains, its red-roofed houses lying flat along its regular streets. T h e neat new station (the road has been open only a year or two) lies outside the city walls. W e lost no time i n jumping into an o l d tram-car drawn b y four mules, and presently were rattling through the narrow, crooked streets of the lower town, one of the worst quarters of the city—the dirtiest district of a d i r t y town.

B u t all this was forgotten when we turned into the main plaza of the city. Picturesque arcaded houses surround it on every side; the great church of the Compania, with its belfries and domes, looms up i n the centre of the southern side; while upon its eastern front the grand cathedral faces the setting sun, raised high upon its lofty grada. Grouped upon these steps and in the plaza stood thousands of Indians—they told us fifteen thousand. N o t shiftless, half-breed Indians i n cast-off European clothes, but fine-looking fellows developed like athletes b y their hardy mountain life and draped i n their most brilliant ponchos with their most elaborate pointed caps upon their heads. T h e garrison, Indians too, except for the officers, stood drawn up at attention. A portion of the centre of the plaza was reserved for gentlefolk, and to this we made our way and were kindly admitted b y the sentries on guard. We had scarcely taken our places be fore the cathedral when its sixteen bells began to toll, the rich tones of M a r i a A n gola, whose voice can be heard for miles, sounding the deepest bass. A movement swept over the populace. The Indians dropped upon their knees; the Spaniards removed their hats. F r o m the great door of the cathedral issued the procession. First came the alcaldes, the Indian mayors of all the provincial towns and villages, each carrying his great staff of office, a baton or cane varying i n its size and the richness of its silver ornaments according to the importance of his com-

Inca stone representing plan of the T e m p l e of the Sun, C u z c o . About two-thirds actual size.

T h e L a n d of the Incas m u n i t y , some as tall as the men them selves, as thick as their fists, bound round and round w i t h broad bands of silver en graved w i t h rich designs. N e x t followed

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up to the pillars of the portal, throw masses of crimson leaves upon it (the nucchu, or funeral flower of the Incas) reddening all its upper surfaces as w i t h a shower of blood.

S k e t c h from R a m u s i o ' s plate of C u z c o , 1556.

the brotherhoods, wearing, like those of Spain and Italy, hoods that concealed their faces; then the monks from the convents, mostly Franciscans; then the civil author ities of Cuzco, the prefect of the depart ment, the mayor, and other dignitaries; and after them the " S a n t o , " followed b y the clergy massed about their bishop. The Santo, or saint, is a great figure, some eight feet high, of the Christ crucified —a fine piece of wood-carving sent over to the cathedral i n the days of its infancy by Charles the F i f t h of Spain. It is the Indian's most revered image—his special patron saint, stained b y time, and perhaps by art as well, the color of his own dark skin. M a n y miracles are attributed to it, among others the cessation of the great earthquake of 1 6 5 0 , whence its name, Our L o r d of the Earthquakes. Once a year and once only, on this par ticular M o n d a y of H o l y Week, it is taken from its glass-enclosed chapel, put upon its massive pedestal, a mass of silver so heavy that thirty-two men stagger be neath its weight, while others follow along beside, ready to relieve them at frequent intervals. Thus, attended b y the civil and ecclesi astical authorities, it is taken i n solemn state to the principal churches of the city, followed b y the garrison, whose muffled drums play funeral marches on the way. As it leaves the cathedral, boys, tied high

Swaying back and forth upon its many unsteady human legs, slowly it makes its way through the silent, kneeling throng toward Santa Teresa. I n the open square before this church the women are congre gated, and as they see it approach they begin to moan and beat their breasts; tears start from their eyes and their emotion is evidently intense. Here also boys about the portal shower the funeral flowers. W e did not wait to follow it farther but made our way back to the main plaza, there to await its return. A k i n d young Spaniard, noting that we were strangers, with true courtesy invited us to occupy a window in his home just opposite the cathedral. The sun had now set. Darkness was creeping on. T h e Indians were slowly coming back into the plaza. A few lights twinkled from one or two street-lamps— and I mean lamps literally, for gas has not yet appeared i n Cuzco. F r o m the direction of L a Merced came the sound of mournful music. T h e great plaza had filled again with people, a huge silent throng. F r o m one corner emerged the procession, now lit by flickering can dles and dominated by the great dark figure of E l Senor de los Temblores. Slow ly the lights approached the cathedral, finally mounting the long steps of its gree and grouping themselves against the tightshut doors of the central portal that formed a bright background.

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T h e great throng i n the plaza was kneel the race exists—only the records of the ing and, as the black figure of the Santo quipus, those queer knotted strings that mounted the steps and appeared silhou were the Incas' sole documents and for etted against the doors, a great moan, a which no archaeologist has as yet discov sort of c o l l e c t i v e ered the k e y , the sob, swelling to a Rosetta stone. barbaric howl,—a Cuzco's original sound such as I had plan was, singularly never heard before, enough,that of the —as if i n the pres R o m a n camp, a ence of some dire quadrangle divided calamity, s w e l l e d b y two intersecting from the poor I n s t r e e t s into quar dian t h r o a t s ; the ters, with a gate on black crucifix made each face and tow three stately bows, ers at the angles. to the north, to the Ramusio gives an west, to the south, interesting w o o d in sign of benedic c u t , h e r e repro tion; a sigh of re duced, of the city lief and a shudder as it appeared to p a s s e d o v e r the the c o n q u e r o r s . square; t h e h u g e The I n c a s , like c a t h e d r a l doors the citizens of the swung o p e n ; the United States, had b l a c k h o l e swal no more d e f i n i t e lowed t h e i m a g e name for t h e i r and the c a n d l e s ; country than T a v the portals closed antinsuyu, the E m again and all was pire of t h e F o u r finished. P r o v i n c e s . The I offer no c o m ment upon this weird c e r e m o n y . B u t i n its spectac ular appeal to the primitive senses it impressed us more than any other re ligious festival we had ever seen.

four streets of the capital, prolonged b y great roads, di vided it into four main p r o v i n c e s , each under the do minion of its gov ernor. When their p e o p l e c a m e to Cuzco they lodged in their own quar T h e a p s e o f S a n t o D o m i n g o b u i l t u p o n the a n c i e n t ter, where they ad The ancient city T e m p l e o f the S u n . hered to their na of Cuzco, when first tional costumes viewed b y Europe an eyes, was, according to the best au and the customs of their own province. The city to-day retains the same gen thorities, a great and wealthy municipal i t y of perhaps two hundred thousand souls. eral plan, its two principal streets being H o w old it was at that time we have practically the old main thoroughfares. scant means of knowing. Garcilasso would Its two eastern quarters lie upon steep hill have us believe that there were only thir sides; the two western are i n the valley teen Incas i n the royal line from M a n c o where runs a little river, the Huatanay, Capac to H u a y n a Capac; Montesinos, spanned by bridges. The northeast quarter was the Palatine on the other hand, assures us that the Incas ruled for a thousand years! W h i c h H i l l of this South American Rome, and are we to believe? N o written history of contains the palaces of the kings, for each

T h e L a n d of the Inca, after the manner of the R o m a n em perors, built his own abode, scorning to live i n that of his predecessor. A l o n g the steep streets of this portion of the city ex tensive remains of the foundations and walls of these palaces still remain, their giant stones and perfect masonry provok ing the constant wonder of the traveller. Pictures of them give but a poor impres sion, for the heavy rustic finish of the face of each stone hides the perfection of the joints, which are so finely fitted that, de void of mortar as they are, the blade of a small pocket-knife can scarcely be i n serted into any one of them. The most extensive ruins left b y the Incas, and perhaps the most interesting, are those of the great fortress Sachsahuaman, that stands perched upon the sum mit of a steep h i l l to the north of the town. The road up the mountain is a stiff climb i n this altitude, and more than once we stopped to rest and catch our breath, and regret that we had not ordered donkeys on w h i c h to scramble up the rocky paths. Several times we passed llama trains coming down, and had to climb i n the rocks to let the clumsy beasts go by. F i n a l l y we reached the first huge stones of the fortress and entered its por tal, which, w i t h its steps, is still i n good preservation. E n o u g h of the great walls remains to amaze one w i t h their formidable char acter and vast extent. T h e Indians con sider them the works of the E v i l One, and small wonder, for how h u m a n hands ever reared these m i g h t y stones upon this mountain-top is quite beyond one's powers of speculation. T h e fort presents but a single line of defence, some twelve hun dred feet long, toward the city, where the hill itself is so steep that it affords the best possible protection, but to the country be hind it shows three massive walls placed one above the other, arranged w i t h sali ents (a device u n k n o w n to Europeans of that period) and breastworks for the de fenders. T h e stones are cyclopean, m a n y of them being eighteen to twenty feet long and almost the same i n height; the largest, we are told, measuring no less than thirtyeight feet i n length. Crowning these m i g h t y walls was the fortress proper, consisting of three towers. The central one, the largest, was reserved VOL.

LIII.—64

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for the Inca himself and contained his royal apartments. T h e other two were for the garrison commanded by a noble of the royal family. A s i n many medi aeval fortress castles, subterranean pas sages, also built of stone, connected these towers w i t h the town below, thus afford ing a retreat for the Inca i n time of peril. U p o n the hill-slopes behind the for tress, i n fields of flowering shrubs, where paroquets make their homes, stand some strange rocks called by the natives " thrones of the I n c a . " T h e y are certainly cut w i t h the nicest precision, each edge as sharp as it ever was, but I can scarcely see the reason for the appellation. We returned to the city toward sun down. T h e views, as we descended, were beautiful. T h e lovely valley, dotted w i t h eucalyptus groves, lay green and radiant below us, framed by its towering moun tains that peeped over each other's shoul ders as they stretched away, fold upon fold, dimmer and yet more distant until they disappeared i n far perspectives. The city that lay beneath us, onestoried for the most part, flat along its regular streets, looks quite as it must have appeared to the Inca sitting i n his fortress tower. O n l y now pottery roofs replace the thatch of straw or of ychu grass that cov ered the older houses, and the belfries and domes of numerous Spanish churches have supplanted the gilded walls and cumber some masonry of the ancient Inca temples. These last lay for the most part i n the southeast quarter of the city and were dominated by the great Temple of the Sun, the most revered sanctuary i n all the em pire, called by the people Coricancha, the Place of G o l d . A n d well it deserved its name, for, according to all accounts, its walls were a perfect mine of the precious metal. M o r t i s e d into the great stones of its exterior, a frieze of gold, " of a p a l m and a h a l f " i n width, encircled the entire edi fice. The interior was ablaze, as befitted a temple dedicated to the glory of light. In the centre of the western wall a giant sun, represented b y a human countenance from which rays of light sprang i n various directions, glowed i n all the splendor of gold and jewels. T h e great eastern por tal was placed directly opposite and ar ranged so that the sun, w i t h its first ray, gilded this golden effigy that thus threw

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off a strange effulgence. T h e walls and ceiling were encrusted w i t h gold, and the mummies of all the Incas, dressed as on occasions of state, w i t h their coyas, or queens^ sat about upon golden thrones. Adjoining this main temple lesser shrines were arranged. I n that dedicated to the moon, for example, a l l was of silver, a silvery moon replacing the golden sun. These buildings were each set i n extensive gardens, whose flowers and plants and ani mals were of gold and silver, simulating w i t h real skill the products of nature. L e t h i m who doubts these tales re member that gold i n the eyes of the P e r u vian Indian of that day had no monetary value whatever, that money d i d not ex ist—that gold, i n the popular parlance, was " the tears wept b y the sun," and that all of it found i n the rich mines of Peru, the real Eldorado of the N e w W o r l d dur ing the Spanish colonial period, was sent either to the Inca or to his temples. A t a hualpa, for his ransom, almost filled w i t h gold vessels and ornaments a room thirtythree feet b y twenty, representing a value i n our money of some seventeen million dollars. W h a t a sum i n those days before the discovery of the great gold-mines of modern times! D r . Caparo M u n i z , who possesses a re markable collection of Inca antiquities, showed me a curious stone that he had un earthed on a farm some twelve leagues from Cuzco at a place called Y a y a m a r c a , the Place of the L o r d . It is carved to rep resent a ground plan of the Temple of the Sun, and so interested me that I made a drawing of it, which I here present. It corresponds quite perfectly w i t h the re mains of the sanctuary that still exist. These consist of important portions of its circular walls and a number of those singular niches that taper i n toward the top like those of the edifices of E g y p t . Extensive interior walls of perfect mason r y are incorporated i n the present church and convent of Santo D o m i n g o that the conquerors built immediately over the pagan temple. I visited this old church w i t h the Rector of the University, who was kindness itself to us during our stay, and Padre Vasquez, the amiable prior of the monastery, took us about i n person. Strangely enough it was the first time that these two men had

met, for the prior was a comparative new comer to Cuzco, so I benefited by the en thusiasm of their first visit together. W e inspected i n t u r n the cloister courts, the church, and all the intricate by-ways of its corridors and stairways. T h e Chris tian temple is interesting, but the walls that it stands upon and that crop out here and there i n its fabric were the subject of our wonder. Theirs is the most perfect masonry of any of the Inca ruins that I saw. These are the massive smooth faced stones that Sarmiento saw and en thused over, whose joints are so nicely wrought that they can scarcely be de tected. H o w a nation without iron or steel—with only champi, a mixture of cop per and tin—to aid them could have pro duced such finish will always be a mat ter of wonder. T h e y certainly possessed some secret for cutting stone that we do not know to-day. Near this C h u r c h of Saint D o m i n i c stands the Convent of the nuns of Santa Catalina, built upon the ruins of what was, i n the time of the Incas, the House of the Virgins of the Sun, a huge structure some eight hundred feet i n length. These girls, chosen b y the provincial governors from among the most beautiful i n the kingdom, tended the sacred fire i n the temples, their duties being curiously analogous to those of the R o m a n vestal virgins. T h e i r guar dians, the mama-cunas, taught them weav ing and spinning, and from among them were selected the Inca's many concubines. Once i n a while one of them was chosen for sacrifice, but this was a very rare occur rence, as the religion of the Incas permit ted of human sacrifice only on occasion of exceptional importance, thereby differing materially from the religions of the other American races—the wholesale slaughters of the Aztecs, for example. Soon after the conquest, the Spaniards built three great churches i n Cuzco, three churches worthy of a E u r o p e a n capital. U n l i k e the churches of L i m a , these hap p i l y have escaped remodelling. T w o of them, the cathedral and the Compania, face upon the m a i n plaza, the heart of the c i t y ; the t h i r d , L a Merced, is but a step away. A l l three are i n the style of the Spanish Renaissance, patterned, let us say, from such a church as San Lorenzo of the Escurial.

T h e L a n d of the T h e interior of the C o m p a n i a is the handsomest of the three. Its pillars, w i t h their simple capitals and its well-designed architrave, support wide-spreading stone arches and broad vaults of brick. T h e C h u r c h of the Order of M e r c y , L a Merced, i n which the bones of A l m a g r o and Gonzalo P i z a r r o are said to rest, is chiefly remarkable for its cloisters, whose massive stone arcades and monumental staircases have for centuries withstood the storms of these altitudes and are per haps the handsomest i n P e r u , though not as picturesque as some of those i n L i m a . T h e days passed by. Sometimes we ex plored the by-ways of the city, sketching in the steep, picturesque streets that climb the hills; again, we poked about the gaudy Indian shops that line the arcades of the plaza w i t h their v i v i d wares; sometimes we loitered about the market or looked for Spanish shawls and frames and laces i n the shops and houses. W e remained snugly i n our car during all our stay, w i t h good Prudenzio to cook for us and faithful J u a n to serve us, the hotels of the town offering but a poor al ternative for the comfort of this abode out in the broad fields just beyond the smells and dirt of the streets. B u t let me say it here—this is the only city we visited that offended us this w a y , the other places be ing cleaner and better kept than most of the small towns of I t a l y or Spain. T h e Easter services d i d not prove re markable, resembling i n all their essen tials those we had seen i n Mediterranean countries, except for one important cere mony—that of H o l y Thursday, at the end of which, i n the chapel of the Corazon, dressed i n silver for the occasion, the pre

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fect knelt before the bishop, who hung about his neck a golden key, the key of the T o m b , of which the prefect thus became the custodian until Easter. I n the late afternoon and evening the bishop, w i t h his clergy, visited all the churches of the city one after the other. M o s t of the people did likewise. E v e r y church and chapel was alight w i t h thou sands of twinkling candles, and hung with Easter decorations—not blooms such as we use, but great curtains of blue studded with silver stars, yards of colored cheese cloth, and tawdry paper flowers. W e went last to L a M e r c e d and re mained there until after dark watching the people and the strange types. W h e n we emerged night had closed in. A l l along the Calle de la Merced, against the very walls of the church, booths had sprung up, lit by spluttering, smoky lanterns that cast weird lights and heavy shadows upon vend ers and purchasers alike, as they bargained over tables covered w i t h white-lace cloths. U p o n these tables lay the strangest-look ing sweetmeats prepared ready for the Easter holidays: candied apples, browned and stuck upon sticks; jellied fruits and sugary cookies; sticky candies; and—a specialty these—swans or doves done i n almond paste and laid upon plates sur rounded b y candied vegetables. T h e bishop and his suite issued from the church door, his long purple train car ried by acolytes, and slowly and with dig n i t y he took his way down the street to ward his palace i n the darkness. E v e r y street that we looked down ended in the night; we, too, made our way toward the city gate and the open fields under the stars.

SOME

EARLY

BY H E N R Y

MEMORIES

CABOT

LODGE

Senator from Massachusetts

I

C A M E upon the stage of life just as the remarkable group of men who had made New England and Boston famous in the mid dle of the nineteenth cen tury were passing off. They included both those who had led Massachusetts in the great struggle which had preceded the Civil War, and those who had made her fame in literature. In giving my remembrances of those of them whom I saw and knew let me begin with Charles Sumner, of whom 1 have already spoken, and who is insepa rably connected with all the memories of my childhood and youth. Long before he entered public life he was a friend of my grandfather and grandmother Cabot, and was constantly at their house. This friendship was extended to my father and mother, and after Mr.' Sumner became senator my father was one of his most ar dent supporters. When Sumner by his speeches against slavery had alienated re spectable and conservative Boston, the Webster Whigs, the "Silver Grays," the cotton-manufacturers, and business and society all turned against him. He was practically ostracized, and the people among whom he had lived and by whom he had been praised and admired with one accord closed their doors to him. Mr. Henry Adams, as I have already said, told me long afterward that at that time his father's house and my father's were the only ones in Boston, so far as he knew, which remained open to Sumner. The intimacy with my family, therefore, was particularly close. Whenever Sumner was in Boston he dined constantly with us and every summer he passed six weeks or more at Nahant, dividing the time between us and Mr. Longfellow, who was one of his closest and most faithful friends. He is, therefore, to me almost one of the family,

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as I look back on my early years, and he continued to me the inherited friendship. After my father's death he came to Na hant and stayed with us just as before, and when my sister and I came to have separate houses he divided his time be tween us. I wrote to ask him to come to me as usual the summer after I returned from Europe, and I give his reply because it shows the affectionate side of Sumner's character, of which, I think, the world knew little. WASHINGTON

12th April, ' 7 3 MY

DEAR

CABOT

I recognize in your note the friendship of yr father and grandfather, renewed in another generation. It makes me feel that I am not entirely alone in the world. Thanks! dear Cabot, you touch my heart. I am very feeble; but I hope to reach Nahant and to enjoy the hospital ity you so kindly offer. Thanks also to yr charming wife and to yr mother too. Ever sincerely Yrs CHARLES

SUMNER

As a child I looked at him with a feeling of awe and wonder and with a vague idea that he was a great man, although I did not very well know the reasons of the greatness. But l was never afraid of him, for he was always most kind to me, and was wont to ask me in his solemn way about my school and about the books I studied, of which he knew a great deal, and he would also make grave inquiries, as I think he felt bound in duty to do, about my sports and amusements, of which he knew very little. It was not, however, the misty idea that he was a great man which alone made Sumner impressive to my boyish imagination. He was a most imposing figure. Tall, large, not regularly handsome in features, but with a noble head and a fine and intellectual face, no

Some Early Memories one could look upon him and fail to be struck and attracted by his looks and presence. To all this was added that rar est of gifts, a veryfinevoice, deep and rich with varied tones and always a delight to the ear. If ever a man was physically formed

"The applause of listening senates to command," it was Charles Sumner. He was a man of wide learning. He had read everything, was familiar with all the great languages, ancient and modern, had the power of de vouring books with extraordinary rapid ity and the much more precious gift of re membering everything he read whether important or unimportant. He always reminded me of Macaulay in the extent of his acquirements and in the way in which upon any subject that was started he could give all the facts and dates, deluge the con versation with precedents and parallel cases, and recite long lists of names if op portunity offered. He was nearly con temporary with Macaulay, and I have sometimes wondered whether these attri butes of indiscriminate learning, of relent less memory and of readiness in pouring out vast stores of knowledge, were not in a greater or lesser degree characteristic of the period. Sumner did not monopolize the conversation as Macaulay is said to have done and reduce it to a monologue, nor would any one have said of him, as Sydney Smith said of Macaulay, that he had "flashes of silence." Sumner was often silent, entirely ready to listen to others, and never burdensome in conver sation. He talked well and if he some times talked at length I always found him interesting, which is, I think, a good test, for a very young man is, as a rule, easily wearied. In another way Sumner's learn ing and memory were less fortunate for him. They led him very naturally to load and lengthen his speeches, not at all for display but merely because it was easy and agreeable to expand and he could not resist the temptation. The result was that he never seemed to me to have re ceived as a speaker and debater the just appreciation to which his presence, his de livery, his beautiful voice, his accomplish ments, and his good English entitled him. People were weighed down by the mass and quantity of his utterances; his speeches not only remain, like most other speeches,

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unread, but they do not seem to me to have in history the attention which their importance and quality alike warrant and justify. He would have been saved from all this if he had possessed a sense of humor, which carries with it a sense of proportion, but had he been so gifted it is possible that he would not have accom plished the noble work or played the great part which fell to him in those momen tous years of the war and the antislavery struggle. The absence of humor was probably the defect of his qualities and his virtues, but there can be no doubt of the fact of its absence. I do not mean to suggest that he was morose or solemn or that he frowned on mirth. Quite the contrary was the case. He was always genial and kindly and liked to see others, especially young people, enjoy them selves, but the sense of humor in its true and broad sense was lacking. It was this which made him unable sometimes to see the effect of his own words. Mr. Schurz told me, I remember, an incident which illustrates this point. It was at the time of their quarrel with Grant. Sumner was going to make a speech in the Senate on some question of the administration pol icy. Mr. Schurz talked the speech over with Sumner and begged him not to in dulge in any bitter attacks upon the President and urged him to be temperate in his language, as violence would do more harm than good. Sumner agreed with him and promised to be very careful. When he spoke Schurz said that he was horrified to find that Sumner had appar ently utterly forgotten his promise. He launched out into the invective of which he was a master and denounced Grant bit terly and savagely. When he had con cluded he turned to Schurz and said: " You saw I was moderate and temperate, and I hope you think that I was wise not to be more severe." Schurz said that after this experience he realized that it was useless to expostulate, for Sumner appar ently could not perceive the force of his own, words. His remark about his mod eration was made in perfectly good faith, and disclosed his lack of humor. This also came out amusingly in much less impor tant ways. Mr. Longfellow, who was de voted to Sumner but entirely conscious of his deficiency in humor, told me, as I have already said, that when the "Biglow Pa-

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pers" first appeared Sumner was staying at his house. It was a rainy afternoon and Mr. Longfellow was obliged to go out, leaving Sumner stretched on the sofa read ing Lowell's volume. When he returned he asked Sumner how he liked the poems, and Sumner replied: "They are admi rable, very good indeed, but why does he spell his words so badly?" Longfellow said that he attempted to explain that the poems were purposely written in the New England dialect, but Sumner could not understand. One summer at Nahant I dined at Mr. Longfellow's with Mr. Sumner and some others. Sumner was a collector of china, about which he knew a great deal, as he did about many other things. He told us a story about going to see Lord Exmouth's collection and how fine it was. When he was taking his leave Lord Exmouth gave him two rare plates and offered to send them to his lodgings, but Sumner would not be parted from his prize and insisted on taking them home with him in his cab. When he had concluded his story, w hich was interesting but long in narra tion, "Tom" Appleton, Mr. Longfellow's brother-in-law, who was present, said: " A pleasing tale, illustrated with two plates." Everybody laughed, and Sum ner, looking about most good-naturedly, said: "What are you all laughing at? I suppose Appleton is up to some mischief, but my story is quite true." Yet, although Sumner lacked humor he nevertheless could say good things himself which, if not humorous, had much keen ness and wit. He was staying at our house shortly after the fall of the second empire and the establishment of the French republic. He had just returned from Paris, where Gambetta had called upon him, and he gave us a most interest ing account of their conversation, in which Gambetta had discussed the whole situa tion and asked Sumner's counsel and ad vice. He said: "Gambetta rose to go, and as he took my hand he said: 'Ah, M . Sumner, il nous faut un Jefferson!' I re plied, 'Trouvez un Washington, M . Gam betta, et un Jefferson arrivera.'" Nothing could have been better. In the same way, although he could be so bitter in denunciation and use language of the most savage kind about opponents or those who had wronged him without in T

the least realizing the wounding force of his words, no man had better manners in daily life, manners at once kindly, stately, and dignified, and he could do a courteous act in the most graceful way. A little in cident connected with Mr. Motley's ap pointment as minister to England illus trates this quality in Sumner very well. It was known that Mr. Motley's name was being considered by the President, but there were other aspirants, and there was the usual speculation and uncertainty. At last the President told Sumner that he would appoint Motley. That same even ing Motley dined with Sumner. There was a large party and, although there was conversation about the English mission, no one had any idea that the question had been settled. When the dinner had ended and the cloth was removed, Sumner raised his glass and looking at Mr. Motley said in the quietest, most matter-of-fact way: "When does your excellency intend to sail for England?" Coupled with his deficiency in a sense of humor and akin to it was a curious sim plicity of nature. He was not in the least arrogant, to my thinking, although I have heard arrogance charged against him, and he was anything but conceited, but he had vanity, which Mr. Justice Holmes has described "as the most philosophical of those weaknesses which we are taught to despise," in a high degree, and so com plete were his credulity and simplicity that designing men could easily take ad vantage of them. It was not the vanity which offends, for it was too frank, too obvious, too child-like to give offence, but it made him an easy prey to those who wished to profit by it. When in Wash ington I always dined with Mr. Sumner, and on one occasion Caleb Cushing and John W. Forney were both there, for he almost always had some guests at his very hospitable table, as he disliked being alone. I remember my surprise at seeing Caleb Cushing. In our Free Soil, Republican household his name was anathema as a proslavery Massachusetts Democrat who had sold himself to the South for a cabinet office. I knew noth ing of his career. I had only the vague notion acquired in childhood that he was one of the wicked and it never occurred to me that it was possible for me to meet him in any house to which I should be invited,

Some Early Memories least of all in Sumner's. I was, therefore, surprised to find a well-bred man, with a keen, intellectual face, who made himself most agreeable. It was really quite nat ural that he should have been at Sumner's table, for his last gyration had brought him to a strong support of the Union cause, of which I as a boy had been profoundly ignorant. I recall nothing of his con versation except that it was interesting and tinged with a certain cool cynicism which I now know was characteristic of the man. One thing and only one that he said has clung to my memory. The talk ran on Grant, who had just been elected and who was a warm friend of the former attorney-general. Cushing said: "When the war broke out I said to a friend that I wished I could pick out the subaltern in the army who would be the next Presi dent of the United States, and now here he is." The other guest, Forney, was very dif ferent. He devoted himself to deluging his host with flattery, unexpurgated and unabridged, which the subject of the eulogy received smilingly and without deprecation. I had been brought up in an atmosphere charged with affection and admiration for Sumner, but this sort of adulation I had never heard, and I sat by in silent amazement, wondering greatly, feeling uncomfortable, and sympathizing with Sumner, who, I thought, must feel uncomfortable too, a belief in which I was quite mistaken. I saw another example of the same weakness with a man who certainly had no private end to serve. On several oc casions when Sumner dined at our house in Boston my mother asked Wendell Phil lips, and no one else, to meet him. Wendell Phillips was a most delightful man in private life and particularly so at a family dinner of the kind to which I refer. But I was amazed at the frankness with which he flattered Sumner, and still more, as in the case of Forney, at the way in which Sumner accepted it with a pleased smile and without a murmur of dissent. Phillips did this either because he liked to gratify Sumner or because he was moved by an underlying malice of which he was entirely capable, and de rived a certain cynical enjoyment from the exhibition of a human and wholly harmless weakness.

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I have thus far spoken only of Sumner's foibles because it would be impossible to understand him or know him without real izing them. But these peculiarities which I have described, although used against him by his enemies, were foibles and noth ing more, and did not really affect the es sential greatness of the man. For Sumner was a really great man and did a great work in the stormy times in which he lived. Justice, in many instances, has not been done to him, and even among those who have praised him he has not been rightly praised, because both the praise and the blame have been awarded on what seems to me a mistaken view of his life and work. A man should be judged and criticised for what he was, not because he was not something else, or because he failed to be what he was not and never tried to be. Sumner, by nature, was a dreamer, a man of meditation, a man of books and a lover of learning. By the circumstances of the time and by the hand of fate he was projected into a scene of intense action and fierce struggle. He there played a leading part but his nature was not changed. He remained at bottom a dreamer and a man of books. Everything that interested him, great or small, he approached from the precincts and with the habits of the library, and in the manner of a deep-delving student. I have spoken of his love of china and porcelains. He was fond of them and had made quite a collection, not only of examples of European manufacture, but of Chinese and Japanese work, at that period little understood or appreciated. Yet this in terest, which to most persons is merely a taste and an amusement, was to Sumner a subject of research and study. How good his judgment was I cannot under take to say, but he had mastered all the learning and read all the books on the subject, and could talk of the history and processes of manufacture and of the great makers by the hour together. As a matter of course, Sumner had a good library and knew of books, but he be came interested in bindings, and I remem ber hearing him on more than one occa sion discourse of bindings and famous binders in a manner which would lead a casual observer to think that book-binding had been the study and occupation of his

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life. It was the same in regard to pict ures, architecture, and sculpture, all sub jects in which he was interested. It was inevitable that he should carry the same habits and propensities into the serious work of his life, and that, whenever he made a speech upon any subject, his learn ing should flow out copiously at every new point. This led, as I have said, to his overloading his speeches when he should have used the stores of his reading and memory with reserve and solely for illustration or decoration. His wide his torical knowledge, as well as his legal train ing, fitted him peculiarly for the treat ment of international questions, and for the important position of chairman of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, which he held so long and which attained to greater authority in his hands than in those of any other of the many able men who have held the same place. The work of that committee was not only agreeable to Sumner, but was peculiarly suited to him and he was one of the guiding forces in our foreign policy during the trying and difficult years of the Civil War. He was intense in his Americanism; all the unequalled attention which he had re ceived abroad, especially in England, never affected him in the slightest degree where the interests of his own country were concerned. He was severely criti cised for his extravagant advocacy of the untenable "indirect claims" which came so near to wrecking the Geneva arbitra tion. But I have always thought that Sumner's precise object was to break up the arbitration, because he did not be lieve it to be the wise course for the United States to take. Sumner felt deeply the conduct of England during our Civil War. The very fact of his many friendships in England made his resentment all the keener. When the war closed it seemed to him that the time had come for a final settle ment, and that settlement to him meant the acquisition of Canada. Mr. Charles Francis Adams has shown recently how near we were to that solution, for at that period England had none of the feeling about her colonies which she has to-day. The free-trade school was in the ascen dant, and the general feeling was one of indifference to the colonies coupled with a readiness to let them go if they so desired.

Sumner's policy was to refuse all arbitra tion with England as to the Alabama dep redations and the other wrongs she had in flicted upon us during the Civil War, and to take Canada as an indemnity, thereby closing the door to all future difficulties with Great Britain. He believed the trans fer would be peaceable, but with the great est army of tried and veteran soldiers then existent and with an equally powerful navy he was quite prepared for a war which could have had but one issue. The policy was feasible, and if we had then taken Canada many questions would have been laid at rest forever. We accepted arbitration, an apology, and fifteen mill ions of money. Perhaps it was the wisest as it was certainly the safest course, but Sumner's policy was none the less strong, intelligent, far-seeing, and final. In regard to Cuba, when the insurrec tion broke out which culminated in the affair of the Virginius, Sumner declared the presence of Spain in the Western hemisphere to be an anachronism. He did not press for active measures against Spain because there were still slaves in Cuba and that chilled his sympathy. But he saw the true situation before others had grasped it, and declared that what was done thirty years later was inevitable and ought to come to pass. He was a genera tion ahead of his time in his views of our relations to Spain and of the final result which was inevitable because Spain was an anachronism in America. It was the same in regard to the treat ment of the South when the war closed. Sumner believed that the true course was to divide the States lately in rebellion into military districts without regard to State lines, and give them for a time a purely military government. This opinion came from no fanatical hatred of the South, for Sumner was the most generous of victors and was denounced by the Massachusetts legislature for proposing to remove from the battle-flags the names of our victories in the Civil War because he believed in obliterating all outward signs of the triumph of one American over another. Again he was ahead of his time, and his plan for temporary military government arose from his belief that it would be best in the end for all concerned. The only real alternative for Sumner's policy was to let the Southern States come back as

Some Early Memories

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if nothing had happened. For this high He was just the man most needed in the trust the South showed itself unfit; for conflict which culminated in the ten years they seemed to have learned nothing and preceding the Civil War, and in that began at once to thrust the negro back period he fills a great place. into practical slavery by means of the As I saw him he was a lovable man. He peonage laws. On the other hand, the was kindness itself, gentle and affection North thought military government too ate in our household, of which he was so extreme, and too much at variance with often a part. But as I look back on that American principles. The result was nei vanished time I see now that which I ther one plan nor the other, and we had vaguely felt then—what apathetic, almost reconstruction based on negro rule with tragic,figurehe was. He was singularly all its failures and miseries. Sumner's lonely. He had no near relations after policy would have spared the country all the death of his brother George. His mar this and it would have been better for riage proved most unhappy, and led to the South, which would have preferred separation and renewed isolation. He the government of the army to that which never fully recovered from the Brooks as we forced upon them. sault, and the disease of the heart which Sumner was a statesman in the largest finally caused his death produced acute sense, although not a legislator who drafted suffering. Yet he never complained. He laws and attended to legislative details. bore loneliness and physical pain alike in Still less was he a politician, for he cared silence and with a smiling face. He had nothing about politics in the ordinary ac high moral courage and never cried out ceptation of the word. Yet it is not on under the blows of fate. His career is a his statesmanship or his power as an orator part, and a large part, of the history of his that his fame finally depends. Sumner's time. I have no thought of rewriting it greatness rests securely on the fact that he here in these rambling recollections, but I was the representative of an idea. He wished to give the impression which was stood for human freedom. He was among left with me by close association with a re the first of what have been well called the markable man in the days of childhood human-rights statesmen of that period. and youth, and of whom I had that near He was one of the great leaders among the view which sometimes brings a better un men of 1848 when the movement for polit derstanding than official records or the re ical liberty swept over the world of West searches of the historian. ern civilization, and when it was believed There were no others of the antislavery that in political liberty, in manhood suf leaders, the "human-rights" statesmen frage, and in a republican form of gov who came into control of Massachusetts ernment, whether in Italy or Austria, in politics during the fifties and who played France or Germany, or among the negroes so large a part in the history of the United of the South, would be found a cure for all States, whom I knew and saw so closely the ills and miseries of mankind. It was a as Sumner. Henry Wilson, Sumner's col noble faith; its champions accomplished a league in the Senate, was little more than great work for humanity. Their success a name to me until I met him in Wash did not bring a panacea for all the ills that ington when he was Vice-President and flesh is heir to, for, alas, there is no such shortly before his death. I then had a panacea, but they made the lot of man long talk with him. He knew about me kind better and rendered an inestimable and about the friendship of my family service to their fellow-men. Sumner was with Sumner, and he was most kind and one of the greatest among them in his pleasant. I noted in a diary the fact of devotion to the cause. Not only by what my talk with him, but made no memo he said but by what he suffered, and randa of the conversation, which has now above all by what he was in character entirely escaped my memory. I re and attainments, he was enabled to strike member very well, however, just how the most deadly blows at slavery ever he looked—large, fair, with a florid com dealt up to that time in Congress. He plexion, a pleasant voice, and agreeable had the spirit of the martyr and the manner. He was a man of remarkable crusader. He was entirely fearless. He qualities, for he had worked his way up never would compromise, retreat, or flinch. from as low a starting-point as it is pos-

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sible to conceive. It was said that he was the son of English gypsies, and that his name was really Coldbath, which, I have been told, is a characteristic gypsy name in England. However this may be, he was born in the utmost obscurity and poverty. He had no chance for any schooling and no friends to help him. He learned the trade of shoemaker, made his own living, educated himself, entered politics, rose to be one of the leaders of the Republican party in Massachusetts, then became sen ator, and died Vice-President of the United States. He was not only able to hold his own in the great positions he filled, but, so far as I could see, there was no trace of roughness about him, or of that almost fe rocious self-assertion which is so apt to show itself in men who have fought their way from humble beginnings and through great difficulties up to success. He was dignified and simple in manner, and there was nothing to suggest to any one, seeing him as I did, that he was not to the manner born. Governor Andrew I never really knew, although as a child I saw him often at his home, for I knew his family well, and his oldest son, who died comparatively young, was a close friend of mine fcr many years. We served together in the legislature and in Congress, and although we parted politically our friendship was never in the slightest degree interrupted. He was very quick and clever, a delight ful companion, a loyal friend, but he did not possess his father's ability nor his unusual strength and depth of feeling. As I have just said, I never knew the governor, for he died while I was still a boy, soon after the war, worn out by his labors during those terrible years. Yet Governor Andrew remains in my memory as one of the most vivid figures of my early days, just as he was one of the command ingfiguresof the time, a great war govern or, a pillar of support to Lincoln and the Union cause. I see him now with greater clearness than many persons whom I knew a great deal better. My vision of him is always as he stood reviewing the troops when they marched past the State-house, and I used to look after him, when I passed him in the street, with wondering eyes. To me, who had never been beyond the borders of Boston and its neighborhood, he seemed the incarnation of the govern

ment, of freedom, and of union. A short, heavily built, squarely solidfigure,a large head covered with tight, curling light hair, a smooth, round face, and insepara ble spectacles, he was not physically the kind of man who would by his looks ap peal to a boy's imagination as a hero. Yet to me he was unquestionably heroic. I cannot recall a word that he uttered when, a small unit in the crowd, I heard him speak. I was moved because every body about me was moved by what he said, and the contagion of a crowd is very powerful. Still, the fact of the impression remained, and I now explain it by the man's real greatness, by his sincerity of soul, and, above all, by his emotional force, which so carried his audiences away and which struck so deep into my boyish im agination that my recollection of him has never been effaced or even dimmed. Doctor S. G. Howe was another of the antislavery leaders whom I cannot be said to have known, but who stands out sharply in my memory. Both he and Mrs. Howe were friends of my mother, to whom, as a young girl, Doctor Howe's ex pedition to Greece and his part in the war of liberation made him appear, as indeed he was, a romantic hero with the temper and courage of a crusading knight. I think I saw him first when I was fourteen years old and went to a picnic at the Howe place near Newport. I looked at him with eager curiosity, for I had not only heard of his exploits and wild adventures in behalf of Greek liberty but the story of Laura Bridgman was familiar to me, and I had always wanted to see the man who had worked such wonders. Doctor Howe, as so seldom happens, fully satisfied my imag ination. He was a most striking-looking man, hawk-eyed, hawk-nosed, with the expression of wild daring which I expected. The Laura Bridgman side was not appar ent, at least to a small boy staring at the hero of many adventures. Yet that was really the dominant side, for if ever a man lived who without a thought of self de voted his life to helping his fellow-men, the poor, the deformed, the crippled in mind and body, all the heavy-laden of our strug gling humanity, it was Doctor Howe. That such a man should cast himself into the movement to free the slaves was inevi table. He had no love for politics, but he fought the battle of the slave politically

Some Early Memories and in every other way, on the plains of Kansas and in the streets of Boston. He was one of Sumner's closest and most de voted friends, a friend who never flattered and was all the more valuable to Sumner on that account. Of Wendell Phillips I saw much more, as it happened, after I grew up. He can not be said to have belonged to the group of human-rights statesmen who took pos session of the stage when I was a child and held it for many years afterward, for he was not a statesman and never acted long with anybody. Brought up in a Free Soil, Republican household, I had imbibed the notion that Phillips was an agitator who injured the good cause. His assaults on the union of States, his denunciation of the Constitution, and his attacks upon Lincoln all combined to foster this idea. Later, as I began to think for myself, these early impressions were strengthened by Phillips's support of Butler and But ler's candidacy for governor of Massa chusetts, by his zeal for the negro gov ernments of the South, by his praise of assassination in the case of the Czar, in his Phi Beta Kappa speech, and by his reckless diatribes against everybody who crossed his path. He was in truth an Ishmael and his hand was against every man's. When Judge Hoar, on being asked if he was going to Phillips's funeral, replied, "No, I cannot go, but I entirely approve of the proceedings," he expressed by his jest the general feeling about Phil lips. Yet when I came to know Wendell Phillips, although I did not alter my opin ion of him as a public man, I could not help being attracted by him personally. He was tall, singularly high-bred and dis tinguished-looking, handsome, and with the most beautiful voice, I think, that I ever heard. The well-known anecdote of Lord Morpeth and Mr. Ticknor gives the best idea of the way Phillips appeared so far as mere exterior went. Lord Mor peth was in this country in 1842. In Boston he stayed with Mr. Ticknor, the historian of Spanish literature, who had travelled much and had made a busi ness of seeing every one of note. He therefore, very naturally, took charge of most of the distinguished foreigners who visited Boston. Lord Morpeth, standing at the window of Mr. Ticknor's house in Park Street, said: "Who are those two

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men walking together? They are the most aristocratic, the most distinguishedlooking men I have seen in America." Mr. Ticknor looked out and said: "Those men are Edmund Quincy and Wendell Phillips, two abolitionists and agitators, violent, dangerous persons." Mr. Tick nor was a conservative, a friend of Web ster, a "cotton" or "hunker" Whig, as they were afterward called, and Lord Morpeth's comment on Quincy and Phil lips was not to him a sympathetic ob servation. Yet the two agitators were entitled to their looks, if birth, good family, and generations of education and refinement mean anything. But Mr. Ticknor regarded them much as an anar chist of the extreme type is regarded now, and could not see them in any other light. I was too young to have known Mr. Tick nor, but I remember as a boy seeing him constantly walking slowly in the sunshine on winter days along Beacon Street, where we then lived, not far from his house. He was short, looked like a typical elderly Englishman of the Palmerstonian period, had rather a stern expression and an air of conscious importance. He was a man of learning and real scholarship, especially in his own department of Spanish literature, and did most admirable work in that field. But he was, I imagine, somewhat con ceited and arrogant, and these qualities, together with his political attitude during the years of the war and those immedi ately preceding it, had made him un popular. But I have drifted away from Phillips. Through our common descent from John Walley, the provincial lieutenant-general of the time of William III, we were kins folk, and my father, to whom Phillips's fearlessness appealed, had always kept up relations with him. My mother had always known him, and despite his many violences and many attacks had, I think, retained a certain admiration for his early services to the antislavery cause in the very dark days when few people dared to say a word upon that perilous subject. In any event, he used to dine with us now and then, especially when Sumner was at our house. It is on those oc casions that I best remember him. He had a most delightful manner and was a most agreeable and interesting talker. He was a man of wide reading and talked

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Some Early Memories

well on many subjects. He cared noth ing for accuracy; his many enemies said he cared nothing for the truth, but this failing does not make conversation less amusing, however much it impairs its moral value. He would also say witty and bitter things about people whom he disliked, and they were many, but all in his quietest manner and in the most sil very tones of his beautiful voice. I re member very well how interesting he was once in discussing public speaking, of which it is needless to say he was a great master, and the rules to be observed. "Use the conversational tone as much as you can," he said; "in fact, no other if possible, for in that way the inflections are preserved which are all lost when a man shouts. Moreover, shouting and roaring often defeat themselves by mere noise and monotony. Making an audience hear de pends on the pitch, not on the loudness of the voice. Another great point over looked by most speakers is the position of the head and the direction in which you send your voice. Most speakers drop the head a little and talk to the people seated in the middle of the hall on thefloorlevel. Nobody hears them, or hears only very im perfectly, back of that point in the audi ence. Always talk to the most remote man in the gallery. If you can make him hear, as you can with a proper pitch and clear enunciation, everybody between you and him will hear too." I had no thought at that time that I should ever make a pub lic speech, but what Phillips said struck me very much. I always remembered the simple rules he laid down that evening, and they have been of the utmost use to me in speaking, at all times and under all conditions. Another of the leaders of the Free Soil movement whom I came to know in those years, and who was of a very different type from the men I have already men tioned, was Mr. Charles Francis Adams. Through my intimacy with two of his sons, Henry and Brooks, the youngest of the family who had been in college with me, and also as a member of the Historical So ciety and of the Wednesday Evening Club, I saw a good deal of him. He was not an easy man to know, and he was the re verse of expansive, but I watched him with interest and talked with him when ever I had a chance. He was a short,

strongly built man with a very marked resemblance to his father, John Quincy Adams, and the characteristic look of the family. His forehead was broad, with abundant room behind it. His features were sharply cut, the eye keen, and the jaw, his most noticeable feature, large, square, and strong, giving an impression of a grip like a bull-dog. His mouth cor responded to the jaw, not handsome, but of straight, clear line and, as Carlyle said of Webster's, "accurately closed." Al together his head and face gave an unmistakable impression of intellectual power, of iron will and calm determina tion. He seemed always perfectly poised, absolutely sure of himself and of his own self-control. The outward appearance told the truth. Mr. Adams had all these qualities in a high degree. He was popu larly supposed to be hard and cold blooded, and his political enemies made this charge in season and out of season. Superficially there may have been reason for the popular idea, but I am sure that he was neither cold-blooded nor hard. I know that he was a man of warm affec tions ; I think that he possessed naturally a high temper, but he concealed the one and controlled the other. He was very reserved, and reserve and self-control, as is often the case, were mistaken for hardness and coldness of disposition. I met him abroad when he was in Europe on the Geneva arbitration, and I saw him often in Boston afterward. He was very taci turn, joined but little in general conversa tion, but when I got an opportunity to talk with him he was as kind and pleasant as possible. He never, so far as I could see, talked about himself or his experi ences or what he had done. His talk, al ways good, marked by an independence of opinion and by great lucidity both of thought and expression, was always im personal, but was none the less interesting, although it was somewhat remote and detached. Yet it never lacked strength and was wholly free from anything like arrogance or conceit. I recall one little anecdote which Mr. Adams told me that interested me very much, for it was one of those stories which bring men long dead close to us, and make them live again for a moment. Stuart painted a portrait of John Adams in extreme old age when he was nearing his ninetieth year. It is a

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very fine portrait of the old man leaning great refusal and abandoned the cause of on his cane. Mr. Charles Francis Adams, freedom and of the country. When I came a boy of eighteen, used to keep his grand to know him I changed my conception of father company during the sittings and him very materially, although I never watch the painter at work. He said that thought that he was right in the political Stuart, who was old too and near the end course which he adopted. He was presi of his career, was physically feeble. Both dent of the Historical Society when I be his hands shook violently. From a quiv came a member and I think that my elec ering palette he would take his color and tion was largely due to him. He was with his brush shaking and trembling he nearly seventy when Ifirstknew him and would touch the picture. Mr. Adams seemed to me much older, for he appeared said it looked as if he might dash the to cultivate an appearance of age, al paint on anywhere, but the brush always though he was really strong and active touched the portrait, extraordinary as it and lived to be over eighty. To me he seemed, in exactly the right spot and in was kindness itself. His first wife, the the right way. Despite his shaking hands mother of his children, was a cousin of my and tremblingfingersthe old artist never grandfather, and he took a great deal of in terest in the work I was doing in collect made a mistake. Mr. Adams left with me not only a feel ing my great-grandfather's letters and pre ing of affection and a memory of kind paring a memoir of him. A descendant of ness, but the assurance that he was a very John Winthrop, the founder andfirstgov strong, very able, very remarkable man. ernor of Massachusetts, he was a gentle He was stanch and true and entirely fear man in every sense and in the best sense. less, an American in every fibre, a pa His manner was formal and very courte triot of the highest type of patriotism. ous, with the savor of an elder day. He He was as providential in his place as was accomplished, a scholar in the old and minister to England during our Civil War generous acceptation of the word, widely as Lincoln was in the White House. The read, widely travelled, and a most delight heir and representative of a line of states ful companion. Early in life he had entered men, trained in history, diplomacy, and politics and had been highly successful. politics as very few men ever are, he met the From the legislature he had gone to Con gress and had been elected speaker when public men of England on something more the Whigs had control. He was a Whig than an equality. He could not be awed candidate for the Senate and hadfilledan or overridden, he was as highly trained unfinished term, but had lost his election as the best of them, abler and stronger than owing to the rising antislavery tide and any whom he encountered, and much bet to the coalition which had swept Massa ter informed. He was calm and quite in chusetts from her Whig moorings. This capable of bluster or violence, but when was the end of Mr. Winthrop's political the right moment came he could strike career. He could not bring himself to ac harder than any one and with all the pent- cept Republicanism. He fell out of the up force of the strong man who knows race and ended by opposing the Republi how to wait. I have always thought that can ticket and losing all hold upon the he went through those four terrible years people of Massachusetts. He was embit of unparalleled difficulty, trial, and danger tered by his experience but he did not without making a single mistake and with complain, behaving with dignity and turn the utmost degree of effectiveness. There ing to historical subjects for occupation. could be no higher praise. Only once did the old feeling flash up in all Another man distinguished in public my talks with him. One day we were life in the trying years which preceded the discussing Webster, with whom I had al Civil War whom I came to know well at ways placed him as an ally and follower, the time was Robert C. Winthrop. In and to my great surprise he spoke of Web politics he was the antipodes of the men I ster with a bitterness and energy which have thus far mentioned, and in the at revealed to me a vigor and intensity of mosphere in which I had been brought up feeling of which I had not thought him I had imbibed the vague idea that he was capable. I do not remember what the little better than a pro-slavery Democrat precise grievance was, but he felt that and that like Webster he had made the

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Webster had betrayed him and he had not forgiven him. The real man came to the surface through the gracious formal man ner, and I was interested to see what a strong man of very human feelings the real man was. Mr. Winthrop was an ora tor of much power. His style was of his day, stately, careful, and dignified, and his addresses and orations on many notable occasions gave him a large reputation throughout the country. But what I think of chiefly as I recall him is the kindly, high-bred gentleman, thoughtful and well-mannered, who was always so helpful and encouraging to a young man who had no claim upon him except that we both loved books and history. Let me turn now from the men of public affairs to the men of letters whom I re member from my boyhood and whom I knew or came to know in the years which followed my return from Europe. I was born just at the time when the remarkable group of writers who made New England and Massachusetts famous were at their zenith or rising to their highest achieve ment. In thefiftiesThe Atlantic Monthly was started and the essays of the "Auto crat" begun. The first series of the " Biglow Papers" had been written, Emer son, Hawthorne, and Longfellow had al ready won their fame, and Prescott, Mot ley, and Bancroft had established their reputations as historians. Hawthorne I never saw, a misfortune I deeply regret, for I should have liked to possess at least a memory of his looks. All the others I saw frequently and in the process of the years came to know personally and well. Let me begin with the one whom I knew first and who is associated with my very earliest memories, John Lothrop Motley. Mr. and Mrs. Motley, although much younger, were intimate friends of my grandfather and grandmother Cabot, and this friendship was extended to my father and mother. Lady Harcourt, Mr. Mot ley's oldest daughter, was named Eliza beth Cabot for my aunt, a very beautiful girl who died when she was only nineteen years old. Whenever the Motleys were in the country, as I have already said, they stayed with us at Nahant; I was taught to call them uncle and aunt, and the friendship thus begun with their three daughters has lasted through life, un diminished and unchanged either by time

or separation. Mrs. Motley, whom I loved much better than most of my blood relations, was a handsome woman of un usual charm, warm affections, and with an intensity of feeling and an energy of opinion, when she was moved, which made her only the more attractive. It is not easy for me to describe Mr. Motley, for the very reason that he was so entirely a part of my childish world that I accepted him as a matter of course, just as I did my father and mother, and never thought of looking at him from the outside point of view. He was a very handsome man; that fact impressed me at a very early day. He had, as I realized later, a singularly high-spirited look, eager, sensi tive, proud; he always made me think of a thoroughbred horse, with its brilliant eyes just touched with wildness, its quick response to every movement, its un daunted courage which holds until nature gives way and it drops, never to rise again. Mr. Motley's nature corresponded to his looks. He had great intensity of feeling coupled, of course, with an unusual power of expressing it. His opinions were strong, and calculating discretion never caused their concealment. As is common in such sensitive and emotional natures, he was full of fun and humor, which always lie near the sources of anger or of tears. He was deeply loyal to his friends and very bitter toward his enemies. He felt keenly and fiercely resented wrong, whether to him self, to his friends, or to the weak and op pressed; above all, he resented any wrong to his country, for despite his living so much in Europe he was an ardent Ameri can, intense in his patriotism as in all else. The romantic movement in literature and art was in full strength as Mr. Motley came to manhood and like other men of im agination he was in entire sympathy with it and was a part of it. He began his liter ary life with two novels, " Merry Mount" and " Morton's Hope." The stories dealt with one of the episodes of the early settle ment of New England, which was envel oped in an atmosphere of mystery and ro mance not too common in the history of the grim struggle to found a State on that bleak and rugged coast. These romances were by no means devoid of merit, but they had no great success, and were over shadowed by the genius which, going to the same field, produced " The Scarlet Let-

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ter," the "Twice Told Tales," and "The tempt at description seems to me pain House of the Seven Gables." Mr. Mot fully inadequate. He had something in his ley was dissatisfied with them and never look, something in his manner, which ar alluded to them. They were not repub rested attention as soon as he entered a lished and have been long out of print, a room and was in some indefinable way at rarity for the collector of first editions. once exciting and inspiring. In reading Leaving fiction to others, Mr. Motley the pleasant reminiscences of Lady St. turned to history and selected as his sub Helier I was much gratified to notice that ject the struggle of the Dutch-for liberty Mr. Motley produced upon her the very and independence. No part of modern effect which I have tried to describe. She history could have been better adapted says: "There are somefiguresand faces to his talents and his temperament. His one can never forget, and Mr. Motley was love of liberty, his gallant spirit, his ha one of the most striking people I have ever tred of oppression, were all appealed to seen. At this moment the impression he by the heroic battle of the Dutch against made upon me is as vivid as on that even the power of Spain, and the romantic ing when Ifirstlooked upon the author of episodes of that long fight against over one of the most entertaining books of his whelming odds touched the chords which tory that it is possible to read." When I vibrated so readily in those days of suc read this testimony of a disinterested and cessful revolt against the dry, cold con keen observer I felt that my own impres ventions of the eighteenth century. With sion of Mr. Motley's striking looks and a care and diligence remarkable in one of inspiriting manner had not gone astray his quick mind and impatient temper he through the influence of propinquity and explored the archives and toiled through affection. He was, as Lady St. Helier untouched and original authorities like says, one of the rare people who are not the veriest antiquarian. The result was only vivid but can never fall a prey to "The Rise of the Dutch Republic," which forgetfulness among those who have seen had an immediate and great success, both and known them. He had, and I am in at home and abroad, and which made his clined to think that his books had, some fame secure. He carried into his books thing of that "wrath and partiality" the same energy of enthusiasm which made which Byron admired in a historian. But him so inspiring and so fascinating in pri these qualities make his writings more and vate life. Long before I had read his his not less attractive, especially in these days tory or knew anything of the period I had of "scientific history" when it is the fash ion of a certain school to hold that history become deeply interested in all his heroes, is not literature, unmindful of the fact that especially in William the Silent, just from it is only the history which is also litera hearing him talk about them. He made ture which survives and is read and so me feel as if they were all alive and fight serves to enlighten and convince the world. ing their great fight at that moment and The success of the Republican party boy-like I longed to be a "Beggar of the Sea," and hated Philip II with an energy found Mr. Motley in Europe, where he which I confess a larger knowledge has not plunged into the fray in defence of the diminished. Mr. Motley comes back to Union cause, outraged by the attitude of me now, as I recall those early days, with England and English opinion. He was hisflashingeye, his high-spirited look, his soon appointed minister to Vienna, and head flung back, talking with eager elo there we found him late in the winter of quence about Egmont and Horn and Wil 1867 and renewed the old friendship and liam of Orange, or about American slavery intimacy. When he returned to the Unit and North and South, always with the ed States after Grant's election he was same intensity when he was moved, and constantly at our house in Boston. That with the same hatred of wrong and oppres was, I think, the happiest time of his life. sion, whether among the dikes of Holland His place as a historian had been won, the Union cause in which his heart was bound or on the plantations of the South. I wish up had triumphed, his party was success that I could manage to give in words some ful, and he was on the eve of the recogni idea of the effect of his presence and man tion to which both his success in literature ner which in some ways were the most strik and his public services entitled him. I wish ing I have seen in any man. But my at

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that I had known enough to make notes of his talks in those days, as they ranged from affairs at home over European politics and the history of the seventeenth cen tury. I can only recall his description of Bismarck, then just assuming his great place in Europe and with whom Motley had been intimate as a fellow-student at Gottingen. Bismarck's greatest achieve ments were still in the future, but Mr. Motley had the utmost confidence in his powers and told us much of those qualities of force and intellect about which the world was then wondering and speculating. Mr. Motley was appointed minister to England, and his ambition was gratified. Into the unhappy incidents which led to his quarrel with the administration and his removal from office this is not the place to enter. The blow was a cruel one. To a man of his sensitive nature and quick feelings it was wounding to the last degree. When we were abroad in 1871-2 Ave went to The Hague, whither he had gone to complete his life of John of Barneveldt, and there we saw him and all the family as full of kindness and affec tion for us as ever. A proud man, Mr. Motley kept a brave face to the world, but in his own house he could not and did not conceal his bitter resentment at the treat ment which he had received. I could see how much he had changed under the wrongs which he felt had been inflicted upon him. The old enmities and the old friendships, the intense feeling, the deep interest in past and present were un altered, but the high spirits, the fun and the laughter, always so engaging, were largely gone, and his talk was tinged with bitterness, while there was an air of de pression about him when he was silent which had never been there before and which it was sad to see. When I saw him next, three years later, it was still sadder. Mrs. Motley had died and the light of his life had gone out. He had been crushed under the blow, and had suffered a touch of paralysis from which he was rallying, but which affected his walk although not seriously. He came home in 1875, and passed the summer with my mother at her house in Nahant, his two daughters, the eldest, now Lady Harcourt, and the youngest (now Mrs. Mildmay), being with him. I saw him constantly during all that summer, was with him

almost every day, and I think that I was of some comfort to him. His mind was as keen, as brilliant, as ever, and although he was broken in spirit he liked to talk of history, of the events of the world past and present, and of the men he had known. He also took the most affection ate interest in all that I was doing, in my hopes and. ambitions, in my speculations about life and its meaning. How much I wish now that I had made some note or record of those long talks, but I enjoyed them and let them pass, as is the fashion of youth. I can only recall one little re mark and why that should have struck me and remained in my memory I cannot tell, except that it seemed to body forth the sensitiveness of Mr. Motley's nature and the sadness which then pervaded him. We were on the Point one evening toward autumn and watched the moon rise out of the sea and slowly climb upward from the horizon. It was afine,cool night and the moonlight was very clear and brill iant. He remarked upon it and I said: "Nothing could be more brilliant except our moonlight in winter glittering on the snow." He turned on me almost fiercely and said: "I cannot bear moonlight on the snow. I hate it. It is so cold, so cruel, so unfeeling." He had suffered so much in his pride and his affections that he quivered under the slightest touch, and even the thought of the cold radiance of a moonlit winter night pained him. He returned to England that autumn. He wrote to me occasionally, delightful and affectionate letters, and I shall yield to the temptation of giving one or two of them here, for he died two years later and I never saw him again. 5 SEAMORE P L A C E , MAYFAIR

L O N D O N , I I March,

MY

DEAR

'76.

CABOT:

I ought to have sooner acknowledged and thanked you for your kind and inter esting letter of 25 Jan., together with the excellent centennial number of the N. A .RUnluckily writing is more difficult to me than ever as in addition to unsteadiness of right hand has come dimness of right eye —so that I am inclined to howl "solve senescentem " to all to whom I owe letters. At the same time with national reckless ness I am all for contracting fresh obliga-

Some Early Memories tions while in a state of notorious bank ruptcy. So I beg you to write to me frequently, constantly, unremittedly. I should so much like to hear from you as often as you can find a spare quarter of an hour to enlighten me a little as to our political conditions. You say in your letter "in politics, as you have probably seen, there is the most absolute calm. But it is only the treach erous stillness which precedes the storm." Truly you are a prophet and the grand son of a prophet—for is not the gale blow ing freshly enough now? I only hope it may blow away some of the vile effluvia by which the political at mosphere has become almost too poison ous for human existence. Certainly the daily telegrams from Washington to the London press make every patriotic and honest American hang his head. But I believe in the American people nevertheless as I always have done and I trust that this very putrid administration will soon be buried out of sight with all its belongings. I have had read to me two of the articles in the N. A. R. and shall have the others read also. I liked those on politics and on economic science very much. Is your thesis on Anglo Saxon Law printed? If so would you send me a copy? I should like to have the N. A.R. regu larly sent to the above address. If you will kindly attend to it and send the bill to J. L. Stackpole. I hope future numbers will have many articles from your (and my) favorite author. Give all our love to your wife and mother and believe me always Affectionately yours, J. L . M O T L E Y .

P. S.—When you see Professor Peirce I wish you would give my love to him and tell him how much I wish to thank him for his most kind and genial reference to my self at the Harvard Club dinner. It grat ified and touched me very deeply. I need not say how interesting the whole speech was. KINGSTON, RUSSELL HOUSE, DORCHESTER, DORSET,

2 June,

76.

M Y DEAR CABOT:

I received the letter you were kind enough just two months ago to write to VOL.

LIII—65

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me and had very great pleasure and I may add instruction in reading it—which I did several times—besides showing it to one or two persons able to comprehend and kindly enough to sympathize with the mental condition of honest men in the present shameful condition of our politics. As I never despaired for one moment throughout our war with slavery from the beginning of it to the end, so I am able to hope now. I believe that the American people have not yet sold themselves to the devil. It looks very like it just now. It looked very like it during the long period of compromise and prevarication which preceded the war. But the people are bet ter and braver than the politicians. They found out the issue then. I hope they will again. I trust they will smash paper money as they smashed slavery and at much less expense. I even hope to live long enough to see a beginning of puri fication in the Civil Service. As soon as the vile phrases " to the victors the spoils " and "rotation in office" can be expunged from the politicians' creed there may be a chance for decent government. Not till then. I also received the invitation * which you sent to me thinking I might like to see it. Of course I understood that it was not ad dressed to me personally and so did not answer it. I trust it is hardly necessary for me to say how fully I am in sympathy with the object and the men. Only in this way can that most vulgar and dangerous tyrant King Caucus and his elaborate and skillful system be deposed and destroyed. Since your letter came I see by the papers that the movement in which you did such good service has proved a success even if you don't force either Bristow or Tilden this time. But I think you will. Prob ably the latter. I hope you may find time to write me again. The sooner the better. I take great interest in you and I am likewise much interested in what you write. I wish I could send you something in return. But I am in the deepest retirement and I am also rather shaky so that writing is a great effort. Nothing however could be more insipid than English politics or more intensely respectable. I shall look for your impending publica* This refers to the gathering known as " T h e F i f t h A v enue Conference."

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tion with greatest interest. Meantime with much love to your Mother and your Wife I am Always Affectionately yours, J. L. M O T L E Y .

One other American historian of that time who was nearly ten years younger than Motley I knew well, and my re membrance of Francis Parkman, and of his friendship and unvarying kindness to me, is among the best of the possessions which are assured to me by the grim security of the past. Some years ago Theodore Roosevelt and I published a little volume entitled "Hero Tales of American History," and I found a subject for one of the tales which I tried to tell in the life of Parkman. One does not look usually to the lives of historians and men of letters for examples of heroism and yet if there ever was a heroic life and a victory of will and courage over pain and infirmity, it was that of the man who wrote the books which tell the story of the great struggle between France and England for the control of the American continent. For many years practically blind, never able to use his eyes except in the most limited way, crippled at times physically by affections of the nerves, a constant suf ferer from sleeplessness and intense pain in the head, he examined difficult manu scripts, toiled through dusty archives, amassed material for an almost untouched subject, and wrote a great history in many volumes. If he had simply cared for his health and borne without complaint that long disease, his life, those who knew him would justly have wondered at and admired such fortitude. But he trampled pain and infirmity under foot, performed an amount of labor which would have been heavy for the strongest, and if ever there was a high and victorious spirit it was his. As to his work, I agree with my friend Mr. Rhodes that it is the one achievement of an American historian which belongs to that small number of histories which never become obsolete and are never superseded. There is no room for the discovery of new material sufficient to supplant his story or seriously modify his conclusions. It will be no more possible for the future histo rians of the American continent to push Parkman aside than it is for new writers on the Roman Empire or the early middle

ages to relegate Gibbon to obscurity or remove him from the lonely height which he occupies with Thucydides and Tacitus. So thorough was Parkman's work that but little new material exists untouched by him and his histories have, moreover, the enduring qualities of precision, fairness, and dignity, as well as afinishedand sim ple style, usually somewhat cold but ca pable of rising to great heights, as in the chapter which describes the victory and death of Wolfe and the defeat and death of Montcalm, heroicfiguresboth. I remember well seeing Mr. Parkman when I was a boy, and he made an impres sion on my memory and imagination which is vivid to this day. A tall, slender figure in a long gray coat, with a fur cap, in winter, drawn down close over his head, he would come walking up Beacon Street moving with great rapidity, a heavy cane in each hand, on which he rested his weight and by which he propelled him self. Going at a tremendous pace, he would suddenly stop and lean against a house or a railing as if exhausted. Then in a few minutes he would resume his canes, and push away as if running a race. I learned afterward that he was at that time much crippled, and that only in this way could he get air and exercise, but he could not move deliberately and his in tense nervous energy drove him forward with restless rapidity, although every ex ertion was a pain to him. I remember asking my mother who the gentleman was who thus arrested my wandering at tention, and she explained to me that it was Mr. Frank Parkman and told me what a battle for life he was compelled to make. When I came to know him after my re turn from Europe he was much better. He walked normally, he was one of the corporation of Harvard College, he was able to go about and see his friends, now and then he dined out, but not often, for his sleep was still insecure and his eyes required the most delicate and constant care. I found on nearer view that the strikingfigureof my boyhood was accom panied by a face and look even more strik ing. All Mr. Parkman's features were ir regular. Under analysis I do not suppose one of them could have justly been praised as handsome. Yet I have seldom seen a finer face. Whatever the details the ef-

The Ethics of the Profession feet was that of beauty; intellect, force, character, breeding, distinction, were all there in his strongly marked features, and, despite all he had passed through, so pow erful had been his will that he had no ex pression of suffering nor in the least the look of an invalid. M y acquaintance with Mr. Parkman began, as did that with Mr. Bancroft, and was continued in roses. Both were rose-growers and most success ful. M r . Parkman, however, carried his pursuit, taken up when he could not work at his history, to the perfection of a pro fession. He not only won prizes every where with his roses, but he wrote a most excellent book in regard to them and their cultivation. The manner in which he dealt with this amusement was most char acteristic. He pursued the occupation with relentless energy until he had made himself complete master of his subject and attained the highest degree of excellence. Spurred by these illustrious examples, I, too, began to cultivate roses and, writing to Mr. Bancroft and M r . Parkman for in formation, received the most cordial advice and help from both, which enabled me to succeed in growing the most beautiful of flowers sufficiently well to give myself

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much pleasure until absorption in other and more serious occupations compelled me to turn my bushes over to my gardener. From that time forward I saw a great deal of Mr. Parkman and talked with him freely about politics and history and the affairs of the college. He dined with us occasionally, came to see us frequently, and was most kind to my children, who thought him the best of companions, for he had the qualities which attracted chil dren, although I do not think that side of his character was generally appreciated, any more than his abundant humor, some times a little grim but always very real and true. He was a perfectly fearless man and would set forth unpopular opinions with an entire disregard of consequences. As he expressed all his views on any sub ject with a most incisive vigor, no one was ever in doubt as to what he thought. But the memory which dwells with me was of his constant kindness and sympathy freely given to a very young man, of the pa tience with which he would listen, the help and advice which he would give, and the freedom with which he would discuss all subjects, interesting me very much and teaching me more.

ETHICS OF T H E PROFESSION By Gerald Chittenden ILLUSTRATIONS B Y ANTON

T H A T ' S all very well," said Seaforth, "but what be comes of the men who don't take honors at a medical school, and don't land in a first-class hospital, or get chosen to assist eminent surgeons?" Clarendon waited till Wilkinson, the doctor of the Durban, had passed through the smoking-room, leaving behind him in the air a suggestion of iodoform with an undertone of scented soap. "Generally," he answered then, a faint smile on his well-cut lips, "generally they go to sea—become doctors on passengerboats."

OTTO

FISCHER

Seaforth checked him with a raised hand. Wilkinson had paused on the threshold, and Clarendon did not seem to have the faintest idea of the carrying power of his very agreeable voice. " D i d he hear me?" he asked. "I'm afraid so." "I'm sorry." He was not in the least sorry. " B u t it's true, what I said. In my profession inefficiency seeks the high seas." "Always?" "Well, not always. There are soft berths ashore also—sanitariums for hy pochondriacs, water-cures—that sort of thing. Soft berths for little men, and it's

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not a soft man's profession, or a little man's." "No," assented Seaforth. He had a trick of rubbing the back of his neck when people irritated him. " By no means a soft profession. But I'd rather hear that from some one who wasn't a doc tor." Clarendon, slightly annoyed, groped after the graceful equivocation. "It might come better from a layman," he admitted. "But one has to think of the ethics of the profession." "There are such things, I have heard." "Laugh if you like. One shouldn't go into it to make money, primarily. There are other factors." "Many others,"agreed Seaforth,almost enthusiastically. " I'm very far from de crying your work. But the less efficient man must do something for his bread and butter—lie in the bed he has made, wheth er it's soft or hard." Clarendon shrugged his shoulders. "True," he said, "and for that very reason the less efficient men, as you call them, are apt to run counter to the ethics of the profession." "Always?" queried Seaforth again. "Well—nearly always." For the moment, Clarendon seemed to have said all that he had to say about doc toring, and Seaforth heaved a covert sigh of relief. Twice before in the early days of the voyage, Clarendon had enlarged upon the idealism of his profession; at least twice Seaforth had wondered if he really deserved his reputation as the com ing man. Habitually he distrusted men who talked too much. "You're going through to Capetown?" he asked. A man's destination is gen erally fairly far from the region of the ideal. "No; Sierra Leone." "That's an odd place to choose for a vacation." "It's not a vacation. The Institute is sending me to investigate sleeping sick ness." " Don't stay too long. They call it the 'White Man's Grave,' you know." "I know." Clarendon paused a mo ment, and then added, "I'm alone in the world—no one dependent on me. That's the reason they gave me the job."

Seaforth rubbed the back of his neck very violently indeed. "Rum," he said, "kills more men than fever—even in Sierra Leone. Let's go on deck." They strolled outside, and, with the abundant leisure of long voyages, stood an hour or so at the rail, talking of a thou sand things, and of no one thing for any time together. Such desultory conversa tion showed Clarendon in a different and a pleasanter light; when he permitted him self to be less the doctor and more the man, there was in him not a little of that fresh ness of youth which Seaforth found eter nally engaging. He was relieved to find it present even in the highly evolved and absurdly serious Clarendon. After a little the younger man went below, and left Seaforth gazing overside, half hypnotized by the incredible blue of the semi-tropical sea. He turned at a step on the deck and faced Wilkinson. " Good morning," he said, rather expect ing that the ship's doctor would answer and pass on. "Good morning, Mr. Seaforth." Wil kinson stopped and leaned on the rail. "A fine day." "Been on these steamers long?" asked Seaforth. "Four trips only. Before that I was on the Booth boats to South America." "One gets tired of South America—the coast of it particularly." "Quite so," responded Wilkinson. "And the world is a pretty large place. It's hardly worth while to keep going to the same countries over and over again. You've travelled a good deal, sir?" "I've done little else for the lastfiveor six years." "Health?" "Partly at first. But mostly inclina tion." Wilkinson put a foot on the lower iron of the rail, found the position uncomfort able after a moment, and turned his back to the sea. Seaforth looked at him out of the corner of his eye; the man's face was baffling, full of contradictions, and there fore interesting. The eyes, deep-set and steady, with faint crow-foot markings at the corners, bony temples, and a heavy bush of brow, gave the lie to the incerti-

Drawn

by Anton

Otto

Fischer

T h e captain stepped to the rail.

" Is it b a d ?" he called out to S h a w . - P a g e 738.

731

The Ethics of the Profession tude and immaturity of the mouth. If the man's strength—and the fiat muscles at the corner of the jaw bespoke strength —had altogether come into its own, the general effect of the face would have been one of fineness, despite the over-full chin and lower lip; as it was, there was some thing unsatisfying about it, something as evident and elusive as the difference be tween a man who knows how to wax his mustache ends and a man who doesn't. Refinement there was undoubtedly, but it was the sort that harmonized with the scented soap and not with the iodoform; Seaforth suspected that it might be the raw material of the man's character, and not the by-product of experience thought fully undergone. Observation had led him to believe that refinement without strength is womanish or worse; he was as yet loath to brand Wilkinson as effeminate, just as he was loath to admit that Clarendon was strong. Rather suddenly, as the live contrast between the two men leaped into focus, his interest in this voyage waxed as keen as though it were his first instead of his thirtieth. Far apart as they were in opportunity, in achievement, in point of view, yet both doctors lay under the scalpel of circumstance, and no man could tell what the scalpel would expose. "Who is this man Clarendon?" sud denly asked Wilkinson. "He's one of Webster's assistants, and the most able of them, I understand." "Humph! Did he tell you so himself? On a vacation, I suppose?" "He says not. He's on his way to Sierra Leone to carry on the investiga tion of sleeping sickness." "The white man's grave, eh? I guess there's truth in that nickname, though I've only seen the place from the shore. A hell of a hole. Shouldn't care to stay there long myself." "Not even for the sake of research?" "Research isn't in my line. I wasn't first in my class at Johns Hopkins." So many answers to that remark oc curred to Seaforth that he made no answer at all. It was his usual way out of a con versational difficulty. "Some men," went on Wilkinson, "have all the luck." If there was one word Seaforth hated, it was "luck." He said so.

733

_ "That's not just what I mean." Wil kinson's manner changed suddenly, and lost all taint of peevishness. "It's this way. There's only one place at the head of a class—maybe ten or fifteen places that count in a big way. Then comes the ruck, and there are hundreds in that. They aren't all there because they're loaf ers, either. Perhaps they're in the wrong business, and it's too late to change, so they have to keep on and do the best they can in a harness that doesn't fit. Do you see what I mean by luck—fate—Kismet —whatever you care to call it? " " Isn't what you say true of any occu pation?" asked Seaforth. "There are only a few places at the top." "You don't understand me yet. It isn't Clarendon's success that I'm kicking at. It's his confounded arrogance." "It's not sporting," agreed Seaforth. "No," said Wilkinson, rather vehe mently, "it's not sporting." Then he laughed. "I suppose you think that's the pot calling the kettle black?" • "I wasn't thinking anything of the kind. Would you care if I did?" "Not in the least." That was a lie, Seaforth reflected, when Wilkinson had left him; exactly the sort of a lie one would expect from a man who cared too much. Clarendon would have countered differently; he cared too little for other people's opinions, and therefore treated them with apparent considera tion. Seaforth's mind presently wan dered from the two doctors, and drifted into the state of vague speculation that was usual with him at sea. Parenthet ically, he thanked heaven that there were still routes and steamers where passen gers were unconsidered trifles, where the apparatus of amusement did not obtrude and interfere with the proper study of mankind. It was a study for which he had ample opportunity on this voyage. It is impossible to avoid one's shipmates entirely, no matter how much one may wish to do so; Clarendon and Wilkinson met occasionally, and clashed once. There was a boy aboard the Durban considerably more than half idiotic. Though nearly twenty years old, accord ing to his keeper, he spent most of his time playing with paper dolls and snarl ing his clumsyfingersin inextricable and

734


amorphous cat's cradles. His peanutshaped head bore witness to the fact that all attempts to educate him were futile, and had been so since his birth; at times he slavered at the mouth, and almost always he talked and giggled to himself. Seaforth looked at him as little as possi ble; the abnormal sickened him. Claren don regarded him coolly and scientifically; Wilkinson kept a guardian eye on him, untangled the intricacies of his string games, and even succeeded in teaching him a few knots. In consequence, the boy followed him like a dog, and obeyed like a well-trained dog when Wilkinson sent him away, as he always did when he wanted to talk with Seaforth. On one occasion Clarendon joined the other two. "Interesting study, that idiot," he re marked. "Yes," answered Wilkinson, speaking slowly. "Very interesting—if you regard the poor devil as a microscopic section." "How else can you regard him? Not as a human being, certainly." " I don't like to regard him at all," put in Seaforth. " That's natural," said Wilkinson. " W e doctors have to get used to abnormalities; even with us a little of them goes a long way." " A very long way," agreed Clarendon, " though they're interesting scientifically, as I said." He turned and looked over at the boy, who was sitting not far off, every now and then casting a hopeful glance at Wilkinson's back. " H e ought never to have been allowed to live," went on Clarendon. " N o hope from the first •—look at that cranium! A clear case; the doctor ought to have put him merci fully out of the way as soon as he was born. For that matter, a thing like that ought never to be born in a civilized com munity. B a h ! " He turned again to the sea. "Eugenics is the coming science." "Eugenics, perhaps," agreed Wilkin son. " B u t that's different from childmurder, isn't i t ? " "Why not child-murder?" demanded Clarendon. " A little of it would be for the good of the race, and mere sentimen tality shouldn't be allowed to block that." "Sentimentality, no. But how about unscrupulous doctors? They must be blocked; there are too many unwelcome

and perfectly normal children in the world as things stand. If you allow child-murder at all, how are you going to control i t ? " " I t could be controlled," retorted Clar endon positively. " A n d you're wrong about some of the unwelcome children being perfectly normal. Not one in a thousand is, and they'd all be better out of the way." Wilkinson grunted. " G o d help the race, then," he said. "That kind of thing has been tried." "Oh, Sparta!" Clarendon dismissed the Spartans with the pettishness of pure intellect. " I ' m not talking about Sparta. It's never been tried in a civilized state." "How about the ethics of the profes sion?" interjected Seaforth. "Change them," answered the now recklessly radical Clarendon. "They're not so easy to change," said Wilkinson. " A n d didn't I hear you say once that you were a stickler for them, or something like that?" "Maybe you did. The essentials of them are good, but there are things about them that haven't been changed since Galen. We've outgrown those clothes, and there's no sense in wearing them." "How convenient that is!" said Wil kinson. "Then we should change them whenever they get a little uncomfort able?" "Not at a l l ! " Clarendon, disliking op position from the unsuccessful, was losing his temper. " It's impractical to keep the same ideas till judgment day." "Perhaps it is," assented Wilkinson, " but you've got to prove that a change is a change for the better. You're talking about human nature, and not a chemical formula." "Control marriages, and births, and survivals, and you'd come precious near reducing human nature to a formula." "Not all human nature," drawled Wil kinson. "We disagree, clearly. A matter of point of view, I suppose. Good morn ing." Clarendon's exit was dignified; almost too dignified. Wilkinson chuckled. "What a fool!" he said to Seaforth. Later that day Clarendon made the same remark about Wilkinson.

Drawn

by Anton

Otto

Fischer.

C l a r e n d o n leaped f o r w a r d a n d l a i d a s h a k i n g h a n d on his s h o u l d e r . — P a g e 738.

735

The Ethics of the Profession From that time on, though Seaforth played picquet almost every day with Clarendon, he found more pleasure in Wilkinson's company, and sought it fre quently. There was more in common be tween them, it seemed; besides, as the voyage slipped into the second lazy week, Clarendon, cut off from his usual re sources, began to yield to what he called monotony, and became every day more irritable and opinionated. "How do you stand it?" he asked Sea forth on the tenth day out, as the two were watching a tramp steamer some five miles away. "That's thefirstliving thing we've seen for a week." " Stand it? " replied Seaforth. " Why, I enjoy it more than anything else in the world." " I don't. I wish something would hap pen—anything. Another ten days like these last would reduce me to the condi tion of that idiot of Wilkinson's." "And then what about your eugenics? " murmured Seaforth from under his binoc ulars. "I think you'll have your wish," he added, lowering the glasses. "That tramp is flying the British ensign upside down, and there are signal flags in her fore-rigging." He handed the glasses to Clarendon, and looked astern. "We're changing our course," he re marked. "Wonder what those signals mean?" The two ships crept nearer to each other, and details of the tramp's gear took on definition. An officer's whistle shrilled from the bridge of the Durban, and the boatswain's pipe forward wailed in an swer. "Swing out the starboard quarter boat!" a voice commanded. "Look sharp, now!" A dozen or so sailors hurried past Sea forth and Clarendon, and the first officer slipped down the bridge gangway on his way aft to take command. "Wait for the doctor, Mr. Shaw," the captain called after him. "Very well, sir." " Sickness, eh? " commented Clarendon. "Looks that way," returned Seaforth. "I'd like to offer my services." Clar endon moved toward the bridge, but Seaforth restrained him.

737

"Better wait," he said. "They're busy top side just now. There'll be time enough." The tramp, not half a mile away, had stopped her engines, and was rolling in the trough, while on her forward deck two or three men listlessly lowered a ladder. The Durban's telegraph rattled overhead, and the ship began to lose way. Seaforth and Clarendon moved astern to watch opera tions. "Lower away!" ordered thefirstofficer. The ropes creaked through the falls, and the boat dropped handily into the water, looking small and frail as she trailed to her painter alongside. The oars fell into the rowlocks, and she spraddled away, the first officer standing in the stern, and the doctor sitting close beside him. The Durban got under way again and steamed to leeward of the other ship so that the men would not have to row up-wind on their return. Seaforth and Clarendon saw Mr. Shaw hail; the answer apparently caused some consternation in the boat, and there seemed to be a dispute between the doctor and the first officer, while a man in shirt-sleeves gesticulated at them from the deck. Then Shaw waved his hand, and the spidery oars began to dip and rise again as the boat turned back

to the Durban. "Nothing serious, I guess," said Clar endon in his best bedside manner. "I'm not so sure," replied Seaforth. "Look at the decks of that steamer." "They're not ship-shape, certainly," agreed Clarendon. "But then she's a tramp." " Even a tramp's generally ship-shape. That ship looks sick, somehow. I can't tell just why." "And no one but Wilkinson to kiss her and make her well. I hope he's a better shipwright than doctor." '' Wait before you get flippant. Perhaps you'll have a chance to volunteer—for re search work—and show Wilkinson what the ethics of your profession really means." "You think it's bad, then?" " Sure to be. One ship doesn't stop an other on the high seas because the cap tain's cat has singed his whiskers. They may need you." " But I've got my work at Sierra Leone. The work I was sent to do."

738


Wilkinson, followed by a laden steward, "Yes," said Seaforth slowly. " You've presently appeared. The idiot boy, who got the work you were sent to do." Unable to endure the man any longer long since had sensed that something con just then, he stepped down to the main cerning his friend was toward, twisted deck. Clarendon, uncertain and a little free from his keeper and ran to him. '' Well, Frank? " asked Wilkinson kindly. wilted, followed. The quarter boat was " Y o u are going away in that little close alongside now; the bow man took in boat?" The boy giggled as he spoke. his oar and caught the line. "Yes, Frank. But only for a little row." "What's the trouble?" asked the cap "Take me with you?" tain. The doctor answered. " N o , Frank." "Bubonic plague. Lower a ladder; I The boy held out his huge soft hand, want some stores and my kit." "The lunatic says he's going back," and let drop into Wilkinson's palm a tan gle of string and torn paper dolls. Then explained M r . Shaw. " Going back? He can't!" answered the he shrank back into the crowd; Wilkinson captain. He turned to Wilkinson, who gulped and walked on. " F o r the last time," urged the cap had reached the deck. " Y o u can't go tain, blocking the doctor from the ladder, back." " I can, and I'm going. You've got Dr. "don't go. Send the stores, if you like, Clarendon if any of the passengers should but don't go." " I am going." fall ill here." The seaman's red fist closed over the " I won't allow it." "You've got to. You must give aid to doctor's fingers. ships in distress, and if I want to go you " B y God, sir," he said, not explosively, "you're a brave man." can't stop me." " B u t plague! Have you any idea what With that he stepped aside. Wilkinson a plague ship is? " swung himself onto the ladder; he paused "That's one to windward. Let me get when his shoulders were at the level of my stores." the rail, and for the first time saw Sea "Go, then, you young fool!" forth. He took one hand from the rung But the word as the captain pronounced and waved it. it was a sort of accolade. He stepped to "So long, M r . Seaforth," he said, and the rail. at once began to go down again. "Is it bad?" he called out to Shaw. Clarendon leaped forward and laid a "Four deaths in the last two days, and shaking hand on his shoulder. five more men down," was the answer. " M a n , you're crazy!" he chattered. "They cleared from Antilla eleven days " Y o u don't stand a dog's chance! Cooped ago. Wilkinson,'' Shaw spat into the sea, up with them on that ship! You mustn't "Wilkinson is a damned fool." go! Y o u mustn't!" In Shaw's mouth also the curse was no Wilkinson looked coolly into Claren curse. don's eyes. Then he smiled. " W h y don't you go?" Seaforth asked "The ethics of the profession, Dr. Clar Clarendon. endon," he said. Clarendon did not answer. Since Wil His head disappeared below the level of kinson had gone below, he had not taken the bulwark; he dropped into the boat as his eyes from the tramp; the arrogance it rose on a swell. was all gone from his face, leaving it oddly "Let go!" called the first officer. " Give expressionless. way!"

T h e G a l a t a T o w e r marks the highest point of the walls. — P a g e 742.

THE

MAGNIFICENT

COMMUNITY

By H . G. Dwight ILLUSTRATIONS FROM

PHOTOGRAPHS BY T H E A U T H O R

' Galata, que mes yeux desiraient des longtemps . . . "—ANDRE

CHENIER.

" In Pera sono tre malanni: Peste, fuoco, dragomanni." —LOCAL

I

PROVERB.

T is not the fashion to speak well of Pera and Galata. A good Turk will sigh of another that he has gone to Pera, by way of saying that he has gone to the dogs. A foreign resident will scarcely admit that so much as the view is good. Even a Perote born pretends not to love his Grande Rue if he happens to have read Loti or Claude Farrere. And tourists are supposed to have done the left bank of the Golden Horn when they have watched the Sultan drive to mosque and have giggled at the whirling dervishes. A few of the more thorough-going will perhaps take the VOL.

LIII.—66

trouble to climb Galata Tower or to row up the Sweet Waters of Europe. For my part, however, who belong to none of these cate gories, I am perverse enough to find Pera and Galata a highly superior place of habi tation. They merely suffer from lying under the shadow of Stamboul—though that gives them one inestimable advantage which Stamboul herself lacks, namely the view of the dark old city crowned by her imperial mosques. Pera occupies a really magnificent site, it has a history of its own, and it fairly drips with that modern pig ment known as local color. Moreover, it seems destined to inherit the renown of the older city. Stamboul tends to diminish, whereas Pera grows, and has unlimited room for growing. The left bank is al ready the seat of the Sultan, of Parliament, 739

740

The Magnificent Community

antiquity as Iasonion. In the valley be hind that picturesque suburb there later existed a famous laurel grove, sacred of course to Apollo, who with Poseidon was patron of Byzantium. The sun-god was also worshipped at a sacred fount which still exists in Galata, within the enclosure of the Latin church of St. George. L e g e n d makes this spring the scene of the mart y r d o m of St. Irene, daughter of a Roman ruler, who was put to death for refus ing to sacrifice to Apollo, and who became herself the patron saint of the new Christian city of Constanti nople. Christian ity is said to have been brought there by no less a person than the apostle Andrew. He is reputed to have preached at Funduklu, where the Turkish Par liament sits to day, and to have died in Galata. As for Apollo, his cult was divided between the two new saints, George and Elias. The dragon of the one T h e birthplace of A n d r e Chenier. and the other's fiery ascent to bered than Stamboul with the debris of his heaven recall the python and the suntory, they may find conditions more favor chariot of the Far Darter, and their feast days are doubtless reminiscences of an able for the city of their future. If her story cannot compare with that cient festivals of spring and summer. of the gray mother city, Pera nevertheless Among the antiquities of the town its can boast associations of which communi names have been the subject of much re ties more self-important might be proud. search and confusion. Pera is a Romaic Jason stopped there on his way to Colchis, word meaning opposite or beyond, and first and after him Beshiktash was known in applied to the whole rural suburb on the

and of the bulk of the commerce and finance of the capital. And the battles of the revolution fought there in 1909 give the place a peculiar interest in the eyes of the Young Turks. On that soil, less encum-


741

north shore of the Golden Horn. This The history of the town we know begins hill was also called Sykia, from the fig in 1261, when the Greeks retook Constan trees that abounded there; and when the tinople from the Latins of the Fourth Cru mortar-loving Justinian rebuilt and forti sade. Before the Franco-Venetian con fied the suburb in the sixth century he re quest the Genoese, with the other Latin named it after himself. With re gard to the word Galata there has been infinite dis pute. I myself thought I had solved the ques tion when I went to Genoa and saw steep little alleys, for all the world like those I knew in Genoese Ga lata, which were named Calata—a descent to the sea —and of which the local dialect made the C a G. But I lived to learn that the name, as that of a castle on the wa ter's edge, has been found i n Byzantine MSS. dating from two hundred years ear lier than the time Genoa founded her colony there. I therefore pin my faith at present, still despising the favorite deriva tion from the Greek word for milk, to the legend that the name comes from BrenT h e most c h a r m i n g fragment of a l l , a n d probably the oldest . . . a little T u r k i s h street passes t h r o u g h a n a r c h w a y , w i t h Genoese escutcheons above the a r c h . — P a g e 743. nus and his Gauls, or Galatians, who passed this way with fire colonists, had been established along the and sword in the third century B . C . In any southern shore of the Golden Horn. But case it is known that Franks were settled with the Greek restoration and the tem there long before the Genoese period. By porary eclipse of Venice the Genoese were the Latins the two names were used inter given the opposite suburb for their own. changeably; but Galata now means the The conditions were that they should not lower part of the hill formerly enclosed by fortify it and that they should respect the the Genoese walls, while Pera is the newer Emperor as their suzerain. But the old ri town "beyond" the old, on top of the hill. valry with Venice and the decadence of the

742

The Magnificent Community-

Greeks brought it about that Galata pres ently built walls, captured the ancient Byz antine fortress which stood in the vicinity of the present custom-house, and otherwise conducted herself as an independent city. The existing Galata Tower marks the high est point of the walls, which were twice en larged, and which in their greatest extent ran down on the east to Top Haneh and on the west to Azap Kapou. The colony was governed by a podesta, sent every year from Genoa, who was also accredited as minister resident to the Emperor. Galata existed as a flourishing Italian city for nearly two hundred years. The coming of the Turks in 1453 put an end to the conditions which had made her inde pendence possible. Although cut off from Genoa, however, she did not immediately cease to be an Italian city. Indeed, the conqueror might have been expected to deal more hardly with the Latin suburb than he did. For while the Galatiotes had entered into amicable relations with the invaders and had in the end voluntarily surrendered, they had also been the backbone of the Greek defence. But in accepting the keys of Galata Mohammed II assured the col onists the enjoyment of their goods and their faith, merely enjoining them to build no more churches, to forego the use of bells, and to throw down their land fortifications. This last condition seems never to have been carried out. If the conqueror had followed the less humane course of getting rid of the embarrassing Christian popula tion of the two cities, instead of confirming their religious liberty and organizing them into those separate "nations" which are so peculiar a feature of Turkish polity, he would have spared his successors many a painful problem. Under the new regime Galata proceeded to reorganize herself as the Magnified Communita di Pera. The head of this Magnifi cent Community was a Magnified, prior of the Brotherhood of St. Anne, who was aided by a sub-prior and twelve councillors. Their deliberations chiefly concerned the churches, since in civil affairs they were naturally subject to the Porte. The Rue Voivoda, the Wall Street of Galata, per petuates the title of the Turkish functionary who was the superior temporal power of the Magnificent Community. The churches diminished in number, however, as the Latin

population dwindled, and by 1682 their ad ministration had passed into the hands of the orders occupying them or of the Patri archal Vicar. This dignitary represented that member of the papal court whose title of Patriarch of Constantinople was the last shadow of the Latin conquest. On the other hand, the ambassadors of the Catholic powers, and particularly of France, grad ually assumed protection of the Latin col ony. The Magnificent Community ac cordingly ceased to exist. But the Latin "nation" still forms one of the constituent elements of the Ottoman empire. And while the population of Galata is now more Greek, even more Turkish and Hebrew, than European, it is only within a genera tion or two that French has begun to super sede Italian as the lingua franca of the town, and it still retains an indefinable Italian air. Of that old Italian town modern Galata contains little enough, except for the fanatic in things of other times. The tower, of course, the whilom Torre del Cristo, is the most visible memorial of the Genoese pe riod. The top, however, has been repeat edly remodelled. This great round keep was built in 1348, during the first enlarge ment of the walls, which first extended no farther than the Rue Voivoda. It has now degenerated to the peaceful uses of fire watchers and of those who love a view, the small square at its base being also visited once a year by a Birnam Wood of Christ mas-trees. Of the fortifications that ex tended from it, there remains here only a reminiscence in the name of the Rue Hendek—Moat Street. The greater part of the walls were torn down in 1864, the in scriptions and coats of arms they contained being ultimately removed to the Seraglio Museum. Farther down the hill remnants of masonry still exist and a few turrets. The garden of the monastery of St. Pierre is bounded by a fragment of the turreted city wall of 1348, while in the monastery wall of St. Benoit is another turret, probably of the wall of 1352. A square tower of that wall existed until very recently at Bit Ba zaar—otherwise Louse Market, the resort of second-hand men! I had long intended to photograph this picturesque ruin, but learned that procrastination is the thief of more than time when I finally went there one day with my camera and found work men pulling down the last stones of the


743

tower. The municipality ought to see to Voivoda are a number of stout stone build it that no man ever pulls down the most ings with corbelled upper stories and heav charming fragment of all, and probably the ily grated windows which are popularly

T h e bell tower of St. Benoit.

oldest, not far from the inner bridge, where a little Turkish street passes through an archway, with Genoese escutcheons above the arch and an olive-tree waving on top of the wall. Galata has always been famous for its fires, to say nothing of its earthquakes. These, and changes of population, with the street-widening and rebuilding of our day, have left us very little idea of the domes tic architecture of the Genoese colony. In the steep alleys on either side of the Rue

called Genoese. They bear too close a re semblance to Turkish structures of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries to be so named without more study than any one has taken the trouble to give them. But they are certainly mediaeval and they suggest how Galata may once have looked. The facade of one of them, in the Rue Pershembeh Bazaar, is decorated with a Byzantine marble panel. This was the fashionable quarter of Genoese Galata. The palace of the podesta was there, at the corner of

744


the Rue Pershembeh Bazaar and the Rue Chinar, and until recently survived as an office building. Such slender honors of antiquity as Ga lata may boast cluster chiefly about certain churches and missions. The story of these is a picturesque chapter in the history of the mediaeval orders. The Franciscans were the first to come to Constantinople, opening a mission in Stamboul during the lifetime of St. Francis and establishing them selves in Galata as early as 1227. No trace of them now remains there, each of the vari ous branches into which the order divided having eventually removed to Pera. The church of San Francesco d'Assisi, belong ing to the Conventuals, was the cathedral of the colony, and one worthy of Genoa the Superb. Partially destroyed by fire in 1696, it was seized by the mother of Sultan Mustafa II, who built on its site—below the Imperial Ottoman Bank—the existing Yeni Valideh Mosque. The church of Sant' Antonio, on the Grande Rue de Pera, is the direct descendant of the cathedral of San Francesco and of the missionaries of 1219. The Dominicans were also settled at an early date on both sides of the Gold en Horn. Arab Jami, the mosque whose campanile-like minaret is so conspicuous from the water, was formerly their church of San Paolo. Tradition ascribes its foun dation to St. Hyacinth, the great Domini can missionary of the Levant. The fathers were dispossessed about 1535 in favor of the Moorish refugees from Spain, who also invaded the surrounding quarter. The quarter is still Mohammedan, though the Albanian costume now gives it most color. Refugees of a less turbulent character had come from Spain a few years earlier and were given land outside the walls of Galata at the point now called Hasskeui. These were the Jews driven out by Ferdinand and Isabella in 1492. Their descendants live there to this day. The Dominican fathers took refuge in what is now the monastery of St. Pierre, diagonally across the Rue Pershembeh Ba zaar from the palace of the podesta. The building had originally been a convent of nuns of St. Catherine, and gardens were added to it by a generous Venetian, in whose honor a mass is still performed once a year. This monastery has been

burned and remodelled so many times that little can be left of its original appearance. The church, however, contains an ancient Byzantine icon ascribed to the prolific brush of St. Luke, supposed to have been acquired in Jerusalem by the Empress Eudoxia in 450 and by the Latins in the sack of 1204. In the court of the church and on the fa cade of the monastery toward the Rue Chinar—the Street of the Plane Tree—are stone escutcheons bearing the lilies of France and the arms of a Comte de St. Priest. He was the French ambassador at the time of our Revolutionary War. The building, being under French protection and on a desirable street, was occupied in part at different times by the notables of the colony. Among these, about the middle of the eighteenth century, was a merchant named Louis de Chenier. Coming as a young man to Galata, he had become Deputy of the Nation—an office peculiar to the French colony from the time of Col bert—right-hand man to the ambassador, and husband—like many a European be fore and after him—of a Levantine lady. Her family, that is to say, were of European origin, but by long residence in the Levant and by intermarriage with Greeks had lost their own language. The seventh child of this couple was Andre Chenier, the poet of the French Revolution. His birthplace is marked by a marble tablet above the Rue Chinar. The poet never saw the Street of the Plane Tree, however, after he was three years old. He grew up in Paris, where he lost his life during the Terror. The largest mission left in Galata is St. Benoit, whose walls now overshadow the least monastic quarter of the town. Its history is even more varied than that of St. Pierre, having been occupied and reoccupied at different times by the Benedic tines, the Observants, the Capuchins, and the Jesuits. The last were the longest ten ants, carrying on a devoted work for nearly two hundred years. After the seculariza tion of their order in 1773 they were suc ceeded by the Lazarists, who have not fallen behind in the high traditions of the mis sion. The place has a distinctly mediaeval air, with its high walls, its Gothic gateway, and its machicolated campanile. Nothing is left, alas, of the mosaics which used to decorate the church. After so many fires I fear there is no chance of their being dis-


745

covered under modern plaster, as has some the Latins naturally diminished in number times happened in the case of mosques. after the Turkish conquest, the city quickly But the pillars of the porch are doubtless outgrew its walls. While part of this those which a diplomatic father obtained by growth was due to the influx of Venetians gift from the Sheikh-ul-Islam in 1686. And and later of Greeks from the opposite side there are a number of interesting tablets of the Horn, a good deal of it came about about the building. One of them, above through Turkish colonization. This was

T h e imperial suburb of Beshiktash.

the main entrance, records not too truth fully the rebuilding of the church by Louis XIV. The most notable is the tombstone of Rakoczy, Prince of Transylvania and pretender to the throne of Hungary, who lived twenty years in exile at Rodosto, on the Sea of Marmora. When he died there in 1738 his friends asked permission to bury him in Galata, but were refused. They ac cordingly pretended to inter him at Rodosto. As a matter of fact, his coffin was sent in one of the many boxes containing his effects to St. Benoit. There the royal exile was secretly buried in the church, his grave long remaining unmarked. The stones of Galata have more to tell than those who ungratefully tread them are wont to imagine. But they are by no means Christian stones alone. Although

chiefly without the walls. You can almost trace the line of them to-day by the boun dary between populations. The Turkish settlements grew up around mosques, pal aces, and military establishments built by different sultans in the country about Ga lata, but mainly on the water-front. De tached atfirst,in sheltered bays and valleys, they now form a continuous city from the inner waters of the Golden Horn to the im perial suburb of Beshiktash on the Bosphorus. The oldest of these settlements must be Kassim Pasha, in the deep ravine which gives Pera so enviable a western view over the Golden Horn. The name was that of a vizier of Suleiman the Magnificent, twice governor of Egypt. He was known as Handsome Kassim, but he ended his days in bad odor. His quarter takes after

T h e A m e r i c a n embassy (rear).

him in the latter rather than in the former particular. It is traversed by a doubtful watercourse whose enemies call it an open drain. I myself shall be sorry to see it dis appear—as it is destined to do—because of its picturesque wooden bridges and its bordering coffee-houses. I shall be sorrier, however, to see the last of the cypresses that darken the eastern slope of the ravine. They are all that is left of the great grove of the Petits Champs des Morts, the old burial-ground of Galata. As the city grew the cemeteries, both Christian and Mo hammedan, were removed to the Grands Champs des Morts, at the Taxim. They, too, have now been overtaken by the streets and turned in great part to other uses. But a field of the dead was there again when the Young Turks took Pera from Abdul Hamid in 1909. The true honor of Kassim Pasha rests on its associations with the naval glory of the Turks. That valley is supposed to have been the final scene of the celebrated ex ploit of Mohammed II when he hauled a squadron of eighty galleys out of the Bosphorus, dragged them over the hills in a 746

night, and launched them into the Golden Horn. There is no doubt, however, about the famous arsenal that sits solidly at the mouth of the valley to this day. It was first built by Selim I, father of Suleiman the Magnificent. The galleys of the great ad mirals of the fifteenth and sixteenth cen turies were laid down there, and there some of the spoils they brought home from the Mediterranean are still to be seen. One of those admirals is buried outside the arsenal, near his own mosque of Pialeh Pasha. The son of a Croat shoemaker, captured as a boy by the Janissaries, he grew up to command the fleets of his cap tors, to conquer sixty-seven islands, and to marry the daughter of a sultan. But his highest achievement was to defeat the re nowned Genoese admiral, Andrea Doria, off Jerbeh, the African island of the Lotuseaters. A detail of history connected with this old ship-yard is that we probably get our word arsenal from it, through the Italian darsena. The accepted derivation is from the Arabic dar es sanaat, house of construc tion—from an ancient ship-yard in Egypt

G r a n d e R u e de P e r a .

It mounts through a commerce of stalls and small shops.—Page 753.

captured by the founder of this arsenal. But a likelier origin is the Turkish word —from the Persian, I believe—Terssaneh, the house of slaves. At all events this is where the great bagnio of the galley-slaves used to be. These were Christians, capt ured in war, and did the work of the ar senal. At all times during the fifteenth, sixteenth, and seventeenth centuries there were from three to four thousand slaves in the bagnio, while four or five thousand more were chained to the oars of the im perial galleys. N o less than fifteen thou sand were freed at the battle of Lepanto in 1571. As the Turks became less warlike the number naturally declined, and came to an end with the abolition of slavery in 1846. One of the principal activities of the Catholic missions was among the in mates of this and other bagnios. The fathers were allowed access to the arse nals and even maintained chapels at Kassim Pasha, confessing the slaves, arrang ing when they could for their ransom, and heroically caring for them through dread ful epidemics. St. Joseph of Leonissa, one of the pioneer Capuchins, caught the plague

himself from the slaves, but recovered to labor again in the bagnio—so zealously that he even aspired to reach the ear of the Sultan. He was accordingly arrested and condemned to death. The sentence was already supposed to have been executed when he was miraculously rescued by an angel and borne away to his native Italy, living there to a ripe old age. If the angel might have been discovered to bear some resemblance to an emissary of the Venetian Balio, his intervention doubtless seemed no less angelic to the good missionary. Another Turkish settlement grew up on the east side of Galata wall, at Top Haneh —Cannon House. The place has been the seat of artillery shops and barracks from early in the Turkish era, for it must be remembered that Mohammed II, in the siege of Constantinople, was the first gen eral to prove the practicability of cannon, and that during the whole of their martial period the Turks had no superiors in this branch of warfare. There was also another ship-yard at Top Haneh, and another fa mous admiral is buried there near the mosque he built. He was also of Christian 747

748


origin, a Calabrian by the name of Ochiali, who, like many an adventurous spirit of the later middle ages, forsook his country and religion and became known as Big Ali. At the battle of Lepanto he succeeded in turn ing the squadron of Doria and escaping. His forty galleys were the only ones out of three hundred to get back to Constanti nople. For this exploit he was made Kaptan Pasha and his name was turned into Sword Ali—Kilij Ali. The greatest captain of them all lies far ther up the Bosphorus, at Beshiktash. The name is merely a corruption of Besh Task, —Five Stones—from the row of pillars on the shore to which he used to moor his galleys. Known to Europe by the nick name Barbarossa, from his great red beard, his true name was Haireddin. He began life as a pirate of Mitylene, entered the service of the Sultan of Tunis, captured Algiers on his own account, and had the diplomacy to offer his prize to Selim I. Under Suleiman the Magnificent he became the terror of the Mediterranean and his master's chief instrument in a life-long rivalry with Charles V. He died in 1546, full of years and honors, leaving a fortune of 60,000 ducats and 3,000 slaves. He wished to be buried by the sea, at the spot where he moored so often in his lifetime; but shanties and boat-yards now shut him off from the water. Nothing could be quainter or quieter than the little railed garden near the steamer landing, where a vine-covered pergola leads to the turbeh of that turbulent man of blood. A great brass ship-lamp swings over his turbaned coffin, and a green-and-white swallow-tailed pennant of crossed scimitars, while another lamp and a brass ornament from the top of a mast hang in niches on either side of the simple mausoleum. The harbor of Jason and Barbarossa is also the place where Mohammed II started his ships on their overland voyage. At least I never can see the valley of Dolma Baghcheh —the Filled-in Garden — into which the sea formerly entered, without convincing myself that it must have been the channel of that celebrated cruise, and not the steeper hill of Top Haneh. A Turk told me once that Nishan Tash—the Stone of the Sign—the fashionable Turk ish quarter that grew up on top of the hill during Abdul Hamid's time, was so named

from a pillar that once commemorated the event in question. He was not a lettered man, however, and I only give the state ment as hinting at the existence of a tradi tion. The descendants of Mohammed II, in any case, have long shown a partiality for Beshiktash. Mohammed IV built a summer palace there in 1679, his son Ahmet III constructed the first Chiragan, while for the last hundred years the sultans have lived there altogether. The existing palace of Dolma Baghcheh dates only from 1853. The abandoned buildings of Yildiz are more recent still. The ceremony of Selamlik—Salutation—when the Sultan drives in state to Friday prayer, is the weekly spec tacle of the imperial suburb, though less dazzling under Mohammed V than it used to be under Abdul Hamid II. After his prayer the Sultan gives audience to ambas sadors and visitors of mark. This custom goes back to the time of Albert de Wyss, am bassador of the Holy Roman Empire in 1566, who used to turn out his embassy when Selim II rode by to mosque. The water-side quarters outside the walls of Galata were and are prevailingly Turk ish. The Christian expansion followed the crest of the hill, founding the modern Pera which has superseded Galata as a residential section. But there is a leaven of Islam even in Pera. Bayezid II, son of the Conqueror, built a mosque in the quar ter of Asmali Mezjid—Vine Chapel—and a palace at Galata Serai. This palace final ly became a school for the imperial pages, recruited from among the Christian boys captured by the Janissaries, and existed intermittently as such until it was turned into the Imperial Lyceum. Galata Serai means Galata palace, which is interesting as showing the old application of the name. The word Pera the Turks have never adopted. They call the place Bey Olou— the Son of the bey. There is dispute as to the identity of this bey. Some say he was Demetrius Comnenus, last Emperor of Trebizond, whose youngest son turned Turk and was given lands in the vicinity of the Russian embassy. Others identify the son of the bey with a certain Aloisio Gritti, natural son of a doge of Venice, who became dragoman of the Porte during the reign of Suleiman the Magnificent and ex ercised much influence in the foreign rela tions of that monarch. Suleiman himself


749

built in Pera, or on that steep eastward slope afternoons to visit their Tekkeh; and a of it which is called Funduklu—the Place classic contrast do the noise and smiles of of Filberts—and which is as Turkish as the superior children of the West make with

F o u n t a i n o f M o h a m m e d I I , at T o p H a n e h . S o m e of the d r i n k i n g fountains scattered a l l o v e r the city are extremely beautiful.—Page 754.

Stamboul. The view from the terrace of the mosque he erected there in memory of his humpbacked son Jihanguir is one of the finest in Constantinople. It was his father Selim who established the Mevlevi, popularly called the whirling dervishes, in Pera. There they remain to this day, though they have sold the greater part of the es tates they once owned—a little island of peace and mysticism in the unbelieving town that has overtaken them. It is the classic amusement of tourists on Friday

the plaintive piping, the silent turning, the symbolism and ecstasy of that ritual octa gon. Among the roses and ivy of the court yard is buried a child of the West who also makes a contrast of a kind. He was a Frenchman, the Comte de Bonneval, who, after serving in the French and Austrian armies and quarrelling with the famous Prince Eugene, came to Constantinople, be came general of bombardiers, governor of Karamania, and pasha of three tails. He negotiated the first treaty of alliance made

750


by Turkey with a foreign country, namely, threatened to kill every Christian in the empire, beginning with the Balio, the am with Sweden in 1740. bassadors moved to the other side for good. There are many other Turkish buildings The Venetians built on the site now oc in Pera, but the suburb is essentially Chris cupied by the Austrian embassy. The tian and was built up by the Galatiotes. Dutch, the Russians, and the Swedes later It began to exist as a distinct settlement acquired fine properties in the same neigh during the seventeenth century—about the borhood, while the Rue de Pologne is per time, that is, when the Dutch were starting haps a reminiscence of the diplomatic rela the city of New York. The French and tions which once existed between Turkey Venetian embassies and the Franciscan and Poland. This oldest part of Pera has missions clustered around them were the changed the least; and I must say that I nucleus of the settlement, on a hill-side am low enough in my tastes to find some then known as The Vineyards and now by of the small streets dropping off the Grande the ingratiating name of Tomtom Quarter. Rue between garden walls and seigneurial Were the tomtoms the bells or beating- gateways extremely picturesque. Our embassy, in another quarter, is the boards of the missions? We have already seen how the Conventuals moved to Pera youngest member of this venerable diplo after the loss of San Francesco. Their matic colony, although the first in Europe grounds for two hundred years adjoined to"be owned by the American government. those of the French embassy, but have Commodore Porter, after difficulties that gradually been absorbed by the latter until would make an interesting and amusing the fathers have lately built on another site. history, signed the first Turco-American The oldest Latin church in Pera, however, treaty in 1830 and was our first minister. is St. Louis, of the Capuchins, who have In 1906 the legation was raised to an em been chaplains for the French embassy bassy, the house occupied by the ambassa since 1628. Ste. Marie Draperis is also older dor being bought a year later. This marble in Pera than Sant' Antonio. The church mansion, built and decorated at immense is so called after a philanthropic lady who expense by an Italian merchant, was a great gave land in Galata to the Observants in bargain and it occupies a desirable enough 1584. It passed to the Riformati because position. But it is too small for the social of the scandal which arose through two requirements of an embassy, while even of the brothers turning Turk, and in 1678 after a good-sized wing had been added in moved to The Vineyards for the same rea order to accommodate the chancery there son as the Conventuals. It is now under yet could be found space for no more than Austrian protection and serves as chapel two masters' bedrooms. The inhabitants for that embassy, though the fathers are of the country, looking at the place from still Italians. The Observants, also known the outside, tell themselves that America as Padri di Terra Santa, preceded them by must be such a country as Belgium or a few years in Pera, where they acted as Bulgaria, whose ministers occupy similar chaplains for the Venetian Balio. Their houses. The chief advantage of the em hospice, marked by the cross of Jerusalem, bassy is the charming view it enjoys from is between Ste. Marie and the Austrian the back, over the Petits Champs des Morts to the Golden Horn and Stamboul. It is embassy. The first European ambassadors were only a matter of time, however, before the not many in number nor did they regularly Little Field of the Dead and the view will follow each other, and they were usually disappear behind bricks and mortar. The quartered in a khan detailed for that use in good old days are gone, when we can Stamboul, facing the Burnt Column. The do like Sir Stratford Canning, afterward Venetian Balio, who had been a sort of vice Lord Stratford de Redcliffe—who did pret roy in Byzantine days, had a residence of ty much as he chose in Turkey not quite a his own. The French, however, set up a hundred years ago. His embassy, though country-seat at The Vineyards as early as not the one where Lady Mary Montague the time of Henri IV. And during the wrote her lively letters, was situated on the reign of Ibrahim I (1640-49), who in his same street as ours, with its back on the rage at the Venetians over the Cretan war same cemetery. Deciding that his grounds

O f this bridge one could make a chapter by itself. . . . It is no longer what it was. . . . But the crowd that streams across it is as heterogeneous as ever.—Page 755.

were too small, and assuring himself, no doubt, of acquiescence in high quarters, he annexed a goodly portion of that cemetery to the British empire, digging his trenches and starting his wall in a night in order to con found pious objectors by the fait accompli. The town that grew up around these embassies is one of the most extraordinary towns in creation. First composed of Galatiotes and a few Turks, who followed their several protectors into the wilderness, it has continued ever since to receive ac cretions from the various nationalities of Europe and Turkey until it has become a perfect Babel, faintly Italian in appear ance but no more Italian than Turkish, no more Turkish than Greek, no more Greek than anything else you please. Five larger worlds and nobody knows how many lesser ones live there, inextricably intermingled yet somehow remaining miraculously dis tinct. There is, to be sure, a considerable body of Levantines, of those, namely, who have mixed; but even they are a peculiar people. The fact gives Pera society, so far as it exists, a bewildering hydra-headedness. The court is not the centre of things in

the sense that European courts are. The palace ladies do not receive men, while in other ways there are profound causes of separation between the ruling race and the numerous non-Moslem elements of the empire. By the very constitution of the country the Armenians, the Greeks, the He brews, and the smaller fractions of the pop ulation form communities apart. Even the surprisingly large European colony has historic reasons for tending to divide into so many "nations." These have little in com mon, save for the ubiquitous adventurer, with the foreign colonies of Paris, Rome, or Berlin. Not students and people of leisure but merchants and missionaries make up the better part of the family that each em bassy presides over in a sense unknown in Western cities. The days are gone by when the protection of the embassies has the literal meaning that once attached to many a garden wall. But the ambassadors cling —not always with dignity—to the privileges and exemptions granted them by early trea ties, and through the quarter which grew up around their gates the Sultan himself passes almost as a foreigner. 751

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This diversity of traditions and interests has, of course, influenced the development of Pera. Not the least remarkable feat ure of this remarkable town is its lack of al most every modern convenience. Though a generation before New York thought of a subway Pera had one—a mile long. It has no electric lights, no trolley cars, no telephones. Abdul Hamid objected on principle to those modernities, it is true, and always suspected that a dynamo had something to do with dynamite. I should not suppose that there are fifteen lifts in the place. There are no boulevards, no race courses, no parks other than two dusty little municipal gardens laid out in old ceme teries and the inaccessible grounds of Y i l diz, which are closed in summer. Pictures, libraries, collections ancient or modern, there are none. I had almost said there is neither music nor drama. There are, to be sure, a few modest places of assembly where an intelligent Turkish actor is trying to start a national theatre, where excellent companies from Athens may be heard, and where Bernhardt or Rejane occasionally give half a dozen performances. On these boards you may oftener behold a peripatetic Aida welcome Rhadames and a conquering host of five Greek supers; but Brunnhilde and the Rhine maidens have yet to see the Bosphorus. Not so, however, a translated " Tante de Charles." The Merry Widow tried to make her debut a winter or two ago, but met with an unexpected rebuff. Every Perote who respects himself has a big Croat or Montenegrin, who are the same rose under different names, to decorate his front door with a display of hanging sleeves and gold embroidery. It having been whispered among these magnificent creatures that the " Lustige Witwe " was a slander on the principality—as it was then—of Nicholas I, they assembled in force in the gallery of the theatre and proceeded to bombard the stage with chairs and other detachable objects until the company withdrew the piece. Hence it is that Pera is sniffed at by those who should know her best, while the far riers for a night console themselves with imagining that there is nothing to see. I have never been able to understand why it should be thought necessary nowadays for one town to be exactly like another. I therefore applaud Pera for having the

originality to be herself. In despite, more over, of the general contempt for her want of intellectual resources, I submit that mere ly to live in Pera is better than many uni versities. N o one can hope to entertain relations with the good people of that mu nicipality without speaking at least one lan guage besides his own. It is by no means uncommon for a Perote to have five or six at his tongue's end. Turkish and French are the official languages, but Greek is more common in Pera and Galata proper, while you must have acquaintance with two or three alphabets more if you wish to read the daily papers or the signs in the streets. And then there remain an indeter minate number of dialects used by large bodies of citizens. A town so varied in its discourse is not less liberal in other particulars. Pera ob serves three holy days: Friday for the Turks, Saturday for the Jews, Sunday for the Chris tians. How many holidays she keeps I would be afraid to guess. She follows four separate calendars. Two of these, the Jul ian and the Gregorian, followed by East ern and Western Christians respectively, are practically identical save that they are thirteen days apart. There are, however, three Christmases in Pera, because the Ar menians celebrate Epiphany (Old Style), and sometimes only one Easter. As for the Turks, they have adopted for certain official purposes an adaptation of the Julian calendar; but their religious observances are determined by the inconstant moon and fall eleven days earlier every year. Their years begin from the Hegira. The Jews also follow a lunar calendar, not quite the same, which is supposed to start from the creation of the world. Thus the Christian year i o n is 1329 for the Mohammedans and 5671 for the Jews. There are also two ways of counting the hours of Pera, the most popular one considering twelve o'clock to fall at sunset. Watches partial to this ancient mode of keeping time therefore lose or gain a minute or two a day. These in dependences cause less confusion than might be supposed. They interfere very little, un less with the happiness of employers. But where the liberty of Pera runs to license is in the matter of post-offices. Of these there are no less than seven. The six powers of Europe have an unworthy right to maintain post-offices of their own, which they exercise

The Magnificent Community to the general grief. For they do not de liver letters, and to be certain of getting all your mail—there is not too much certainty even then—you have to go or send every day to every one of those six post-offices.

753

cart or a sedan-chair, and where pedes trians are stopped by an Anatolian peasant carrying a piano on his back, by a flock of sheep pattering between two gaunt Alba nians, or by a troop of firemen hooting half-

C a i q u e station on the G o l d e n H o r n .

For those branches of learning of which naked through the street with a gaudy little Pera is so superior a mistress, an inimitable hand-pump on their shoulders. But few hall of study is her much-scoffed Grande Grandes Rues are so full of contrasts more Rue. It begins under another name in profound. They unconsciously teach tol Galata, in a long flight of steps from which erance to a watcher of them, if they do not you see a blue slice of the harbor neatly sur suggest disconcerting questions. I do not mounted by the four minarets of St. So suppose that a procession moving with phia. It mounts through a commerce of crosses and banners has ever encountered stalls and small shops, gaining in decorum that strange pageant of camels and swordas it rises in altitude, reaches its climax of play that gives the Sacred Caravan god importance in the vicinity of Galata Serai, speed to Mecca. There are nights, though, and keeping ever to the crest of the hill that are noisy with the selling of candles for passes out into the country like another midnight mass and with the wakeful drums Broadway between apartment houses and of Ramazan. There is also New Year's vacant lots. Other Grandes Rues are eve, when Greek boys go about with lights broader, give access to larger and finer in cages—in pursuance of what ancient shops, are adorned by more splendid or superstition I have never known. And more historic architecture. Some Grandes there are festal days like Bai'ram, beloved Rues are more bizarre and sketchable. Not of Turkish children; like Easter Monday, that this one is barren of possibilities—• when the open places about the Taxim where a motor-car will turn out for an ox- are full of dancing and drumming; like

754


the Feast of Tabernacles, solemnized under cut boughs on high balconies; and the day in May when Christians and Mohamme dans alike, filling the valleys of Beshiktash and the meadows of Kiat Haneh with the sound of pipes and the smell of roast lamb,

lata is the Bowery. It runs along the curve of the shore from Azap Kapou, at the inner bridge, to the outer bridge and the Bosphorus. The purlieus of this street are inhabited, says M r . Murray's guide-book, by the most depraved population in Eu-

T h a t anchored armada that is incredibly c r o w d e d i n winter. — P a g e 755.

celebrate under different names the antique festival of the return of the sun. There are other streets in Pera, and streets that are visibly as well as philosoph ically picturesque. They are likeliest to be in the Turkish quarters, which contain al most all that Pera and Galata may boast of architectural charm. The old Turkish houses are always simple and dignified, while some of the drinking fountains scat tered all over the city by imperial and pri vate generosity are extremely beautiful. The saka, the carrier of water from these fountains, with his dripping goat-skin, or more often in these degenerate days with his kerosene tin, is still a familiar figure. But for the sketchable, for the pre-eminent ly etchable, Galata is the place—humble, despised, dirty, abandoned Galata, with its outlying suburbs. If the Grande Rue de Pera is Broadway, the main street of Ga-

rope. Of depravity I am not connoisseur enough to pass judgment on this dictum. I can only say that if the Galatiotes are the worst people in Europe the world is not in so parlous a state as some persons have feared. I presume it must be to the regions called Kemer Alti—Under the Arch—lying between Step Street and the pious walls of St. Benoit, that the critic refers. Here the primrose path of Galata winds among dark and dismal alleys, Neapolitan save for the fezes, the odor of mastic, and the jingling lanterna, the beloved hand-piano of Galata. Yet even here naivete would be a truer word than depravity. Among primrose paths this is at once the least disguised and the least seductive—except for its ingenuous openness—which I have happened to tread. There is so little mystery about it, its fan tastic inhabitants make so little attempt to conceal their numerous disadvantages, that

The Magnificent Community no Ulysses should be compelled to stop his ears against such sirens. But Galata is by no means all primrose path. Other, more laborious paths abound there, of drudgery manifold, but chiefly of those who go down to the sea in ships. And is there not the famous path that crosses the Golden Horn? Of this bridge one could make a chapter by itself, if De Amicis had not done so already. It is no longer what it was, though, in the day of De Amicis, when it was commanded like a ship by a captain and crew, and when its tolls went into the ingenious pockets of the minister of marine. The dogs, the beggars, the shops that adorned it then are gone. The bridge itself is presently to go, to make way for a bigger one made in Germany. But the crowd that streams across it is as hetero geneous as ever. If it is somewhat less gayly colored it has merely followed the same law as the modern stage and the mod ern novel, being less striking in incident than in implication. And the view is al ways there—of the windy blue harbor and the superb silhouette of Stamboul. The tangle of narrow streets between the " Bowery " and the water is given up almost entirely to sailors and watermen, their lodg ing, their outfitting, and their amusement. Between Top Haneh and the bridge a mod ern quay stretches, where all the flags of Europe fly. This is the quarter of custom and warehouses, of international coffeeshops, and of many a device for parting the sailor and his money. But its latter-day activities are given a local color by the variety of languages and costumes swarm ing here. The swarthy longshoremen, es pecially those who stagger through the streets in pairs carrying bales slung from long poles, are Kourds. Wolves, that is; and wolves these half-tamed tribesmen from the borders of Persia used to be whenever Abdul Hamid needed any killing. The true Galata, the Galata which the Genoese first walled in, lies between the two bridges. How can I have wasted so many pages over Latin monks and hum drum Pera, when so many perfections are here? The Grande Rue is as nothing to the purlieus of Pershembeh Bazaar, which

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you may know by the prodigious wistaria making an arbor of the street. Pershem beh Bazaar means Thursday Market, and Thursday is the day to come here. Then awnings shade the little streets around Arab Jami, then venders of dreadful Manchester prints, of astonishing foot-wear, of sweets, of perfumes, of variegated girdles, leave no more than a narrow lane, and then is there infinite bargaining from sunrise to sunset. The next morning there will be not a sign of all this commerce. It has gone elsewhere —to be precise, to Kassim Pasha; for these merchants have a market for every day in the week. On Tuesdays you will find them at Top Haneh. If the Thursday Market goes, the rest of Galata remains, and the best of it: the alleys of jutting upper stories that know so well the value of a grape-vine, the quaint shops and coffee-houses, the cavernous bakeries, the place of broken lights where the oarmakers ply the local variation of their trade, the ferries and caique stations along the water-front. The boatmen of the inner harbor are another tribe by themselves, coming from Trebizond and the country of the Laz. Another picturesque spot on the water-front is the crazy floating wharf where the Greek sail-boats that bring oil and wine from the Marmora and the AEgean make a bobbing street. But best of all, su preme among the resources of Galata, is the nobler mass of shipping which is so striking a detail of the view from the bridge. A few steamers are in that anchored ar mada that is incredibly crowded in winter. But most of them are sailing-vessels that look as if they too had come down from me diaeval times. There are heaven-piercing prows, there are poops of fantastic carv ing, there are systems of rigging that could scarcely serve an end other than to compose the most decorative lattice-work through which to look at the somewhat bald outline of Galata—and all waiting to make the fortune of the man who will etch them. Where were M r . Murray's eyes when he came to the Golden Horn? Surely he would have forgiven Galata if he had taken in the virtue of her contribution to the pictorial.

T H E CUSTOM OF T H E COUNTRY BY E D I T H BOOK

XXI THEspring in New York pro ceeded through more than its usual alternating ex tremes of temperature to the threshold of a sultry June. • Ralph Marvell, wearily bent to his task, felt the fantastic humours of the weather as only one more incohe rence in the general chaos of his case. It was strange enough, after four years of marriage, to find himself again in his old brown room in Washington Square. It was hardly there that he had expected Pegasus to land him; and, like a man re turning to the scenes of his childhood, he found everything on a much smaller scale than he had imagined. Had the Dagonet boundaries really narrowed, or had the breach in the walls of his own life let in a wider vision? Certainly there had come to be other differences between his present and his former self than that embodied in the pres ence of little Paul in the next room. Paul, in fact, was now the chief link between Ralph and his past. Concerning his son he still felt and thought, in a general way, in the terms of the Dagonet tradition; he still wanted to implant in Paul some of the reserves and discriminations which divided that tradition from the new spirit of limitless concession. For himself it was different. Since his transaction with Moffatt he had had the sense of living under a new dispensation. He was not sure that it was any worse than the other; but then he was no longer very sure about anything. Perhaps this growing indifference was merely the reac tion from a long nervous strain: that his mother and sister thought it so was shown by the way in which they mutely watched and hovered. Their discretion was like the hushed tread about a sick-bed. They permitted themselves no criticism of Un dine ; he was asked no awkward questions, subjected to no ill-timed sympathy. They 756

WHARTON III

simply took him back, on his own terms, into the life he had left them to; and their silence was free from those subtle impli cations of disapproval which may be so much more vexing than speech. For a while he had a weekly letter from Undine. These missives, vague and disap pointing though they were, helped him through the days; but it was rather as a pretext for replies than for their actual contents that he looked forward to them. Undine was never at a loss for the spoken word: Ralph had often wondered at her verbal range and her fluent use of terms outside the current vocabulary. She had certainly not picked these up in books, since she never opened one: they seemed rather like some odd transmission of her preaching grandparent's oratory. But in her brief and colourless letters the same bald statements were reiterated in the same few terms. She was well, she had been "round" with Bertha Shallum, she had dined with the Jim Driscolls or May Beringer or Dicky Bowles, the weather was too lovely or too awful: such was the gist of her news. On the last page she hoped Paul was well and sent him a kiss; but she never made a suggestion concern ing his care or asked a question about his pursuits.- One could only infer that, know ing in what good hands he was, she judged such solicitude superfluous; and it was thus that Ralph put the matter to his mother. " Of course she's not worrying about the boy—why should she? She knows that with you and Laura he's as happy as a king." To which Mrs. Marvell would answer gravely: "When you write be sure to say I sha'n't put on his thinner flannels as long as this east wind lasts." As for her husband's welfare, Undine's sole allusion to it consisted in the invari able expression of the hope that he was getting along all right: the phrase was al ways the same, and Ralph learned to know just how far down the third page to look for it. In a postscript she sometimes

The Custom of the Country asked him to tell her mother about a new way of doing hair or cutting a skirt; and this was usually the most eloquent pas sage of the letter. What satisfaction he extracted from these communications he would have found it hard to say; yet when they did not come he missed them hardly less than if they had given him all he craved. Some times the mere act of holding the blue or mauve sheet and breathing its scent was like holding his wife's hand and being en veloped in her fresh young fragrance: the sentimental disappointment vanished in the penetrating physical sensation. In other moods it was enough to trace the letters of the first line and the last for the desert of perfunctory phrases between the two to vanish, leaving him only the vision of interlaced names, as of a mystic bond which her own hand had tied. Or else he saw her, closely, palpably before him, as she sat at her writing-table, frown ing, and a little flushed, her bent nape showing the light on her hair, her short lip pulled up by the effort of composition; and this vision had the violent reality, the haunting precision of dream-images on the verge of waking. A t other times, as he read her letter, he felt simply that at least in the moment of writing it she had been with him. But in one of the last she had said (to excuse a bad blot and an inco herent sentence): "Everybody's talking to me at once, and I don't know what I'm writing." That letter he had thrown into the fire. . . The letters, after the first few weeks, came less and less regularly: at the end of two months they ceased. Ralph had got into the habit of watching for them on the days when a foreign post was due, and as the weeks went by without a sign he be gan to invent excuses for leaving the office earlier and hurrying back to Washington Square to search the letter-box for a big tinted envelope with a straggling blotted superscription. Undine's departure had given him a momentary sense of libera tion: at that stage in their relations any change would have brought relief. But now that she was gone he knew she could never really go. His feeling for her had changed, but it still ruled his life. If he saw her in her weakness he felt her in her power: the power of youth and physical

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radiance that clung to his disenchanted memories as the scent she used clung to her letters. Looking back at their four years of marriage he began to ask himself if he had done all he could to draw her half-formed spirit from its sleep. H a d he not expected too much at first, and grown too indifferent in the sequel? After all, she was still in the toy age; and perhaps the very extravagance of his love had re tarded her growth, helped to imprison her in a little circle of frivolous illusions. But the last months had made a man of him, and when she came back he would know how to lift her to the height of his experi ence. So he would reason, day after day, as he hastened back to Washington Square; but when he opened the door, and his first glance at the hall table showed him there was no letter there, his illusions shrivelled down to their weak roots. She had not written: she did not mean to write. He and the boy were no longer a part of her life. When she came back everything would be as it had been before, with the dreary difference that she had tasted new pleasures and that their absence would take the savour from all he had to give her. Then the coming of another foreign mail would lift his hopes, and as he hur ried home he would imagine new reasons for expecting a letter. . . Week after week he swung between these extremes of hope and dejection, and at last, when the strain had become un bearable, he cabled to ask the cause of her silence. The answer ran: " Very well best love writing"; but the promised letter never came. . . He went on steadily with his work: he even passed through a phase of exagger ated energy. But his baffled youth fought in him for air. Was this to be the end of all his visions? Was he to wear his life out in purposeless drudgery? The plain prose of it, of course, was that the eco nomic situation remained unchanged by the sentimental catastrophe and that he must go on working for his wife and child. But at any rate, as it was mainly for Paul that he would henceforth work, it should be on his own terms and according to his inherited notions of "straightness." He would never again engage in any transac tion resembling his compact with Moffatt.

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The Custom of the Country

Even now he was not sure that there had been anything crooked in that; but the fact of his having instinctively referred the point to M r . Spragg rather than to his grandfather implied a presumption against it. His partners were quick to profit by his sudden spurt of energy, and his work grew no lighter. He was not only the youngest and most recent member of the firm but the one who had so far added least to the volume of its business. He knew that his partners were making him pay for this and that for the time he must take his place as the office drudge. His hours were the longest, his absences, as summer ap proached, the least frequent and the most grudgingly accorded. No doubt his as sociates knew that he was pressed for money and could not risk a break. They "worked" him, and he was aware of it, and submitted because he dared not lose his job. But the long hours of mechanical drudgery were telling on his active body and undisciplined nerves. He had begun too late to subject himself to the persist ent mortification of spirit and flesh which is a condition of the average business life; and after the long dull days in the office the evenings at his grandfather's whisttable did not give him the counter-stim ulus he needed. Almost every one had left town; but now and then Miss Ray came in to dine, and Ralph, seated beneath the family por traits and opposite the desiccated Harriet, who had already faded to the semblance of one of her own great-aunts, listened languidly to the kind of talk that the orig inals might have exchanged about the same table when New York gentility cen tred in the Battery and the Bowling Green. M r . Dagonet was always pleasant to see and hear, but his sarcasms were growing faint and recondite: they had as little bearing on life as the humours of a Restoration comedy. As for Mrs. Marvell and Miss Ray, they seemed to the young man even more spectrally remote: hardly anything that mattered to him existed for them, and their prejudices re minded him of sign-posts warning off tres passers who have long since ceased to in trude. Now and then'he dined at his club and went on to the theatre with some young

men of his own age; but he left them after ward, half vexed with himself for not be ing in the humour to prolong the advent ure. There were moments when he would have liked to affirm his freedom in however commonplace a way: moments when the vulgarest way would have seemed the most satisfying. But he always ended by walk ing home alone, and tip-toeing upstairs through the sleeping house lest he should wake his boy. . . On Saturday afternoons, when the busi ness world was hurrying to the country for golf and tennis, he stayed in town and took Paul to see his maternal grandparents. Several times since his wife's departure he had tried to bring about closer relations between his own family and Undine's; and the ladies of Washington Square, in their eagerness to meet his wishes, had made various tentative advances to Mrs. Spragg. But they were met by a mute resistance which made Ralph suspect that Undine's frequent strictures on his family had lingered in her mother's brooding mind; and he gave up the struggle to bring together what had been so effectu ally put asunder. If he regretted his lack of success it was chiefly because he was so sorry for the Spraggs. Soon after Undine's mar riage they had abandoned their polychrome suite at the Stentorian, and since then their restless peregrinations had carried them through half the hotels of the metrop olis. Undine, who had early discovered her mistake in thinking hotel life fashion able, had tried to persuade her parents to take a house of their own; but though they refrained from taxing her with incon sistency they did not act on her suggestion. Mrs. Spragg shrank from the thought of '' going back to house-keeping,'' and Ralph suspected that she depended on the tran sit from hotel to hotel as the one element of variety in her monotonous days. As for M r . Spragg, it was impossible to imag ine any one in whom the domestic senti ments were more completely unlocalized and disconnected from any fixed habits of life; and he was probably aware of his changes of abode chiefly as they obliged him to ascend from the Subway, or descend from the "Elevated," a few blocks higher up or lower down. Neither husband nor wife complained of

The Custom of the Country their frequent displacements, or assigned to them any cause save the vague one of "guessing they could do better"; but Ralph had already noticed that the de creasing luxury of their habitations syn chronized with Undine's growing demands for money. During the last few months they had transferred themselves to the "Malibran," a joyless structure resem bling a grain-elevator divided into cells, where dingy linoleum and lincrusta simu lated the stucco and marble of the Sten torian, and fagged business men and their families consumed the watery stews dis pensed by "coloured help" in the grey twilight of a basement dining-room. Mrs. Spragg had no sitting-room, and Paul and his father had to be received in one of the long public parlours, between ladies in the throes of correspondence and groups of listlessly conversing residents and callers. The Spraggs were intensely proud of their grandson, and Ralph perceived that they would have liked to see Paul charg ing uproariously from group to group and thrusting his bright curls and cherubic smile upon the general attention. The fact that the boy preferred to stand be tween his grandfather's knees and play with M r . Spragg's Masonic emblem, or dangle his legs from the arm of Mrs. Spragg's chair, seemed to his grandpar ents evidence of ill-health or undue repres sion, and he was subjected by Mrs. Spragg to searching enquiries as to how his food set, and whether he didn't think his pop per was too severe with him. A more em barrassing problem was raised by the "surprise" (in the shape of peanut candy or chocolate creams) which he was invited to hunt for in gran'ma's pockets, and which Ralph had to confiscate on the way home, lest the dietary rules of Washing ton Square should be too visibly infringed. Sometimes Ralph found Mrs. Heeny, ruddy and jovial, seated in the armchair opposite Mrs. Spragg, and regaling her friends with selections from her last batch of clippings. During Undine's illness of the previous winter Mrs. Heeny had be come a familiar figure to Paul, who had learned to expect almost as much from her bag as from his grandmother's pock ets; so that the intemperate. Saturdays at the Malibran were usually followed by

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languid and abstemious Sundays in Wash ington Square. Mrs. Heeny, unaware of this sequel to her bounties, formed the habit of appear ing regularly on Saturdays, and encourag ing the little boy to scatter the grimy carpet with face-creams and bunches of clippings in his thrilling quest for the sugar-plums at the bottom of her bag. " I declare, if he ain't in just as much of a hurry f'r everything as his mother!" she exclaimed one day in her rich rolling voice; and stooping to pick up a long strip of newspaper which Paul had flung aside she added, as she smoothed it out: " I guess 'I he was a little mite older he'd be better pleased with this 'n with the candy. It's the very thing I was trying to find for you the other day, Mrs. Spragg," she went on, holding the bit of paper at arm's length; and she began to read out, with a loudness proportioned to the distance between her eyes and the text: " W i t h two such sprinters as 'Pete' Van Degen and Dicky Bowles to set the pace, it's no wonder the New York set in Paris has struck a livelier gait than ever this spring. It's a high pressure season and no mistake, and no one lags behind less than the ever-bewitching Mrs. Ralph Marvell, who is to be seen daily and nightly in all the smartest restaurants and naughtiest theatres, with so many devoted swains in attendance that the rival beauties of both worlds are said to be making catty com ments. But then Mrs. Marvell's gowns are almost as good as her looks—and how can you expect the other women to stand for such a monopoly?" Ralph, to escape the strain of these vis its, finally tried the experiment of leaving Paul with his grandparents and returning to fetch him in the late afternoon; but one day on re-entering the hotel he was con fronted by a small abashed figure clad in a kaleidoscopic tartan and a green velvet cap clasped with a silver thistle. This expe rience of the "surprises" of which gran'ma was capable when she had a chance to take Paul shopping, showed Ralph the imprudence of abandoning his son, and their subsequent Saturday afternoons were passed together in the sultry gloom of the Malibran. Conversation with the Spraggs was al most impossible. Ralph could talk to M r .

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Spragg in his office, but in the hotel par lour he sat in a ruminating silence bro ken only by the emission of an occasional "Well—well" addressed to his grandson. As for Mrs. Spragg, her son-in-law could not remember having had a sustained con versation with her since the distant day when he had first called at the Stentorian, and had been "entertained," in Undine's absence, by her astonished mother. The shock of that encounter had moved Mrs. Spragg to eloquence; but Ralph's entrance into the family, without making him seem less of a stranger, seemed once for all to have relieved her of the obligation of find ing something to say to him. The one question she invariably asked: " You heard from Undie? " had been rela tively easy to answer while his wife's in frequent letters continued to arrive; but a Saturday came when he felt the blood rise to his temples as, for the fourth con secutive week, he stammered out, under the snapping eyes of Mrs. Heeny: " N o , not by this post either—I begin to think I must have lost a letter;" and it was then that M r . Spragg, who had sat silently looking up at the ceiling, cut short his wife's exclamation by an abrupt enquiry about real estate in the Bronx. After that, Ralph noticed, Mrs. Spragg never again renewed her enquiries; and he understood that his father-in-law had divined his em barrassment and wished to spare it. Ralph had never thought of looking for much delicacy of feeling under M r . Spragg's large lazy irony, and the incident drew the two men nearer together than they had ever been before. Mrs. Spragg, for her part, was certainly not delicate; but she was simple and without malice, and Ralph liked her for her silent accept ance of her diminished state. Sometimes, as he sat between the lonely primitive old couple, he wondered from what source Undine's voracious ambitions had been drawn: all she cared for, and attached im portance to, was as remote from her par ents' conception of life as her impatient greed from their passive stoicism. One hot afternoon toward the end of June Ralph suddenly wondered if Clare Van Degen were still in town. She had dined in Washington Square some ten days earlier, and he remembered her say

ing that she had sent the children down to Long Island, but that she herself meant to linger on till the heat grew unbearable. She hated her big showy place on Long Is land, she was tired of the spring trip to London and Paris, where one met at every turn the faces one had grown sick of seeing all winter, and she declared that in the early summer, New York was the only place in which one could escape from New Yorkers. . . She had put the case amus ingly, and it was like her to take up any at titude that went against the habits of her set. But she lived at the mercy of her moods, and one could never tell how long any one of them would rule her. As he sat in his office, with the noise and glare of the endless afternoon rising up in hot waves from the street, there wandered into Ralph's mind a vision of his cousin's cool shady drawing-room. A l l day it hung before him like the mirage of a spring before a dusty traveller: he felt a positive thirst for her presence, for the sound of her voice, the wide spaces and luxurious silences surrounding her. It was perhaps because, on that particu lar day, a spiral pain was twisting around in the back of his head, and digging in a little deeper with each twist, and because the figures on the balance sheet before him were hopping about like black imps in an infernal forward-and-back, that the pict ure hung there so persistently. It was a long time since he had wanted anything as much as, at that particular moment, he wanted to be with Clare and hear her voice; and as soon as he had ground out the day's measure of work he rang up the Van Degen palace and learned that she was still in town. The lowered awnings of the inner draw ing-room cast a luminous shadow on old cabinets and consoles, and on the pale flowers scattered here and there in vases of bronze and porcelain. Clare's taste was as capricious as her moods, and the rest of the house was not in harmony with this room. There was, in particular, another drawing-room, which she now described as Peter's creation, but which Ralph knew to be partly hers: a heavily tapestried apart ment, where Popple's portrait of her throned over a wilderness of gilt furniture. It was characteristic that to-day she had had Ralph shown in by another way; and

The Custom of the Country that as she had spared him the polyphonic drawing-room, so she had skilfully adapt ed her own appearance to her soberer back ground. She sat near the window, read ing, in a clear cool dress: and at his en trance she merely slipped a finger between the pages of her book and held out her hand to him. Her way of receiving him made him feel that her restlessness and stridency were as unlike her genuine self as the gilded draw ing-room, and that the quiet creature smiling up at him was the only real Clare, the Clare who had once so nearly been his, and who seemed to want him to know that she had never wholly been any one else's. "Why didn't you let me know you were still in town?" he asked, sitting down in the sofa-corner near her chair. Her dark smile deepened. " I hoped you'd come and see." "One never knows, with you." He was looking about the room with a kind of confused pleasure in its pale shad ows and spots of dark rich colour. The old lacquer screen behind her head looked like a lustreless black pool with gold leaves afloat on i t ; and another piece, a little table at her elbow, had the brown bloom and the pear-like curves of an old violin. " I like to be here," Ralph said. She did not make the mistake of answer ing: "Then why do you never come?" Instead, she turned away, and drew an inner curtain across the window to shut out the sunlight which was beginning to slant in under the awning. The mere fact of her not answering, and the final touch of well-being which her gesture gave, reminded him of other sum mer days they had spent together, long rambling boy-and-girl days in the hot woods and sunny fields, when they had never thought of talking to each other un less there was something they particularly wanted to say. The remembrance made his tired fancy stray off for a second to the thought of what it would have been like to come back, at the end of the day, to such a sweet community of silence. . • But his mind was too crowded with importunate facts for any lasting view of visionary dis tances. The thought faded, and he mere ly felt her nearness as a great rest. . . "I'm glad you stayed in town: you must let me come again," he said.

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" I suppose you can't always get away," she answered; and she began to listen, with grave intelligent eyes, to the account of his tedious toil. With her eyes on him he felt the sud den exquisite relief of talking about him self as he had not dared to talk to any one since his marriage. To Undine he would not for the world have confessed his dis couragement, his consciousness of incapac ity; and since his return to Washington Square he had been conscious that any hint of failure would have been taken as a tacit criticism of what his wife expected of him. But to Clare Van Degen he could cry out his present despondency and his loathing of the long task ahead. " A man doesn't know till he tries it how killing uncongenial work is, and how it de stroys the power of doing what one's fit for, even if there's time for both. But there's Paul to be looked out for, and I daren't chuck up my job—I'm in mortal terror of its chucking me. • . " Little by little he slipped into a detailed recital of all his lesser worries, the most recent of which was an annoying experi ence with the Lipscombs, who, after a two months' tenancy of the West E n d Avenue house, had decamped without paying their rent. Clare laughed contemptuously. " Y e s —I heard he'd come to grief and been sus pended from the Stock Exchange, and I see in the papers that his wife's retort has been to sue for a divorce." Ralph knew that, like all their clan, his cousin regarded a divorce-suit as a vulgar and unnecessary way of taking the public into one's confidence. His mind flashed back to Undine's first dinner in Washing ton Square: the family feast in celebration of their engagement. He recalled his grandfather's chance allusion to Mrs. Lipscomb, and Undine's startling answer, fluted out on her highest note: " O h , I guess she'll get a divorce pretty soon. He's been a disappointment to her." Ralph could still hear the horrified mur mur with which his mother had rebuked his laugh. For he had laughed—had thought Undine's speech fresh and natu ral! Now he felt the ironic rebound of her words. Heaven knew he had been a disappointment to her; and what was there in her own feeling, or in her in-

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herited prejudices, to prevent her seeking the same remedy as Mabel Lipscomb? He wondered if Clare were thinking of that too. . . They began to talk of other things: books, pictures, plays; and one by one the closed doors opened and light was let into dusty shuttered places. Clare's mind was neither keen nor deep: Ralph, in the past, had often smiled at her rash ardours and vague intensities. But she had his own range of allusions, and a great gift of momentary understanding; and he had so long beaten his thoughts out against a blank wall of incomprehension that her sympathy seemed full of insight. She began by a question about his writ ing, but the subject was distasteful to him, and he turned the talk to a new book in which he had been interested. She knew enough of it to slip in the right word; and thence they wandered on to kindred themes. Under the warmth of her atten tion his torpid ideas awoke again, and at the same time his eyes took their fill of pleasure as she leaned forward, her thin brown hands clasped on her knees and her eager face reflecting all his feelings. There was a moment when the two cur rents of sensation were merged in one, and he began to feel confusedly that he was young and she was kind, and that there was nothing he would like better than to go on sitting there, not much caring what she said or how he answered, if only she would let him look at her and give him one of her thin brown hands to hold. Then the corkscrew in the back of his head, which had temporarily suspended its operations, dug into him again with a deeper thrust, and she seemed suddenly to recede to a great distance and be divided from him by a fog of pain. The fog lifted after a minute, but it left him queerly remote from her, from the cool room with its scents and shadows, and from all the objects which, a moment before, had so keenly impinged upon his senses. It was as though he looked at it all through a rain-blurred pane, against which his hand would strike if he held it out to her. . . That impression passed also, and he found himself thinking how tired he was and how little anything mattered. He recalled the unfinished piece of work on

his desk, and for a moment had the odd illusion that it was there before him. . . She exclaimed: " B u t are you going?" and her exclamation made him aware that he had left his seat and was standing in front of her. . . He fancied there was some kind of an appeal in her brown eyes; but she was still so dim and far off that he couldn't be sure of what she wanted. . . The next moment he found himself shak ing hands with her, and heard her saying something kind and vague about its hav ing been so nice to see him. . . Half way up the stairs little Paul, shin ing and rosy from supper, lurked in am bush for his evening game. Ralph had a way of stooping down to let the boy climb up his outstretched arms to his shoulders. Today, as he did so, Paul's hug seemed to crush him in a vice, and the shout of wel come that accompanied it racked his ears like an explosion of steam-whistles. The queer distance between himself and the rest of the world was annihilated again; everything stared and glared and grabbed him. He tried to avert his face from the child's hot kisses; and as he turned his head away he caught sight of a letter among the hats and sticks on the hall table. In an instant he knew the mauve en velope and the sprawling superscription. He passed Paul over to his nurse, stam mered out a word about being tired, and sprang up the long flights to his study. The pain in his head had suddenly stopped, but his hands trembled as he tore open the envelope. Within it was a second letter bearing a French stamp and addressed to himself. It had the look of a business communication and had appar ently been sent to Undine's hotel in Paris and forwarded to him by her hand. " A n other b i l l ! " he reflected grimly, as he threw it aside and felt in the outer enve lope for her letter. There was nothing there, and after a first sharp pang of dis appointment he tore open the enclosure. Inside was a lithographed circular, head ed "Confidential" and bearing the Paris address of a firm of private detectives who undertook, in conditions of attested and inviolable discretion, to investigate "deli cate" situations, look up doubtful antece dents, and furnish reliable evidence of

The Custom of the Country misconduct—all on the most reasonable terms. For a long time Ralph sat and stared at this document; then he began to laugh and tossed it into the scrap-basket. After that, with a groan, he dropped his head against the edge of his writing table. XXII W H E N he woke, the first thing he re membered was the fact of having cried. He could not think how he had come to be such a fool. He hoped to heaven no one had seen him. He supposed he must have been worrying about the unfinished piece of work at the office: where was it, by the way, he wondered? Why—where he had left it the day before, of course! What a ridiculous thing to worry about— but it seemed to follow him like a dog. . . He said to himself that he must get up presently and go down to the office. Pres ently—when he could open his eyes. Just now there was a dead weight on them; he tried one after another in vain. The effort set him weakly trembling, and he wanted to cry again. Nonsense! He must get out of bed. He stretched his arms out, trying to reach something to pull himself up by; but everything slipped away and evaded him. It was like trying to catch at bright short waves. Then suddenly his fingers clasped themselves about something firm and warm. A hand: a hand that gave back his pressure! The relief was inexpressible. He lay still and let the hand hold him, while mentally he went through the mo tions of getting up and beginning to dress. So indistinct were the boundaries between thought and action that for a moment he really felt himself moving about the room, in a queer disembodied way, as one treads the air in sleep. Then he felt the bed clothes over him and the pillow beneath his head. " I must get up," he said, and pulled at the hand. It pressed him down again: down, down into a dim pool of sleep. He lay there for a long time, in a silent blackness far below light and sound; then he gradually floated up with the buoyancy of a dead body. But his body had never been more alive. Jagged strokes of pain tore through him,

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hands dragged at him, not pacifying but torturing, with nails that bit like teeth. They wound thongs about him, bound him, tied weights to him, tried to pull him down with them; but still he floated, float ed, danced on the fiery waves of pain, with barbed light pouring down on him from an arrowy sky. Charmed intervals of rest, blue sailings on melodious seas, alternated with the anguish. He became a leaf on the air, a feather on a current, a straw on the tide, the spray of the wave spinning itself to sunshine as the wave toppled over into gulfs of blue. . . He woke on a stony beach, his legs and arms still lashed to his sides and the thongs cutting into him; but the fierce sky was hidden now, and hidden by his own lan guid lids. He felt the ecstasy of decreas ing pain, and courage came to him to open his eyes and look about him. • . The beach was his own bed; the tem pered light lay on familiar things, and some one was moving about in a shadowy way between bed and window. He was thirsty, and some one gave him a drink. His pillow burned, and some one turned the cool side out. His brain was clear enough now for him to understand that he was ill, and to want to talk about it; but his tongue hung in his throat like a clapper in a bell. He must wait till the rope was pulled. . . So time and life stole back on him, and his thoughts laboured weakly with dim fears. Slowly he cleared a way through them, adjusted himself to his strange state, and found out that he was really in his own room, in his grandfather's house, that alternating with the white-capped faces about him were those of his mother and sister, and that in a few days—if he took his beef-tea and didn't fret—Paul would be brought up from Long Island, whither, on account of the great heat, he had been carried off by Clare Van Degen. No one named Undine to him, and he did not speak of her. But one day, as he lay in bed in the summer twilight, he had a vision of a moment, a long way behind him—at the beginning of his illness, it must have been—when he had called out for her in his anguish, and some one had said: "She's coming: she'll be here next week."

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Could it be that next week was not yet here? He supposed that illness robbed one of all sense of time, and he lay still, as if in ambush, watching his scattered memories come out one by one and join themselves together. If he watched long enough he was sure he should recognize one that fitted into his picture of the day when he had called for Undine. And at length a face came out of the twilight: a freckled face, benevolently bent over him under a starched cap. He had not seen the face for a long time, but suddenly it took shape before him and fitted itself into the picture. . . Laura Fairford sat near by, a book on her knee. A t the sound of his voice she looked up. " What was the name of the first nurse?" "The first ?" "The one that went away." "Oh—Miss Hicks, you mean?" "How long is it since she went?" "It must be three weeks. She had another case." He thought this over carefully; then he spoke again. " C a l l Undine." She made no answer, and he repeated irritably: ' W h y don't you call her? I want to speak to her." Mrs. Fairford laid down her book and came to him. "She's not here—just now." He dealt with this also, laboriously. " Y o u mean she's out—she's not in the house?" " I mean she hasn't come yet." As she spoke Ralph felt a sudden strength and hardness in his brain and body. E v erything in him became as clear as noon. " But it was before Miss Hicks left that you told me you'd sent for her, and that she'd be here the following week. And you say Miss Hicks has been gone three weeks." This was what he had worked out in his head, and what he meant to say to his sis ter; but something seemed to snap shut in his throat, and he closed his eyes without speaking. Even when M r . Spragg came to see him he said nothing. They talked about his illness, about the hot weather, about the rumours that Harmon B. Driscoll was again threatened with indictment; and then M r . Spragg pulled himself out of his

chair and said:" I presume you '11 call round at the office before you leave the city." "Oh, yes: as soon as I'm up," Ralph answered. They understood each other. Clare had urged him to come down to Long Island and complete his convales cence there, but he preferred to stay in Washington Square till he should be strong enough for the journey to the Adirondacks, whither Laura Fairford had already preceded him with Paul. He did not want to see any one but his mother and grand father till his legs could carry him to Mr. Spragg's office. It was an oppressive day in mid-August, with a yellow mist of heat in the sky, when at last he entered the big office-building. Swirls of dust lay on the mosaic floor, and a stale smell of decayed fruit and salt air and steaming asphalt filled the place like a fog. As he shot up in the elevator some one slapped him on the back, and turning he saw Elmer Moffatt at his side, smooth and rubicund under a new straw hat. Moffatt was loudly glad to see him. " I haven't laid eyes on you for months. At the old stand still?" " So am I," he added, as Ralph assented. "Hope to see you there again some day. Don't forget it's my turn this time: glad if I can be any use to you. So long." Ralph's weak bones ached under his hand shake. "How's Mrs. Marvell?" he turned back from his landing to call out; and Ralph answered: -"Thanks; she's very well." M r . Spragg sat alone in his murky inner office, the fly-blown engraving of Daniel Webster above his head and the congested scrap-basket beneath his feet. He looked stale and fagged and sallow, like the day. Ralph sat down on the other side of the desk. For a moment his throat contract ed as it had when he had tried to ques tion his sister; then he asked abruptly: "Where's Undine?" M r . Spragg glanced at the calendar that hung from a hat-peg on the door. Then he released the Masonic emblem from his grasp, drew out his watch and consulted it critically. "If the train's on time I presume she's somewhere between Chicago and Omaha round about now." Ralph stared at him, wondering if the heat had gone to his head.

The Custom of the Country " I don't understand you." "The Twentieth Century's generally considered the best route to Dakota," explained M r . Spragg, who pronounced the word rowt. " D o you mean to say Undine's in the United States?" Mr. Spragg's lower lip groped for the phantom toothpick. " W h y , let me see: hasn't Dakota been a state a year or two now?" "Oh,God—" Ralph cried, pushing his chair back violently and striding across the narrow room. As he turned back, M r . Spragg stood up and advanced a few steps. He had given up the quest for the tooth-pick, and his drawn-in lips were no more than a narrow depression in his drooping beard. He stood before Ralph, absently shaking the loose change in his trouser-pockets. Ralph felt the same hardness and lucid ity that had come to him when he had heard his sister's answer. "She's gone, you mean? Left me? With another man?" Mr. Spragg drew himself up with a kind of slouching majesty. " M y daughter is not that style. I understand Undine thinks there have been mistakes on both sides. She considers the tie was formed too hastily. I believe desertion is the usual plea in such cases." Ralph stared about him, hardly listen ing. He did not resent his father-in-law's tone. In a dim way he guessed that M r . Spragg was suffering hardly less than him self. But nothing was clear to him save' the monstrous fact suddenly upheaved in his path. His wife had left him, and the plan for her evasion had been made and executed while he lay helpless: she had seized the opportunity of his illness to keep him in ignorance of her design. The humour of it suddenly struck him and he laughed. " Do you mean to tell me that Undine's divorcing me?" " I presume that's her plan," M r . Spragg admitted. - " F o r desertion?" Ralph pursued, still laughing. His father-in-law hesitated a moment; then he answered: "You've always done all you could for my daughter. There wasn't any other plea she could think of.

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She presumed this would be the most agreeable to your family." "It was good of her to think of that!" M r . Spragg's only comment was a sigh. "Does she imagine I won't fight i t ? " Ralph broke out with sudden passion. His father-in-law looked at him thought fully. " I presume you realize it ain't easy to change Undine, once she's set on a thing." "Perhaps not. But if she really means to apply for a divorce I can make it a lit tle less easy for her to get." "That's so," M r . Spragg conceded. He turned back to his revolving chair, and seating himself in it began to drum on the desk with cigar-stained fingers. " A n d by God, I w i l l ! " Ralph thun dered. Anger was the only emotion in him now. He had been fooled, cheated, made a mock of; but the score was not settled yet. He turned back and stood before M r . Spragg. " I suppose she's gone with Van Degen?" " M y daughter's gone alone, sir. I saw her off at the station. I understood she was to join a lady friend." At every point Ralph felt his hold slip off the surface of his father-in-law's im pervious fatalism. "Does she suppose that Van Degen's going to marry her?" "Undine didn't mention her future plans to me." After a moment M r . Spragg appended: " I f she had, I should have de clined to discuss them with her." Ralph looked at him curiously, perceiv ing that he intended in this negative way to imply his disapproval of his daughter's course. " I shall fight it—I shall fight i t ! " the young man cried again. " Y o u may tell her I shall fight it to the end!" M r . Spragg pressed the nib of his pen against the dust-coated inkstand. " I pre sume you would have to engage a lawyer. She'll know it that way," he remarked. "She'll know it—you may count on that!" Ralph had begun to laugh again. Sud denly he heard his own laugh and it pulled him up short. What was he laughing about? What was he talking about? The thing was to act—to hold his tongue and act. There was no use uttering windy threats to this broken-spirited old man.

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A fury of action burned in Ralph, pouring light into his head and strength into his muscles. He caught up his hat and turned to the door. As he opened it M r . Spragg rose again and came forward with his slow shambling step. He laid his hand on Ralph's arm. " I ' d 'a' given anything—anything short of my girl herself—not to have this hap pen to you, Ralph Marvell." "Thank you, sir," said Ralph. They looked at each other for a moment, then Mr. Spragg added: " B u t it has hap pened, you know. Bear that in mind. Nothing you can do will change it. Time and again, I've found that a good thing to remember." XXIII I N the Adirondacks Ralph Marvell sat day after day on the balcony of his little house above the lake, staring at the great white cloud-reflections in the water and at the dark line of trees that closed them in. Now and then he got into the canoe and paddled himself through a winding chain of ponds to some lonely clearing in the for est; and there he lay on his back in the pine-needles and watched the great clouds form and dissolve themselves above his head. A l l his past life seemed to be symbolized by the building-up and breaking-down of these fluctuating shapes, which incalcula ble wind-currents perpetually shifted and remodelled or swept from the zenith like a pinch of dust. His sister told him that he looked well —better than he had in years; and there were moments when his listlessness, his stony insensibility to the small pricks and frictions of daily life, might have passed for the serenity of recovered health. There was no one with whom he could speak of Undine. His family had en veloped the whole subject in a pall of si lence which even Laura Fairford shrank from raising. As for his mother, Ralph had seen at once that the idea of talking over the situation was positively frighten ing to her. There was no provision for such emergencies in the moral order of Washington Square. The affair was a "scandal," and it was not in the Dagonet tradition to acknowledge the existence of

scandals. Ralph recalled a dim legend of his childhood, the tale of a misguided friend of his mother's who had left her husband for a more congenial companion, and who, years later, returning ill and friendless to New York, had appealed for sympathy to Mrs. Marvell. The latter had not refused to give it; but she had put on black cashmere and two veils when she went to see her unhappy friend, and had never mentioned these errands of mercy to her husband. Ralph suspected that the constraint shown by his mother and sister was partly due to their having but a dim and con fused view of what had happened. In their vocabulary the word "divorce" was wrapped in such a dark veil of innuendo as no ladylike hand would care to lift. They had not reached the point of differ entiating divorces, but classed them indistinctively as disgraceful incidents, in which the woman was inevitably to blame, but the man, though her innocent victim, was yet somehow vaguely contaminated. The time involved in the "proceedings" was viewed as a penitential season during which it behoved the family of the per sons implicated to behave as if they were dead; yet any open allusion to the reason of the motive for adopting such an atti tude would have been regarded as the height of indelicacy. M r . Dagonet's notion of the case was al most as remote from reality. A l l he asked was that his grandson should "thrash" somebody, and he could not be made to understand that the modern drama of divorce is sometimes cast without a Love lace. " Y o u might as well tell me there was nobody but Adam in the garden when Eve picked the apple. You say your wife was discontented? N o woman ever knows she's discontented till some man tells her so. M y God! I've seen smash-ups be fore now; but I never yet saw a marriage dissolved like a business partnership. Di vorce without a lover? Why, it's—it's as unnatural as getting drunk on lemonade." After this first explosion M r . Dagonet also became silent; and Ralph perceived that what annoyed him most was the fact of the "scandal's" not being one in any gentlemanly sense of the word. It was like some nasty business mess, about which

The Custom of the Country Mr. Dagonet couldn't pretend to have an opinion, since such things didn't happen to men of his kind. That such a thing should have happened to his only grand son was probably the bitterest experience of his pleasantly uneventful life; and it added an ironic touch to Ralph's unhappiness to know how little, in the whole af fair, he was cutting the figure M r . Dago net expected him to cut. At first he had chafed under the taci turnity surrounding him: had passionate ly longed to cry out his humiliation, his rebellion, his despair. Then he began to feel the tonic effect of silence; and the next stage was reached when it became clear to him that there was really nothing to say. There were thoughts and thoughts: they bubbled up perpetually from the black springs of his hidden misery, they stole on him in the darkness of night, they blotted out the light of day; but when it came to putting them into words and applying them to the external facts of the case, they seemed totally unrelated to it. Once more white and sun-touched glory had gone from his sky; but there seemed no way of connecting that with such practical issues as his being called on to decide whether Paul was to be put into knickerbockers or trousers, and whether he should go back to Washington Square for the winter or hire a small house for himself and his son. The latter question was ultimately de cided by his remaining under his grand father's roof. November found him back in the office again, in fairly good health, with an outer skin of indifference slowly forming over his lacerated soul. There had been a hard minute to live through when he came back to his old brown room in Washington Square. The walls and tables were covered with photographs of Undine: effigies of all shapes and sizes, expressing every possible sentiment dear to the photographic tradition. Ralph had gathered them all up when he had moved from West E n d Avenue after her departure for Europe, and they throned over all his other possessions as her image had throned over his future the night he had sat in that very room and had a vision of soaring up with her into the blue. . . It was impossible to go on living with her photographs about him; and one evening, going up to his room after dinner,

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he suddenly began to unhang them from the walls, and to gather them up from book-shelves and mantel-piece and tables. Then he looked about for some place in which to bury them. There were drawers under his book-cases; but they were full of old discarded things—college text-books, paint-boxes, broken pipes, foolish super fluities in morocco and metal—and even if he emptied the drawers, the photographs, in their heavy frames, were almost all too large to fit into them. He turned next to the top shelf of his cupboard; but here the nurse had stored Paul's old toys, his sandpails, shovels, and croquet-box. Every corner was packed with the vain impedi menta of living, and the mere thought of clearing a space in the chaos was too great an effort. He began to replace the pictures one by one; and the last was still in his hand when he heard his sister's voice outside. He hurriedly put the portrait back in its usual place on his writing-table, and Mrs. Fair ford, who had been dining in Washington Square, and had come up to bid him good night, flung her arms about him in a quick embrace and went dowm to her car riage. The next afternoon, when he came home from the office, he did not at first notice any change in his room; but presently, when he had lit his pipe and thrown him self into his arm-chair, he became aware that the photograph of his wife's picture by Popple no longer faced him from the mantel-piece. He turned to his writingtable and saw that her image had van ished from there too; then his eye, making the circuit of the walls, perceived that they also had been stripped. Not a single photograph of Undine was left; yet so adroitly had the work of elimination been done, so skilfully the remaining objects readjusted, that no want of symmetry in the disposal of the various objects about the room attracted attention to the change. Ralph was angry, sore, ashamed. He felt as if Laura, whose hand he instantly detected, had taken a cruel pleasure in her work, and for an instant he hated her for it. Then a sense of relief stole over him. He was glad he could look about him with out meeting Undine's eyes. What had been done to his room he must do to his memory and his imagination: he must so

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readjust his mind that, whichever way he turned his thoughts, her face should no longer confront him. But that was a task that Laura could not perform for him, a task to be accomplished only by the hard continuous tension of his will. With the setting in of the mood of si lence all desire to fight his wife's suit died out. The idea of touching publicly on anything that had passed between himself and Undine had become unimaginable to him. Insensibly he had been subdued to the point of view about him, and the pos sibility of calling on the law to repair his shattered happiness struck him as even more grotesque than it was degrading. Nevertheless, some contradictory impulse of his divided and tormented spirit made him resent, on the part of his mother and sister, a too-ready acceptance of his at titude. There were moments when any assumption on their part that his wife was banished and forgotten exasperated him like the hushed tread of sympathizers about the bed of an invalid who will not admit that he suffers. This irritation was aggravated by the discovery that Mrs. Marvell and Laura had already begun to treat Paul as if he were an orphan. One day, coming unperceived into the nursery, Ralph heard the boy ask when his mother was coming back; and Mrs. Fairford, who was with him, answered: "She's not coming back, dear est; and you're not to speak of her to father." Ralph, when the boy was out of hear ing, rebuked his sister for her answer. " I don't want you to talk of his mother as if she were dead. I don't want you to for bid Paul to speak of her." Laura, usually so yielding, on this oc casion defended herself. " What's the use of encouraging him to speak of her when he's never to see her? The sooner he for gets her the better." Ralph pondered. "Later—if she asks to see him—I sha'n't refuse." Mrs. Fairford pressed her lips together to check the answer: "She never w i l l ! " Ralph heard it, nevertheless, and let it pass. Nothing gave him so profound a sense of estrangement from his former life as the conviction that his sister was prob ably right. He did not really believe that Undine would ever ask to see her boy; but

if she did he was determined not to refuse her request. Time wore on, the Christmas holidays came and went, and the long winter con tinued to grind out the weary measure of its days. Toward the end of January Ralph received a registered letter, ad dressed to him at his office, and bearing in the corner of the envelope the names of a firm of Sioux Falls attorneys. He in stantly divined that it contained the legal notification of his wife's application for divorce, and as he wrote his name in the postman's book he smiled grimly at the thought that the stroke of his pen was probably signing her release. He opened the letter, found it to be what he had ex pected, and locked it into his desk without mentioning the matter to any one. He supposed that with the putting away of this document notice he was thrusting the whole subject out of sight; but not more than a fortnight later, as he sat in the Subway on his way down town, his eye was caught by his own name on the first page of the heavily head-lined paper which the unshaved occupant of the next seat held between his grimy fists. The blood rushed to Ralph's forehead as he looked over the man's arm and read: "Society Leader Gets Decree," and beneath it the subordinate clause: "Says Husband Too Absorbed In Business To Make Home Happy." For weeks afterward, wherever he went, he felt that crimson blush upon his forehead. For the first time in his life the coarse fingering of public curiosity had touched the secret places of his soul, and nothing that had gone before seemed so humiliating as this trivial comment on his tragedy. The paragraph continued on its way through the press, and for weeks, whenever he took up a newspaper, he seemed to come upon it, slightly modi fied, variously developed, but always re verting with a kind of unctuous irony to his financial preoccupations and his wife's consequent loneliness. The phrase was even taken up by the paragraph writer, called forth excited letters from similar ly situated victims, was commented on in humorous editorials and became the text of pulpit denunciations of the growing craze for wealth; and finally, at his dentist's, Ralph came across it in a Family Weekly,

The Custom of the Country as one of the "Heart-problems' 'propound ed to subscribers, with a Gramophone, a Straight-front Corset and a Vanity-box among the prizes offered for its solution.

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that Undine had so sedulously learned not to be and to do; but to dwell on these ob stacles to her success was but to be more deeply impressed by the fact that she had nevertheless succeeded. Not much more than a year had elapsed X X I V since Undine Marvell, sitting in the draw " I F you'd only had the sense to come ing-room of another Parisian hotel, had straight to me, Undine Spragg! There heard the immense orchestral murmur of isn't a tip I couldn't have given you—not Paris rise through the open windows like one!" the ascending movement of her own hopes. This speech, in which a faintly con The immense murmur still sounded on, temptuous compassion for her friend's deafening and implacable as some ele case was blent with the frankest pride in mental force; and the discord in her fate her own, probably represented the nearest no more disturbed it than the motor wheels approach to " tact" that Mrs. James J . Rol- rolling by under the windows were dis liver had yet acquired. Undine was im turbed by the particles of dust that they partial enough to note in it a distinct ad ground to finer powder as they passed. vance on the youthful methods of Indiana " I could have told you one thing right Frusk; yet it required a good deal of self- off," Mrs. Rolliver went on with her ring control to take the words to herself with a ing energy. " And that is, to get your di smile, while they seemed to be laying a vorce first thing. A divorce is always a visible scarlet welt across the pale face good thing to have: you never can tell she kept valiantly turned to her friend. when you may want it. You ought to The fact that she must permit herself to have attended to that before you even be be pitied by Indiana Frusk certainly gave gan with Peter Van Degen." her the uttermost measure of the depth to Undine listened, irresistibly impressed. which her fortunes had fallen. " D i d you?" she asked; but Mrs. Rolli This abasement was inflicted on her in ver, at this, grew suddenly veiled and the staring gold apartment of the Hotel sibylline. She wound her big bejewelled Nouveau Luxe in which the Rollivers had hand through her pearls—there were ropes established themselves on their recent ar and ropes of them—and leaned back, sink rival in Paris. The vast drawing-room, ing her lids over her hard clear eyes. adorned only by two high-shouldered gilt " I ' m here, anyhow," she rejoined, with baskets of orchids drooping on their wires, "Circumspice!" in look and tone. reminded Undine of the "Looey suite" in Undine, obedient to the challenge, con which the opening scenes of her own his tinued to gaze at the pearls. They were tory had been enacted; and the resem real; there was no doubt about that. A n d blance and the difference were emphasized so was Indiana's marriage—if she kept out by the fact that the image of her own past of certain states. self was not inaccurately repeated in the "Don't you see," Mrs. Rolliver con triumphant presence of Indiana Rolliver. tinued, "that having to leave him when "There isn't a tip I couldn't have given you did, and rush off to Dakota for six you—not one!" Mrs. Rolliver reproach months, was—was giving him too much fully repeated; and all Undine's supe time to think; and giving it at the wrong riorities and discriminations seemed to time, too?" shrivel up in the crude blaze of the other's "Oh, I see. But what could I do? I'm tangible achievement. not an immoral woman." "Of course not, dearest. Y o u were There was little comfort in noting, for one's private delectation, that Indiana merely thoughtless—that's what I meant spoke of her husband as " M r . Rolliver," by saying that you ought to have had that she twanged a piercing r, that one of your divorce ready." A flicker of self-esteem caused Undine her shoulders was still higher than the other, and that her striking dress was to to protest: " I t wouldn't have made any tally unsuited to the hour, the place and difference. His wife would never have the occasion. She still did and was all given him up."

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"She's so crazy about him?" " N o : she hates him so. And she hates me too, because she's in love with my hus band." Indiana bounced out of her lounging at titude and struck her hands together with a rattle of rings. " In love with your husband? What's the matter, then? Why on earth didn't the four of you fix it up together?" " Y o u don't understand." (It was an undoubted relief to be able, at last, to say that to Indiana!) "Clare Van Degen thinks divorce wrong—or rather awfully vulgar." "Vulgar?" Indiana flamed. " I f that isn't just too much! A woman who's in love with another woman's husband? What does she think refined, I'd like to know? Having a lover, I suppose—like the women in these nasty French plays? I've told M r . Rolliver I won't go to the theatre with him again in Paris—it's too utterly low. And the swell society's just as bad: it's simply rotten. Thank good ness I was brought up in a place where there's some sense of decency left!" She turned to Undine with a pitying look. " It was New York that demoralized you— and I don't blame you for it. Out at Apex you'd have acted different. Y o u never never would have given way to your feel ings before you'd got your divorce." A slow blush rose to Undine's forehead. " H e seemed so unhappy—" she mur mured. "Oh, I know!" said Indiana in a tone of cold competence. She looked impa tiently at Undine. "What was the un derstanding between you, when you left Europe last August to go out to Dakota?" " He was to go to Reno in the autumn— so that it wouldn't look too much as if we were acting together. I was to come to Chicago to see him on his way out there." " A n d he never came?" "No." " A n d he stopped writing?" "Oh, he never writes." Indiana heaved a deep sigh of intelli gence. "There's one perfectly clear rule: never let out of your sight a man who doesn't write." " I know. That's why I stayed with him—those few weeks last summer. . . " Indiana sat thinking, her fine shallow

eyes fixed unblinkingly on her friend's em barrassed face. " I suppose there isn't a n y b o d y else ?" "Anybody ?" "Well—now you've got your divorce: anybody else it would come in handy for?" This was harder to bear than anything that had gone before: Undine could not have borne it if she had not had a purpose. " M r . Van Degen owes it to me—" she began, with an air of wounded dignity. "Yes, yes: I know. But that's just talk. You know what I mean. If there is any body else " " I can't imagine what you think of me, Indiana!" Indiana, without appearing to resent this challenge, again lost herself in medi tation. " W e l l , I ' l l tell him he's just got to see you," she finally emerged from it to say. Undine gave a quick upward look: this was what she had been waiting for ever since she had read, a few days earlier, in the columns of her morning journal, that M r . Peter Van Degen and M r . and Mrs. James J . Rolliver had been fellow-passen gers on board the Semantic. But she did not betray her expectations by so much as the tremor of an eye-lash. She knew her friend well enough to pour out to her the expected tribute of surprise. " W h y , do you mean to say you know him, Indiana?" "Mercy, yes! He's round here all the time. He crossed on the steamer withus, and M r . Rolliver's taken a fancy to him," Indiana explained, in the tone of the absorbed bride to whom her husband's preferences are the sole criterion. Undine turned a tear-suffused gaze on her. " O h , Indiana, if I could only see him again I know it would be all right. He's awfully, awfully fond of me; but his fam ily have influenced him against me " " O h , I know what that is!" Mrs. Rolli ver interjected. " B u t perhaps," Undine continued ten tatively, " i t would be better if I could meet him first without his knowing—with out your telling him. . . I love him too much to reproach h i m ! " she added nobly. Indiana considered this: it was clear that, though the nobility of the sentiment impressed her, she was disinclined to re-

The Custom of the Country nounce the idea of taking a more active part in her friend's rehabilitation. But Undine pursued: " O f course you've found out by this time that he's just a big spoiled baby. Afterward—when I've seen him—if you'd talk to him, or if you'd only just let him be with you, and see how per fectly happy you and M r . Rolliver are!" Indiana seized on this at once. " Y o u mean that what he wants is the influence of a home like ours? Yes, I understand. I tell you what I ' l l do: I'll just ask him round to dine, and let you know the day, without telling him you're coming." "Oh, Indiana!" Undine held her in a close embrace, and then drew away to say: "I'm so awfully glad I found you. Y o u must go round with me everywhere. There are lots of people here I want you to know." Mrs. Rolliver's expression changed from vague sympathy to concentrated interest. " I suppose it's awfully gay here now? Do you go round much with the American set?" Undine hesitated for a fraction of a mo ment. '' There are a few of them here who are rather jolly. But I particularly want you to meet my friend the Marquis Roviano—he's from Rome; and a lovely Aus trian woman, Baroness Adelschein." Her friend's face was brushed by a shade of distrust. " I don't know as I care much about meeting foreigners," she said indifferently. Undine smiled: it was agreeable at last to be able to give Indiana a "point" as valuable as any of hers on divorce. "Oh, some of them are awfully attrac tive; and they'll make you meet the Amer icans." Indiana caught this "point" on the bound: one began to see why she had got on in spite of everything. "Of course I'd love to know your friends," she said, kissing Undine; who an swered, giving back the kiss: " You know there's nothing on earth I wouldn't do for you." Indiana, at this, drew back to look at her with a comic grimace under which a shade of anxiety was visible. " W e l l , that's a pretty large order. But there's just one thing you can do, dearest: please to let M r . Rolliver alone!" Undine's laugh showed that she took VOL. L I I I . — 6 8

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this for unmixed comedy. " M r . Rolliver, my dear? That's a nice way to remind me that you're heaps and heaps betterlooking than I am!" Indiana gave her an acute glance. " M i l lard Binch didn't think so—not even at the very end," she said. "Oh, poor Millard!" The women's smiles mingled easily over the distant rem iniscence, and once again, on the threshold, Undine enfolded her friend. In the light of the clear autumn after noon she paused a moment at the door of the Nouveau Luxe, and looked aim lessly forth at the brave spectacle in which she seemed no longer to have a stake. Many of her old friends had already re turned to Paris: the Harvey Shallums, May Beringer, Dicky Bowles and other westward-bound nomads lingering on for a glimpse of the autumn theatres and fashions before hurrying back to inaugu rate the New York season. A year ago Undine would have had no difficulty in introducing Indiana Rolliver into this group—a group above which her own as pirations already beat an impatient wing. Now her place in it had become too pre carious for her to force an entrance for her protectress. Her New York friends were at no pains to conceal from her that in their opinion her divorce had been a blun der. Their logic was that of Apex re versed. Since she had not been " sure" of Van Degen, why in the world, they asked, had she thrown away a position she was sure of? Mrs. Harvey Shallum, in par ticular, had not scrupled to put the ques tion squarely to her. " D e Chelles was awfully taken—he would have introduced you everywhere. I thought you were wild to know smart French people; I thought Harvey and I weren't good enough for you any longer. And now you've done your best to spoil everything! Of course I feel for you tremendously—that's the reason why I'm talking so frankly. Y o u must be horribly depressed. Come and dine to-night—or no, if you don't mind I'd rather you chose another evening. I'd forgotten that I'd asked the Jim Driscolls, and it might be uncomfortable; for you, I mean. . . " In another world she was still welcome, at first perhaps even more so than before:

772


the world, namely, to which she had pro posed to present Indiana Rolliver. Roviano, Madame Adelschein, and a few of the freer spirits of her old St. Moritz band, reappearing in Paris with the close of the watering-place season, had quickly discovered her and shown a keen interest in her liberated state. It appeared in some mysterious way to make her more available for their purpose, and she dis covered that, in the character of the last American divorcee, she was even regarded as eligible to a small and intimate circle of their loosely-knit association. A t first she could not make out what had entitled her to this privilege, and increasing en lightenment produced a revolt of the Apex puritanism which, despite some odd ac commodations and compliances, still car ried its head so high in her. Undine had been perfectly sincere in telling Indiana Rolliver that she was not " an immoral woman.'' The pleasures for which her sex took such risks had never attracted her, and she did not even crave the excitement of having it thought that they did. She wanted, passionately and persistently, two things which she be lieved should subsist together in any wellordered life: amusement and respectability; and, despite her surface-sophistication, her notion of amusement was hardly less in nocent than when she had hung on the plumber's fence with Indiana Frusk. It gave her, therefore, no satisfaction to find herself included among Madame Adelschein's intimates. It embarrassed her to feel that she was expected to be "queer" and "different," to respond to pass-words and talk in innuendo, to asso ciate with the equivocal and the subter ranean and affect to despise the ingenuous daylight joys which really satisfied her soul. But the business shrewdness which was never quite dormant in her suggested that this was not the moment for such scruples. She must make the best of what she could get. and wait her chance of getting something better; and meanwhile the most practical use to which she could put her shady friends was to flash their authentic nobility in the dazzled eyes of Mrs. Rolliver. With this object in view she made haste, in a fashionable tea-room of the rue de Rivoli, to group about Indiana the

most titled members of the band; and the felicity of the occasion would have been unmarred had she not suddenly caught sight of Raymond de Chelles sitting on the other side of the thronged room. She had not seen de Chelles since her re turn to Paris. It had seemed preferable to leave their meeting to chance, and the present chance might have served as well as another but for the fact that among his companions were two or three of the most eminent ladies of the inaccessible quarter beyond the Seine. It was what Undine, in moments of discouragement, character ized as "her luck" that one of these should be the hated Miss Wincher of Potash Springs, who had now become the Mar quise de Trezac. Undine knew de Chelles and his compatriots, however scandalized at her European companions, would be completely indifferent to Mrs. Rolliver's appearance; but one gesture of Madame de Trezac's eye-glass would wave Indiana to her place and thus brand the whole party as "wrong." All this passed through Undine's mind in the very moment of her noting the change of expression with which de Chelles had signalled his recognition. If their en counter could have occurred in happier conditions it might have had far-reach ing results. As it was, the crowded state of the tea-room, and the distance between their tables, sufficiently excused his re stricting his greeting to the most eager of bows; and Undine went home heavyhearted from this first attempt to recon struct her past. Her spirits were not lightened by the de velopments of the next few days. She kept herself well in the foreground of In diana's life, and cultivated toward the rarely-visible Rolliver a manner in which impersonal admiration for the statesman was tempered with the politest indiffer ence to the man. Indiana seemed to do justice to her efforts and to be reassured by the result; but still there came no hint of a reward. For a few days Undine re strained the question on her lips; but one afternoon, when she had inducted Indiana into the deepest mysteries of Parisian com plexion-making, the importance of the service and the confidential mood it en gendered seemed to warrant a discreet allusion to their bargain.

The Custom of the Country Indiana leaned back among her cush ions with an embarrassed laugh. "Oh, my dear, I've been meaning to tell you—it's off, I'm afraid. The dinner is, I mean. You see, M r . Van Degen has seen you 'round with me, and the very minute I asked him to come and dine he guessed " Undine coloured. " H e guessed—and he wouldn't?" " Well, no. He wouldn't. I hate to tell you." " O h — " Undine threw off a vague laugh. "Since you're intimate enough for him to tell you that he must have told you more—told you something, I mean, to account for, to justify, his behaviour. He couldn't—even Peter Van Degen couldn't—just simply have said: ' I won't see her.'" Mrs. Rolliver hesitated, visibly troubled to the point of regretting her intervention. " He did say more? He gave you a rea son?" " H e said you'd know." " O h , how base—how base!" Undine was trembling with one of her little-girl rages, the storms of destructive fury be fore which M r . and Mrs. Spragg had cow ered when she was a charming goldencurled cherub. But life had administered some of the discipline which her parents had spared her, and she pulled herself to gether with a gasp of pain. " O f course he's been turned against me. His wife has the whole of New York behind her, and I've no one; but I know it would be all right if I could only see him." Her friend made no answer, and Undine pursued, with an irrepressible outbreak of her old vehemence: "Indiana Rolliver, if you won't do it for me I'll go straight off to his hotel this very minute. I'll wait there in the hall till he sees me!" Indiana lifted a protesting hand. "Don't, Undine—not that!" "Why not?" The other's eyes grew vague. " Well— I wouldn't, that's a l l . " " Y o u wouldn't? Why wouldn't you? You must have a reason." Undine faced her with levelled brows. "Without a reason you can't have changed so utterly since our last talk. Y o u were positive enough then that I had a right to make him see me."

773

Somewhat to her surprise, Indiana made no effort to elude the challenge. "Yes, I did think so then. But I know now that it wouldn't do you the least bit of good." "Have they turned him so completely against me?" Undine broke into a com bative laugh. " I don't care if they have! I know him—I can get him back." "That's the trouble." Indiana shed on her a gaze of cold compassion. "It's not that any one has turned him against you. It's worse than that " "What can be?" " Y o u ' l l hate me if I tell you." "Then you'd better make him tell me himself!" Even at this Indiana did not flinch or evade the issue. " I can't. I tried to. The trouble is that it was you—something you did, I mean. Something he found out about you " Undine, to restrain a quick spring of anger, had to clutch both arms of her chair. "About me? How fearfully false! Why, I've never even looked at anybody !" " N o , no. It's nothing of that kind." Indiana's mournful head-shake seemed to deplore, in Undine, a hitherto unsuspect ed moral obtuseness. "It's the way you acted to your own husband.-" "I—my—to Ralph? He reproaches me for that? Peter Van Degen does?" " Well, for one particular thing. I don't see why you insist on my telling you. He says that the very day you went off with him last year you got a cable from New York telling you to come back at once to M r . Marvell, who was desperately i l l . " The blood left Undine's face. " How on earth did he know? " The cry escaped be fore she could repress it. "It's true, then?" Indiana exclaimed. " O h , Undine " Undine sat speechless and motionless, the anger frozen to fear on her lips. Mrs. Rolliver turned on her. the re proachful gaze of the deceived benefac tress. " I didn't believe it when he told me; I'd never have thought it of you, U n dine. Before you'd even applied for your divorce!" Undine made no attempt to deny the charge or to defend herself. For a mo ment she was lost in the pursuit of an un-

Discords

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seizable clue—the explanation of this monstrous last perversity of fate. Sud denly she rose to her feet with a set face. "The Marvells must have told him— the beasts!" It relieved her to be able to cry it out. "It was your husband's sister—what did you say her name was? When you didn't answer her cable, she cabled M r . Van Degen to find out where you were and tell you to come straight back." Undine stared. " H e never d i d ! " "No." "Doesn't that show you the story's all trumped up?" Indiana shook her head. " H e said nothing to you about it because he was with you when you received the first cable, and you told him it was from your sisterin-law, just worrying you as usual to go home; and when he asked if there was

anything else in it you said there wasn't another thing." Undine, following her with throbbing intentness, caught at this with a spring. "Then he knew it all along—he admits that? And it made no earthly difference to him at the time? " She turned almost victoriously on her friend. " Did he hap pen to explain that, I wonder?" " Yes." Indiana's longanimity grew al most solemn. " I t came over him grad ually, he said. One day when he wasn't feeling very well he thought to himself: 'Would she act like that to me if I was dying?' And after that he never felt the same to you." Indiana lowered her em purpled lids. " M e n have their feelings too—even when they're carried away by passion." After a pause she added grave ly: " I don't know as I can blame him, Undine. You see, you were his ideal."

( T o be continued.)

DISCORDS By C. A . Price I known patience on a summer day, Or hope beside the springing of the corn, • Or joyed to hear the blue-bird's matin lav, Or found love in the clasp of my first-bom? HAVE

But what in wintry weather, or the blast That levels the young promise of the field? What, when the dawn without a song has passed, Or days which no responsive kiss can yield? Have I given thanks at tables richly spread? Have I felt awed by childhood's purity? When unjust fate strikes down a once-proud head Has brother-pity stirred the heart of me? But when the board is mean, and scant the fare? But, ah! when childhood turns a leering face? When the fallen head no majesty doth wear— Have thanks, awe, pity in my heart no place? And shall the hiss of Self be ever plain When Life strikes full about us her vast chord? Oh, to be one with all that is again! Forgive, forgive what I call virtue, Lord!

E N G L I S H FROM

F R I E N D S

LETTERS AND JOURNALS Edited

by

Sara

Norton and

III jgjjHE last extract from the L o n d o n journal in the pre ceding instalment of these papers was written at the end of 1872. T h e coming of 1873 marked the N o r t o n s ' impending return to the U n i t e d States, which took place i n M a y . T h r o u g h the few intervening months the relations with those whose friendship affected all the future years became more frequent and intimate. So busy, indeed, were the final weeks i n E n g l a n d , and so filled were the days at sea w i t h the care of the children and the companionship of Emerson, who returned on the same ship with the N o r tons to Boston, that the recording of the last experiences was deferred until the family was established for the summer at Ashfield, among the Massachusetts hills. F r o m the diary of 1873 the ensuing passages are taken: Monday,

January

OF CHARLES

13, 1873.

Dined w i t h F o r s t e r — C a r l y l e , M i s s Welsh, cousin to M r s . Carlyle, and M i s s Hogarth, the only other guests. Forster much better than before his late stay at Torquay, but I fear he will never be well again; i n one of his gentlest and pleasantest moods. H i s knowledge of and mem ory for the E n g l i s h dramatists and poets often gives a fine flavour to his talk. C a r lyle talked excellently of m a n y things, and he and Forster are such old friends that it is pleasant to see them together.—Heads of talk,—Browning's spoiling; T e n n y son's decline, and the exaggeration of his admirers, his maltreatment and perver sion of the old R o u n d T a b l e Romance; Coleridge, the surprising potential powers in him, " b u t no man can hope to do anythin' worth d o i n ' and that has the temper of eternity i n it without strenuous effort, and that's just what Coleridge was afraid

ELIOT

M . A . DeWolfe

NORTON

Howe

of and hated. They're a poor lot, the Coleridges, most self indulgent mortals." —Schiller and his family; the " C o p p e r C a p t a i n " Louis Napoleon; the difficulty of being independent in L o n d o n , & c , & c ; C h i l d and his B a l l a d Circular,* (in which both Forster and Carlyle took cordial i n terest). Friday,

January

17, 1873.

x\fter lunch went to Carlyle's and found him sitting alone i n his study, smoking his long clay pipe. H e gave me a pipe and we sat for an hour by the fireside and then went for a walk to the P a r k . H e was i n a most pleasant mood;—as I grow familiar with h i m , and a certain intimacy unites us, his character becomes more and more open and delightful, and I feel a real af fection for h i m . T h e sincerity and sim plicity and modesty of his nature are even more striking i n personal intercourse than the originality of his genius, the liveliness of his fancy, and the geniality of his hu mour. H e is one of the most sympathetic of men. " I ' v e not had much sleep since I last saw ye. It's an old complaint, and I ' m wonted to it. T h a t dinner at Forster's gave the finishin' stroke; I was as pru dent as man could be, but I d i d not get to sleep t i l l six o' the clock the next morn ing. A n d one's troubled w i t h all kinds o' whirlin' thoughts i n the long nights; spec tres and hobgoblins that won't be laid b y any exorcisms, dance a wild reel through one's head. W e were t a l k i n ' about prayer the other day,—well,—I remember one night I ' d been l y i n ' awake, tossing from one side to the other, and at last I turned over on m y back, a posture I don't often take i n bed, and all of a sudden the L o r d ' s Prayer flashed before me, an' I saw it all * Professor F . J . C h i l d , of H a r v a r d , N o r t o n ' s classmate, friend, and neighbor, had begun his monumental collection of " E n g l i s h and Scottish Popular B a l l a d s " by sending a cir cular to scholars and owners of large libraries i n E n g l a n d a n d Scotland, asking for information about unpublished ballads.

775

776

English

Friends

plain written out from beginnin' to end. lyle walked w i t h me;—he talked much of I don't think I ' d used i t officially for fifty Fitzgerald and his sad life,—a man of ge years at least, but there it was—Our nial nature, son of a rich m a n and a hand Father which art i n Heaven, hallowed be some woman, m a n y children, and the T h y name; thy K i n g d o m come,—and I family always quarrelling, and living in thought to myself that it was just the detachments i n different houses on the varra best compendium of everythin' that father's various estates. After a while a man had need to say if he desired to E d w a r d F i t z g e r a l d w i t h a fortune of £800 make a prayer,—and as I was t h i n k i n ' I a year went off to live alone; for many fell asleep. years i n Tennyson's poor days he used to " Y e s (with a laugh) as y o u say, 'twould give h i m £300 out of his annual income. not be a bad notion to issue a tract enti H e became intimate w i t h Bernard Barton, tled, ' R e m e d y for Sleeplessness, addressed who lived w i t h an only daughter,—"a clumsy l u m p . " After Barton's death she to Sinners b y Thomas Carlyle.' . . . " A n d so you've never read a n y t h i n ' o' went as housekeeper or companion into Smollett's. W e l l , I commend h i m to y o u . the family of one of the Gurneys. Fitz There's a vast gift of observation i n the gerald took a notion that she was attached man, and great humanity, and varra little to h i m , and he ought to m a r r y to her. So untruth or affectation. H e gives a clear they were married, a n d he brought her to picture of things as he saw them. One o' L o n d o n , but she was a w k w a r d and uncon the most delightful days i n m y life was one genial, and he miserable. H e treated her summer's day when I was thirteen or four w i t h utmost consideration, but after a teen years old, and I got hold o' ' R o d e r i c k year he said to her that i t was intolerable R a n d o m , ' and went out into the fields, a n d and they must part, and he divided his in lay down on the bank of a d r y ditch, on come equally w i t h her, and went off to sol the grass, with the trees over m y head, itude and became more shamefaced than and the birds singin' i n them, and spent ever, and lives now m u c h alone, in a big the whole day readin' that book. boat i n summer, i n which he sails round " Before I b i d ye Good night I must not the coast, and lives i n the presence of the forget to ask ye after m y little sweetheart, melancholy sea. W a s a warm friend of Thackeray, but fell off from companion S . T a k e m y blessing to her." ship w i t h h i m when he got into grand so Thursday, February 6, 1873. ciety. L i v e d at one time at Naseby, as A quiet morning of reading and writ solitary and gloomy a place as there is in ing. . . . E n g l a n d . F a i t h f u l l y writes once a year A t three went to see Carlyle; found to C a r l y l e ; at one time they saw much of "poor little A l l i n g h a m " w i t h h i m . . . . each other, but such was the modesty of Froude soon came i n ; had just been read the man that he never so much as men ing an article of Leslie Stephen's offered tioned the name of O m a r K h a y y a m to h i m for " F r a s e r , " on Strauss's book a n d h i m . the general condition of religious thought; Carlyle had an engagement with Forsfound it too strong and outspoken for ter who is i l l , and A l l i n g h a m having left the Magazine. I urged that it was well us, Froude and I continued our walk to that such men as Stephen should speak gether for an hour through Kensington the truth plainly, . . . saying that i t Gardens and the P a r k . W e grew ami seemed to me the great sin of English so cable as we walked, and he talked much ciety was insincere profession, pretending and well of his A m e r i c a n experiences. to believe that i n which i t had no belief H o w m u c h he conceals it is hard to say; whatsoever. Carlyle's sympathies were but he said nothing but pleasant things divided,—on the one hand he is wearied to me. One of his remarks amused me, w i t h talk about these things and thinks i t — " T h e only manners I met with that does no good, on the other he approves reminded me of the elegant old style of moral honesty, hates paltering w i t h the the O l d W o r l d were those of the negro conscience, and likes manly outspoken waiters." ness in the face of an hypocritical public. H e dreads the influence of Catholicism I n walking we fell into twos, and C a r on our institutions; noted the change for

English the worse i n the decline of the rural pop ulation of N e w E n g l a n d ; found no hostil ity to E n g l a n d except among the I r i s h ; fancied we should annex C u b a before long, &c. & c . Wednesday,

March

26,

1873.

Leslie Stephen and M o r r i s dined w i t h us,—they had never met before. Morris complained of feeling old, M o n d a y was his 39th b i r t h d a y ; his hair, he said, was turning gray. H e was as usual a surpris ing piece of nature; certainly one of the most unconventional and original of men. His talk was m u c h of old N o r t h e r n sto ries, and sagas, very v i v i d , picturesque and entertaining from its contents and from its character. Stephen was pleasant, but he is best and shows his w o r t h most i n tete-a-tete. Friday,

March

28,

1873.

A beautiful spring day; warm, soft> and w i t h a country fragrance i n the L o n don a i r . — A letter from George C u r t i s telling us of his illness, w h i c h makes me very sorry.—In the afternoon went to Carlyle's; and after sitting w i t h h i m half an hour, had a pleasant walk w i t h h i m and Froude from Chelsea through K e n s i n g ton Gardens. . . . Carlyle seemed a little weary, perhaps weakened b y the m i l d , unbracing weather; but was full of k i n d ness and humour. H e had not taken to Omar K h a y y a m , — " t h e old M a h o m m e dan blackguard," h a d found his scepti cism too blank and his solution of life i n drink too mean. Of all Oriental poems had cared most for some translated b y Ruckert. . . . C a r l y l e ' s talk about O m a r . . . was the P h i l i s t i n i s m of a man of genius. As for the miracles of the early church and of modern times he believed i n the sincerity of most of them; that is, that the men who report them reported as hon estly as they knew, and had faith i n the truth of their own narrations; while i m agination worked its due wonders, and powers of nature seemed miraculous to those who knew nothing of them, and of their operations. H i s laugh might have been heard half across the gardens when I told h i m B u r n e Jones's story of the y o u t h at a College examination i n history, who having suc

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ceeded but poorly, and being asked b y the examiners to give some account of Cromwell, replied, " H e played a conspic uous part i n English history, and after a brief career, was heard on his death bed to murmur, ' W o u l d that I had served m y G o d as I have served m y K i n g ! ' " . . . April

12,

1873.

. . . I have seen Leslie Stephen more frequently than usual during these days. H e has dined w i t h us often; his wife and their little girl and M i s s Thackeray being at Freshwater, while their new house i n Southwell Gardens is being made ready for occupation. T h e keenness and sincer i t y of Stephen's intellect, his moral inde pendence, his pleasant humour, his deep feeling hidden at times under a veil of playful cynicism, his ready intellectual sympathies, and his interest i n the most important matters of thought, make his companionship at once agreeable and i n teresting. L a s t night he brought to read to me the first draught of an essay which is to form the conclusion of his forthcom ing volume of collected essays, to appear in the autumn under the title of " Freethinking and Plainspeaking." * T h e new essay is a striking and powerful statement and assertion of the grounds and claims of Freethinking as against the current the ology. I found myself i n essential agree ment w i t h the whole of it. T h e volume w i l l be the clearest and most definite state ment yet made of the attitude of the thought of serious men who reject the old religion, and of their view of morality, duty, and life. I t is not merely an at tack on the old creeds,—not merely a neg ative answer to the question " A r e we C h r i s t i a n s ? " but a deeply felt, and ably thought statement of " W h y we are not so," and of the rectitude and superior manliness of our position. T h e satisfac tory nature of the principles that are held b y a freethinker of the present day as a foundation alike for the best development of i n d i v i d u a l character, and for the estab lishment of better social relations among * T h i s volume, published i n 1S73, bore the following dedi cation: " M Y DEAR NORTON: " I venture to dedicate this book to y o u i n memory of a friendly intercourse never, I trust, to be forgotten by me; a n d i n gratitude for its fruitfulness i n that best k i n d of i n struction w h i c h is imparted unconsciously to the giver. " Y o u r affectionate friend, "LESLIE STEPHEN."

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men than now exist, is perhaps not pre sented as fully arid strongly as it might be to advantage. Stephen's m i n d is essen tially critical i n its bent, and his experi ence has confirmed the native tendency of his mind. The contrast between h i m and his brother Fitzjames is striking, and in per sonal relations amusing. Fitzjames is burly and broadshouldered in mind as i n body. H e has one of the clearest and strongest of solid English intelligences. In practical affairs on mother earth, where things may be seen and touched, his rea son has the quality of an almost brutal force and directness. It is an implement most serviceable in his generation; com pelling appreciation and respect i n the per formance of difficult and useful work. B u t off the pavement his powers fail. Leslie is a far better climber of mountains than he; with a lighter step, a steadier head, stronger wind, and clearer vision. T h e virtues of the practical and the speculative intellects are well illustrated in the two brothers. Last Sunday, A p r i l 5, Grace and I lunched with the Darwins, who are spend ing a few weeks in town, in a house in M o n t a g u Street. M r . D a r w i n was even more than usually pleasant; his modesty, his simplicity, his geniality of temper, the pleasant unaffected animation of his man ners, are always delightful; but on Sun day there was a sweet tenderness i n his expression, and he was i n better health for the day than common. H i s talk is not often memorable on account of brill iant or impressive sayings,—but it is al ways the expression of the qualities of mind and heart which combine i n such rare excellence i n his genius. . . . M r . Emerson and his daughter E l l e n have returned from E g y p t , and came to see us two days ago. T h e N i l e has re newed his youth, and brought back to him a becoming growth of hair. E a c h time I see him the sweetness of his nature, as shown through his face, his manner, and his words, impresses me more and more deeply. It is very beautiful, and very en couraging. H e is the pattern of the cheer ful philosopher i n our modern times. H e has made the best of life, and is master of its fit conduct;—serene, simple, with gen erous sympathies, and liberal interests,

Friends w i t h large thoughts, and k i n d l y wisdom. It makes one happier and better to be with him.—There is some hope that he may return on the steamer w i t h us to America. I shall be very glad if he does so. The difference between Emerson and Carlyle is very wide; life and its experi ence and its teachings have led them along widely diverging paths; the outcome of their creeds and philosophies is so unlike as to limit their m u t u a l sympathies. T h e y have fewer opinions and sentiments in common than they had forty years ago. T h e y will be friends to the end; but neither is dependent for sympathy on the other. B u t how few are the deep, un broken friendships founded on intimate sympathy! H a p p y the man who has one friendship of this sort! Saturday,

April

19, 1873.

Carlyle gave me today the cast from the mask* taken from Cromwell's face after death, which he promised me some time ago, and w i t h it an interesting state ment by Woolner concerning it. It is one of seven casts taken from the original mask. H e said he had long had one of the common casts such as may be found in the plaster workmen's shops, that had been given to h i m b y John Sterling. It had hung i n his dressing-room for years, and his associations w i t h it made it more valuable to him than the one that he gave me; but the cast I was to have was far the better, and much the more faithful likeness. H e would like to have me see the difference, and so he took me up stairs,—the stairs of an old-fashioned house,—to his bedroom, and through this to his dressing-room; both scantily yet sufficiently furnished, far from luxurious, and save for the look of frugality about them w i t h nothing special to mark them except the number of portraits, photo graphs, lithographs and engravings on the walls. " H e r e , " said he, as we passed through the bedroom, " i s the only room in the world where I can find quiet enough to sleep, and not always even here." On the dressing-room walls were i n one frame a common G e r m a n lithograph or engrav ing of Goethe and Schiller; in another of Herder and W i e l a n d ; on one side was the * T h i s mask, w i t h Carlyle's collection of books on Crom well and Frederick the Great, is now in the H a r v a r d College Library.

English Friends photograph from m y portrait of Emerson by Rowse, and on another the cast of Cromwell, much smoked and darkened by long exposure to the L o n d o n air, and much inferior b y the obliteration of the finer points of likeness to the cast taken direct from the m a s k . — H i s face as represented in the better cast one of the most impres sive of human countenances, w i t h an ex pression of grave tenderness, and of deli cate sensibility such as no other likeness of it renders. It is a noble head, and the face such as one w o u l d wish Cromwell's to have been, massive i n proportions, but fine i n form, w i t h features well propor tioned and shaped w i t h such lines as to indicate the depth of the soul and the sweetness of the nature of which they were the outward sign. C a r l y l e spoke as usual with the utmost earnestness of ad miration of C r o m w e l l . H e speaks much more and oftener of h i m than of any of his other heroes. As we were walking, he began i n answer to some question of mine to tell me of his early literary life. H e found himself when he was toward twenty years of age i n a very solitary and fettered condition of mind. T h e only man w i t h w h o m he h a d . any sort of free communication was E d ward Irving, who was then the colleague of D r . Chalmers i n Glasgow, a man of very generous nature, so that though very much bound up b y all sorts of ecclesiasti cal wrappings, he was still able to feel a kindly and h u m a n sympathy for such as were not similarly situated. " I used often to reduce h i m to sighin', and I remember well the day when I told h i m that of all the things he held dear there was not one that was tolerable to me, and w i t h what a kindness he heard me, and how sorrow fully and yet affectionately we parted. Well, if it had not been for h i m , I should have had no single soul to w h o m I could express a n y t h i n ' whatsoever of the con victions that had taken possession of me, but I should have been altogether com pelled to silence, and to shut up i n myself what was very likely to burst me."—It was about this time, C a r l y l e went on to say, that he read M a d a m e de Stael's " G e r m a n y " and found i n it some indica tion that men were t h i n k i n g i n a different sort there from what they were doing else where. H e had read the Scotch and the

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English philosophers and metaphysicians without getting much light or satisfaction from them, but here he found suggestions of another philosophy of which he wanted to learn much more than M a d a m e de Stael was able to tell h i m . B u t he knew not a word of German, and on inquiring for a teacher, he could hear of none but a vaga bond Polish Jew i n E d i n b u r g h , who pro fessed to be familiar w i t h the language, but of whom as an instructor he heard no good. B u t not long after this a college acquaintance of his, Jardine b y name, who had been spending some time at G o t t i n gen, as tutor, w i t h a young nobleman, came back to his home some four miles away, a dull sort of fellow, but good enough i n his way, and he agreed with Carlyle to give h i m one lesson i n German a week i n exchange for a lesson i n French that Car lyle should give to h i m , and so b y degrees Carlyle got a feeble introduction to the language. B u t there were no books to be had, and casting about how to get them, Carlyle bethought h i m that there was a flourishing trade at L e i t h w i t h the east coast of the Baltic, and he asked the P r o vost of L e i t h who was a very k i n d l y man, and had much to do with the trade, to order his correspondent to send over to him a copy of Schiller's Works. A n d i n four or five months the book came, a big bundle of folded sheets, and Carlyle took it off to the binder's, and when he got the volumes home, he set to work to study them out with his Dictionary. A n d per haps the next year it was that he got Goethe's works i n the same way, and he tried " W i l h e l m M e i s t e r , " and got but a little way i n it, and d i d not discover the real contents of it, and put it aside. A n d after a while he took up " F a u s t , " and it was an epoch i n his life, for here he found expression given to his own d i m thoughts and dumb feeling's, and he found himself in strange intellectual sympathy w i t h the book such as he had never felt w i t h any book before, so that it was a sort of Apoca lypse to h i m , and he recognized at length that other men were thinking and feeling as he was. B y this time the language was becom ing familiar to h i m , and he went back to " W i l h e l m M e i s t e r , " and read it from be ginning to end, and found it full of the most precious assistance and instruction

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English Friends

to h i m . — " N a , I've not i n later years set the same value on ' F a u s t ' as when I first read it. It's very far from bein' the best of Goethe's works; the philosophy of it is v a r r a shallow and unsatisfying. There are splendid passages, and very deep sen tences i n it, but it's not a school for life. A n d as for the Second P a r t of it I've never been able to find m u c h interest i n i t ; it's a confused jumble, the rakin's out of his mind. N a doubt he had some purpose i n it, but it gets altogether indistinct and formless. " It was near this time that I first came to L o n d o n , looking after some work b y which I could earn an honest l i v i n ' and ready to do whatever came to hand. B u t though all m y friends urged me to stay there, I told them it was quite impossible, for I could neither eat nor sleep, and I should die of the bad air and the bad food. A n d so I came back to Scotland with great uncertainty of prospect, and I went to see L o c k h a r t who was i n Edinburgh, much distinguished i n society and among the literary people, to get some counsel from h i m . A n d he was varra k i n d and friendly, as I always found h i m afterwards when ever I had occasion to see him,—and he advised m y t r y i n ' some translatin' such as might be acceptable to the public, and he bade me beware of the publishers, which was an excellent piece o' counsel. " A n d so the result of all was, that, havin' some three or four hundred pounds that I could honestly call m y own, I took, with m y Father's advice, a pretty farm with a varra comfortable farm house on it, some miles awa from m y father's home, and one o' m y brothers came to live w i t h me to manage the farm, an' I set to work translatin' the stories that afterwards got printed as 'Specimens of German R o mance,' and that was perhaps the happi est year o' m y life, for I was surrounded b y all sorts of affectionate treatment, m y M o t h e r and sisters would come to stay with us there, and I took interest i n trans latin', and the place was beautiful, and I could look away from m y windows far southward toward the Irish Sea and the English mountains, and I had a pony on which I used to take long gallops across country, and all went well with me. " O n e day after' W i l h e l m M e i s t e r ' came out I saw a review written by de Quincey,

reviling the book, a n ' its author an' its translator, an' heapin' every species of opprobrium on 'em. A n d I said to meself, that Goethe was able to bear it, an' that, for m y part, it l a y i n me to correct the Scotticisms that he said were found in my English, and that as for the rest I could not agree w i t h h i m i n one word. The truth was that he had got a slender kind o' reputation for his knowledge of German, and he took it as very presoomptious in any other m a n to pretend to know a word of what he held as his exclusive preserve. H e was a cross-tempered, hard beset, poor little wretch of a bein'. I met h i m many months afterwards, and he looked pale and tremblin' as if he was afraid I was about to devour h i m ; but we got into amiable conversation, and he appeared to agree w i t h everythin' one said, till after a little y o u found there was no point of agreement whatsoever. I never was able to read much o' what he wrote; his ' O p i u m E a t e r ' was the only book o' his I could read to the end; and I read that in E d i n b u r g h once when I had been sleep less for m a n y nights, and I ' d begun to think of t a k i n ' some laudanum i n order to get sleep, but when I finished his book, I said to myself 'better a thousand times die from want of sleep than have anyt h i n ' to do w i t h such a drug of the devil's own.' " H e was no t h i n ' b u t legs and a head, a queer spectral figure; and he led on the whole a very poor, miserable, jealous ex istence, and grew warse and warse I've been told, as he grew old. A n ' so a daugh ter o' his has been s t a y i n ' w i t h ye? A n d what might her name be? * I remember once seeing a little daughter of his, a varra sweet child, named M a r g a r e t ; she might have been m u c h about the age of my little sweetheart S , when I saw her; but she was the only one of his children that I ever saw. . . . " LONDON, April

20-May 10, 1873.

These were full weeks; and yet I could do but little of what I desired, for the weather was for the most part chilly and east windy, and m y chest remained so sensitive as to compel me to unwelcome prudence. * D e Quincey's daughter Florence, then M r s . Richard Baird Smith.

English Friends I am writing now at Ashfield. It is the middle of June. T o m o r r o w will make up a month since we left E n g l a n d . I n depth of experience the time is not to be reck oned by days or months. M a n y a year of life has less of change, less of feeling i n it than have been crowded into the past weeks. I go back to m y last days in E n g land as if they were a long way off; they do belong to another life from that which I am now leading, to conditions that do not exist i n America. T h e y belong to my past. I foresee that time is likely to be ruthless i n pilfering memories that I would but can not keep. Before I forget them I will note down some of the inci dents which marked the last days of our stay in Europe. On M o n d a y , A p r i l 2 1 , according to a long-standing engagement, Jane, Grace and I dined at the Forsters, w i t h M r . Carlyle, M i s s Welsh, and M i s s H o g a r t h . M a c k a y went w i t h us. I t was a pleasant dinner, for Forster was i n far better con dition than i n the early winter, and i n one of his m i l d and simple moods. T h e effect that C a r l y l e has on h i m is always bene ficial, and their humours played well to gether. C a r l y l e w as very sweet, a little quiet, but ready to be animated and vivacious. The other day Froude said to me, " I t ' s a great shame that someone shouldn't keep a record of Carlyle's talk. H e never fails to say something memorable or ad mirably humourous. W h y he called some body the other day ' a n inspired red her ring.' " " P r a y , " said I , " w h o is it that deserves such a l a b e l ? " but Froude had forgotten. . . . Some days afterwards I asked Carlyle to w h o m he had applied the phrase, but he had forgotten, and said, he trusted he was not to be made accounta ble for all the extravagant phrases he had uttered i n talk—there w o u l d be " v a r r a many to rise i n j u d g m e n t " against h i m — but he wouldn't disown " the inspired red herring." I told all this to Forster, abusing Froude at the same time, m u c h to Car lyle's amusement, which was increased when Forster broke out, " B y Heavens! my dear N o r t o n , I heard that precious utterance, but I, too, have forgotten to whom it was fitted. M r s . Forster will remember." B u t when we went to the T

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drawing-room, M r s . Forster could not re member, and Forster called down w r a t h on her and himself. T h e next morning the post brought me a note from h i m at breakfast time which contained only the name,—Henry Thomas B u c k l e ! ! T h e day that Emerson dined w i t h us w i t h Lewes there was some talk after dinner about Goethe,—and i n the course of it Emerson said energetically " I hate ' Faust.' It is a bad book." Lewes was amazed. T h e agreement of opinion con cerning it of Carlyle and Emerson is interesting. Emerson does not like the " D i c h t u n g and W a h r h e i t " ; values the " I t a l i a n Journey,"—and is accustomed to carry with h i m the " Spriiche " when he travels. H a s had them this year on the Nile. . . . O n the 5th of M a y L o w e l l arrived from Paris, to spend two or three days w i t h us before our departure. These eight months i n Europe have done h i m all the good which I had hoped. H e is refreshed and rejuvenated; i n far better health and spirits than when he was w i t h us i n Paris in October. H e has begun to feel the re lief from the yoke of College duties, and the hair, he says, is growing on his neck again. H e always carries, however, too much of Cambridge w i t h h i m ; and J o h n Holmes* [and he] have managed to make the Quais and the R u e de R i v o l i mere con tinuations of B r a t t l e Street. I wish he had come abroad ten years ago; for at fifty-four y o u t h is too far behind one for the hope that any change i n life or exter nal circumstance will be such that it can catch up w i t h one again. James, how ever, said he had begun to dream again, and he had as m a n y projects for poems, and plans for work, as if he had never disappointed himself b y making too many. Life has not treated h i m well i n making h i m shy, sensitive and inexpressive i n gen eral society; he who was made to be one of the most social of men, who is, w i t h those w h o m he loves, the most agreeable and delightful of companions, seldom does himself justice w i t h strangers, and turns to them often the unsympathetic out side of a most tender and sympathetic nature. * Brother of Oliver W e n d e l l H o l m e s .

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H e was as sweet and dear as man could be during the days he spent w i t h us. It pleased me that he saw Carlyle, and R u s kin, and M o r r i s for the first time, at our house. R u s k i n lunched with us one day, having come to H e m e H i l l * for a short visit. H e was pleasant, but not athis best, and was too much preoccupied to do jus tice to Lowell's excellence. L o w e l l was far more just to h i m . M o r r i s dined with us one evening, and was as usual, his own surprising, simple, vigorous, homely, pleasant and interesting self. M u c h animated talk as usual of Ice land, more than of I t a l y from which he had returned the last week, after a week i n Florence,—his first visit to that marvel of cities. H e had seen the A c a d e m y more than once; he had been through the Uffizi, and had seen the pictures and fres coes i n S . M a r i a Novella, and S . Croce; he had seen pictures enough and did not enter the P i t t i . Florence was not at its best when he was there; it was i n one of its chill, cheer less, grey Northern moods. Italy to be Italy must be warm and Southern. Another evening Georgie Burne-Jones dined w i t h us, and the next day L o w e l l and I went to the Grange to see the pict ures that were visible i n the Studio. W e saw the multitude of schemes, and half finished works and of works near comple tion that make Ned's studio incomparably the richest that I have ever entered; for there is not a design among them all that is not instinct w i t h imagination, and that does not show, as no other modern pict ures show, the pure pictorial genius as distinguished b y its expression in colour and i n harmonious design. There were the new Chant d ' A m o u r ; the D r e a m of F a i r W o m e n ; M e r l i n and N i m u e ; the C a r of L o v e ; the series from the story of P y g malion; the Angels of the Creation; the Sleeping Beauty series; the Hope, and the C h a r i t y ; P a n and Psyche; the Dance b y the M i l l ; and many more; but we did not see the too unfinished pictorial story of T r o y , — a series of pictures that seems to me quite unparalleled in truth of imagi nation and fullness of conception and real ization since the great days of Floren tine art. ta

ta

* R u s k i n ' s early home, at this time occupied by his cousin, M r s . A r t h u r Severn, a n d her husband.

Georgie was her delightful self; and James was as greatly struck and pleased and interested as I hoped he would be. . . . M a y 7, Wednesday afternoon Carlyle came i n w i t h Forster to say Goodbye to us. H e asked me to send for the children that he might see them once more. He took " h i s little sweetheart" S on his knee, kissed her w i t h great tenderness, and gave her a little package to open when she liked. H e r eyes sparkled and she ran out of the room to see what it contained. In a moment she came back, came to me with a face brimful of sweetness and pleasure, and showed me a little gold locket in which the tender-hearted childless old man had put a lock of his own hair. Seldom has a child received a more precious gift. S 's thanks were very earnest and pret ty. Little M , w i t h a strong sense of individual rights and interests, longed for a present also, and, going quite fear lessly up to the old m a n , began to feel in the capacious pockets of his great coat. Carlyle was t a l k i n g at the moment, and I did not notice that he p a i d any special attention to her. I called her away, and she came with rather a disappointed and down-cast look. Carlyle, as he gave the little .box con taining the locket to S , "Here's a love token for ye, m y poor little dear, with an old man's love and blessing. M a y all good be y o u r s ! " * Carlyle asked me to come for one more walk w i t h h i m , and I promised to do so on Friday. I had to go to the Barings, a long way, on F r i d a y morning, and to do other er rands, and reached Leslie Stephen's where I had promised to meet L o w e l l at lunch, only at two o'clock. I n driving from the city I had been pained to see on the news boards, the telegraphic message from Avi gnon announcing M i l l ' s death. It was but the day before that we had first heard of his serious illness. H e will be greatly missed b y the best men; if his authority * Carlyle's tenderness for this c h i l d continued till his death, and showed itself i n various ways. I n a copy of his " C r o m w e l l " he added to the inscription, i n " t h e usual blue p e n c i l , " of her name and his, the words, in brackets, "to be read so soon as she is ten years o l d . " H i s last gift to her. his wife's silver etui, contains M r s . Carlyle's work-worn gold thimble, w i t h the words "All de mi" engraved upon it.

English as a thinker has been weakened b y his later essays, his moral influence has b y no means diminished. N o man has done more than he in E n g l a n d to keep the standard of thought high, and its quality pure. E v e r y man of thought, however he may have differed from h i m in opinion, has had an unqualified respect for M i l l . M y feeling for h i m has i n it a very tender element mingled w i t h respect. Susan's deep regard for h i m , the pleasant personal relations between us i n 1869, his marked kindness, the interest of his occasional letters,—all add a sense of private loss to the deeper sense of the public loss i n his death. In the first days of our stay i n L o n d o n , last autumn, I went out w i t h Chauncey Wright* to Blackheath, i n hope of finding M i l l there. It is a long time since some very interesting letters passed between them, and W right before returning home wanted to see M i l l . It was a very beautiful English autumn day; soft, misty, w i t h tender lights and colours. The air of B l a c k h e a t h P a r k was damp and heavy w i t h a u t u m n a l odours. The last time that I had walked along the pleasant way was full i n m y memory; and it was not discordant w i t h m y feeling to find the house deserted, the doorstep mossy and overgrown, and to learn that M i l l had left it more than a year before. The lease of the house, as I afterward heard, had run out, and M i l l now spent more time than ever at A v i g n o n . In the w inter, while I was i l l , M i l l was in London for a few weeks. I had no communication w i t h him,—though per haps I might have seen h i m toward the end of his stay. L a d y A m b e r l e y asked me to come one Sunday to meet M i l l , and Huxley, and Herbert Spencer, and Max M i d l e r ! A n d I might have gone, but such a congregation had no attrac tion for me. I would gladly have gone to see M i l l alone. T

r

Lowell was at the Stephens' before I reached there. It was the first time I had been in their pleasant new house, which is not yet in complete order,—No. 8, South,* An American philosopher, now little k n o w n , w i t h whose views Norton was in close s y m p a t h y , a n d for whose " P h i l o sophical Discussions" (1877) he wrote a biographical pref ace. See also the revelation of an interesting personality i n 'Letters of Chauncey W r i g h t , w i t h Some A c c o u n t of H i s « e , " by James B r a d l e y T h a y e r , 1878.

L

Friends

7S3

well Gardens. I was glad to see them in it, and to have a sight of their future home. T h e y were both very pleasant, but there was the tinge of sadness and last-ness over the hour. Leaving them I went to Carlyle's. H e received me w i t h even more than common affection. I was hardly seated when he s a i d — " A n d how are all your little folks? T h a t wee thing that I hear y o u call Gretchen, poor little dear, she thought I was very oonmindful of her the other day, and came feelin' i n m y pocket for the gift I ought to have brought her. A n d so I've put up a little packet for her, that y o u shall take to her with m y blessing." A n d so saying he handed me a little envelope on which was written i n his usual blue pencil, " Dear little Maggie Norton's little conquest i n E n g l a n d ! T o Papa's care.— T. C . 9 M a y , 1873."—When I opened it, after parting from Carlyle, I found the little packet contained some American postage stamps, and four little bits of our silver or nickel money, and on the inside paper was written: "Sent to frank Chelsea Autographs; couldn't act in that capacity; go now, as spolia opima, a better road!—T. C . ( M a y 1873)." T h e packet was sealed w i t h a seal bearing the word Entsagen.—Prettier, tenderer, sweeter gifts were never given to little children. As he put the little parcel into m y hands, Carlyle said, " I ' v e been thinkin' about your voyage, an' I've laid out here a few books that might amuse you. They're old books that maybe I should never open again if I kept them on m y shelves. I daresay you know this one, Scaligerana—it's not without its worth; not much wisdom i n it, but some curious learnin' and entertainment for a scholar. A n d this other old volume is one of a se ries, I believe, of Anecdotes as they were called, of different nations, published i n France some hundred years ago. T h i s is the only one I have,—'Anecdotes Arabes,' —but I've seen the 'Anecdotes Persanes.' I don't know, I never could find out who compiled the books, but they're done w i t h something varra like judgment, and are not deficient, so far as I ever discovered, in accurate statement. A n d here's that old beggar's story that I've so often spoken of to ye, it's not the best edition,

784

English o

for the first editions contain much about Fielding that's of interest, but it's all omitted from the book ' T h e A u t o b i o g raphy of Bamfylde M o o r e C a r e w ' as one finds it nowadays. T h i s was the best I could find for y o u ; it has some interest for y o u , for there's much about America in it, a curious picture of things i n V i r ginia. I've marked the passage which shows the year when he was over there. H e met Whitefield and practised his art on the good man. A t any rate, here it is for ye. I ' l l have all done up i n a parcel ready for your man if he can come for them." A n d as he went upstairs to put on his coat for the walk, he called M i s s Welsh, and begged her to do up the books that they might be ready when B l a k e should come for them. M i s s Welsh stayed with me while Car lyle was upstairs, very kindly, and simple, and a good friend for h i m . She spoke in a way that touched me of Carlyle's regret at m y departure; and she told me of the great interest he had taken i n the locket for S , and of the regret he felt when, too late, she had suggested to h i m that on the other side of the locket, within, to face the hair, should have been a little pho tographic miniature of himself. H e was very sorry not to complete his gift in this way. As we went out of the door I spoke to Carlyle of the sad news of M i l l ' s death. H e had not even heard of his illness, and he was deeply moved at hearing thus without preparation of his death. " W h a t ! John M i l l dead! Dear me, Dear me! John M i l l ! how did he die and whar? A n d it's so long since I've seen h i m , and he was the friendliest of men to me when I was i n need of friends. Dear me! it's all over now. I never knew a finer, tenderer, more sensitive or modest soul among the sons of men. There never was a more gener ous creature than he, nor a more modest. H e and I were great friends, an' when I was beginnin' to work on m y ' French R e v o l u t i o n ' there was no man from whom I got such help. H e had lived a long while as a y o u t h i n France, and he's made an excellent collection of books, and he'd observed much, and the R e v o l u t i o n had been a gret interest to h i m , and I learned much from talk with h i m , and

Friends n o t h i n ' w o u l d satisfy h i m but that I should have all his books that could be of any sort of use to me. A n d he was always for w a r d w i t h the most generous encourage ment, and as the book went on he began to think there never h a d been such a book written i n the warld,—a varra foolish piece o' friendliness,—and when the first volume was finished n o t h i n ' would serve him but that he should have it, and needs must take it to that w o m a n , M r s . Taylor, in whom he'd discovered so much that no one else could find. A n d so she had it at her house on the riverside at Kingston, and I never shall forget the dismay on John M i l l ' s face one day when he came to tell me that the housemaid had lighted the fire w i t h it, and it was gone. There's no denyin' it was a terrible blow! B u t he be haved i n an entirely generous and noble manner about it. B u t the year's hard work was gone,—and i t was a calamity quite irreparable.—Oh, as for her, I never heard that it very m u c h diminished her content i n l i f e . — A v a r r a noble soul was J o h n M i l l , quite sure, beautiful to think of. I never could find out what more than ordinary there was i n the woman he cared so much for; but there was absolute sin cerity i n his devotion to her. She was the daughter of a flourishing L o n d o n Unita rian tradesman, and her husband was the son of another, and the two families made the match. T a y l o r was a varra respect able man, b u t his wife found him dull; she had dark black, hard eyes, and an inquisitive nature, and was ponderin' on m a n y questions that worried her, and could get no answers to them, and that U n i t a r i a n clergyman that you've heard of, W i l l i a m F o x * b y name, told her at last that there was a young philosopher of very remarkable quality, w h o m he thought was just the man to deal w i t h her case. And so M i l l w i t h great difficulty was brought to see her, and that man, who, up to that time, had never so m u c h as looked at a female creature, not even a cow, in the face, found himself opposite those great dark eyes, that were flashing unutterable things while he was discoursin' the utterable consarnin' all sorts o' high topics." Carlyle went on to tell me that their inti macy grew, M i l l devoting himself to Mrs. * W i l l i a m J o h n s o n F o x , for w h o m South Place Chapel, in L o n d o n , was built.

English Friends Taylor, spending a l l his evenings and ev ery Sunday w i t h her, till officious friends suggested to M r . T a y l o r that he was let ting matters go too far; that he, good man, then interfered, and the result was that, a longer or shorter time afterward, M r . and Mrs. Taylor determined to have separate establishments, and that she took a small house at Kingston-on-Thames, where M i l l was in the habit of going on Saturdays to spend the next day, and whither C a r l y l e had sometimes been in his company. C a r lyle was convinced that their relations were entirely innocent; that the only blame which could be visited upon them was that, being deeply attached to each other, they had been perhaps too indiffer ent to M r . T a y l o r ' s feelings and interests, but of this inner part of their experience he (Carlyle) knew nothing. ( A n d this conviction I have found to be universal among those who have k n o w n M i l l most intimately; and it would be wholly i n dis accord with M i l l ' s principles, character and temperament, to suppose that the re lations between h i m and M r s . T a y l o r had ever been other than pure and innocent. It agrees with this that I heard, I forget from whom, i n the course of the past w i n ter, that M i l l had refused to become ac quainted with M r s . Lewes, had spoken i n terms of the strongest reprobation of her course, and had expressed himself very warmly as to the wrong committed b y her in its effect on society, and its influence on women exposed to temptation to violate the conventional relations between m a n and woman.) ' ' A t one time," continued C a r l y l e , " the poor woman became very feeble, and fan cied she was goin' to die, and she sent for me, and I went w i t h M i l l , and she wanted me to become trustee of such property as she had, for the benefit of her children. It was all varra pathetic, but I had to tell her that she couldn't have made a warse choice, that there was no m a n less fit to take charge of other people's property, for I could scarcely m i n d m y own, and that if by chance I ever happened to have a hundred pounds o' m y own I was alto gether at a loss to k n o w what to do w i t h i t . And I begged her to ask some one else, and to let me off, though I w a d gladly h a ' sarved her if I could. " Wull, J o h n M i l l and I were very near

785

friends for many years, and I know not what parted us, but I remember the last time we ever met. It was when your countrywoman, Margaret Fuller, was here. She brought me a letter from Emerson, to which I wanted to do hon our, and I determined to ask some o' the people she would like to see to meet her at dinner, and J o h n M i l l among them. A n d I went one day to the India House to invite h i m , and before I got there I met him coming along the street, and he re ceived me like the very incarnation o' the East W i n d , and refused m y invitation peremptorily. A n d from that day to this I've never set m y eyes upon h i m , and no word has passed between us. Dear me! A n d many a night have I laid awake t h i n k i n ' what it might be that had come between us, and never could I think o' the least thing, for I ' d never said a word nor harboured a thought about that man but of affection and kindliness. A n d many's the time I've thought o' writin' to h i m and sayin' ' J o h n M i l l , what is it that parts you and me?' B u t that's all over now. Never could I think o' the least thing, unless maybe it was this. One year the brother o' that man Cavaignac who was ruler for a time i n France,*—Godefroi Cavaignac, a man o' more capacity than his brother,— was over here from Paris, an' he told me o' meeting M i l l and M r s . Taylor somewhere in France not long before, eatin' grapes to gether off o' one bunch, like two love birds. A n d his description amused me, and I re peated it, without thinkin' any harm, to a man who was not always to be trusted, Charles Buller,f a man who made trouble w i t h his tongue, and I've thought that he might perhaps have told it to M i l l , and that M i l l might have fancied that I was making a jest o' what was most sacred to him; but I don't know if that was it, but it was the only thing I could ever think of that could ha' hurt him. " A n d after a time when T a y l o r died, he married the widow, and then he gave up all society, and refused all invitations, for he knew that hard things had been said about his wife and about himself, and he would see no one who was not ready to do her absolute honour. A n d they were al ways said to be very happy together, till * L o u i s Eugene Cavaignac, dictator i n 1848. t L i b e r a l politician, pupil of Carlyle.

786

T h e Catch

she died, and now he's gone after her whom he l o v e d . " A l l this talk went on as we walked up through the Chelsea Streets, b y Onslow Square, to Queen's Gate. A s we were going up Queen's Gate the rain began to fall and during one shower we sought shel ter under a porch. T h e shower passed and we started to walk again, but before we had reached the P a r k the rain began again, more heavily than ever, and put a stop to further walking. W e hailed a H a n s o m , and Carlyle said I might take h i m to Forster's, close by. W e parted i n the cab. " I ' m sorry to have ye go. T h e relations between us this winter have been very h u m a n e ; " were among his last words to me. H e was very grave, very tender, and m y last sight of h i m was as he waved

T H E

farewell to me w i t h his hand from Fors ter's door.* O n Tuesday, M a y 13, I breakfasted w i t h R u s k i n . A c l a n d f came in after breakfast full of zeal i n the defence of the D e a n of C h r i s t C h u r c h , and the new work and restorations of the C h u r c h itself. R u s k i n and I parted at the gate of Cor pus,—the last friend to w h o m I bid fare well in E n g l a n d . . . . A t two we left Oxford for Liverpool,— the last sight of the E n g l a n d of one's fancy and one's heart. * Carlyle wrote i n his note-book, 8 June, 1873: ''Emer son, and N o r t o n w i t h family, sailed for Boston from Liver pool, 15th of last m o n t h . K i n d parting from both, from N o r t o n almost a pathetic, not to meet again. t Sir H e n r y W e n t w o r t h A c l a n d , then Regius Professor of M e d i c i n e at Oxford.

CATCH

B y John K e n d r i c k Bangs I ' v e enjoyed the chase to-day T h r o u g h the w o o d l a n d w i l d . Fortune i n a lavish way H a t h m y heart beguiled. I have filled m y g a m e - b a g w e l l Better than I thought. F a t a n d teeming it d o t h swell W i t h the things I sought. Songs of birds, a n d songs of trees. G e n t l e whisperings of the breeze. S p l e n d i d mess of m o u n t a i n a i r . O d o r s of wild-flowers fair. H a p p y thoughts that grew apace A s I watched the rillets race. W o n d r o u s pictures i n the skies. V i s t a s "soft for t i r e d eyes. H i n t s of peace, a n d hints of rest. G o r g e o u s colors i n the west. Stores of g o l d flung f.ar a n d w i d e O ' e r the g l e a m i n g c o u n t r y - s i d e , A s the s u n s m i l e d o n the scene, L i g h t i n g u p the forest green. O the j o y , the g l a d delight, O the taste of b l iss, M a k i n g h o m e w a r d t h r o u g h the n i g h t W i t h a c a t c h like this!

THE

POINT OF VIEW

ST the V i c t o r i a n age e v e r y E n g l i s h girl of the smallest pretensions to education was able to sing—able, that is, to render a n old ballad " i n a sweet n a t u r a l voice, a l l the fresher for being u t t e r l y u n t r a i n e d . " H a r d l y a dinner-party dispersed, i f we m a y judge from c o n t e m p o r a r y novels, w i t h New Aspects o f out somebody's h a v i n g relieved Friendship the m o n o t o n y of the evening b y such a c o n t r i b u t i o n . T h e change to-day is great. A f t e r - d i n n e r s i n g i n g — e x c e p t t h a t k i n d w h i c h is h i r e d at great expense, a n d listened to f r o m rows of gilt c h a i r s — h a s practically disappeared, a n d its absence is due not to a n y decrease i n fresh u n t r a i n e d voices a m o n g performers, b u t to the i m mense increase of the c r i t i c a l faculty a m o n g listeners. T h e r e is no use i n arguing, as one so j u s t l y might, t h a t a great deal of simple enjoyment has been lost to us b y the elevation of our standards. T h e y are as high as t h e y are, and we can no more enjoy a n u n t r a i n e d b a l lad-singer t h a n such a singer c o u l d herself have enjoyed a n o v e l b y M e r e d i t h . Something v e r y s i m i l a r t o this has t a k e n place i n the field of friendship. I n o l d times it was enough for a person to l i v e i n o u r neighborhood, a n d to be well-disposed to ward ourselves, for a p r o m i s i n g friendship to flourish i m m e d i a t e l y . A s to k i n s h i p , every tie of that sort necessitated affection, and to criticise a m e m b e r of y o u r i m m e d i a t e f a m i l y was to arrogate t o yourself the h i g h p r i v i leges accorded solely to priests a n d parents. The consequence was t h a t a l l such relations presented a pale reflex of the m a r r i e d state of the d a y — s o m e t h i n g i n t o w h i c h the better people entered w i t h o u t choice a n d i n w h i c h they remained w i t h o u t c r i t i c i s m . W i t h m u c h the same loss t h a t accompanied the raising of our m u s i c a l standards we have become critical of o u r h u m a n surroundings —psychologically wide-awake. E a r l y i n an acquaintance we k n o w , a n d we are expected to know, the turns of phrase, the lines of thought, the peculiarities of m a n n e r w h i c h denote egotism, shiftiness, v a n i t y , or a n y of the less c r i m i n a l defects t h a t m a k e i n t i m a c y VOL.

LIII.—69

so difficult to m a i n t a i n . W e choose a friend as carefully as we choose a picture, a n d i f he prove u n w o r t h y he does not bear the o d i u m alone. W e , too, are liable to blame for h a v ing used our powers of selection i l l . E v e r y b o d y is expected to recognize the responsi b i l i t y c o n v e y e d i n the little girl's answer t o her m o t h e r : " W e l l , y o u choosed m y father." H o w seldom we hear the expression " a false friend " ; how often the phrase, " a poor judge of m e n , " is o n o u r lips. Contrast o u r attitude to-day w i t h t h a t w h i c h D a r c y encountered—and w i t h w h i c h Jane A u s t e n seems to s y m p a t h i z e — w h e n he was considered proud, haughty, a n d even rude, not because he judged his fellow-beings b y false standards, b u t merely because he hesitated to take u p the b o n d of i n t i m a c y , unsight, unseen, w i t h a l l the members of a c o u n t r y c o m m u n i t y . H e was not d i s l o y a l , nor even o v e r - c r i t i c a l ; he s i m p l y took time to choose. U n h a p p i l y , poor m a n , he l i v e d a hundred years too soon. T o - d a y , even before his reformation, he w o u l d have been accounted an excellent hero. H e took his responsibilities i n good f a i t h ; he exercised the great modern virtue—selectiveness.

I T H this change i n o u r m e t h o d of choosing o u r friends has come a change i n o u r m e t h o d of dealing w i t h t h e m . I n o l d times, it appears, one d i d not discuss one's friends. T o - d a y t h e y f o r m a most delightful subject of conversation. T h e reason is clear. I n the days and when they came like good o r b a d of Friends weather we n a t u r a l l y d i d not wish to r u n the risk of being made discontented w i t h a c o n d i t i o n we c o u l d not alter. W e h a d not, to be c a n d i d , enough confidence i n our friends to enjoy listening to c r i t i c i s m of t h e m . B u t to-day, h a v i n g p i c k e d t h e m out b y the most rigorous processes, we, i n the language of advertisement, challenge inves tigation. U n f o r t u n a t e l y , it is not o n l y from w i t h o u t that such c r i t i c i s m is heard. I t rises some times w i t h i n o u r o w n breasts. I t was n o t 787

788

T h e Point of V i e w

q u i t e accurate to say t h a t we choose a friend as we do a picture, w h i c h , once bought, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, m u s t h a n g on our walls as i t is. W e do not, as a rule, a t t e m p t to t o u c h it up ourselves. B u t w i t h a friend a certain a m o u n t of r e m o d e l l i n g is possible, is indeed i n e v i t a b l e , most of it a slow subconscious process, b u t some of it excessively definite a n d v o c a l . M a n y people w i l l a l w a y s feel w i t h C a s sius: " A friendly eye h a d never seen s u c h f a u l t s . " T h e tone-deaf m u s t a l w a y s find the d i s c r i m i n a t i o n s of the m u s i c i a n at the best fantastic, at the worst insincere. T o m a n y a c r i t i c a l a t t i t u d e i n regard to themselves is i n itself an offence; yet to ask us to be w i t h out it is like a s k i n g a t w e n t i e t h - c e n t u r y eye to accept a t w e l f t h - c e n t u r y n o t i o n of per spective. W e cannot help i t ; we have been t r a i n e d to see. T h e o n l y question is w h a t use shall we m a k e of our knowledge. S h a l l we be silent, a n d , w h e n the t i m e comes, pre fer to w i t h d r a w from a friendship rather t h a n to deface it w i t h c r i t i c i s m ; or shall we take our part i n t r y i n g to m a k e i t w h a t we wish it to be? I n the l a t t e r case we are called u p o n to practise a subtle a n d dangerous art —the art of c o n v e y i n g adverse c r i t i c i s m to those we love. T h e whole difficulty, it m a y be, is one of approach. M o s t people w o u l d l i k e to i m prove—painlessly, if possible. T h e y h a i l w i t h gratitude those ideas i n books, sermons, and plays w h i c h have cleared their m o r a l v i sion. I t is o n l y the personal h o s t i l i t y of v e r b a l c r i t i c i s m that t h e y dread—the m a n ner more t h a n the m a t t e r of w h a t we have to say. I f we are not careful, before we have cleared our throat a n d pressed our finger tips together a friend's heart m a y have been i r r e v o c a b l y hardened against us. E v e r y b o d y is a tribe i n himself, a n d the p r o b l e m is to k n o c k i n such a w a y t h a t the r i g h t person answers the door. C o n s c i o u s of the brisk i n t e g r i t y of our purpose we m a y r a p so s h a r p l y at the p o r t a l t h a t the walls w i l l be m a n n e d a n d the b o i l i n g lead made r e a d y before ever the gates are u n b a r r e d ; a n d we m a y count ourselves fortunate if o u r o w n failings are not made the object of a sally. The successful, the c o n s t r u c t i v e c r i t i c of his friends must learn, not o n l y , as the o l d rhetoric books tell us, force, clearness, a n d coherence, b u t so wise a t o u c h on the k n o c k e r t h a t the sage comes to the door a n d not the w a r r i o r .

si the d a y s w h e n M a t t h e w A r n o l d was more often read t h a n he is at present, one m i g h t h a v e been f a m i l i a r w i t h a pas sage i n his essay o n E m e r s o n i n w h i c h he t o l d h o w , o n A r t h u r S t a n l e y ' s once speak i n g to some A m e r i c a n s a b o u t the poet, t h e y r e m a r k e d t h a t t h e y d i d not Expressing care for h i m — t h a t he was too National Characteristics " g r e e n y " for t h e i r taste. T h e o p i n i o n of these persons was not o n l y amus ing b u t significant. I t is a c o m m o n thing for the people of a c o u n t r y not to recognize themselves i n the p o r t r a i t u r e of writers whose p a r t i c u l a r m o d e of expression does not especially a p p e a l to the m a j o r i t y . The foreigner " s p o t s " the representative trait, where the n a t i v e finds fault w i t h the gar m e n t it wears, a n d denies t h a t he " i s like t h a t at a l l . " A l m o s t a n y lettered English m a n w i l l declare t h a t E m e r s o n , or, at the op posite pole, W a l t W h i t m a n , let us say, speaks out of the soul of A m e r i c a . B u t v e r y many A m e r i c a n s fail to feel the fact, because they k n o w too m a n y t h i n g s about themselves that neither E m e r s o n n o r W a l t W h i t m a n gave voice to, a n d because the m a t t e r which they do recognize as f a m i l i a r t h e y are congenit a l l y averse to seeing p u t f o r t h i n anything resembling the r h a p s o d i c guise. T h o u g h i t is a far c r y from the works of the poets, one wonders whether something s i m i l a r m a y not be t a k i n g place i n this coun t r y w i t h a m u c h - d e s p i s e d f o r m of popular music. E v e r y t r a v e l l e r to E u r o p e i n recent days has h a d the o p p o r t u n i t y of observing the interest s h o w n i n A m e r i c a n tunes and dance r h y t h m s w h i c h , as associated in his m i n d w i t h forms of a m u s e m e n t not neces s a r i l y of the highest class, c e r t a i n l y do not strike h i m as w o r t h y of b e i n g thought rep r e s e n t a t i v e l y A m e r i c a n . W e have, we justly say, A m e r i c a n composers of distinction. E x c e p t as t h e y d i v e r t us i n o u r lighter mo ments, we do not, we beg to remark, count our " r a g - t i m e a r t i s t s " as m u c h w o r t h con sidering, in a n y sense. B u t one meets intel ligent m u s i c i a n s a b r o a d w h o have another v i e w . T h e y d o n ' t r e g a r d A m e r i c a n popu lar m u s i c as b e i n g a n y n o b l e r i n tone than we do ourselves; b u t t h e y do find it techni c a l l y n e w ; t h e y do find t h a t it is original, t h a t i t leads i n a fresh d i r e c t i o n . We see n o t h i n g i n i t to t a k e seriously. T h e y appear sometimes to be of the o p i n i o n that, as a new f o r m , a departure, i t m a y h a v e a greater ar t i s t i c v a l u e t h a n t h a t of m a n y correct and

T h e Point of V i e w academic c o m p o s i t i o n s t h a t follow accepted formulas. I t is not m e r e l y t h a t people i n the streets, and the p u b l i c of the music-halls, are caught, as t h e y are w i t h us, b y these fan tastic syncopations. N o t m e r e l y that an Oxonian can be q u o t e d , almost seriously, as saying that the " b e s t c o n t r i b u t i o n the A m e r ican Rhodes scholar m a k e s to O x f o r d is the 'rags' he brings w i t h h i m . " T h e d i s c r i m i nating seem to half-suggest to us that we may have i n these v u l g a r measures some thing more v a l u a b l e t h a n we grasp; some thing w h i c h belongs p e c u l i a r l y to us, a n d which m a y c o n t a i n the germs of a greater development—something, i n short, to be 'called national.

7S9

were said to be too cerebral i n a l l our artistic work, a n d not r a c y enough; too refined, and not spontaneous. Folk-songs, folk-lore, n a t i o n a l dances, n a t i o n a l epics, the full-flavored welling up from the soil of the love a n d the j o y of life—these, we were r e m i n d e d , were the heritage of the older, artistic peoples, whence a l l great n a t i o n a l art h a d sprung. B u t were not a l l these p o p u l a r art-expres sions rude, not to say coarse? T h e y were; a n d this t r u t h m i g h t possibly c o n t a i n the needed comfort for those who object to the present character of p o p u l a r music w i t h us, as well as to the new modes of d a n c i n g w h i c h p r o b a b l y spring therefrom. T h e y are not classic. Perhaps, on the other h a n d , they A n interesting side-light o n this m a t t e r express a certain love of strong m e c h a n i c a l came from M . P i e r r e L o t i ' s recent v i s i t to excitement w h i c h does appear to be an A m e r New Y o r k . I t was k n o w n to those w h o met i c a n t r a i t ; and, i n so far, they m a y represent him while he w as here t h a t he took s m a l l i n one phase of our life. T h e j u x t a p o s i t i o n m a y terest in m a n y of the things t h a t one m i g h t seem rather startling, but they represent us, have supposed l i k e l y to engage his a t t e n t i o n . perhaps, i n one of our elements, as the otherHe appeared to have his o w n w a y of gather worldliness a n d the s p i r i t u a l i t y of E m e r s o n ing impressions; a n d those he received were represent us, i n another. I n a n y case, we mainly of the masses of things, a n d of the have i n b o t h instances been reminded, as soul, as it were, t h a t detaches itself from just it happens, t h a t we don't see ourselves ex such masses; from i n a n i m a t e objects, from a c t l y as others see us—and that is a l w a y s a buildings and signs, a n d f r o m the i n a r t i c u thought w o r t h pondering. late crowds i n the streets. W h a t he wished was, apparently, to " s e n s e " the " p o p u l a r " note of A m e r i c a . B u t the r e a l l y new idea N the village where I l i v e — a n d it is o n to the genuine A m e r i c a n is t h a t there should the whole a v e r y pleasant village, a m i be such a t h i n g as a " p o p u l a r " A m e r i c a , i n able, well-informed, progressive—there anything like the E u r o p e a n m e a n i n g . W e is one t h i n g that troubles me because of its have held that we were a l l so m u c h the p r o d unfortunate s y m b o l i s m . N a t u r a l l y , there ucts of the same i n s t i t u t i o n s , and a l l so m u c h are other things that trouble me for other on an equality, t h a t the m a n ' i n the street reasons t h a n s y m b o l i s m — b u t one Weather-Vanes generally thought a n d l i k e d , m i n o r differ p o i n t of view at a time. The on C h u r c h e s ences aside, w h a t the m a n i n the m a n s i o n c h u r c h spire is t i p p e d b y a weatherthought and l i k e d . I t was so i n P u r i t a n v a n e ; i r o n rods d i v e r g i n g from a centre bear New E n g l a n d ; it was so i n the pioneer W e s t . gilded letters, N . E . S. W . , w h i c h p o i n t this Perhaps, however, i t is b e g i n n i n g not to be w a y a n d that, veering w i t h every w i n d that so, i n the same measure, n o w . P e r h a p s blows. It is a h i g h l y sensitive weatherthe man in the street has his o w n definite vane, a n d reflects w i t h delicate a c c u r a c y the thoughts a n d likes, n o w a d a y s , w h i c h he shifting of the l i t t l e breezes, a n d lesser cur freely expresses w i t h o u t the l e a d i n g of the rents of the upper air. more sophisticated, a n d w h i c h these, indeed, W e have not yet gone so far i n our t r i barely understand. T h a t w o u l d account for u m p h a n t l y matter-of-fact c i v i l i z a t i o n as to some of these p o p u l a r m u s i c a l manifesta forget the use of s y m b o l ; it still plays a tions w h i c h the j u d i c i o u s deplore as cheap s u r p r i s i n g l y large part i n our lives. N o t h and debasing. i n g else brings b a c k so p o i g n a n t l y o l d It is to be r e m e m b e r e d i n this connec faiths a n d o l d hopes. Sometimes the re tion also, t h a t the j u d i c i o u s have l i k e w i s e m i n d e r is almost too keen, a n d the v i v i d re deplored precisely the fact, h i t h e r t o , t h a t we call of ideals i n their pristine g l o r y makes had no p o p u l a r art-expression of a n y sort. us aware t h a t t h e y have faded a n d g r o w n That was h e l d to be our f a t a l l a c k . W e d i m w i t h passing years. I n witnessing the r

790

The

P o i n t of

cruelties practised or condoned by so-called Christian nations, the massacres unpunished, the new freedom trampled out, we are at times unbearably conscious of the meaning of the cross. No, we must not let the symbol go; it still stands, in an unimaginative age, as evidence of profound use of the imagina tion; it is of incalculable worth in recalling us from the shows of things to a sense of eternal values. B u t if flag and pennant still flutter in token of our serious intent; if cartoon and caricature still bear witness to our humorous use of symbol, which significance, the serious or the humorous, should be attached to our practice of putting weather-vanes on church spires? Old-fashioned meeting-houses with faded green blinds nestle among elms and maples; tall white spires still point heaven ward, but many of them wear this smart device to tell which way the wind blows. Hamlet said he was " but mad north-north west"; are we but religious north-north west also, or east, as the wind of opinion may blow? It is unpleasantly suggestive of faith rationalized, faith that is a matter of changing thought, not of steady, heaven ward-pointing hope founded on something more solid than the play of mere intellect. The old-fashioned Catholic church does bet ter, at least in the matter of the symbol on its spires; there shines the cross, against the blue of noonday, or golden against gray gathering clouds; and there is no gainsay ing, no evading, its unchanging significance. I am ardently democratic, but I am begin ning to wonder if the spirit of demos has not eaten too far into our very bones. Must this constant endeavor to turn opinion to the changing public mind be a necessary out come of democracy? I miss people of con viction in these my later years, though I re member that, in my days of youth, I should have been grateful if some of the surrounding articles of faith had been less of a cast-iron mould. Perfect adjustment of individual conviction to the rights of other people and the rights of the future is rare, and few of our forebears achieved it; but it has yet to be proved that entire letting go works out more beneficially for the race than that determined holding on of years gone by. There are times when I would gladly exchange the company of my most complacent contemporary, who will agree to anything with anybody, for

View

that of my grimmest ancestor, who was convinced that the perfect understanding of his creed was shared only by himself and God. We veer and shift too readily, trying to find the exact path of the prevailing mind. In the voting that I do, concerning, for the most part, educational matters, I cannot help feeling that there is often less clear-cut individual conviction on the part of the mem bers of the voting body than desire to be one of the majority, to seem good fellows, to be " i n with the boys." Y e t the people consid ering educational questions are doubtless among the most enlightened in the country. There is a hasty glance round, when any new opinion is launched, to see what the others are thinking-, there is an unconfessed feeling that the important thing is to get the sum total of expressions. I do not like these questioning glances. It is well not to be too isolated, and he with whom no one agrees is doubtless insane, but I cannot help thinking that vox populi should hush itself now and then to see whether it really is vox dei. We nowadays take counsel too much with our contemporaries, and do not admit our fore bears sufficiently to those decisions wherein they still have a right to speak. As I look back on history it seems to me, as more than one thinker has suggested, that the majority have seldom found out anything, whether in matters spiritual or temporal, without the leadership of some nobler and more gifted soul. One man's unswerving faith in the fine and high outweighs, in the long run; ten thousand wavering voices from the shifting, unsure mass. . . . There is that weather-vane again! It keeps getting in my line of vision, as I look from the green hill to westward, as I come out from the sunken walk along the aque duct, and see, beyond the grass-grown path and the deep-foliaged trees, its gilded letters shining significantly in the sun. I cannot get away from it! A n d it gives its inevi table suggestion of unstable force, enduring at most but a few hours. As I passed, on a clouded day last week, religion seemed nor'-nor'-east, while, on a sunny afternoon —it was but yesterday—faith was blowing due south. H o w it whips about in a real gale! When will the churches take off their weather-vanes, and leave their spires point ing to the north star?

•THE

FIELD OF

H o l f o r d Landscape.

ART-

B y M e i n d e r t Hobbema.

From the Morgan Collection in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

THE

PAINTINGS MR.

IN J.

PIERPONT

THE

COLLECTION

OF

MORGAN

H E counsel for the Association of A m e r i c a n Painters a n d Sculptors, M r . J o h n Q u i n n , i n presenting to the House Committee on W a y s a n d M e a n s , at Washington, J a n u a r y 30, 1913, a brief i n favor of repealing the present d u t y o n con temporary art, after reciting the accepted arguments i n favor of u n t a x e d i m p o r t a t i o n — " A tax on art is a tax o n culture a n d educa tion," " T h e U n i t e d States is the o n l y c i v i l ized country i n the w o r l d that places a tax upon art," etc.—went on to declare that "the educational value of c o n t e m p o r a r y l i v i n g art is greater t h a n the e d u c a t i o n a l value of his toric paintings or o l d art, however i n t r i n sically interesting or i m p o r t a n t . " T h i s dis tinction between the value of the new a n d the old is scarcely w o r t h m a k i n g ; a n d M r . Quinn's statement m a y be d o u b t e d . Civil ization never progressed b y b u r n i n g its bridges behind i t ; it is as i m p o r t a n t to m a i n tain communications w i t h the base of sup plies as to push forward i n t o an u n k n o w n country on which alone—it is probable— this army cannot live a n d t h r i v e . I n this maintaining connection w i t h t r a d i t i o n , i n VOL. L I I L — 7 0

founding the new views and the new devel opments on " t h e o l d t r u t h and beauty," all good art comes more or less under the defini tion which has been given to the " c l a s s i c . " T h a t development and exploitation of the i n d i v i d u a l , which is held to be of so m u c h importance to the painter and sculptor, can best be brought about i n the ways of con t i n u i t y and general cognizance: "as i n water," sayeth the Scripture, "face answereth to face, so the heart of m a n to m a n . " Certes, that artist who—whatever the new call which he feels stirring w i t h i n h i m — c a n go carefully through the collection of foreign paintings belonging to M r . Pierpont M o r g a n , recently placed on exhibition i n one of the galleries of the M e t r o p o l i t a n M u s e u m of A r t , and not find his ideas and sensations, h u m a n a n d technical (and if his h u m a n i t y be starved so w i l l be his art), enriched either b y encour agement and suggestion or b y entirely new things—if from a l l these pictures he gains nothing, then is he, like Touchstone's shep herd, " i n a parlous state." A n d if the artist, and likewise the layman, be thus bene fited, the c o m m u n i t y at large profits thereby. A t t e n t i o n has been called b y some c o m m e n tators, t a k i n g this e x t r a o r d i n a r y collection 791

792

T h e F i e l d of A r t

I n thus raising the s t a n d a r d , b o t h of the for a text, to the v e r y great advantages en n a t i o n ' s art treasures a n d of its appreciation j o y e d b y those who are now l i v i n g i n the matter of acquaintance w i t h the art a n d cult of t h e m , these munificent p r i v a t e a n d public ure of the past, owing to the development collections m a y be of service i n increasing of m o d e r n facilities a n d methods: ' ' I t has its productiveness. I t w o u l d be strange if a collection planned been o n l y i n our o w n d a y , " says M r . H u m p h r y W a r d , i n his i n t r o d u c t i o n to M r . u p o n such b r o a d lines as this, a n d w i t h a dis M o r g a n ' s sumptuous catalogue, " s i n c e the c r i m i n a t i n g j u d g m e n t , a n d not altogether rise of p u b l i c galleries, a n d since the begin unfavored b y fortune i n the matter of un n i n g of scientific criticism, that R e m b r a n d t ' s u s u a l chances to purchase, should not have works have not o n l y been collected w i t h become m o n u m e n t a l . W e are informed that passion, but classified, catalogued, a n d c o m it was begun somewhere about 1892; that pared w i t h real t h o r the i n t e n t i o n at first oughness. S u c h cata was apparently merely loguing a n d such c r i t to supplement the small icism was i m p o s s i b l e collection made b y M r . before the days of m o d J u n i u s M o r g a n , which ern photography, w h i c h c o n s i s t e d largely of gives us perfect records modern p i c t u r e s and of a l l k n o w n pictures, drawings, w i t h one or a n d thus enables the t w o fine works of the scientific critic to have early E n g l i s h school ac all his evidence under q u i r e d later i n his life. his eye at once." A n d B u t this modest filial the special advantages m o t i v e was gradually enjoyed b y the i n h a b i replaced b y a desire to tants of t h e U n i t e d possess i n paintings at States, millionaires' l e a s t one or two ex country, have also been amples of each of the d w e l t upon—compla great schools, and these cently at home a n d en the finest that could be viously a b r o a d . T h e o b t a i n e d ; of the Eng prices of paintings of l i s h a n d F r e n c h schools certain schools, those Portrait of a C h i l d . Artist u n k n o w n . Spanish of the eighteenth cen a d m i t t e d to that " o d d School, 164-? t u r y n a t u r a l predilec From the Morgan Collection in the Metropolitan h i e r a r c h y , " says M r . Museum uf Art. tions led to the acquire W a r d , ' ' the class of mas m e n t of a m u c h greater ters w h o m the collectors a n d museums con sider w o r t h their n o t i c e , " have been pushed number. Q u i t e d e p a r t i n g from the usual up to such enormous sums that the regular custom of c o n t e m p o r a r y collectors there have grants made b y foreign governments to their not been secured a n y examples of the Barofficial museums are entirely inadequate, a n d b i z o n painters, but m a n y of the older schools have to be supplemented, on great occasions, are represented, a n d some of t h e m b y works b y special appropriations or b y appeals for w h i c h are u n r i v a l l e d . I t was not the inten private subscriptions. A recent w r i t e r i n t i o n to undertake to represent the Dutch the New York Evening Sun asks: " W h a t , a n d F l e m i s h pictures w i t h anything like for instance, w o u l d the special grant of completeness, i n landscape, genre, or marine; $100,000 to the N a t i o n a l G a l l e r y have b u t the names t h a t appear are the great amounted to h a d M r . M o r g a n been as active ones, R e m b r a n d t , H a l s , R u b e n s , V a n Dyck, as he is to-day when the H a m i l t o n Collec H o b b e m a , A e l b e r t C u y p , a n d Caspar Nettion was s o l d ? " It is the p u b l i c - s p i r i t e d scher. O f the I t a l i a n pictures there are but p r i v a t e collector who has enabled this coun t w o , a R a p h a e l a n d a C a n a l e t t o , separated t r y to repair, i n great measure, its o w n lack b y a p e r i o d of more t h a n two centuries; of an historic a n d cultured past; but our a n d of the first, it is stated that it is the sympathies m a y well go out to the despoiled most i m p o r t a n t w o r k of art ever brought to foreigner, partner though he be i n his o w n this c o u n t r y , m u c h the most important work undoing. of the artist t h a t has appeared i n the market since the A n s i d e i M a d o n n a was purchased

T h e Field of A r t by the B r i t i s h N a t i o n a l G a l l e r y , a n d p r o b ably more i m p o r t a n t t h a n a n y other t h a t ever w i l l come o n the m a r k e t . " S h o r t of the possibilities of wars a n d r e v o l u t i o n s , "

793

I t was p a i n t e d for the nuns of the C o n v e n t of Saint A n t h o n y of P e r u g i a , a n d was t a k e n to S p a i n i n the baggage of F r a n c i s I I , K i n g of the T w o Sicilies, when d r i v e n from his

V i r g i n and C h i l d E n t h r o n e d with Saints. K n o w n as the Coloniia Madonna by Raphael. From the Morgan Collection in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

says M r . W a r d , " i t is not easy to see where the next great R a p h a e l is to come from. T h e great p r i v a t e houses of E n g l a n d still contain three or four M a d o n n a s , pictures of s m a l l size, but of the large altar pieces outside the churches a n d museums, the A n s i d e i M a donna, the D u d l e y C r u c i f i x i o n , a n d the M a donna d i S a n t ' A n t o n i o (the present one) were the l a s t . " T h e A n s i d e i M a d o n n a was purchased b y the authorities of the N a t i o n a l Gallery from the D u k e of M a r l b o r o u g h , i n 1884, for ^70,000; like this one it was fin ished i n 1505, after R a p h a e l ' s visit to F l o r ence, but is smaller i n size, h a v i n g four figures only, while this contains seven exclusive of those i n the lunette above.

throne into exile, i n 1861. Sir W i l l i a m Gregory, a trustee of the N a t i o n a l G a l l e r y , hearing that it might be purchased, went to D i s r a e l i , then i n office, a n d — a c c o r d i n g to the story—was p r o m p t l y t o l d to "get i t . " T h e F r e n c h , hearing of these dispositions, h a d the picture brought to P a r i s a n d ex h i b i t e d i n the Salle des B a t a i l l e s de L e B r u n , in the L o u v r e ; the E m p r e s s E u g e n i e a n d the P a r i s i a n press were v e r y desirous of securing it for the L o u v r e , at the price asked, a m i l l i o n francs, but the outbreak of the w a r w i t h G e r m a n y i n the s p r i n g of 1870 pre vented. T h e picture was lent b y its r o y a l owner to the S o u t h K e n s i n g t o n M u s e u m , a n d after his death his heirs decided to dis-

794

The

Field

pose of it. Vasari says: " T o these two holy virgins, Santa Cecilia and Santa Catarina, the master has given the most lovely features and the most graceful attitudes; he has also adorned them with the most fanci ful and varied head-dresses that could be imagined—a very unusual thing at the time.'' On the shoulder of the Infant's tunic is em broidered the scapular of Saint Anthony of Padua; the complete clothing of the two chil dren was in accordance with the scruples of "these simple and pious ladies." Of the brilliant collection of French paint ings of the eighteenth century only a very few were shown in the Metropolitan M u seum gallery; among them was an admi rable pastel portrait of Madame de Mondonville, by L a Tour—a beautiful example of the art of lifting the vivid presentation of a sitter, feminine and distinguished, into the realms of high art. To go from this life like rendering of a serene and charming lady on one wall to Rembrandt's, of one Nicolaes Ruts (1631), on another, appreciatively, was to acquire a liberal education in the art of portrait-painting. If M r . Morgan's two ex amples of Frans Hals, De Heer Bodolphe and his wife Vrouw Bodolphe, in another gallery had been visited also, the intelligent visitor could have taken a post-graduate course. In commenting upon the exhibition of these last two canvases in Agnews' Galleries in November and December, 1906, the London Times said regretfully: " M r . Pierpont M o r gan lately bought them from the Graf M n i szech collection in Paris, and intends to lend them to the Metropolitan Museum, New York. It may be permitted us to envy that museum its good fortune, for already, among the Marquand pictures, it possesses two fine Hals of similar size to these, whereas our National Gallery is in this respect far behind all other first-rate collections. . . . " From these to the Fragonards, Bouchers, Lancrets, Natiers, and Paters of this collec tion is a long cry; and the journey is well worth taking. It might even be said that, from the collector's point of view, from the educator's, from that of the general student of man and his civilizations, these paintings are among the most valuable. Contem porary art can furnish nothing like them; it may be doubted if the art of the future ever will. A n d to remain ignorant of them, or to repudiate them, would be deplorable. Peculiarly interesting are the first three or four pictures of Fragonard's series, Roman

of A r t

d'Amour de la Jeunesse, commenced about 1772, intended for the new Pavilion of Louveciennes, built by Ledoux for Madame D u Barry, but never placed there. The first two show this art at its soap-bubble best; in the first of all, La Pour suite, ou La Vierge et VAmour, the head of the youthful lover, tilted on one side in his earnestness, silky-haired, diffident, pleading, expressing a boyish timidity too charming to be real, and the wild panic of the little vierge at the mere sight of his proffered rose, are both delicately admirable. I n the second scene, La Rendezvous, the lovers are both older, and are said to be undoubtedly intended for Louis X V (made fifty years younger than he was at the time) and Madame D u Barry; the figure of the girl is very handsome, beau tifully balanced and composed, and her ex pression of apprehension and the sweeping gesture of her rounded young arms quite appropriate to the roses around her. There are also four Paters, examples of his beauti ful Fetes Champetres, inspired by Watteau's, and the success of which, we are told, was said at the time to have been the cause of the estrangement between the two painters. The portraits selected from the collection for exhibition in the Metropolitan Museum included a Velasquez, the Infanta Maria The resa,at the age of ten or thereabouts; a stately and beautiful full-length Van Dyck of a Gen oese lady and child, whose identity is, rather curiously, not fully determined, and another, of the second E a r l of Warwick; several by Rubens; and a most valuable and important representation of the English portraitists of the eighteenth century—including the famous and much discussed Duchess of Devonshire; and—according to M r . Ward—"what is by common consent the most attractive Law rence in the world." Certainly that desirable art of giving a beautiful sitter a setting and a representation that are worthy of her is well exemplified in this portrait of the charming Miss Farren. A n d the spirit of the landscape painting of to-day may pause long before the Hobbema and the Constable seen in this gallery—canvases in which it would seem that the old artist had taken a somewhat broader and more comprehensive view of his mission, occupied himself with a fuller presentation of a larger aspect of nature, and with the building up of a composition that should be varied, detailed, lighted, atmos pheric, and approached with something like ambition. WILLIAM WALTON.

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

49

Waltham Watches Wedding gifts which are at once beautiful, useful, and appealing equally to the bride and groom, are rarer than a day i n J u n e . T o persons of taste, we c o m m e n d this new Waltham idea, the mere description of which is sufficient praise. W e have arranged combinations of h i g h grade W a l t h a m movements i n corresponding cases and i n suitable sizes, the pair being contained i n an exquisite leather box which can afterwards be used as a jewel case. ( T h e man's watch shown i n the illustration is openface but the back o f the case is s h o w n to i n dicate the engraving). T h e sets complete

range in price from $100 to $400. T i m e is the stuff that life is made of, and what wedding gift could be more suitable for those who are to spend their lives together than timepieces which beat as one? A m o n g other wedding gifts this W a l t h a m c o m b i n a tion will be noteworthy, original, distinctive. If your jeweler has not yet secured any of these sets, we request that y o u write for our free booklet. W e will also take pleasure i n arranging for y o u to see the actual sets, if desired, without any obligation on your part. W h e n writing please mention the " B r i d e and G r o o m " booklet.

For a graduation gift do not forget the supremacy of the Waltham (Riverside)

Watch

Waltham Watch Company

Waltham, Mass


MAGAZINE

SCRIBNER'S

50

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

Lobby, Baltimore Hotel, Kansas City, M o .

D o you get the most from your light ? T h e most decorative effect ? T h e most for what you pay the lighting company? Your light ought to make the work of the eyes easy and pleasant — ought to bring out all the beauty of the room — ought to be suitable, so as to be an added beauty in itself. It ought to show you and your guests at your best and make your home most attractive and enjoyable in every way.

Shades and Globes make most of the difference between this and common light. They make a great deal of difference in your lighting bills, too. W e make all kinds of shades and globes — combine the decorative qualities with a high degree of efficiency. A n d every MacbethEvans product is the best that can be made of its variety. S e n d y o u r a d d r e s s f o r C a t a l o g u e N o 4 2 - C o f S h a d e s a n d G l o b e s — t h e finest h o m e - l i g h t i n g b o o k ever i s s u e d . ( C a t a l o g u e N o 4 7 - C of A l b a L i g h t i n g F i x t u r e s f o r offices, stores a n d a l l public buildings.)

Macbeth-Evans Glass Company R e g , U . S. Pat.

Oft.

Pittsburgh

Sales and Showrooms also i n N e w Y o r k , C h i c a g o , P h i l a d e l p h i a , St L o u i s , B o s t o n and Toronto


MAGAZINE

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51

The Victor system of changeable needles is the only way to get the perfect tone Full tone

Victrola Needle 30 cents f o r 200

Medium tone

V i c t o r Needle 5 cents p e r 100 50 cents p e r 1000

Soft tone

Victor H a l f - T o n e N e e d l e 5 c e n t s p e r 100 50 c e n t s p e r iooo

Subdued tone

Victor Fibre Needle So cents p e r 100 (can be r e p o i n t e d a n d used e i g h t t i m e s )

The perfect tone—the tone you like the best—is different with different selections. Y o u will never be satisfied with any musical instrument which does not respond to your individual tastes and requirements. How many times have you been actually irritated by hear ing music played too loud, too fast, too slow, too low, or in some way which did not answer your desire at the moment? The only way you can be sure of having your music exactly the way you want it is to own an instrument which you can control at all times to suit your varying desires. V i c t o r C h a n g e a b l e Needles enable y o u t o exercise this c o n t r o l , t o g i v e a n y selection the exact tone you w i s h , a n d t o m a k e the instrument constantly adaptable to y o u r different m o o d s a n d y o u r v a r i e d demands for m u s i c a l entertainment i n y o u r h o m e . V i c t o r C h a n g e able N e e d l e s c a n thus be c o m p a r e d t o the pedals of the p i a n o , the stops of w i n d instruments, o r the b o w i n g of the v i o l i n . C o n t r a s t these advantages of the V i c t o r change able needle s y s t e m w i t h the o l d style fixed o r u n changeable p o i n t i n other instruments, where all records must be played exactly alike a n d where there is n o p o s s i b i l i t y of c h a n g i n g the s o u n d v o l u m e o r the tone q u a l i t y . Because the V i c t o r is a l w a y s subject t o y o u r complete con trol, i t gives y o u more entertainment, more v a r i e t y , more personal, i n d i v i d u a l satisfaction d a y i n and day out.

A n y V i c t o r dealer w i l l gladly play any music you w i s h to hear and demonstrate the value of the changeable needle.

"HIS MASTERS VOICE'

Victor T a l k i n g M a c h i n e C o . , C a m d e n , N . J . , U . S . A . Berliner Gramophone Co., Montreal, Canadian Distributors.

New

V i c t o r R e c o r d s a r e o n sale at a l l dealers o n the 2 8 t h of e a c h m o n t h

m SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

52

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

GRAFLEX ccameras No camera is so good as the Grailex for making pictures of children. Indoors or in the shade snapshots may be made fast enough to secure perfect pictures.

Y o u can photograph o n dark days when you use a Craflex. This picture was made on a rainy, heavily clouded day in December.

T h e GraHex is best for those who •" hunt with a camera."

T h e G R A F L E X makes better photography pos sible b y e l i m i n a t i n g the uncertainties. Focusing scale a n d " f i n d e r " are done a w a y w i t h . W i t h a G R A F L E X y o u see the image f u l l size of finished picture, up to the instant of exposure right side up. Y o u k n o w to a certainty that the picture is i n focus, w i t h out h a v i n g to guess the d i s t a n c e b e t w e e n the camera a n d subject. The Graflex Focal Plane Shutter w o r k s at a n y speed f r o m "time' to l-1000th of a second. Send for Illustrated Catalog.

F O L M E R & SCHWING DIVISION EASTMAN

K O D A K CO.

R O C H E S T E R , N.Y. O n clear days, when the sun is shining, the Graflex will make pictures in l-1000th of a second.


MAGAZINE

SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

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53

The Voice of Reconstruction 1 When a flood sweeps over a vast area, desolating the cities and towns which lie in its course, the appeal for assistance gets a unanimous re sponse from the whole country. With all commercial and social order wiped out, an afflicted com munity is unable to do for itself. It must draw upon the resources of the nation of which it is a part. In such an emergency, the tele phone gives its greatest service when it carries the voice of distress

American

Telephone

to the outside world, and the voice of the outside world back to those suffering. At the most critical time, the near est telephone connected and work ing in the Bell System affords instant communication with distant places. And always the Bell System, with its extensive resources and reserve means, is able to restore its service promptly, and in facilitating the work of rebuilding, performs one of its highest civic functions.

and

Telegraph

Company

And Associated Companies Every Bell Telephone is the Center of the System In answering advertisements please mention SCRIBNER'S

MAGAZINE

54

SCRIBNER'S

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W h e r e miles of C r y s t a l D o m i n o S u g a r Plates are d r i e d .

SUGAR COMPLETING

its ten h o u r journe before b e i n g cut into the familiar dainty dominoes. A closing step in the process of manufacture, making C R Y S T A L D O M I N O the purest, sweetest and most wholesome sugar. Tested for immaculate whiteness, the cut dominoes are packed in moisture-proof car tons ready for the table of the discriminating housewife where, with cut glass, snowy napery and gleaming silver, C R Y S T A L DOMINO adds a final touch of refinement. One of the Quality Products of T H E A M E R I C A N S U G A R REFINING COMPANY Address New York

Full and Half Size Pieces


MAGAZINE

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55

T h e

V e s t

P o c k e t

K

O

D

A

K

L i t e r a l l y small enough to go into the vest pocket (or a lady's handbag)—big enough to bring home a l l outdoors—a miniature i n size, but l a c k i n g nothing of K o d a k efficiency or simplicity. H a s K o d a k B a l l B e a r i n g s h u t t e r w i t h i r i s d i a p h r a g m stops, m e n i s cus a c h r o m a t i c Loads

in daylight

A fixed focus metal

lens, A u t o t i m e

makes

with

Kodak

scale film

and

brilliant reversible

cartridges

for

eight

it always ready for q u i c k w o r k .

finder.

exposures.

Lustrous black

finish. P i c t u r e s , is/a x 2j4

inches.

Price,

Catalogue at your dealers, or on request.

EASTMAN

K O D A K

In answering

C O M P A N Y ,

$6.22

Free.

Rochester,


N . Y . , The Kodak

MAGAZINE

City.

SCRIBNER'S

56

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

W i t h

tight

e n o u g h

a n d

l u c k

e n o u g h

a n y

l e n s

t a k e s -

g o o d

p i c t u r e s

••

But the advanced amateur who has gone beyond mere "snap shotting realizes the need of a lens that will give depth and detail and will work under con ditions impossible to ordinary lenses. 77

Bausch

and

Lomb-Zeiss

T e s s a r

L e n s

has many times the speed of the ordinary lens—and this means successes instead of failures in dull light. It means sharp detail in the quickest of moving objects instead of blur and disappointment. The accuracy of the Tessar combines with its speed to make it an absolutely indispensable lens to the amateur who wants to turn out work of the better sort // you are interested in better results, send for literature.

Bausch & Lomb O p t i c a l (o. 607 ST. PAUL S T R E E T , R O C H E S T E R , N.Y.

"

C

R

A

F

T

S

M

A

N

"

H

O

U

S

E

P

L

A

N

S

T h i s is a Craftsman house: durable, beautiful and convenient, w i t h no useless partitions, no waste space, no over-decoration. We design homes of this character for C R A F T S M A N subscribers. W r i t e for free booklet "Craftsman Service for HomebuiH"^ containing cuts and plans of Craftsman Houses, or send 25 cents for our new book, "Craftsman Houses." size 8 x 1 0 . 64 p a ^ 1 1 0 illustrations, s h o w i n g our best houses. A d d r e s s T H E C R A F T S M A N . R o o m 4 8 6 4 1 W e s t 3 4 t h St.. N e w York City-

In answering


MAGAZINE

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57

THE s u p e r i o r q u a l i t y and enduring beauty of the Reed Barton Sterling Silver have given it distinct prestige for W e d d i n g and Anniversary gifts. It is the silver that looks better to y o u w i t h every year of possession—the silver that stands through your chang ing ideals and remains to be spoken of fondly in years to come as your "family silver." T h e e x t r e m e v a r i e t y of patterns and pieces makes selection a matter of ease and pleasure. Offered by Leading Jewelers Everywhere

Reed & Barton Silversmiths

Taunton, REPRESENTED

Massachusetts

A T

5th A v e . and 32d St., 4 Maiden Lane New York Boston

Chicago


San

Francisco

MAGAZINE

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58

T h e

G r e a t e s t

H i s t o r y

MAGAZINE

ADVERTISER

B u s i n e s s

C o n v e n t i o n

B e c k o n s Y o u T o

i n

B a l t i m o r e

E v e r y m a n w h o uses p u b l i c i t y i n a n y f o r m — e v e r y m a n w i t h a d v e r t i s i n g or m e r c h a n d i s i n g p r o b l e m s to s o l v e — s h o u l d be i n B a l t i m o r e f r o m the 8th to the 13th of J u n e .

T h e o c c a s i o n is the n i n t h

A n n u a l

A s s o c i a t e d

C o n v e n t i o n

Advertising

of

Clubs

the

of America. Ten thousand delegates and guests are expected to be present. They will come from all parts of the United States and Canada, and even from abroad. The general sessions, held in the Fifth Regiment Armory, will be addressed by the most pro gressive and successful American advertis ing and business men. Departmental and other special meetings will discuss in open forum the problems of various branches of the great business of advertising and selling merchandise of every description. At this convention you will have an opportunity to hear of the great progress which is being made in efficiency in ad vertising—how advertising is being made more productive and profitable. You will hear from the lips of the leaders in the movement just what has been done and is

to be done to check and punish those who are guilty of fraudulent or misleading ad vertising. The great educational movement, inaugurated by the Association and now be ing carried out by scores of clubs, will also be fully described by those in charge of the work. Lay sermons by prominent advertis ing men will be delivered from the pulpits of Baltimore on Sunday, June 8th. Don't fail to visit this great conventionsend your advertising or sales manager if you cannot come personally. A l l will be welcome, whether members of advertising clubs or not. A l l will have an opportunity to hear the addresses and to participate in the splendid program of evening entertain ments which Baltimore has provided. Write now to the address below for the full program, hotel accommodations, etc.

Associated Advertising Clubs of A m e r i c a Convention Bureau

1 North Calvert Street, Baltimore, Md.


MAGAZINE

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MAGAZINE

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59

A n h e u s e r - B u s c h W i l l B u y This B a r l e y Only the pick o f A m e r i c a ' s Barley crops and Bohemia's S a a z e r H o p s are good enough from which to brew and age

B u d w e i s e r America's N a t i o n a l B e v e r a g e The uniform flavor, quality and purity of Budweiser remains always the same because only the best materials enter our plant

IBottled only at the home plant in St. Louis A n h e u s e r - B u s c h Brewery St. L o u i s


MAGAZINE

Building Furnishing

Free Use in Your Home

A Piedmont \ > ' £J^^^ . S o u t h e r n R e d Cedar Chest 15 1 r^r protects furs, woolens a n d plumes from Days ' V ~ moths, m i c e , dust a n d d a m p . I d e a l wedFree Trial d i n g , b i r t h d a y o r graduation gift. Amazingly low f a c t o r y prices. Special S p r i n g offer. Freight prepaid B O O K F R E E W r ; < » fijely niustratedW-paee , £ „ Storv of Red Cedar." Postpaid, free. Write today! Piedmont R e d Cedar Chest C o . , Dept. 230. Statesville, N. C.

S~,/

t e

f

c a t a

D

U

U

I

a

n

d

k

V

HARTSHORN Shade Rollers

vose PIANOS

LATHES For

Gunsmiths,

Exneriniciiiiil

Lathe VOSE S SONS PIANO CO., Boylston St., BOSTON, MASS.

Catalogue

your house is lonely! Get a dependable Smith & W e s s o n today, and stop w o r r y i n g . B o o k l e t o n request.

Smith & Wesson 60

Springfield, Mass.


Free.

R u b y S t . , R o c k f o r d , 111.

>

514 S t o c k j H l d g e S t . ,

Makers,

W.F.&Jno. Barnes Co. 538

W h a t if

Tool

a m i K e u n i r W o r k , elc.

MAGAZINE

61

BUILDING-FURNISHING

Pertinent Queries for the Home Builder H I S is the average experi ence i n planning the bathiuuni equipment of a new home — First you see your bathroom shown i n the architect's blue prints. It looks something like this:

T h e n you read over the speci fications. T h e y call for a bath, a lavatory, etc., described i n more or less technical language.

D o you know which w i l l best fit your requirements — w h i c h can be most easily kept in spot less condition—which will save repairs—which will contribute most to the value of your build ing if rented and sold? Have you studied the possibil ities for harmony, for comfort, and for luxury that can be had in modern bathroom equipment ? T o answer these pertinent questions we offer a 79-page booklet " M o d e r n P l u m b i n g . " It shows 47 views of model bath room and kitchen interiors with full descriptions and prices of the fixtures used. Sent free.

T h e n the estimates come i n and are approved, if they seem reasonable. But do you know the difference between the various kinds of plumb ing ware? D o you know the true economy of Imperial porce lain—vitreous ware—enameled iron? D o you consider each on the basis of eventual value as well as present cost?

MOTT'S T H E

PLUMBING

J. L. M O T T 1828

EIGHTY-FIVE

TEARS

I R O N OF

SUPREMACY

Fifth Avenue & 17th Street, N e w Y o r k

W O R K S 1173

W o r k s at T r e n t o n , N . J .


MAGAZINE

BUILDING-FURNISHING

62

There are no casters like "Feltoids"

It's all in the wheel

DUTCH

BULBS Each genuine "Feltoid" bears t h e name

H y a c i n t h s , T u l i p s , Narcissi, Cro cus, give, for a small outlay of time a n d money, a n abundance of flowers i n the house from December until Easter, and in the garden, from ear liest spring until the middle of M a y . Bulbs are grown almost exclu sively in H o l l a n d , in enormous quantities, and sold at very low U s u a l l y they cost double before reaching you.

stamped

prices.

on

B y ordering from us now instead of waiting until Fall, you make a large saving, get a superior quality of Bulbs not usually to be obtained at any price in this country, and have a much larger list of varieties to select from. O u r orders are selected and packed in H o l l a n d , and are shipped to our customers immediately upon their arrival in the best possi ble condition. If you wish to take advantage of our very low prices, we must have your order not later than July 1st, as w e import Bulbs to order only. T h e y need not be paid for until after delivery, nor taken if not satisfactory. (References required from new cus tomers. ) O u r import price list, the most comprehensive catalogue of Bulbs published, may be had for the asking.

the

wheel

If your floors could talk they would demand

"Feltoid" Casters and Tips "Feltoids" are the and

r u g protectors.

and

fiber-wheel

The

damage they

m o d e r n floor savers Iron, leather, w o o d

casters cut a n d gouge. d o is c o m p u t e d not

only i n dollars lost, but i n floor-attractive ness lost as w e l l .

E L L I O T T NURSERY 335 Fourth Avenue, P I T T S B U R G H ,

PA.

Truest economy—amplest enjoyment of well-kept

floors

— lies

in

fitting

your

furniture with noiseless, marless, scratchless "Feltoids." T h e " F e l t o i d " wheel is composed of a specially treated material which is wear-resisting yet of such a nature that it treads softly and smoothly over the finest surfaces. " F e l t o i d " Casters a n d T i p s m a y b e h a d at furniture a n d h a r d w a r e stores. W r i t e f o r " F e l t o i d " B o o k N o . 8. It shows " F e l t o i d s " for a l l uses i n y o u r h o m e .

The

Burns Dept. F ,

& Bassick C o . Bridgeport, C o n n .

OLD BORE.—Yessir;

I ' v e t a c k l e d a b e a r w i t h a jack-

knife a n ' l i v e d to tell 1h' tale! " Y e s , doggone i t !


A n ' t h a t ' s a l l y e do l i v e fer.'

MAGAZINE

BUILDING-FURNISHING

63

HEIsEY's A

GLAssWARE Colonial Chair—No. 4555—(Rocker to match) ideal for comfort, b e a u t i ful in form a n d l i n e — s o l id mahogany f r a m e w o r k . Chair can be bought f r o m our dealer in y o u r c i t y at this special