It is easy to believe that Musset may have tried the patience of a

tranquil associate. George Sand's Jacques Laurent, in "Elle et Lui," is

a sufficiently vivid portrait of a highly endowed, but hopelessly

petulant, unreasonable, and dissipated egotist. We are far from

suspecting that the portrait is perfectly exact; no portrait by George

Sand is perfectly exact. Whatever point of view she takes, she always

abounds too much in her own sense. But it evidently has a tolerably

solid foundation in fact. Herr Lindau holds that Alfred de Musset's

life was literally blighted by the grief that he suffered in Italy, and

that the rest of his career was a long, erratic, unprofitable effort to

drown the recollection of it. Our own inclination would be to judge him

at once with more and with less indulgence. Whether deservedly or no,

there is no doubt that his suffering was great; his brother quotes a

passage from a document written five years after the event, in which

Alfred affirms that, on his return to Paris, he spent four months shut

up in his room in incessant tears--tears interrupted only by a

"mechanical" game of chess in the evening. But Musset, like all poets,

was essentially a creature of impression; as with all poets, his

sentimental faculty needed constantly to renew itself. He found his

account in sorrow, or at least in emotion, and we may say, in differing

from Herr Lindau, that he was not a man to let a grievance grow stale.

To feel permanently the need of smothering sorrow is in a certain sense

to be sobered by it. Musset was never sobered (a cynical commentator

would say he was never sober). Emotions bloomed again lightly and

brilliantly on the very stem on which others had withered. After the

catastrophe at times his imagination saved him, distinctly, from

permanent depression; and on a different line, this same imagination

helped him into dissipation.

M. Paul de Musset mentions that in 1837 his brother conceived a

"passion serieuse" for an attractive young lady, and that the _liaison_

lasted two years--"two years during which there was never a quarrel, a

storm, a cooling-off; never a pretext for umbrage or jealousy. This is

why," he adds, "there is nothing to be told of them. Two years of love

without a cloud cannot be narrated." It is noticeable that this is the

third "passion serieuse" that M. Paul de Musset alludes to since the

dolorous weeks which followed the return from Venice. Shortly after

this period another passion had come to the front; a passion which,

like that which led him to Italy, was destined to have a tragical

termination. This particular love affair is commemorated, in accents of

bitter melancholy, in the "Nuit de Decembre," just as the other, which

had found its catastrophe at Venice, figures, by clear allusion, in

"Nuit de Mai," published a few months before. It may provoke a

philosophic smile to learn, as we do from M. Paul de Musset--candid

biographer!--that the "motives" of these two poems are not identical,

as they have hitherto been assumed to be. It had never occurred to the

reader that one disillusionment could follow so fast upon the heels of

another. When we add that a short time afterward--as the duration of

great intimacies of the heart is measured--Alfred de Musset was ready

to embark upon "two years of love without a cloud" with still another

object--to say nothing of the brief interval containing a sentimental

episode of which our biographer gives the prettiest account--we seem to

be justified in thinking that, for a "blighted" life, that of Alfred de

Musset exhibited a certain germinal vivacity.

During his stay in Italy he had written nothing; but the five years

which followed his return are those of his most active and brilliant

productivity. The finest of his verses, the most charming of his tales,

the most original of his comedies, belong to this relatively busy

period. Everything that he wrote at this time has a depth and intensity

which distinguishes it from the jocosely sentimental productions of his

debut, and from the somewhat mannered and vapidly elegant compositions

which he put forth, at wide intervals, during the last fifteen years of

his life. This was the period of Musset's intellectual virility. He was

very precocious, but he was at the same time, at first, very youthful.

On the other hand, his decline began early; in most of his later

things, especially in his verses (they become very few in number), the

inspiration visibly runs thin. "Mon verre n'est pas grand, mais je bois

dans mon verre," he had said, and both clauses of the sentence are

true. His glass held but a small quantity; the best of his

verses--those that one knows by heart and never wearies of

repeating--are very soon counted. We have named them when we have

mentioned "Rolla," the "Nuit de Mai," the "Nuit d'Aout" and the "Nuit

d'Octobre"; the "Lettre a Lamartine," and the "Stances a la Malibran."

These, however, are perfection; and if Musset had written nothing else,

he would have had a right to say that it was from his own glass that he

drank. The most beautiful of his comedies, "Il ne faut pas badiner avec

l'Amour," dates from 1834, and to the same year belongs the

"Lorenzaccio," the strongest, if not the most exquisite, of his

dramatic attempts. His two most agreeable _nouvelles_, "Emmeline" and

"Frederic et Bernerette," appeared about the same time. But we have not

space to enumerate his productions in detail. During the fifteen last

years of his life, as we have said, they grew more and more rare; the

poet had, in a certain sense, out-lived himself. Of these last years

Herr Lindau gives a rather realistic and unflattered sketch; picturing

him especially as a figure publicly familiar to Parisian loungers, who

were used to observe him as "an unfortunate with an interesting face,

dressed with extreme care," with the look of youth and the lassitude of

age, seated in a corner of a cafe and gazing blankly over a marble

table on which "a half empty bottle of absinthe and a quite empty

glass" stood before him. M. Paul de Musset, in describing his brother's

later years, is mindful of the rule to glide, not to press; with a very

proper fraternal piety, he leaves a great many foibles and

transgressions in the shade. He mentions, however, Alfred's partiality

for spirits and stimulants--a taste which had defined itself in his

early years. Musset made an excessive use of liquor; in plain English,

he got drunk. Sainte-Beuve, somewhere in one of his merciless but

valuable foot-notes, alludes to the author of "Rolla" coming tipsy to

the sittings of the French Academy. Herr Lindau repeats a pun which was

current on such occasions. "Musset s'absente trop," said some one. "Il

s'absinthe trop," replied some one else. He had been elected to the

Academy in 1852. His speech on the occasion of his reception was a

disappointment to his auditors. Herr Lindau attributes the sterility of

his later years to indolence and perversity; and it is probable that

there is not a little justice in the charge. He was unable to force

himself; he belonged to the race of gifted people who must do as it

pleases them. When a literary task was proposed to him and he was not

in the humor for it, he was wont to declare that he was not a

maid-of-all-work, but an artist. He must write when the fancy took him;

the fancy took him, unfortunately, less and less frequently. With a

very uncertain income, and harassed constantly by his debts, he scorned

to cultivate a pecuniary inspiration. He died in the arms of his

brother in the spring of 1857.

He was beyond question one of the first poets of our day. If the poetic

force is measured by the _quality_ of the inspiration--by its purity,

intensity, and closely personal savor--Alfred de Musset's place is

surely very high. He was, so to speak, a thoroughly _personal_ poet.

He was not the poet of nature, of the universe, of reflection, of

morality, of history; he was the poet simply of a certain order of

personal emotions, and his charm is in the frankness and freedom, the

grace and harmony, with which he expressed these emotions. The affairs

of the heart--these were his province; in no other verses has the heart

spoken more characteristically. Herr Lindau says very justly that if he

was not the greatest poet among his contemporaries, he was at any rate

the most poetically constituted nature. A part of the rest of Herr

Lindau's judgment is worth quoting:

He has remained the poet of youth. No one has sung so truthfully

and touchingly its aspirations and its sensibilities, its doubts

and its hopes. No one has comprehended and justified its follies

and its amiable idiosyncrasies with a more poetic irony, with a

deeper conviction. His joy was young, his sorrow was young, and

young was his song. To youth he owes all happiness, and in youth he

sang his brightest chants. But the weakness of youth was his fatal

enemy, and with youth faded away his joy in existence and in

creation.

This is exactly true. Half the beauty of Musset's writing is its simple

suggestion of youthfulness--of something fresh and fair, slim and

tremulous, with a tender epidermis. This quality, with some readers,

may seem to deprive him of a certain proper dignity; and it is very

true that he was not a Stoic. You may even call him unmanly. He cries

out when he is hurt; he resorts frequently to tears, and he talks much

about his tears. (We have seen that after his return from Venice they

formed, for four months, his principal occupation.) But his defence is

that if he does not bear things like a man, he at least, according to

Shakespeare's distinction, feels them like a man. What makes him

valuable is just this gift for the expression of that sort of emotion

which the conventions and proprieties of life, the dryness of ordinary

utterance, the stiffness of most imaginations, leave quite in the

vague, and yet which forms a part of human nature important enough to

have its exponent. If the presumption is against the dignity of deeply

poetic utterance, poor Musset is, in the vulgar phrase, nowhere--he is

a mere grotesque sound of lamentation. But if in judging him you don't

stint your sympathy, you will presently perceive him to have an

extraordinarily precious quality--a quality equally rare in literature

and in life. He has passion. There is in most poetry a great deal of

reflection, of wisdom, of grace, of art, of genius; but (especially in

English poetry) there is little of this peculiar property of Musset's.

When it occurs we feel it to be extremely valuable; it touches us

beyond anything else. It was the great gift of Byron, the quality by

which he will live in spite of those weaknesses and imperfections which

may be pointed out by the dozen. Alfred de Musset in this respect

resembled the poet whom he appears most to have admired--living at a

time when it had not begun to be the fashion to be ashamed to take

Byron seriously. Mr. Swinburne in one of his prose essays speaks of him

with violent scorn as Byron's "attendant dwarf," or something of that

sort. But this is to miss the case altogether. There is nothing

diminutive in generous admiration, and nothing dwarfish in being a

younger brother; Mr. Swinburne's charge is too coarse a way of stating

the position. Musset resembles Byron in the fact that the beauty of his

verse is somehow identical with the feeling of the writer--with his

immediate, sensible warmth--and not dependent upon that reflective

stage into which, to produce its great effects, most English poetic

expression instantly passes, and which seems to chill even while it

nobly beautifies. Musset is talked of nowadays in France very much as

Byron is talked of among ourselves; it is noticed that he often made

bad verse, and he is accused of having but half known his trade. This

sort of criticism is eminently just, and there is a weak side of the

author of "Rolla" which it is easy to attack.

Alfred de Musset, like Mr. Murray's fastidious correspondent, wrote

poetry as an amateur--wrote it, as they say in France, _en

gentilhomme_. It is the fashion, I believe, in some circles, to be on

one's guard against speaking foreign tongues too well (the precaution

is perhaps superfluous) lest a marked proficiency should expose one to

be taken for a teacher of languages. It was a feeling of this kind,

perhaps, that led Alfred de Musset to a certain affectation of

negligence and laxity; though he wrote for the magazines, he could

boast a long pedigree, and he had nothing in common with the natives of

Grub street. Since his death a new school of poets has sprung up--of

which, indeed, his contemporary, Theophile Gautier, may be regarded as

the founder. These gentlemen have taught French poetry a multitude of

paces of which so sober-footed a damsel was scarcely to have been

supposed capable; they have discovered a great many secrets which

Musset appears never to have suspected, or (if he did suspect them) to

have thought not worth finding out. They have sounded the depths of

versification, and beside their refined, consummate _facture_ Musset's

simple devices and good-natured prosody seem to belong to a primitive

stage of art. It is the difference between a clever performer on the

tight rope and a gentleman strolling along on soft turf with his hands

in his pockets. If people care supremely for form, Musset will always

but half satisfy them. It is very pretty, they will say; but it is

confoundedly unbusinesslike. His verse is not chiselled and pondered,

and in spite of an ineffable natural grace, it lacks the positive

qualities of cunning workmanship--those qualities which are found in

such high perfection in Theophile Gautier. To our own sense Musset's

exquisite feeling more than makes up for one-half the absence of

"chiselling," and the ineffable grace we spoke of just now makes up for

the other half. His sweetness of passion, of which the poets who have

succeeded him have so little, is a more precious property than their

superior science. His grace is often something divine; it is in his

grace that we must look for his style. Herr Lindau says that Heine

speaks of "truth, harmony, and grace" being his salient qualities. (By

the first, we take it, he meant what we have called Musset's passion.)

His harmony, from the first, was often admirable; the rhythm of even

some of his earliest verses makes them haunt the ear after one has

murmured them aloud.

Ulric, des mers nul oeil n'a mesure l'abime,

Ni les herons plongeurs, ni les vieux matelots;

Le soleil vient briser ses rayons sur leur cime,

Comme un soldat vaincu brise ses javelots.

Musset's grace, in its suavity, freedom, and unaffectedness, is

altogether peculiar; though it must be said that it is only in the

poems of his middle period that it is at its best. His latest things

are, according to Sainte-Beuve, _califichets_--baubles; they are too

much in the rococo, the Dresden china style. But as we have said

before, with his youth Musset's inspiration failed him. It failed him

in his prose as well as in his verse. "Il faut qu'une Porte soit

ouverte ou fermee," one of the last of his dramatic proverbs, is very

charming, very perfect in its way; but compared with the tones of the

"Caprices de Marianne," the "Chandelier," "Fantasio," the sentiment is

thin and the style has rather a simper. It is what the French call

_marivaudage_. There can, however, be no better example of the

absoluteness of the poetic sentiment, of its justifying itself as it

goes, of lyrical expression being as it were not only a means, but an

end, than the irresistible beauty of such effusions as the "Lettre a

Lamartine" and the "Nuit d'Aout."

Poete, je t'ecris pour te dire que j'aime!

--that is all, literally, that Musset has to say to the "amant

d'Elvire"; and it would be easy to make merry at the expense of so

simply candid a piece of "gush." But the confidence is made with a

transparent ardor, a sublime good faith, an audible, touching tremor of

voice, which, added to the enchanting harmony of the verse, make the

thing one of the most splendid poems of our day.

Ce ne sont pas des chants, ce ne sont que des larmes,

Et je ne te dirai que ce que Dieu m'a dit!

Musset has never risen higher. He has, in strictness, only one

idea--the idea that the passion of love and the act of loving are the

divinest things in a miserable world; that love has a thousand

disappointments, deceptions, and pangs, but that for its sake they are

all worth enduring, and that, as Tennyson has said, more curtly and

reservedly,

'Tis better to have loved and lost

Than never to have loved at all.

Sometimes he expresses this idea in the simple epicurean fashion, with

gayety and with a more or less cynical indifference to the moral side

of the divine passion. Then he is often pretty, picturesque, fanciful,

but he remains essentially light. At other times he feels its relation

to the other things that make up man's destiny, and the sense of

aspiration meets with the sense of enjoyment or of regret. Then he is

at his best; then he seems an image of universally sentient youth.

Je ne puis; malgre moi, l'infini me tourmente.

Je n'y saurais songer sans crainte et sans espoir;

Et quoiqu'on en ait dit, ma raison s'epouvante

De ne pas le comprendre, et pourtant de le voir.

While we may suspect that there is something a little over-colored in

M. Paul de Musset's account of the degree to which his brother was

haunted by the religious sentiment--by the impulse to grope for some

philosophy of life--we may also feel that with the poet's sense of the

"divineness" of love there went a conviction that ideal love implies a

divine object. This is the feeling expressed in the finest lines of the

"Lettre a Lamartine"--in lines at least which, if they are not the

finest, are fine enough to quote:

Eh bien, bon ou mauvais, inflexible ou fragile,

Humble ou gai, triste ou fier, mais toujours gemissant,

Cet homme, tel qu'il est, cet etre fait d'argile,

Tu l'a vu, Lamartine, et son sang est ton sang.

Son bouheur est le tien; sa douleur est la tienne;

Et des maux qu'ici bas il lui faut endurer,

Pas un qui ne te touche et qui ne t'appartienne;

Puisque tu sais chanter, ami, tu sais pleurer.

Dis-moi, qu'en penses-tu dans tes jours de tristesse?

Que t'a dit le malheur quand tu l'as consulte?

Trompe par tes amis, trahi par ta maitresse,

Du ciel et de toi-meme as-tu jamais doute?

Non, Alphonse, jamais. La triste experience

Nous apporte la cendre et n'eteint pas le feu.

Tu respectes le mal fait par la Providence;

Tu le laisses passer et tu crois a ton Dieu.

Quelqu'il soit c'est le mien; il n'est pas deux croyances.

Jene sais pas son nom: j'ai regarde les cieux;

Je sais qu'ils sont a lui, je sais qu'ils sont immenses,

Et que l'immensite ne peut pas etre a deux.

J'ai connu, jeune encor, de severes souffrances;

J'ai vu verdir les bois et j'ai tente d'aimer.

Je sais ce que la terre engloutit d'esperances,

Et pour y recueillir ce qu'il y faut semer.

Mais ce que j'ai senti, ce que je veux t'ecrire,

C'est ce que m'ont appris les anges de douleur;

Je le sais mieux encor et puis mieux te le dire,

Car leur glaive, en entrant, l'a grave dans mon coeur.

And the rest of the poem is a lyrical declaration of belief in

immortality.

We have called the "Lettre a Lamartine" Musset's highest flight, but

the "Nuit de Mai" is almost as fine a poem--full of imaginative

splendor and melancholy ecstasy. The series of the "Nuits" is

altogether superb; with an exception made, perhaps, for the "Nuit de

Decembre," which has a great deal of sombre beauty, but which is not,

like the others, in the form of a dialogue between the Muse and the

poet--the Muse striving to console the world-wounded bard for his

troubles, and urging him to take refuge in hope and production:

Poete, prends ton luth et me donne un baiser;

La fleur de l'eglantier sent ses bourgeons eclore.

Le printemps nait ce soir; les vents vout s'embraser;

Et la bergeronette, en attendant l'aurore,

Au premier buissons vertes commence a se poser.

Poete, prends ton luth et me donne un baiser.

That is impregnated with the breath of a vernal night. The same poem

(the "Nuit de Mai") contains the famous passage about the pelican--the

passage beginning

Les plus' desesperes sont les chants les plus beaux,

Et j'en sais d'immortels qui sont de purs sanglots----

in which the legend of the pelican opening his breast to feed his

starving young is made an image of what the poet does to entertain his

readers:

Poete, c'est ainsi que font les grands poetes.

Ils laissent s'egayer ceux qui vivent un temps;

Mais les festins humains qu'ils servent a leurs fetes

Ressemblent la plupart a ceux des pelicans.

This passage is perhaps--unless we except the opening verses of

"Rolla"--Musset's noblest piece of poetic writing. We must place next

to it--next to the three "Nuits"--the admirably passionate and genuine

"Stanzas to Malibran"--a beautiful characterization of the artistic

disinterestedness of the singer who suffered her genius to consume

her--who sang herself to death. The closing verses of the poem have a

wonderful purity; to rise so high, and yet in form, in accent, to

remain so still and temperate, belongs only to great poetry; as it

would be well to remind the critic who thinks the author of the

"Stanzas to Malibran" dwarfish. There is another sort of verse in which

violence of movement is more sensible than upwardness of direction.

So far in relation to Musset's lyric genius--though we have given but a

brief and inadequate account of it. He had besides a dramatic genius of

the highest beauty, to which we have left ourself space to devote only

a few words. It is true that the drama with Musset has a decidedly

lyrical element, and that though his persons always talk prose, they

are constantly saying things which would need very little help to fall

into the mould of a stanza or a sonnet. In his dramas as in his verses,

his weakness is that he is amateurish; they lack construction; their

merit is not in their plots, but in what, for want of a better term,

one may call their sentimental perfume. The earliest of them failed

upon the stage, and for many years it was supposed they could not be

played. Musset supposed so himself, and took no trouble to encourage

the experiment. He made no concessions to contemporary "realism." But

at last they were taken up--almost by accident--and it was found that,

in the hands of actors whose education enabled them to appreciate their

delicacy, this delicacy might become wonderfully effective. If feeling

is the great quality in his verses, the case is the same in his

strange, fantastic, exquisite little _comedies_; comedies in the

literal English sense of the word we can hardly call them, for they

have almost always a melancholy or a tragical termination. They are

thoroughly sentimental; he puts before us people who convince us that

they really _feel_; the drama is simply the history of their feeling.

In the emotions of Valentin and Perdican, of Fantasio and Fortunio, of

Celio and Octave, of Carmosine and Bettine, there is something

contagious, irresistibly touching. But the great charm is Musset's

dramatic world itself, the atmosphere in which his figures move, the

element they breathe.

It seems at first like a reckless thing to say, but we will risk it: in

the _quality_ of his fancy Musset always reminds us of Shakespeare. His

little dramas go on in the country of "As you Like It" and the

"Winter's Tale"; the author is at home there, like Shakespeare himself,

and he moves with something of the Shakespearian lightness and freedom.

His fancy loves to play with human life, and in the tiny mirror which

it holds up we find something of the depth and mystery of the object.

Musset's dialogue, in its mingled gayety and melancholy, its sweetness

and irony, its allusions to real things and its kinship with a romantic

world, has an altogether indefinable magic. To speak it on the stage is

almost to make it coarse. Once Musset attempted a larger theme than

usual; in "Lorenzaccio" he wrote an historical drama on the scale of

Shakespeare's histories; that is, with multitudes of figures, scenes,

incidents, and illustrations. He laid his hand on an admirable

subject--the story of a certain Lorenzino de' Medici, who played at

being a debauchee and a poltroon in order better to put the tyrant of

Florence (his own cousin) off his guard, and serve his country by

ridding her of him. The play shows an extraordinary abundance and

vivacity of imagination, and really, out of those same "histories" of

Shakespeare, it is hard to see where one should find an equal

spontaneity in dealing with the whole human furniture of a period.

Alfred de Musset, in "Lorenzaccio," has the air of being as ready to

handle a hundred figures as a dozen--of having imagination enough for

them all. The thing has the real creative _souffle_, and if it is not

the most perfect of his productions, it is probably the most vigorous.

We have not spoken of his tales; their merit is the same as of the

_comedies_--that of spontaneous feeling, and of putting people before

us in whose feelings we believe. Besides this, they have Musset's grace

and delicacy in a perhaps excessive degree; they are the most mannered

of his productions. Two or three of them, however--"Emmeline," "Les

Deux Maitresses," "Frederic et Bernerette"--are masterpieces; this last

epithet is especially to be bestowed upon the letter written by the

heroine of the last-mentioned tale (an incorrigibly _volage_ grisette)

to her former lover on the occasion of his marrying and settling. The

incoherency, the garrulity, the mingled resignation and regret of an

amiable flirt of the lower orders, divided between the vivacity of her

emotion and the levity of her nature, are caught in the act; and yet it

is not fair to say of anything represented by Musset that it is caught

in the act. Just the beauty and charm of it is that it is not the exact

reality, but a something seen by the imagination--a tinge of the ideal,

a touch of poetry. We must try to see Musset himself in the same way;

his own figure needs to a certain extent the help of our imagination.

And yet, even with such help taken, we cannot but feel that he is an

example of the wasteful way in which nature and history sometimes

work--of their cruel indifference to our personal standards of

economy--of the vast amount of material they take to produce a little

result.

Alfred de Musset's exquisite organization, his exaltations and

weaknesses, his pangs and tears, his passions and debaucheries, his

intemperance and idleness, his years of unproductiveness, his

innumerable mistresses (with whatever pangs and miseries it may seem

proper to attribute to _them_), his quarrel with a woman of genius, and

the scandals, exposures, and recriminations that are so ungracefully

bound up with it--all this was necessary in order that we should have

the two or three little volumes into which his _best_ could be

compressed. It takes certainly a great deal of life to make a little

art! In this case, however, we must remember, that little is exquisite.

HENRY JAMES, JR.

REFLECTED LIGHT.

Your eyes say, "Sweet, I love--I love you, sweet."

Where is the blame

If, when their mute significance I meet,

Mine say the same?

Nay, thank me not, nor deem your triumph near.

The message bright

My glance conveys--'tis but--believe, me, dear--

Reflected light!

MARY AINGE DE VERE.

LIFE INSURANCE.--II.

The companies organized under the general law of the State of New York

are the mere creatures of that statute. Their organization, management,

powers for good or evil, opportunities for mismanagement and

corruption, are all to be traced directly to the law to which they owe

their being. It will be necessary, therefore, for an intelligent

understanding of the condition to which the business has come, to

examine the act particularly. It is chapter 463 of the laws of 1853. It

provides that any number of persons not less than thirteen may form a

corporation for the purpose of making insurance on the lives of

individuals, or against accidents, or on the health of persons, or on

live stock. Such corporators are allowed to draw their own charter, and

upon its approval by the Attorney General, that document has all the

force of positive law. It is of course subject to the provisions of the

act itself, but those provisions are so few and meagre that it is

practically left to the promoters of the scheme to draw their own

charter of incorporation. The capital stock is to be not less than

$100,000, and no provision is made for the incorporating of any company

without a capital. The rate of dividends to the stockholders, the

proportion of profits to be paid the policy-holders, and the time of

payment, are not provided for in the law, and are left to be settled by

the associates. The consequence is that no two companies are alike in

this respect. In some of them the stockholder receives an interest of

seven per cent. upon his stock, and is entitled to no more under any

circumstances, the whole surplus or profits being divided among the

policy-holders. In others, in addition to interest, the stock is

entitled to participate with the policies in the surplus. The extent of

this participation varies; in some it is fixed at ten per cent. of the

whole profits, to the stock-holders, in others twenty, and in others

thirty per cent. In all of them, however, with one exception,

participation by the policy-holders in the profits of the business is a

rule. To a greater or lesser extent, in some to the whole profits, it

is the recognized rule that the holders of policies are to receive

dividends or bonuses from the companies out of the profits. In effect,

therefore, so far as participation in the profits of the business goes,

all our companies, with the one exception before mentioned, are mutual

companies.

The act makes no provision for the government of the corporations it

allows to be created. It leaves it to the promoters to state the mode

and manner in which the corporate powers shall be exercised, and the

manner of electing trustees, or directors, and officers. The natural

consequence of this provision is, that the manner of electing trustees

and directors varies in different companies. In some of them the

stock-holders alone have any voice or vote, in others the

policy-holders are allowed, under certain restrictions, to vote, but it

is safe to say that in all of them the power is kept in the hands of

the stock-holders as far as it possibly can be; and the policy-holders

are allowed as little voice in the management of the company as the

stock-holders can permit.

The result of this vice in the formation of the company is shown in

corporations which have amassed a large reserve. There it will be seen

that the owners of one hundred thousand dollars of stock absolutely

control the entire management and disposition of twenty, thirty, or

forty millions of accumulations, as the case may be; and the real

owners of this fund--the policy-holders--have no voice in its

management and no vote for the body or board which exercises the powers

of the corporation.

It is contended by very prominent gentlemen in the life insurance

business, that this plan is the only safe one; that interference in the

management of the company by uninstructed policy-holders, not versed in

the business, would be productive of nothing but evil. They contend

that the necessary unity of management required for a business,

covering as this does long periods of time, and requiring carefully

laid plans extending into the distant future, would be greatly

endangered by the existence of a right to participate in the management

by representation on the part of so numerous and so widely scattered a

constituency. In other words, the managers of companies which have

retained in the hands of the stock-holders all the powers of the

corporation think that those powers are more safely exercised by that

small body than they would be if participated in by all the holders of

policies. It may be doubted, however, whether a constituency small in

number and capable of manipulation, and their votes of concentration

into the hands of a few men, is the safest body to manage a corporation

whose chief business is the care of the accumulations arising from the

trust imposed upon the corporation by the contract of life insurance.

The power of wielding a mass of capital amounting to many millions of

dollars is an enormous power, and it should be reposed only in a body

which should be responsible for the careful, honest administration of

the trust, at stated intervals, to the persons most interested--that

is, to the policy-holders--the owners of the trust fund. One of the

chief characteristics of English companies is, that at the annual

meeting of the interested persons a full statement of the affairs of

the company is laid before the meeting, and an opportunity offered of

critical examination and comment. Discontent is thus allowed a safety

valve to express itself through, and the managers an opportunity of

explaining their action and accounting for their conduct. Public

opinion--the public opinion of the persons interested--is allowed a

chance of expression, and all misunderstandings and misconceptions an

opportunity for examination and refutation. The right to interrogate

the managers, and ask and obtain information as to the business at such

regularly recurring intervals, is an inestimable one. It can hardly be

conceived possible that great abuses could grow up if such a right

existed; but at any rate it is apparent that the probability of such

abuses is lessened to a great extent.

But this English practice is not known among us. In life insurance

affairs we have nothing remotely approaching it. It seems to have been

the policy of our companies to restrict participation in their

management to the smallest possible number, to avoid opportunities for

questioning or explanation, and to shroud the business in the deepest

mystery.

The officers of companies responsible for this policy justify

themselves upon the broad ground that they know better what is good for

the policy-holders than they do themselves. In the light of the

evidence given before the Committee of the Assembly by life insurance

officers, and in the light of the affairs of the Continental, Security,

and Popular, it may be doubted whether this assertion proves itself. It

has the merit, however, that every honest avowal has, and it is

entitled to examination.

Why should a self-electing, self-perpetuating proprietary board,

resting upon a constituency composed solely of owners of the capital

stock, be a safer or better management than one elected by the votes of

the policy-holders at large? The only answer you can get to that query

is this: The board elected by the stock-holders are sure of their

position, and it is not in the power of a few malcontents to get up a

secret movement to oust them at the election. The more stable

management is to be preferred to one which is dependent on the

popularity of the officers with the policy-holders. It is in the nature

of things that the officers should become more or less unpopular. The

business depends for success upon the enforcement of strict rules in

dealing with the policy-holders, and the enforcement of these strict

rules, although absolutely necessary for the success of the business,

naturally tends to give fancied grievances to the persons against whom

they are enforced. If, therefore, the tenure of office of the

management depends upon the policy-holders, there is the constant

danger of frequent attempts at revolution arising from this cause, and

the consequent weakness of the officers in enforcing rules the

enforcement of which may tend to shorten their tenure of office.

I think I have fairly stated the argument. Is there anything in it? Is

the reason given any reason at all? Is it not rather a positive

argument against the system. Perhaps the best government for men and

companies is an absolute monarchy, without accountability or restraint;

there are large masses of the human race who are so governed; and it is

an open question yet whether government by the people be or be not the

best government. But certainly one thing is assured. In this day and in

this country the monarchical and the oligarchical systems are out of

date and out of place; and all attempts to introduce them or the

principles which underlie them into our system of free government by

the representatives of the governed will be failures. The doctrine of

paternal government is "played out" in affairs of nations, and it is

not to be supposed that the principle has in it any greater efficacy

when applied to the affairs of corporations. The fact is, we have too

much of this thing in all our relations political and social. The idea

that there is a class who are in their own estimation better able to

govern than the rest of mankind has been exploded by the experience of

the people of this country, and it is intolerable that we should be

forced to do homage in our private affairs to a principle which we

have, as regards public business, exploded long ago as a traditional

fallacy.

Most of the evil practices which have made the whole system of life

insurance a by-word and the scorn of the people, have arisen under this

irresponsible management. Investments in extravagant buildings, the

enormous expenditures for payments of salaries to officers and to

agents, are all the result of the secret plan of management. Does any

one suppose that if the affairs of the companies were fully and

completely exposed to the public, such payments would be permitted or

tolerated? Men are entitled to be paid for services rendered the full

equivalent of those services, but they ought not to be allowed to be

the sole judges of the value of those services, and they ought to be at

all times ready and willing to come before the persons interested, and

submit a full, fair, and clear account of their stewardship. Human

nature is of the same quality in the managers of life insurance

companies as in other men. Responsibility to some power, accountability

to some persons or body, is absolutely essential to honest management.

Men who know that they cannot or will not be called to account will

fall into loose and unbusinesslike methods and practices. Nothing can

be more dangerous to the honesty of a man than to place him in charge

of immense interests without a system of periodical accountability. A

man may be ever so honest, yet he will, if this accountability be

absent, be led to do things which he never would do if he were sure

that at a fixed period his doings would become known and he would be

required to justify them.

From these considerations and on these grounds, I come to the

conclusion that the management of a life insurance company by a board

of directors elected solely by the stock-holders is a management which

contains within itself the germs of a fatal disease, which will sooner

or later develop itself. In this respect legislation is needed. Such a

management ought to be forbidden, and a provision made for the election

of trustees by the policy-holders as well as the stock-holders, upon a

basis as to the vote and the amount of interest it should represent

which would be equitable and just.

Complaints have been made against the use of proxies in elections.

Notably these complaints have been made respecting elections in the

Mutual Life Insurance Company, a corporation which has no

stock-holders, but which consists in a membership of its

policy-holders. These policy-holders have the supreme control of the

corporation in their own hands. Its government is by them delegated to

a board of trustees thirty-six in number, divided into four classes of

nine in each class. The term of office is four years, so that nine

trustees go out of office in each year. This classification prevents

the possibility of any sudden change of management, while it leaves all

needed control in the hands of the policy-holders. If, for instance,

dissatisfaction with the management exists, and nine new trustees are

elected, it is not to be doubted but that the warning would be listened

to and the necessary change of policy effected to satisfy the

constituency. On the other hand, should the change of trustees be the

result of a combination to seize the management of the company for any

improper purpose, the first election would unmask the design and insure

its defeat by an appeal to the voters.

The objections to the use of proxies come entirely from those

policy-holders who have been defeated by their use, or fear they will

be defeated by their use, in an attempt to change the management. Does

not this prove that the great body of policy-holders believe in the

management and are determined to sustain it. In a free company based

upon the liberal principles upon which the Mutual Life is established,

any attempt to limit the franchise would be an unparalleled wrong. The

policy-holder in Chicago or in San Francisco has the same right to

exercise his right to a voice in the election of trustees as the

policy-holder who resides in New York, and there can be no reason why

he should not cast his vote by proxy, since it would result in his

disfranchisement to require him to do it in person. Be sure that if

real trouble arose, and there was an abuse to rectify, if there were

officers unmindful of their duties to rebuke, or trustees regardless of

their trust to set aside, the votes cast by proxy would be as

intelligently given as those of the residents immediately near the

office who could attend in person. Every effort to limit the right to

vote by proxy is an attempt to perpetuate power in the hands of the

policy-holders resident here, which would be quite as obnoxious to

sound principles as the government of companies solely by the

stockholders.

It would appear, on every principle of fairness and justice, that the

more full and perfect the right of the policy-holder to participate in

the election of trustees, the more stable and conservative will be the

management. On the other hand, it is quite as apparent that the

limitation of such right is attended with consequences the reverse of

those just stated, and those consequences attained in proportion to the

limitation of the right.

With the broad superstructure of a body of voting policy-holders, the

selling out of the control of a company is impossible, because no one

will be willing to pay for the possession which the next election may

deprive him of. Of all the mean and contemptible methods of robbery as

yet discovered, the selling out of a life insurance company is the

meanest and most contemptible. Too cowardly to wreck it themselves and

personally rob the widows and orphans, the trustees, who quietly

receive a bonus for their stock and retire from the management, sell

the opportunity of robbery to others. This they do too in the full

knowledge of the purpose for which they are asked to retire. When the

crash comes they may say they did not know the purpose of the

purchasers, but they did know they were to receive for their stock two

or three times its value, and that no man could afford to pay such a

price to obtain control of the company except for the purpose of making

money by irregular and questionable means. It will not do for men

entrusted with positions of a fiduciary character to make the holding

of such positions the lever for obtaining a large price for their

stock, and then claim exemption from responsibility for the misdeeds of

their successors. They were there in charge of a sacred trust, and they

have sold and betrayed that trust--for what? Why, for the enhanced

price which they got for their stock. This is the great evil of the

close corporation system. It enables one or more men to own complete

control of a company and to sell it to the highest bidder. Of course

the highly respectable gentlemen who sell, and those also who buy, will

be shocked at having imputed to them any crime or breach of trust. But

how can such sums of money be lawfully made out of life insurance stock

as to justify the price the records of the Committee on Insurance show

have been paid for it? Life insurance is or ought to be a benevolent

institution. Its management is or ought to be a trust, and every

trustee who makes use of his position to make money for himself is

false to his trust, and should never be appointed to another. Life

insurance is not to be made the sport of speculators, and the only

reliance of the unfortunate made the football of gambling operations.

Most if not all of the troubles which have arisen in the business are

to be traced to this attempt to make money out of it, honestly if

possible, but to make money at all hazards. The way to end this for

ever is to allow the policy-holders to vote, not for a minority of the

trustees, but for all of them. Representation should be equal, or it is

worthless. The representation which would leave the power to elect a

majority still in the hands of the stock-holders is not equal or just.

Money paid for premiums is as good as money paid for stock, and should

have equal voice in the management. But when you have given the

policy-holders votes, you should also see that the opportunity was

afforded to them of voting. Most of the elections are held without any

other notice than an advertisement in the corner of a crowded column of

one or two newspapers. Every policy should have printed on it the date

of the annual election, and all the information necessary to enable the

holder to be present and vote, or to be represented by proxy. Under the

present practice, few holders of policies know whether they have votes

or not, and hardly any of them ever heard of the time of holding the

election. If the present discussion of life insurance affairs does no

other good than to awaken the policy-holders to a sense of their own

responsibility for abuses of management, it will not have been in vain.

It is safe to say that watchfulness on their part would have prevented

the lavish expenditures, the unwise real estate investments, the

enormous salaries, which the investigation of the Assembly committee

has discovered. The same conservative power held over managers would be

a constant check upon any tendency to depart from the safe and regular

open pathway of honorable dealings. Under its influence there would be

few if any cases of commissions in addition to salary of officers, less

tendency to make loans to the trustees and their friends, and a general

adhesion to business rules and traditions. But above and beyond all

other reforms, the control of the company by the policy-holders would

make it impossible for greedy and scoundrel officers to gather into

their hands the entire control of the company, and then sell it out to

a rival company for four or five times what the stock cost, and an

annuity for life to the traitor who had betrayed his trust. This has

been, is now, and will be, if not prevented, the fruitful mother of all

the ills of life insurance. Just as soon as any clique get possession

of the majority of the stock, there is danger. Nay, there is always

danger; any clique may, at any time, get possession of the stock by

paying enough for it. If one price will not bring it, another will, and

the value to the wrecker depends upon the amount of assets. It is the

assets which are to pay the profit of the transaction. The money of the

policy-holders is what is sold, not the mere pittance which belongs to

the stock-holders, and it is the money of the policy-holders which is

stolen to pay the purchase money. Honorable gentlemen, prominent in

social life, elders, deacons, and vestrymen who in the past few years

have quietly pocketed two hundred for your stock and retired from the

management of life insurance companies, how are you pleased with your

own conduct? In the light of recent disclosures, does not the

ill-gotten money burn in your pockets? Truly you would not wreck a

company yourselves by transferring it to any man or number of men; but

you accomplish the same purpose by retiring. A captain who will not

himself surrender to the enemy, but who retires from the command of his

fortification knowing that the subaltern who will succeed him intends

to strike his flag, may deceive himself, but he does not long succeed

in deceiving any one else.

The evidence taken before the referee in the Continental case fully

describes and explains the methods of wrecking. A company is sold out

or reinsured in another; that is, the stock has been bought up at two

or three hundred per centum, the officers have been promised good

places, or paid in cash for their silence. Immediately the operations

of the wreckers begin. The agents of both companies go into the work

with a single aim, and that aim is to obtain the surrender of the

policies in the old company in exchange for new policies in the

purchasing corporation. The old policies represent an actual liability;

the company which has issued them is obliged to hold a certain sum

against each of them. The aggregate of these sums makes up the

"reserve" or reinsurance fund. As fast as the old policies are

cancelled this reserve is released, and when all the policies are

cancelled there is no liability at all. The new policies of course have

no liability. This is in short the whole operation of wrecking. By such

means a million or two of assets will be distributed, and in the

process the policy-holders will receive a little--a very little--and

the agents a good deal, and the officers composing the ring all that is

left. The arts, the deceptions, the false representations made in the

course of the proceeding to induce the policy-holder to give up his

policy have been fully disclosed by the evidence in question. Of course

it is suggested that the company is in a bad way, and that there is

probably no other way of securing anything unless an opportunity now

offered of changing is embraced.

Reinsurance was abandoned as a means of wrecking because it was found

the policy-holders preferred to keep the old policy and the new

guarantee together. So in the later transactions they are told that if

they do not change, they will get nothing.

The lesson of all this to the policy-holder may be written in large

letters and kept as a maxim:

DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR POLICY.

You will never make a mistake by keeping to this motto. And

particularly the more should it be kept to when you are urged by agents

to a contrary action. You never get one-third its value even in

companies honestly managed; what you get in companies dishonestly

managed no one can tell.

FALLEN AMONG THIEVES.

BRUSSELS!

Is it not written that good Americans, when they die, go to Paris? So

Elysium to all righteous sons of Cockayne is Brussels. And yet I was

weary of it. No charms for me had the perpetual sabots and blouses, the

_braves Belges_ in jaunty uniform, the bejewelled saunterers in the

Galerie St. Hubert, the _gauche_ tourists desecrating the sombre

stillness of the St. Gudule, _la belle Anglaise_ seeing for the first

time the outrageous little manikin, the homely phaeton of good old King

Leopold with its pair of very unroyal plugs, the tirailleurs in Lincoln

green, the Parc with its music, fountains and maitrank, the Jardin des

Plantes, the boulevard, and the Ecole d'Equitation.

All lost on me. I stood at a window of the Hotel de Flandres gazing on

the ever-moving panorama of the Grande Place with as little interest as

though my eye rested on a vacant lot in Pumpkinville.

Was it bile? No. Was it love? Yes.

Another scene was ever before my eyes: An old red-brick house on the

cliffs of Devonshire, half hid by giant oaks and elms, fragrant with

honeysuckle and jessamine, stately with avenue, lawn, and rookery; and

I saw leaning on the rustic gate beneath the chestnut trees Gwendoline

Grey: her straw hat dangling by her side, her fresh young face set in a

glory of light brown hair, her---- But it had all passed away now. The

light was gone out of my life, for but three days ago I had received a

letter from her mother deploring my altered prospects, returning my

billets and love tokens, and assuring me that Gwendoline acquiesced in

this painful decision.

My altered prospects--_hinc illae lacrymae_. Nine months ago I was heir

to a wealthy man, and now I was but bear-leader to the son of the Earl

of Tottenbridge. Upon the loss of my father's property, which had come

like an avalanche on us, I had left college and assumed the tutorship

of the Hon. Nigel Fairleigh, as good a lad as ever handled a cricket

bat.

After a brief run through southern Europe, I had just delivered him up

to his aunt, my lady Milton, who was to take him to Scotland, while I

was free, according to compact, to enjoy a couple of months' vacation.

How I had longed for this vacation--and now, where to go, what to do, I

knew not. For three days I had stayed with a dull uncertainty on the

spot where the blow had fallen on me.

My meditations were broken by the entrance of a garcon announcing,

"A gentleman for monsieur."

"Ah, M. Danneris, I am glad to see you. Be seated."

To say how I became acquainted with the chatty little Frenchman who

sat before me would be a difficult matter. The offer of a cigar, an

exchange of newspapers at the reading room, a passing _bon jour_ on the

stairs, had ripened under his friendly gayety into a familiarity which

had extended so far as to my passing more than one evening at his snug

office in the Rue des Allumettes, where Francois Danneris, advocate,

spun toils for litigious Flemish _bourgeoises_.

"My friend," he said, "you look _ennuye_, _triste_, dull; you need

change. What do you say to a scamper over the continent?"

"I have done scampering enough lately," I replied, "and moreover my

funds----"

"_Tiens, mon ami._ Do not talk of money. It is my great happiness to

offer you an opportunity to combine business with pleasure, and take a

most delightful trip without the expenditure of a sou."

"You surprise me--and where?"

"To a beautiful manorial residence at the village of Kioske, twenty

miles beyond Buda, on the banks of the Danube--one of the most romantic

spots of eastern Europe."

"And the object?"

"To take temporary charge of the only son of the wealthy Baron von

Dressdorf. Jules von Dressdorf," added the advocate in his bland,

pleasant way, "is a boy of fifteen, who, after spending a year in an

academy in England, has been placed in a _pension_ in Brussels; but,

_helas!_ an hereditary disease, which has developed itself more

strongly of late, has determined his father to recall him immediately.

Pericardiac, my dear sir--pericardiac; and it is most important that he

should without delay seek the quiet of his native valley."

"The terms?"

"Two hundred and fifty francs a week, and all expenses paid. When could

you start?"

"To-morrow--to-day--when you will."

"_Bien!_ There is a little difficulty I would mention; the journey is

not without small perils. Hungary, as you are aware, is now under the

ban of an Austrian tyranny."

I assured him of my sympathy.

"Hold," he cried. "It is exactly that you have no sympathy that I

select you. The Baron is already _suspect_, and the son, inheriting his

father's sentiments, has small discretion of speech. Keep Austria in

the background, I implore you."

"And are you sure that the Baron will approve of your choice of an

escort?"

"The mere fact, Monsieur Mortimer, that you were in the service--I beg

your pardon--in the family of the Earl of Tottenbridge would be

sufficient, but I am proud to say that the recommendation of Francois

Danneris would be a _carte blanche_ to any one to the confidence of

Baron Dressdorf. He is a noble man," he added with emotion, "and to him

I owe all I have in the world."

And then for half an hour the advocate poured into my ear the glories

of the house of Dressdorf and stories of Austrian oppression that made

me eager to serve his _protege_. Nay, I was so interested in his case

that I believe I would have seen the youth home, if I had had to bear

all the expenses of the journey myself.

"Have you a passport?"

"It is here," I said, handing it to him--"a Foreign Office passport

that protects me all over the continent."

"Ah, I see. And this permit?"

"Ah, that belongs to my pupil, Nigel Fairleigh. We can cut that off.

Lady Milton should have had it with her, but they are not very strict

at Ostend, and I suppose her rank proved an open sesame."

"Black eyes," he read, "black hair, sharp features, high forehead,

height, five feet three. My dear Monsieur Mortimer," and he turned

eagerly toward me, "you would do me a real service, you would lay the

noble Dressdorf under the greatest obligation, if you would permit our

young charge to use this passport. It describes him to a T. The

critical nature of events, the necessity for caution, the delicate

health of the boy--nay, do not look shocked; such things are done every

day--will excuse the trifling impropriety----"

"Impossible!"

Taking no notice of the interruption, he continued. "And to tell the

truth, it was just this that bothered me. A Belgian passport is looked

upon with much suspicion, and is likely to lead to inquiry; but armed

with this, you may go from here to the Oural mountains without a

question."

At first I refused point-blank, but at last resigned myself to his

sophistry, and the bargain was closed.

"When can I see the youth?" I asked.

"Now, monsieur. I will at once escort you to the _pension_ of the Porte

de Schaerbeck, and introduce him to you."

Fifty boys of Belgian, French, American, and English extraction, seated

at a long table enjoying their afternoon's "goute"--a post-meridian

lunch of weak brandy-and-water and grapes; a bald _maitre d'ecole_

periodically crying, "Si-i-i-lence, messieurs. Restez-vous tranquilles!"

like a sheriff in a court of law. Such a scene met my view. I

recognized my youth in a moment; there was no mistaking the clear,

well-defined features, raven hair, and black eyes of the gentle lad who

rose to greet my companion with a grace and assurance that checked

remonstrance on the part of the half-offended usher, who simply solaced

himself with a shrug of the shoulders and a more than usually prolonged

"Si-i-i-i-i-lence, messieurs. Restez-vous tranquilles!"

"This is the gentleman, Jules, who has kindly consented to take you

home, and it is arranged that you start to-morrow," said the advocate.

The boy's big eyes looked into mine with an inquiring gaze, and then,

taking my hand, he quaintly said:

"I like you."

There was nothing impertinent in the tone or manner; it was the hearty

expression of his unsophisticated thought.

"He is an Englishman," continued M. Danneris, "and will be very kind to

you. Remember that you owe him respect and implicit obedience."

"Then he hates the Austrians--he whose country is free knows how to

give sympathy to a poor Hungarian. This good Englishman shall see for

himself how our noble people suffer at the hands of tyrants."

"Hush, hush, Jules! You must not talk like this. Is it not

extraordinary," said M. Danneris, turning to me, "that even the very

children of this oppressed race fill their minds with a sense of

wrong?"

"No wonder," I replied, "if but half you have told me is true."

"When I am a man," flashed Jules, "I will kill the Austrians--they are

not worthy to live."

"Jules," I said soothingly, "I am just going for a stroll over the

fields toward Louvain. Ask permission from monsieur, your professor, to

join me."

Danneris smiled. "That was well done," he said. "You cannot too soon

become acquainted. Call here for the boy to-morrow midday. I will see

that he is prepared."

When I said adieu to Jules that evening, after a long ramble over the

endless corn fields that bordered the "road to Waterloo," I saw with

pleasure that I had awakened in him a generous confidence. He too had,

by his artless manner, inspired in me no common interest.

We started. Six days' journey to reach Vienna, a hundred-mile trip up

the Danube to Buda, seven leagues in a _caleche_, and we should be at

Dressdorf Castle.

Uneventful the days were. Poor Jules, weary with travel, talked but

little, for which I was appropriately thankful. It was painful to see

how he shrank from the gaze of any official who might question us a

little closely as to our destination, and to watch his quivering lips

as he muttered in response to my assurances of safety, "I trust all to

the good Englishman."

As we neared the Austrian frontier he harped more on the subject of his

Austrian wrongs, and I was frequently obliged to check him. A fire

seemed consuming the boy, a burning vengeance toward the oppressor.

We reached Vienna at dusk on the sixth day, and put up at the Hotel

d'Hollande, according to the suggestions of Danneris. Jules complained

of sick headache, and I was somewhat relieved to hear him suggest bed.

It was not till I had seen him safely settled, and had extracted a

promise from him not to leave his room, that I felt at liberty to call

a few hours my own.

Having dined, I stood on the doorstep of the hotel smoking a cigar and

revolving in my mind where I should spend my evening, when I was

accosted by a police agent making some inquiry about my passport.

"By the way," said I, "I never was in Austria before, but in France I

have been accustomed to give a gensdarme a couple of francs to take my

passport to the bureau of the police to be _vise_."

"Herr Englaender can pursue the same plan here," was the polite

rejoinder. "I shall be happy to oblige him."

Glad to be relieved of the bother, I handed him the document. He

briefly compared my person with the description, and then queried:

"And the boy?"

"He is sick and has retired; but if you desire it, you shall see him."

"No need--a boy is no great matter"; and the courteous official, with a

bow that would have graced a D'Orsay, was gone.

To the Grand Opera House, the largest in the world, I bent my steps,

and in an hour was revelling in Mme. Garcia's thrilling notes, when a

hand was laid on my shoulder and a grim, moustached, soldier-like

fellow whispered in my ear:

"Your passport, Herr Englaender."

"It is gone to the police bureau to be _vise_. I sent it from the Hotel

d'Hollande by an officer."

For the moment he withdrew, and burning with shame, for every eye was

upon me, I turned defiantly to the stage.

"Will the Herr ride or walk?" came again the voice in my ear.

"What do you mean?"

"The Herr must go immediately to the Hotel d'Hollande. That is all."

I expostulated, but a storm of hisses from those near enough to be

interrupted in their enjoyment of the music decided me, and I angrily

rose.

"I am at your service, sir."

We walked on without a word.

Never shall I forget the face of the fat little Dutch landlord as we

entered--surprise, sympathy, fear alternately lighting his countenance

as he poured forth a polyglot expression of his excited feelings. In

French, English, Dutch, and German he assured us he was desolated,

miserable, abandoned. Ah, but it was a good young Englaender. It was

true he had never seen the passport; he knew he should have asked for

it himself when his noble friend first came to the house; but, _bete

brouillant_ that he was, he had forgotten it.

Then followed a conference between the landlord and the officer,

resulting in my being called aside by the former and receiving the

following valuable advice:

"My dear sir, you have made a most never-to-be-sufficiently deplored

mistake. But see. Satisfy this zealous officer with a bottle of good

Stein wine, and all will be well in the morning; only do not leave the

house again to-night."

It was a bitter pill, but I swallowed it gracefully, and Herr

Polizeidiener and I clicked glasses fraternally with protestations of

mutual regard.

In the morning I was awakened by Jules, whose night's rest had done him

a world of good. Bright, vivacious, and noisy, he bounded into my room.

"Oh, Herr Mortimer, such an idea! There is a grand review of the

soldiery. Come, get up. We must go and see it. I would not miss it for

the world."

"Do not be so excited, Jules; it is the last place to which I would

dream of taking you. Your father----"

"Wrote me not to fail to see the Austrian troops if I had an

opportunity."

Perhaps there was some object in that, and to Jules's delight I

consented to take seats on the lumbering stage-coach that was to leave

the hotel with other guests bent on the same holiday excursion. I was

the more complacent as I reflected that the steamer did not leave

Vienna till five o'clock, and I thus saw a means of keeping Jules out

of further mischief.

We reached the review ground. It was indeed a gorgeous scene. Crimson

and gold, blue and silver flashed back the sun's rays, bugles sounded,

and cannon roared.

I was not quite at my ease, however, as I noticed the interest I was

exciting in a resplendent official, whose eyes were continually on me.

At last, to my dismay, he beckoned to me.

"Sir, your passport?"

"It is gone to the bureau to be _vise_," and then followed a pathetic

recital of the annoyances I had been subjected to.

"Will the Herr ride or walk?" was the stereotyped response.

"Where?"

"To Vienna. Until this passport is found the Herr must consider himself

under arrest."

In vain I pleaded the unprotected position of my young companion. All

the concession I could get was permission to speak a few words with

him, which I did with much caution, simply assuring him of my speedy

return, and extracting his promise that, if I were detained by my

"friend," he would return with the fiacre to the hotel, and quietly

await my arrival.

"I will do all the good Englishman asks of me"; and a warm pressure of

the hand made me feel that Jules understood the extremity of the case.

At once to the bureau.

I was so confident of finding the passport and utterly confounding the

officer who had given me all this trouble, that I am afraid my manner

was rather supercilious, to say the least of it.

The commissaire heard my story somewhat impatiently.

"The officer's number to whom you say you gave your passport?"

"I did not notice it."

"His name?"

"I never demanded it."

A grin on the face of the commissaire, a very sarcastic curl of the

lip, a shrug of the shoulders, an ominous silence.

"Sir," said I, somewhat sobered by the course events had taken, "I am a

British subject!"

"Zo?"

"A graduate of the University of Oxford."

"Zo?"

"Tutor in the family of the Earl of Tottenbridge."

"Zo?"

"Son of a county magistrate."

"Zo? And nevertheless you are arrested for wandering about like a rogue

and vagabond without a passport. We know not who you are, what you are,

where you come from. The question with us is, Where is your passport?

It is enough." And before I could reply his back was turned.

A whitewashed room, sixteen feet square, one barred window, one iron

bedstead, one wooden bench--such was my apartment and the inventory of

its furniture; and I felt my heart sink as the key in the door turned

with an ominous click, and I was left to enjoy my solitary meditations.

What could I do? For an hour I racked my brain. Dared I apply to the

English embassy? I would, come what might of it. A few blows on the

panel of my door brought the officer.

"I wish to make immediate application to Lord Cowley."

"I will see."

He returned in a few minutes.

"Lord Cowley is not in Vienna now. He is at the Grand Baths."

"Still, there is somebody at the embassy office. I must go there."

After a brief interview with his superior, the permission was accorded.

The officer and I reached the embassy building, and as I passed the

jovial English porter at the door, my heart rose, for already I felt

the shadow of the British lion over me.

A pale, emaciated, gentlemanly youth, with a gold eyeglass, was

standing with his back to the fire, reading a copy of the "Times,"

while at his feet lay a magnificent bull-and-mastiff, by far the more

dignified animal of the two. The exquisite gave no sign of his

knowledge of our presence.

"Ahem!"

No attention.

The dog yawned, the great clock on the wall ticked with an aggravating

loudness, and at last I broke out--

"Sir, I am in a terrible dilemma. I have lost my passport. I trusted it

to a rascally policeman to take to the bureau to get _vise_, and now I

am apprehended, put in a miserable prison, called a rogue and vagabond

by a confounded commissaire." The effect of my eloquence on the attache

was amusing. Down went the paper.

"Oh, I say--you know--you mustn't--indeed, you mustn't. The office

can't be approached in this manner--very irregular, by Jove, very

irregular."

"What must I do? The consequences may be fearful----"

"Write to Lord John Russell at the F. O. If he knows anything about

you, you can petition Lord Cowley, and in the course of a few

weeks----"

"A few weeks! a cycle of years! I must be liberated at once. The

safety, nay, the very life of a helpless boy depends upon it."

"Oh, I say, you know, you mustn't get so excited, by Jove, you know;

you mustn't indeed. Very irregular--'pon honor, I never saw such

irregularity."

The Adam was aroused in me--I couldn't help it.

"Sir!" I roared, "you are here for the protection of the British

subject----"

"No, you know," he interrupted. "Consul, that sort of thing. By Jove,

never saw such a fellow."

"You are placed here for use or ornament. You are, sir, a failure in

either capacity."

"John!"--oh, the superciliously grand air of that little mite!--"John,

show this person the door!"

* * * * *

Once more in prison.

Another hour's mental rack, another resource--send for the landlord of

the Hotel d'Hollande.

He came.

I fancy I see before me now the paunchy Dutchman, rubbing his fat hands

and condoling with me in hybrid accents.

"But now, Herr Englaender, an inspiration!" He approached me, placed his

pursy lips to my ears, and whispered: "Offer--delicately as you

can--but offer the commissaire a few of your English gold pieces, and

see the passport, he return, he come back--_vite_, quick. _Voila

tout._"

"Bribe the commissaire?"

"Hush! yes, it is your only chance."

Heavens! what a country! Well might poor Jules rave at the Austrians!

The Dutchman left, and after a few minutes' hesitation, I summoned up

courage to knock at the door, which was promptly opened by the officer,

who respectfully demanded my requirements.

"I wish to see the commissaire."

"Surely. Will the Herr follow me?"

Where were the frowns gone? The commissaire received me in a most

gracious manner. Would I be seated?

"Sir," I stammered, for it went sorely against the grain, "my

carelessness has brought me into considerable trouble, and I feel that

with your aid alone I can rectify matters. At the same time I am aware

that I should pay some penalty for my lack of discretion. If therefore

you would give these five sovereigns to some charitable institution in

Vienna, and use some effort to find my passport, you will lay me under

a great obligation."

The great official said he would do so, and the English sovereigns

chinked in his capacious vest-pocket.

"And now, if the Herr will go to his hotel, all Vienna shall be

searched. The passport cannot be lost, and in a few hours it shall be

in his hands."

Free! It was the only time I was ever under lock and key, but I shall

never forget the exhilarating delight of that moment.

I had hardly gone twenty rods when I remembered that the boat left at

five o'clock, and I thought that I would return and tell the

commissaire to hurry up.

As I opened the door of the bureau I saw him deliberately take from a

pigeon-hole my passport, and handing it to the agent, say, "Here, take

this stupid Englishman his passport!"

"Sir," I said, stepping forward, "I will relieve you of the trouble."

Not a blush, not an apology. With a profusion of compliments and hopes

for my _bon voyage_, the commisaaire graciously bowed me out, and with

all haste I sought the Hotel d'Hollande.

The fiacre was just driving up to the door as I arrived. I saw it all

in one moment. _The boy was not there._

I questioned the driver and passengers. It appeared that Jules had left

the carriage shortly after my departure, and as three hours had elapsed

before their return to Vienna, they concluded that he had joined me.

My excitement threw the landlord into a further convulsion of

hand-rubbing and general perplexity.

"Get me a strong saddle horse," I impetuously demanded.

"It shall be at the door in five minutes. Will not the Herr dine before

he leaves?"

"Dine! No; but let me have a flask of brandy."

Out through the paved streets to the plain. I scoured the whole country

round, peered into every carriage, searched every bush and brier, rode

up and down the neighboring lanes and highways, inquired of all I met,

and only trotted back to Vienna when darkness came on and my jaded

horse could hardly bear me home.

Then I ate and drank, and, taking a caleche, visited every police

station and hospital in Vienna. All in vain; and at three o'clock in

the morning I threw myself on my bed to snatch a few hours' sleep ere

my search should be again renewed.

I will not dwell upon the horrors of that time. Day succeeded day, and

nearly a week passed in my frantic efforts to discover the whereabouts

of the poor young Hungarian. How my heart bled for the gentle boy,

perhaps languishing in an Austrian dungeon and calling on the good

Englishman to rescue him. I lived a year in that week. At last I

resolved to telegraph to M. Danneris. "Jules is lost. For God's sake,

come at once," flashed along the wires. The answer was equally terse.

The operator at Brussels replied, "Danneris gone. Left no address."

Was ever anything so unfortunate? Ah, yes, he did talk of visiting

England, and that was the reason he could not himself escort Jules

home.

Then I knew that I must brace my nerves to the terrible effort of

telling that poor father that his child was lost; that I, by my cursed

carelessness, had been the destroyer of his peace.

"Your son has mysteriously disappeared from my charge. Hasten here."

The answer was more perplexing than the one from Brussels: "Baron von

Dressdorf not known--no such place as Kioske."

Heavens! Was I in a dream?

For three weeks I continued my search, wandering about in a haggard,

broken manner, dreading every day to be stricken with brain fever. I

could not sleep for thinking of the poor lad, whose big, pleading eyes

seemed to look up into mine from every side. He haunted me.

One day I was watching the crowd pass the corner of the Thun Strasse,

when my hand was clasped, and a cheery voice rang in my ear:

"Mortimer, old fellow, by all that's glorious! Who would ever have

thought of meeting you here?"

It was Harvey Lawson, my old college chum.

"But you are sick, man. You look clean out of condition. Come up into

my den--mind those stairs--here you are--take that arm-chair. You see

I'm 'own correspondent' to the 'Daily Growler.' There's a pipe. Will

you have beer or wine? And, now, what have you been doing with

yourself?"

I told him all, and my story certainly awakened much interest in him.

"What was the date of your leaving Brussels?"

"Wednesday, September 17."

"Just a month ago. Hand me that file of papers at your elbow."

He selected one, glanced at it a moment. "Ah, yes, here it is."

"What?" I cried eagerly, the blood flying to my face.

"What was the name of the advocate?" he persisted with all the gravity

of a judge.

"Auguste Danneris."

"And his office, 170 Rue des Allumettes?"

"Yes, yes!"

"The _pension_ in the Porte de Schaerbeck?"

"Yes."

"The youth--black eyes, black hair, high forehead, projecting chin,

height five feet three?"

"Yes."

"Spoke English well?"

"Remarkably well for a foreigner--and so young."

"Had a slight impediment in pronouncing the letter _p_."

"Yes, I tried to correct the dear boy of the habit."

"Did, eh?"

"I did, and with some success too."

"And went by the name of Jules von Dressdorf?"

"Yes."

"Then, by the lord Harry! Master Mortimer, you've immortalized yourself.

You've abducted the most accomplished little _dame d'industrie_ Paris

ever produced--you've snatched from under the very noses of a cordon of

French and Flemish police the princess of adventuresses, Adele de la

Voix, spy, thief, forger--ay, and if suspicion points truly,

murderess--for she is believed to have poisoned an accomplice at Ghent

after consummating the robbery of the Comtesse de Nemour's jewels. A

pretty piece of business truly."

I was dazed. He handed me the journal, and I read for myself the whole

of the infamous plot.

"By George, that boarding-school dodge was an excellent one, worthy of

her greatness--threw the police off the scent for ten days," said

Harvey with a grin.

"Then, when the police got on the right track again," he continued, "it

was too late; she had eloped with you. O Lord, it's too good," and he

lay back in his chair and roared.

"By heavens, if you are not quiet, I'll pitch you out of the window."

"No, you won't. If you move a finger, I'll write and tell Gwennie Grey

all about your elopement. Why, man, if you were a child of grace, you'd

go down on your knees and implore me not to give you two columns in the

'Growler.' There, I was only joking. Don't look so blue. But I confess

it's a strong temptation. Such sensations don't crop up every day;

besides, messieurs the police are dying to know how _la belle_ Adele

crossed the frontier."

"Do you think," I said wearily, "that the proprietor of the _pension_

was an accomplice?"

"Most assuredly not. He is an old resident, and gave his testimony with

tears in his eyes, assuring the court that Jules von Dressdorf was one

of the most docile, intelligent pupils he ever had under his roof."

"And M. Danneris?"

"Her father, I believe. His role was the man of reference, the

respectable 'fence' who directs the game while others do the work."

"Had my trouble with the police here anything to do with the matter?"

"Not a bit of it. They are infernal rascals, reaping where they do

not sow, and looking on careless travellers as legitimate game. Under

the present _regime_ they make half their living out of passport

irregularities."

"I suppose," I added, "I had better notify the police at Brussels."

"And be the laughing stock of Europe for your pains. No, Mortimer, lie

quiet here for a week or two, then take steamer through the

Mediterranean home. By the by, did Danneris advance you money for the

journey?"

"He gave me five hundred francs."

"Then you are not so badly off after all. Make your mind easy about

Mlle. Adele. She is hundreds of miles away by this."

"I wonder why she did not run away from the hotel the night I went to

the theatre."

"_Quien sabe?_ Let the dead past bury its dead."

* * * * *

Seventeen years have passed since the occurrence of the events I have

recorded, and never till yesterday have I seen or heard one word of

Adele de la Voix.

"Gwennie," said I to my dear little wife, on reaching my home in

southern Michigan after a visit on business to Detroit, "you remember

the heroine of my trip to Dressdorf castle, just before we were

married?"

"Surely," said the wife.

"Well, I saw Adele de la Voix yesterday."

"You didn't! When? Where?"

"At a store in Gratiot avenue. I was making a purchase, when a woman

entered--old-looking, homely, shabby; but there was no mistaking those

black eyes, nor the sniff of the left nostril. When she was gone, I

made some inquiries about her, and here is her business card:

"MME. JULIENNE, from Paris, reveals the past, the present, and the

future. Can be consulted on all affairs of love, business, or law,

and overcomes trouble of any kind. She brings together the

separated, causes speedy marriages, and sells infallible love

powders. Go and see for yourself. No humbug here.

"Rooms, etc."

"And what are you going to do?"

"Do? I don't know."

"I do."

"You wise woman, what is it?"

"Write the whole story for your favorite magazine. It is as interesting

as half the fiction one reads, and contains a good moral."

THE BATTALION.

A thousand strong we marched to battle;

The city roared around the host;

The tambours crashed their vaunting rattle;

The bugles screamed their joyous boast.

No thought had we to die asunder,

Companions sworn, a brother throng;

We looked to sweep through battle's thunder

In noble lines, a thousand strong.

But ah, the fever's poisoned arrow!

The jungle's breath, the summer's glow!

Our broad array grew swiftly narrow,

And scanty hundreds met the foe.

O splendid longings, thoughts and fancies

Which tread the city of the soul,

How few of all your spirit-lances

Arrive where duty's trumpets roll!

J. W. DE FOREST.

THE FASCINATIONS OF ANGLING.

I.

It is the cheerful verdict of all anglers that they find no other

pastime so fascinating. This conclusion is not based upon the mere

mechanism of the art, but upon the fact that it is eminently healthful,

rational, and elevating, blending the picturesque and exhilarating in

such equal proportions as to exactly meet the demands of the quiet

student, the contemplative philosopher, and the care-worn man of

business, whose wearied or exhausted nature covets just the solitude

and repose which no other recreation so abundantly furnishes.

This of course could not be said of angling if it had no other

attraction than the excitement it affords. But I am sure no one ever

became an enthusiastic angler who had no other or higher conceptions of

its possibilities. The mere act of taking fish is but a minor note in

the full volume of harmony which comes to its appreciative disciples

amid the vast solitudes where they find their best sport and highest

pleasure. Ask any true angler what pictures come up most vividly before

him as "the time of the singing of birds" draweth nigh, when it is

right to "go a-fishing." His answer will not be, "The rise and strike

of trout or salmon," although both will pass upon the canvas like rays

of sunshine upon the quiet repose of a forest landscape. He will rather

discourse to you of flowing river, of murmuring brook, of cloud-capped

mountain, of waving forest, of sunshine and shadow, of rapid and

cascade, of tent and camp fire, of silence and solitude, of cozy nook,

of undisturbed repose, of refreshing slumber, of invigorated health,

and the _abandon_ of delight which neither word nor pencil can

adequately portray. I have heard such "simple wise men" talk of their

favorite pastime until they glowed with ecstasy, without once naming

fish or fishing. That is but the body of the art. Its spirit consists

in what is seen and felt. An angler, "born so," as Walton hath it,

retains a more vivid recollection of the foam-encircled pool where

salmon love to congregate than of the "rise" and "strike" which gave

him his early morning's exhilaration. While he soon forgets the "play"

and weight of the fish captured, he never forgets the picturesque

surroundings of the struggle. He may forget the last homily he read, or

the last sermon to which he listened, but never the thrill of devout

ecstasy which came to him while wandering along some forest pathway, or

while gently floating with the current of his favorite river, bathed in

sunshine and fanned by summer zephyrs. After many days, these blissful

moments come back to him like divine benedictions. Be sure, O carping

critic, the gentle art has its spiritual and aesthetic as well as its

physical and intellectual attributes.

As a mere physical pastime, angling stands foremost among all the known

sources of pleasurable recreation. It blends active exercise with

fascinating excitement in such healthful proportions as to ensure the

fortunate participant equally against wearisome monotony and excessive

fatigue. The pure mountain air in which he is constantly enveloped is a

perpetual tonic, while the exercise it compels gives steadiness to the

nerves and solidity to the muscles.

As a mental renovator it is equally effective. There can be no

protracted lassitude while the brain is constantly quickened into

refreshing vitality by the novel and exhilarating surroundings of

mountain and forest and river, and the rise and strike and struggle of

trout or salmon.

And to those who have neither physical nor mental ailment, but who are

conscious of a spiritual need--of some more vivid appreciation of the

goodness and beneficence of the Heavenly Father than most men attain

unto while writhing under the harrow of business or bewildered by the

shallow superficialities or noisy clatter of artificial life--the quiet

places where the pursuit of the gentle art takes them, the silence and

shadow of the sombre forest, the twitter and song of the solitary

woodbird, the clear shining stars, which hang like silver lamps above

his tent or cabin, and the reposeful hush which comes to his soul like

whispered benedictions--these all tend to intensify his gratitude, to

quicken his spiritual pulse, and to give to him a higher and a keener

appreciation of his spiritual obligations.

There may be those who engage in angling only as they engage in the

coarser amusements which, for a time, divert the mind and banish

_ennui_. But all such soon weary of it, and never reach the higher

plane of the pleasant pastime. To do so requires a placid temper, a

thoughtful if not a poetic appreciation of the picturesque, a moderate

love of solitude, a patient habit, and a quiet disposition. To find

delectation in his walks, the angler need not be an ascetic or a

stickler for creeds; but I do not think the heart of Gallio, who "cared

for none of these things," would have been made glad when "the voice of

the turtle was heard in the land," and it was right to "go a-fishing,"

because I cannot imagine him a man of a teachable disposition or of a

lovable nature, who took pleasure in the society or teachings of the

gentle Master of the Galilean fishermen. Izaak Walton might have had

equal skill with rod and reel without his saintly faith; but his

"Complete Angler" never would have attained the high place it has held

and will ever hold in the affections of the contemplative men of all

time had he not been imbued with the spirit of reverent humility and

such a loving sense of the Infinite Beneficence as to find in all the

beauty and sublimity of Nature evidence of His great goodness and

loving kindness to the children of men. He may not, like Enoch, have

"walked with God," but in all his walks he saw God's handiwork; and

this consciousness multiplied many fold the pleasure he sought and

always found in the pursuit of his favorite recreation.

II.