street. Suddenly her face changed, an expression of interest and surprise
came into her dreamy eyes: she put up her glass, and then broke into a
laugh. "Come and look at this," she exclaimed; and I came.
What I saw was only Kitty and the Jook, but Kitty and the Jook walking side
by side in the most amicable manner--Kitty sparkling, bewitching, helpless,
appealing by turns or altogether as only she could be; the Jook watching
her with an expression of amusement and delight on his handsome face. And
both were laden with great wreaths and trails of yellow jessamine, golden
chalices of fragrance, drooping sprays of green glistening leaves, until
they looked like walking bowers.
"How on earth--" I exclaimed, and could get no further: my feelings choked
me.
Kitty came in radiant and smiling as the morning, bearing her treasures. Of
course we both pounced upon her: "Kitty, where did you meet the Jook? How
did it happen? What did you do?"
"Cows!" said Kitty solemnly, with grave lips and twinkling eyes.
"Cows? Cows in Florida? Kitty, _what_ do you mean?"
"A cow ran at me, and I was frightened and ran at Mr. Warriner. He drove
the cow off. That's all. Then he walked home with me. Any harm in that?"
"Now, Kitty, the idea! A Florida cow run at you? If you had said a pig,
there might be some sense in it, for the pigs here do have some life about
them; but a cow! Why, the creatures have not strength enough to stand up:
they are all starving by inches."
"Can't help that," said Kitty. "Must have thought I was good to eat, then,
I suppose. I thought she was going to toss me, but I don't think it would
be much more agreeable to be eaten. Mr. Warriner is my preserver, anyhow,
and I shall treat him _'as sich_.'"
Kitty looked so mischievous and so mutinous that there was evidently no use
in trying to get anything more out of her, and after standing there a few
minutes fingering her blossoms and smiling to herself, she danced off to
dress for tea.
"Selfish little thing, not to offer us one of those lovely sprays!" I
exclaimed, but Königin laughed: "My dear, they are hallowed. Our touch
would profane them."
Königin always saw further than I did, and I gasped: "Königin! you don't
think--"
"Oh no, dear, not yet. Kitty is piqued, and wants to fascinate the Jook a
little--just a little as yet, but she may burn her fingers before she gets
through. Looks are contagious, and--did you see her face?"
Such a brilliant little figure as slipped softly into the dining-room that
evening, all wreathed and twisted and garlanded about with the shining
green vines, gemmed with their golden stars. Head and throat and waist and
round white arms were all twined with them, and blossoming sprays and knots
of the delicately carved blossoms drooped or clung here and there amid her
floating hair and gauzy black drapery. How did the child ever make them
stick? How had she managed to decorate herself so elaborately in the short
time that had elapsed since her return? But Kitty had ways of doing things
unknown to duller mortals.
Not a word had Kitty for me that evening, but for her father such clinging,
coaxing, wheedling ways, and for the Jook such coy, sparkling,
artfully-accidental glances, such shy turns of the little head, such dainty
capricious airs, that it was delicious to watch her. Königin and I sat in a
dark corner for the express purpose of admiring her delicate little
manuvres. As for her father, good stolid man! he was well used to Kitty's
freaks, and went on reading his newspaper in such a matter-of-fact way that
she might as well have wheedled the Pyramid of Cheops. The Jook, however,
was all that could be desired. The shyest of men--shy and proud as only an
Englishman can be--he could not make up his mind to walk directly up to
Kitty, as an American would do, as all the young Americans in the room
would have done if Kitty had let them. But Kitty, flighty little butterfly
as she seemed, had stores of tact and finesse in that little brain of hers,
and the power of developing a fine reserve which had already wilted more
than one of the young men of the house. For Kitty was none of your arrant
and promiscuous flirts who count "all fish that come to their net." She was
choice and dainty in her flirtations, but, possibly, none the less
dangerous for that.
The Jook hovered about the room from chair to sofa, from sofa to
window-seat, finding himself at each remove one degree nearer to Kitty.
"He is like a tame canary-bird," whispered Königin. "Let it alone and it
will come up to you after a while, but speak to it and you frighten it off
at once."
And when at length he reached Kitty's side, how beautiful was the look of
slight surprise, not _too_ strongly marked, and the half-shy pleasure in
the eyes which she raised to him; and then the coy little gesture with
which she swept aside her draperies and made room for him. Half the power
of Kitty's witcheries lay in her frank, childish manner, just dashed with
womanly reserve.
Well! the Jook was thoroughly in the vortex now: there was no doubt about
that. Kitty might laugh as loud as she pleased, and he only looked charmed.
Kitty might frisk like a will-o'-the wisp, and he only admired her innocent
vivacity. Even the bits of slang and the Americanisms which occasionally
slipped from her only struck him as original and piquant. How would it all
end? That neither Königin nor I could divine, for Kitty was not one to wear
her heart upon her sleeve. It was very little that we saw of Kitty in
these days, for she was always wandering off somewhere, boating on the
broad placid river or lounging about "Greenleaf's" or driving--always with
the Jook for cavalier, and, if the excursions were long, with her father to
play propriety. When she did come into our room, she was not our own Kitty,
with her childish airs and merry laughter. This was a brilliant and
volatile little woman of the world, who rattled on in the most amusing
manner about everything--except the Jook. About him her lips never opened,
and the most distant allusion to him on our part was sufficient to send her
fluttering off on some pressing and suddenly remembered errand. Yet this
reserve hardly seemed like the shyness of conscious but unacknowledged
love. On the contrary, we both fancied--Königin and I--that Kitty began to
look worried, and somehow, in watching her and the Jook, we began to be
conscious that a sort of constraint had crept into her manner toward him.
It could be no doubt of his feelings that caused it, for no woman could
desire a bolder or more ardent lover than he had developed into, infected,
no doubt, by the American atmosphere. Sometimes, too, we caught shy,
wistful glances at the Jook from Kitty's eyes, hastily averted with an
almost guilty look if he turned toward her.
"What can it mean, Königin?" I said. "She looks as if she wanted to confess
some sin, and was afraid to."
"Some childish peccadillo," said Königin. "In spite of all her
woman-of-the-world-ishness the child has a morbidly sensitive conscience,
and is troubled about some nonsense that nobody else would think of twice."
"Can it be that she has only been flirting, and is frightened to find how
desperately in earnest he is?"
"Possibly," replied Königin. "But I fancy that she is too well used to that
phase of affairs to let it worry her. Wait a while and we shall see."
We couldn't make anything of it, but even the Jook became worried at last
by Kitty's queer behavior, and I suppose he thought he had better settle
the matter. For one evening, when I was keeping my room with a headache, I
was awakened from a light sleep by a sound of voices on the piazza outside
of my window. It was some time before I was sufficiently wide awake to
realize that the speakers were Kitty and the Jook, and when I did I was in
a dilemma. To let them know that I was there would be to overwhelm them
both with confusion and interrupt their conversation at a most interesting
point, for the Jook had evidently just made his declaration. It was
impossible for me to leave the room, for I was by no means in a costume to
make my appearance in the public halls. On the whole, I concluded that the
best thing I could do would be to keep still and never, by word or look, to
let either of them know of my most involuntary eavesdropping.
Kitty was speaking when I heard them first, talking in a broken, hesitating
voice, which was very queer from our bright, fluent little Kitty: "Mr.
Warriner, you don't know what a humbug you make me feel when you talk of
'my innocence' and 'unconsciousness' and 'lack of vanity,' and all the rest
of it. I have been feeling more and more what a vain, deceitful,
hypocritical little wretch I am ever since I knew you. I have been
expecting you to find me out every day, and I almost hoped you would."
"What _do_ you mean, Miss Grey?" asked the Jook in tones of utter
amazement, as well he might.
"Oh dear! how shall I tell you?" sighed poor Kitty; and I could _feel_ her
blushes burning through her words. Then, with a sudden rush: "Can't you
see? I feel as if I had _stolen_ your love, for it was all gained under
false pretences. You never would have cared for me if you had known what a
miserable hypocrite I really was. Why, that very first day I wasn't afraid
of the cow--she didn't even look at me--but I saw you coming,
and--and--Helen wouldn't introduce you to me--and it just struck me it
would be a good chance, and so I rushed up to you and--Oh! what will you
think of me?"
"Think?" said the Jook: "why, I think that while ninety-nine women out of
a hundred are hypocrites, not one in a thousand has the courage to atone
for it by an avowal like yours. Not that it was exactly hypocrisy, either."
The poor blundering Jook! Always saying the most maddening things under the
firm conviction that it was the most delicate compliment.
Kitty was too much in earnest to mind it now, though. "Do you know," she
went on, "that from the very first day I came into the house I was
determined to captivate you?--that every word and every look was directed
to that end? I have been nothing but an actress all through. I have done it
before, hundreds and hundreds of times, but I never felt the shame of it
until now--because--because--"
"Because you never loved any one before? Is that it, Kitty?" said the Jook
tenderly.
"Oh, I don't know," said Kitty desperately. "How can I tell? But it's all
Helen's fault. If she had introduced you to me in a rational way, I should
never have gone on so. But she wouldn't, and I was piqued--"
"I must exonerate Miss Helen," interrupted the Jook. "She wanted to
introduce me, and I declined. I am sure I don't know why--English reserve,
I suppose. I had not seen you then, you know, and some of the people here
are such a queer lot that I rather dreaded new acquaintances."
"Not Helen's fault?" wailed Kitty. "Oh, this is stolen--oh, poor Helen!"
Naturally, the Jook was utterly bewildered, but as for me I sprang up into
a sitting posture, for the meaning of Kitty's behavior had just flashed
upon me. Absolutely, the poor little goose thought that in accepting the
Jook, as she was evidently dying to do, she would be robbing me of my
lover. And she never guessed at my own little romance, tucked away safely
in the most secret corner of my heart, which put any man save one quite out
of the question for me. If I had stopped to think, I suppose I should not
have done what I did, but in my surprise the words came out before I
thought: "Good gracious, Kitty my dear! do take the Jook if you want him!
_I_ don't."
I could not help laughing when I realized what I had done. A little shriek
from Kitty and a _very_ British exclamation from the Jook, a slight scuffle
of chairs and a sense, rather than sound, of confusion, announced the
effect of my words.
I waited for their reply, but dead silence prevailed, so I was obliged to
speak again. "You needn't be alarmed," I said, peering cautiously through
the chinks in the blinds, for I had approached the window by this time. "I
didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't get out of the way, and I never
intended to let you or any one else know that I had heard your
conversation. I'm awfully sorry that I have disturbed you, but, as I am in
for it now, I might as well go on."
There I stopped, for I didn't exactly know what to say, and I hoped that
one of them would "give me a lead." I could just catch a glimpse of their
faces in the moonlight. The Jook was staring straight at the window-shutter
behind which I lurked, and the wrath and disgust expressed in his handsome
features set me off into a silent chuckle. I was sorry for Kitty, though.
Her face drooped as if it were weighed down by its own blushes, and the
long lashes quivered upon the hot cheeks.
"Ah, really, Miss Helen," spoke the Jook at last, "this is a most
unexpected pleasure. Ah, really, you know, I mean--"
It was not very lucid, but it was all I needed, and I replied suavely, "Oh
yes, I understand. You never asked me, and never had the faintest idea of
doing so. Otherwise, we should not have been such good friends. All I want
is to enforce the fact on Kitty's mind.--And now, Kitty, my dear, if you
are quite satisfied on this point, I will dress and go down stairs.--Don't
disturb yourselves, pray!" for both of them showed signs of moving. "You
can finish your conversation to much better advantage where you are, and
this little excitement has quite cured my headache."
I wonder how in the world they ever took up the dropped stitches in that
conversation? They did it somehow, though, for when they reappeared Kitty
was the prettiest possible picture of shy, blushing, shamefaced happiness,
while the Jook was fairly beaming with pride and delight. It was a case of
true love at last: there was no doubt about that--such love as few would
have believed that a flighty little creature like Kitty was capable of
feeling. It was wonderful to see how quickly all her little wiles and
coquetries fell off under its influence, just as the rosy, fluttering
leaves of the spring fall off when the fruit pushes its way. I don't
believe it had ever struck her before that there was anything degrading in
this playing fast and loose with men's hearts which had been her favorite
pastime, or in beguiling them by feigning a passion of which she had never
felt one thrill. It was not until Love the magician had touched her heart
that the honest and loyal little Kitty that lay at the bottom of all her
whims and follies was developed. The very sense of unworthiness which she
felt in view of the Jook's straightforward and manly ardor was the surest
guarantee for the perfection of her cure.
A truce to moralizing. Kitty does not need it, nor the Jook either. If he
is not proud of the bright little American bride he is to take back with
him to the "tight little isle" of our forefathers, why, appearances are
"deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked."
HENRIETTA H. HOLDICH.
COMMUNISM IN THE UNITED STATES.
Nowhere in the history of the world have we any example of successful
communism. The ancient Cretan and Lacedemonian experiments, the efforts of
the Essenes and early Christians, the modified communities of St. Anthony
and several orders of monks, the schemes of the Anabaptists of the
sixteenth century, together with all the experiments of modern times, have
proved essential failures. Setting out with ideas of perfection in the
social state, and undertaking nothing less than the entire abolition of the
miseries of the world, the communists of all times have lived in a
condition the least ideal that can be imagined. The usual course of
socialistic communities has been to start out with a great flourish, to
quarrel and divide after a few months, and then to decrease and degenerate
until a final dispersion by general consent ended the attempt. During the
short existence of nearly all such communities the members have lived in
want of the ordinary comforts of life, in dispute about their respective
rights and duties, at law with retiring members, and battling with the
wilds and malarias of the countries in which alone anything like practical
communism has been usually possible. The most successful (so far as any of
these attempts can be called successful) have been those communities which
have been founded on a religion and which have consisted entirely of
members of one faith. But all political communism has utterly failed, and
the name is little more than a synonym for the most egregious blunders,
excesses and crimes of which visionary and unpractical people can be
guilty.
The United States seem ill suited for the spread of communistic ideas,
notwithstanding they contain almost the only socialistic communities to be
found anywhere. Though the people are free to live in common if they
desire, and although land and every facility are offered on easy terms for
the realization of communism--which is not the case in Europe (and which
is, therefore, the reason why the New World is chosen for communistic
experiments)--yet there is felt no need of communism here. There are
neither the political nor the social inducements for it which exist in
Europe, and all efforts to excite an enthusiasm on the subject have
invariably failed. Almost the only agitators are foreigners, and nearly all
the existing communities are composed of foreigners. Of these, two only are
political, the Icarian and the Cedar Vale, while the rest are religious.
The Icarian Community in Adams county, Iowa, about two miles from Corning,
a station on the Burlington and Missouri River Railroad, is the result of
an effort to realize the communistic theory of M. Cabet, a French writer
and politician of some note. It is perhaps the most just and practical of
all communistic systems; for the reader will remember that social systems
are as numerous in France as religious systems are in this country, and
take much the same place in the passions and bigotries of the people of
France, where there is but one religion, as our various sects do here,
where there are so many. The system of M. Cabet differs from the others in
much the same manner as our religious sects differ from one another; which
is not of much importance to the outside world, as they all contain the one
principle of a community of goods. M. Cabet first promulgated his system in
the shape of a romance entitled _A Voyage to Icaria_, in which he
represented the community at work under the most favorable circumstances
and in a high degree of prosperity. According to his system, all goods are
to be held in common, and all the people are to have an equal voice in the
disposal of them. Each is to contribute of labor and capital all that he
can for the common good, and to get all that he needs from the common fund.
"From each according to his ability--to each according to his wants," is
the formula of principles. The practical working of the community will
further illustrate the system.
In 1848, M. Cabet, with some three thousand of his followers, sailed from
France for New Orleans, intending to take up land in Texas or Arkansas on
which to establish a community, having the promise that he would soon be
followed by ten thousand more of his disciples. After spending several
months in reconnoitring, during which half of his followers got
discontented and left him, he settled with about fifteen hundred at Nauvoo,
Illinois, where they bought out the property of the Mormons, who had
recently been driven from that place. There they commenced operations,
establishing a saw- and grist-mill, and carrying on farming and several
branches of domestic manufacturing. In a little while they sent out a
branch colony to Icaria, in Adams county, Iowa, where they purchased, or
entered under the Homestead Act, four thousand acres of land. In this place
likewise they built a mill and went to farming and carrying on the more
simple trades. In a little while, however, a quarrel arose in the principal
community at Nauvoo in regard to the use and abuse of power, when, after a
rage of passion not unlike that which they had exhibited in the Revolution
of 1848 in France, M. Cabet, with a large minority, seceded and went to St.
Louis, where they expected to form another and more perfect community. They
never formed this community, however, and were soon dispersed. The
community at Nauvoo, being now harassed with debts and with lawsuits
growing out of the withdrawal of M. Cabet and his party, repaired to their
branch colony at Icaria, where they have been ever since. Here they had
likewise frequent disputes and withdrawals, often giving rise to lawsuits
and a loss of property, until in 1866, when the writer first visited them,
they were reduced to thirty-five members. Since that time they have picked
up a few members, mostly old companions who had left them for individual
life, until now they have about sixty in all. They own at present about two
thousand acres of land, of which three hundred and fifty are under
cultivation. They have good stock, consisting of about one hundred and
twenty head of cattle, five hundred sheep, two hundred and fifty hogs and
thirty horses. They still have their saw- and grist-mill, now run by steam,
but give most of their time to farming. They preserve the family relation,
and observe the strictest rules of chastity. Each family lives in a
separate house, but they all eat at a common table. By an economic division
of labor one man cooks for all these persons, another bakes, another
attends to the dairy, another makes the shoes, another the clothes; and in
general one man manages some special work for the whole. No one has any
money or need of any. All purchases are made from the common purse, and
each gets what he needs. The government is a pure democracy. The officers
are chosen once a year by universal (male) suffrage, and consist of a
president, secretary (and treasurer), director of agriculture and director
of industry. They have no religion, but, like most of the European
communists, are free-thinkers. They are highly moral, however, and much
esteemed by their neighbors. Some of them are quite learned, and all of
them may be pronounced decidedly heroic for the terrible privations they
have undergone in order to realize their political principles, to which
they are as strongly and sincerely devoted as any Christian to his
religion.
Such is a sketch of the most perfect system and most successful experiment
of political communism in the United States--not very encouraging, it will
be confessed. The other example of political communism is the Cedar Vale
Community in Howard county, Kansas, which needs only to be mentioned here,
as it has as yet no history. It was commenced in 1871, and is composed of
Russian materialists and American spiritualists. They have a community of
goods like the Icarians, and in general their principles are the same. They
had only about a dozen members at last accounts. Another and similar
community was established in 1874 in Chesterfield county, Virginia, called
the "Social Freedom Community," its principles being enunciated as a "unity
of interest and political, religious and social freedom;" but we cannot
discover whether it is yet in existence, as at last accounts it had only
two full members and eight probationers. It will be seen from these
examples that the prospects of political communism are far from promising.
Its principal power has always been as a sentiment, and it can be dreaded
only as an appeal to the destitute and lawless to rise in acts of violence.
It has been powerful in France in revolutions, riots and mobs, and in this
country in aiding the late strikers in their work of destruction.
The other existing communities are founded on some religious basis, being
efforts on the part of their founders to secure their religious rights or
to live with those of the same faith in closer relations. And although
their measures have been similar in many respects to those of the political
communists, they have resorted to them not on account of any political
principles, but because they believed them to be commanded by Scripture or
to grow out of some peculiarity of religious faith or duty. Most of them
have been formed after the model of the society of the apostles, who had
their goods in common, and because of their example. None, so far as we
know, have ever proposed to establish communities by force or to have the
whole people embraced in them. Held together by their peculiar religious
principles, they have been far more successful (especially when under some
shrewd leader whom they believed to have a spiritual authority) than when
actuated purely by reason.
Perhaps the most successful of these religious communities is that of the
"True Inspirationists," known as the Amana Community, in Iowa,
seventy-eight miles west of Iowa City, on the Chicago, Rock Island and
Pacific Railroad. These are all Germans, who came to this country in 1842,
and settled at first near Buffalo, New York, on a tract of land called
Ebenezer, from which they are sometimes known as "Ebenezers." This tract
comprised five thousand acres of land, including what is now a part of the
city of Buffalo. In 1855 they moved to their present locality in Iowa. They
pretend to be under direct inspiration, receiving from God the model and
general orders for the direction of their community. The present head,
both spiritual and temporal, is a woman, a sort of sibyl who negotiates the
inspirations. Their business affairs are managed by thirteen trustees,
chosen annually by the male members, who also choose the president. They
are very religious, though having but little outward form. There are
fourteen hundred and fifty members, who live in seven different towns or
villages, which are all known by the name of Amana--East Amana, West Amana,
etc. They have their property for the most part in common. Each family has
a house, to which food is daily distributed. The work is done by a prudent
division of labor, as in the Icarian community. But instead of providing
clothing and incidentals, the community makes to each person an allowance
for this purpose--to the men of from forty to one hundred dollars a year,
to the women from twenty-five to thirty dollars, and to the children from
five to ten dollars. There are public stores in the community at which the
members can get all they need besides food, and at which also strangers can
deal. They dress very plainly, use simple food, and are quite industrious.
They aim to keep the men and women apart as much as possible. They sit
apart at the tables and in church, and when divine service is dismissed the
men remain in their ranks until the women get out of church and nearly
home. In their games and amusements they keep apart, as well as in all
combinations whether for business or pleasure. The boys play with boys and
the girls with girls. They marry at twenty-four. They own at present
twenty-five thousand acres of land, a considerable part of which is under
cultivation. They have, in round numbers, three thousand sheep, fifteen
hundred head of cattle, two hundred horses and twenty-five hundred hogs.
Besides farming, they carry on two woollen-mills, four saw-mills, two
grist-mills and a tannery. They are almost entirely self-supporting in the
arts, working up their own products and living off the result. In medicine
they are homopathists.
The "Rappists" or Harmony Society at Economy, Pennsylvania, is composed of
about one hundred members, being all that remain of a colony of six hundred
who came from Germany in 1803. They were called Separatists or
"Come-outers" in their own country, and much persecuted on account of their
nonconformity with the established Church. They landed in Baltimore, and
some of them who never found their way into the community, or who
subsequently withdrew, settled in Maryland and Pennsylvania, where they are
still known as a religious sect. Those who remained together purchased five
thousand acres of land north of Pittsburg, in the valley of the
Conoquenessing. In 1814 they moved to Posey county, Indiana, in the Wabash
Valley, where they purchased thirty thousand acres of land, and in 1824
they moved back again to their present locality in Pennsylvania. In 1831 a
dissension arose among them, and a division was effected by one Bernard
Mueller--or "Count Maximilian" as he called himself--who went off with
one-third of the members and a large share of the property, and founded a
new community at Phillips, ten miles off, on eight hundred acres of land,
which, however, soon disbanded on account of internal quarrels.
The peculiarity of this community is that there is no intercourse between
the sexes of any kind. In 1807 they gave up marriage. The husbands parted
from their wives, and have henceforth lived with them only as sisters. They
claim to have authority for this in the words of the apostle: "This I say,
brethren, the time is short; it remaineth that both they that have wives be
as though they had none," etc. They teach that Adam in his perfect state
was bi-sexual and had no need of a female, being in this respect like God;
that subsequently, when he fell, the female part (rib, etc.) was separated
from him and made into another person, and that when they become perfect
through their religion the bi-sexual nature of the soul is restored.
Christ, they claim, was also of this dual nature, and therefore never
married. They believe that the world will soon come to an end, and that it
is their duty to help it along by having no children, and so putting an end
to the race as well as the planet.
Their property is all held in common and managed by a council of seven,
from whom the trustees are chosen. From four to eight live in each house,
men and women together, who regard each other as of the same sex, and are
never watched. Each household cooks for itself, although there is a general
bakery, from which bread is taken around to the houses as they have need.
The members are fond of music and flowers, but they discard dancing. Though
Germans, they have ceased to use tobacco; which loss, it is said, the men
feel more heavily than that of the wives. They make considerable wine and
beer, which they drink in moderation. They are said to be worth from two
millions to three millions of dollars, and speculate in mines, oil-wells,
saw-mills, etc., doing very little hard work, and hiring laborers from
without to take their places in all drudgery. They are engaged principally
in farming and the common trades, and supply nearly everything for
themselves. They are nearly all aged, none of them being under forty except
some adopted children. All are Germans and use the German language.
The Shakers are the oldest society of communists in the United States. The
parent society at Mount Lebanon, New York, was established in 1792, being
the outgrowth of a religious revival in which there were violent hysterical
manifestations or "shakes," from which they took their name. In this
revival one Ann Lee, known among them as "Mother Ann," was prominent. This
woman, of English birth, emigrated to Niskayuna, New York, about seven
miles north-west of Albany, where she pretended to speak from inspiration
and work miracles, so that the people soon came to regard her as being
another revelation of Christ and as having his authority. Being persecuted
by the outside world, her followers, after her death, formed a community in
which to live and enjoy their religion alone and: undisturbed. Their
principles may be summed up as special revelation, spiritualism, celibacy,
oral confession, community, non-resistance, peace, the gift of healing,
miracles, physical health and separation from the world. Like the Rappists,
they neither marry nor have any substitute for marriage, receiving all
their children by adoption. They live in large families or communes,
consisting of eighty or ninety members, in one big house, men and women
together. Each brother is assigned to a sister, who mends his clothes,
looks after his washing, tells him when he needs a new garment, reproves
him when not orderly, and has a spiritual oversight over him generally.
Though living in the same house, the sexes eat, labor and work apart. They
keep apart and in separate ranks in their worship. They do not shake hands
with the opposite sex, and there is rarely any scandal or gossip among
them, so far as the outside world can learn. There are two orders, known as
the Novitiate and the Church order, the latter having intercourse only with
their own members in a sort of monkish seclusion, while the others treat
with the outside world. The head of a Shaker society is a "ministry,"
consisting of from three to four persons, male and female. The society is
divided into families, as stated above, each family having two elders, one
male and one female. In their worship they are drawn up in ranks and go
through various gyrations, consisting of processions and dances, during
which they continually hold out their hands as if to receive something. The
Shakers are industrious, hard-working, economical and cleanly. They dress
uniformly. Their houses are all alike. They say "yea" and "nay," although
not "thee" and "thou," and call persons by their first names. They confine
themselves chiefly to the useful, and use no ornaments. There are at
present eighteen societies of Shakers in the United States, scattered
throughout seven States. They number in all two thousand four hundred and
fifteen persons, and own one hundred thousand acres of land. Their
industries are similar to those of the Rappists and True Inspirationists,
and are somewhat famed for the excellence of their products. The Shakers
are nearly all Americans, like the Oneidans, next mentioned, and unlike all
other communistic societies in the United States.
The Perfectionists of Oneida and Wallingford are perhaps the most singular
of all communists. They were founded by John Humphrey Noyes, who organized
a community at Putney, Vermont, in 1846. In 1848 this was consolidated with
others at Oneida in Madison county, New York. In 1849 a branch community
was started at Brooklyn, New York, and in 1850 one at Wallingford,
Connecticut, all of which have since broken up or been merged in the two
communities of Oneida and Wallingford. Their principles are perfectionism,
communism and free love. By "perfection" they mean freedom from sin, which
they all claim to have, or to seek as practically attainable. They claim,
in explaining their sense of this term, that as a man who does not drink is
free from intemperance, and one who does not swear is free from profanity,
so one who does not sin at all is free from sin, or morally perfect. Their
communism is like that of the Icarians, so far as property is concerned,
this being owned equally by all for the benefit of all as they severally
have need; which state they claim is the state of man after the
resurrection. But they have a community not only of goods, but also of
wives; or, rather, they have no wives at all, but all women belong to all
men, and all men to all women; which they assert to be the state of Nature,
and therefore the most perfect state. They call it complex marriage instead
of simple, and it is both polygamy and polyandry at the same time. They are
enemies of all exclusiveness or selfishness, and hold that there should be
no exclusiveness in money or in women or children. Their idea is to be in
the most literal sense no respecters of persons. All women and children are
the same to all men, and _vice versâ_. A man never knows his own children,
and the mothers, instead of raising their children themselves, give them
over to a common nursery, somewhat after the suggestion of Plato in his
_Republic_. If any two persons are suspected of forming special
attachments, and so of violating the principle of equal and universal love,
or of using their sexual freedom too liberally, they are put under
discipline. They are very religious, their religion, however, consisting
only in keeping free from sin. They have no sermons, ceremonies, sacraments
or religious manifestations whatever. There are no public prayers, and no
loud prayers at all. Their method of discipline is called "criticism," and
consists in bringing the offender into the presence of a committee of men
and women, who each pass their criticisms on him and allow him to confess
or criticise himself. The least sign of worldliness or evidence of
impropriety is enough to subject one to this ordeal. They are very careful
about whom they admit to their community, as there are numerous rakes and
idlers who make application on the supposition that it is a harem or
Turkish paradise. None are admitted who are not imbued with their doctrine
of perfection, and who do not show evidences of it in their lives. In a
business point of view, they are comparatively successful, the original
members having contributed over one hundred thousand dollars' worth of
property, which has not depreciated. They engage in farming, wine-raising
and various industries, and are known in the general markets for their
products.
The Separatists at Zoar, Ohio, about halfway between Cleveland and
Pittsburg, are a body of Germans who fled from Würtemberg in 1817 to escape
religious persecution. They are mystics, followers of Jacob Böhm, Gerhard,
Terstegen, Jung Stilling and others of that class, and considerably above
the average of communists in intellect and culture. They were aided to
emigrate to this country by some English Quakers, with whom there is a
resemblance in some of their tenets. They purchased fifty-six hundred acres
of land in Ohio, but did not at first intend to form a community, having
been driven to that resort subsequently in order to the better realization
of their religious principles. They now own over seven thousand acres of
land in Ohio, besides some in Iowa. They have a woollen-factory, two
flour-mills, a saw-mill, a planing-mill, a machine-shop, a tannery and a
dye-house; also a hotel and store for the accommodation of their neighbors.
They are industrious, simple in their dress and food, and very economical.
They use neither tobacco nor pork, and are homopathists in medicine. In
religion they are orthodox, with the usual latitude of mystics. They have
no ceremonies, say "thou" and "thee," take off their hats and bow to nobody
except God, refuse to fight or go to law, and settle their disputes by
arbitration. At first they prohibited marriage and had their women in
common, like the Perfectionists. In 1828, however, they commenced to break
their rules and take wives. Now they observe the marriage state. Their
officers are elected by the whole society, the women voting as well as the
men.
The Bethel and Aurora communities--the former in Shelby county, Missouri,
forty-eight miles from Hannibal, and the latter in Oregon, twenty-nine
miles south of Portland, on the Oregon and California Railroad--were
founded in 1848 by Dr. Kiel, a Prussian mystic, who practised medicine a
while in New York and Pittsburg, and subsequently formed a religious sect
of which these communists are members. He was subsequently joined by some
of "Count Maximilian's" people, who had left Rapp's colony at Economy,
which this closely resembles except as to celibacy. He first founded the
colony in Missouri, where he took up two thousand five hundred and sixty
acres of land, and established the usual trades needed by farmers. In 1847
there were the inevitable quarrel and division. In 1855 he set out to
establish a similar community on the Pacific coast. The first settlement
was made at Shoalwater Bay, Washington Territory, which was, however,
subsequently abandoned for the present one at Aurora. There are now about
four hundred members at Aurora, who own eighteen thousand acres of land,
and have the usual shops and occupations of communists mentioned above,
carrying on a considerable trade with their neighbors. The members of both
communities are all either Germans or Pennsylvania Dutch, and thrive by the
industry and economy peculiar to those people. Their government is
parental, intended to be like God's. Kiel is the temporal and spiritual
head. Their religion consists in practical benevolence, the forms of
worship being Lutheran. They are thought to be exceedingly wealthy, but if
their property were divided among them there would be less than three
thousand dollars to each family, which, though more than the property of
most other communities would average, is but small savings for twenty
years. They preserve the usual family relations.
The Bishop Hill Community, in Henry county, Illinois, was formed by a party
of Swedes who came to this country in 1846 under Eric Janson, who had been
their religious leader in the Old World, where they were greatly persecuted
on account of their peculiar religious views. They suffered great hardships
in effecting a first settlement, some of them going off, in the interest of
the community, to dig gold in California, and others taking to
stock-raising and speculating. In this they were quite successful, so that
jobs and speculations became the peculiar work of this community. They took
various public and private contracts; among others, one to grade a large
portion of the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad and to build some of
its bridges. In 1859 they owned ten thousand acres of good land, and had
the finest cattle in the State. In 1859, however, the young people became
discontented and wished to dissolve the community. They divided the
property in 1860, when one faction continued the community with its share.
In 1861 this party also broke up, separating into three divisions. In 1862
these again divided the property after numerous lawsuits. A small fraction,
I believe, still continues a community on the ruins. In this community the
families lived separately, but ate all together. They had no president or
single head, the business being transacted by a board of trustees. Their
religion was their principal concern.
Such are the strictly communistic societies in the United States. It will
be seen that they are each of such very peculiar views that they are
specially fitted by their very oddity for a life in common, and specially
disqualified from the same cause to extend or embrace others; for while
their community of oddity makes them, by a necessarily strong sympathy, fit
associates to be together, it separates them by an impassable gulf from the
appreciation and sympathy of the rest of mankind, who are interested only
in the ordinary common-sense concerns of life.
Besides these, there are several other colonies which, though not
communistic, have grown out of an attempt to solve some of the questions
raised by socialism. They are for the most part co-operative. The following
are the principal: The Anaheim colony in California, thirty-six miles from
Los Angelos, which was formed by a large number of Germans in 1857, who
banded together and purchased a large tract of land, on which they
successfully cultivate the vine in large quantities. The property is held
and worked all together, but the interests are separate, and will be
divided in due time. Vineland, New Jersey, on the railroad between
Philadelphia and Cape May, is another. It was purchased and laid out by
Charles K. Landis in 1861 as a private speculation, and to draw the
overcrowded population of Philadelphia into the country, where the people
could all have comfortable homes and support themselves by their own labor.
Some fifty thousand acres of land were purchased, and sold at a low rate
and on long time to actual settlers and improvers. As a result, some twelve
thousand people have been drawn thither, who cultivate all this tract and
work numerous industries besides. No liquors are allowed to be sold in the
place, so that the population is exceptionally moral as well as
industrious, and offers a model example of low rates and good government. A
successful colony exists also at Prairie Home in Franklin county, Kansas,
which was founded by a Frenchman, Monsieur E.V. Boissière. It is designed
to be an association and co-operation based on attractive industry; a large
number of persons contributing their capital and labor under stringent
laws, the proceeds to be divided among them whenever a majority shall so
desire. I might mention other associations of this kind, which are, in
fact, however, only a variety of partnership or corporation.
It strikes me, however, that this is the only practical remedy for the
evils which are aimed at by the communists, as far as they are remedial by
social means. If a number of working people, with the capital which their
small savings will amount to (which is always large enough for any ordinary
business if there be any considerable number of them), can be induced to
organize themselves under competent leaders, and work for a few years
together as faithfully as they ordinarily do for employers, they might
realize considerable results, and get the advantage of their own work
instead of enriching capitalists. But the difficulty is, that this class
have not, as a rule, learned either to manage great enterprises or to
submit to those who are wisest among them, but break up in disorder and
divisions when their individual preferences are crossed. The first lesson
that a man must learn who proposes to do anything in common with others
(and the more so if there be many of them) is to submit and forbear. With a
little schooling our people ought, to a greater extent than at present, to
be able to co-operate in large numbers in firms and corporations where the
members and stockholders shall themselves do all the work and receive all
the profits, and so avoid the two extremes of making profits for
capitalists and paying their earnings to officers and directors.
AUSTIN BIERBOWER.
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.
NOTES FROM MOSCOW.
JUNE 1 (May 20, Russian style), 1877.
This diversity in the matter of dates is unpleasantly perplexing at times.
With every sensation of interest and pleasure I set myself about the task
of describing, I must at once begin to reckon. Twelve days' difference!
Yes, I have already grasped that fact, but then in which direction must the
deduction begin?--backward or forward? Such is the question that instantly
arises, and if we are at the fag end of one month and the beginning of
another, the amount of reckoning involved seems somewhat inadequate to the
occasion. The Russian clergy, it is said--those, at any rate, of the lowest
class, designated as "white priests," many of them peasants by birth and
marvellously illiterate--have ever been averse to any change being made in
the calendar, in order that their seasons of fasting and feasting may not
be disturbed.
_Apropos_ of priests and priesthood. Whilst quietly at work yesterday
morning my attention was suddenly called off, first by a hurried
exclamation, and then the inharmonious--ah, how utterly
discordant!--ding-donging of church-bells. "Listen!" fell upon my ear: "one
of the secular priests belonging to St. Gregory's church died two days ago,
and is to be buried this morning. They are still saying masses over his
body, the church is packed, and it is a sight such as you may possibly not
have an opportunity of again witnessing." In half an hour we were within
the church-walls. The place was already thronged, and the air close almost
to suffocation. Never can one forget that peculiar heat, the sort of
indescribable vapor, that arose, and the perspiration that streamed down
the faces of all present, each of whom, from the oldest to the youngest,
carried a lighted candle. After many vigorous efforts, and occasional
collisions with the flaring tapers, the wax or tallow dropping at intervals
upon our cloaks, we found ourselves at last in the centre of the edifice,
immediately behind a dozen or more officiating priests clad in magnificent
robes, before whom lay their late confrère reposing in his coffin, and
dressed, according to custom, in his ecclesiastical robes. Tall lighted
candles draped with crape surrounded him, and the solemn chant had been
going on around him ever since life had become extinct. The dead in Russia
are never left alone or in the dark. Relays of singing priests take the
places of those who are weary, and friends keep watch in an adjoining room.
The Russian temperament inclines to the strongest manifestation of the
inmost feelings, and the method here of mourning for the dead is
exceptionally demonstrative. The corpse of the old priest lay surrounded by
what was of bright colors or purest white, the coffin being of the
last-mentioned hue. Black was utterly proscribed. The face and hands were
half buried in a lacy texture, whilst on the brow was placed a label,
"fillet-fashion," on which was written "The Thrice Holy," or
_Trisagion_--"O Holy God! O Holy Mighty! O Holy Immortal! have mercy upon
us!"
Chant after chant ascended for the repose of his soul. The deacon's deep
bass voice rose ever and anon in leading fashion, the other voices
following suit. There was of course no instrumental music. This Russian
singing is curiously unique--of a character wholly different from any heard
elsewhere. It is weird in the extreme, and, if the expression be
permissible, gypsy-like. The deacons' voices are of wonderful capability,
the popular belief being that they are specially chosen on account of this
peculiar power. At last there came a pause. Not only the priests' and
deacons' voices, but those of the chanting men and boys--alike unsurpliced
and uncassocked, lacking, therefore, much of the attraction offered by a
service in the Western Catholic Church--had all at once ceased to be
heard. All were now pressing forward to kiss the dead priest--his
fellow-priests first, and then, duly in order, all his relations and
friends. "The last kiss" it is termed--a practice, it would seem, derived
from the heathen custom, of which we find such frequent mention. None, if
possible, omit the performance of this duty, all seeking to obtain the
blessing or benefit, supposed to be thereby conferred. Some, however, are
obliged to content themselves with merely kissing the corners of the
coffin.
Many of the numerous _stichera_, as they are termed--poetically-worded
prose effusions--made use of in the course of the service are curiously
quaint. I quote two or three, of which I have since procured a translation:
"Come, my brethren, let us give our last kiss, our last farewell, to our
deceased brother. He hath now forsaken his kindred and approacheth the
grave, no longer mindful of vanity or the cares of the world. Where are now
his kindred and friends? Behold, we are now separated! Approach! embrace
him who lately was one of yourselves."--"Where now is the graceful form?
Where is youth? Where is the brightness of the eye? where the beauty of the
complexion? Closed are the eyes, the feet bound, the hands at rest: extinct
is the sense of hearing, and the tongue locked up in silence."
The words succeeding these are supposed to emanate from the lips of the
dead, lying mute before the eyes of all present: "Brethren, friends,
kinsmen and acquaintance, view me here lying speechless, breathless, and
lament. But yesterday we conversed together. Come near, all who are bound
to me by affection, and with a last embrace pronounce the last farewell. No
longer shall I sojourn among you, no longer bear part in your discourse.
Pray earnestly that I be received into the Light of life."
The absolution having been pronounced by the priest, a paper is placed in
the dead man's hand--"The Prayer, Hope and Confession of a faithful
Christian soul." This is accompanied by another prayer containing the
written words of absolution. This custom has given rise to the belief in
the minds of many foreigners that such missives are presented in the light
of passports to a better world; but the idea seems to be as erroneous as it
is absurd. Moreover, I believe that, strictly speaking, the custom is one
of national origin, and that the Church has had nothing to do with its
adoption.
All the lighted tapers having been taken away by one of the attendants, the
coffin with its gilded ornaments was removed slowly from its resting-place,
and placed upon an enormous open bier or hearse, extensively mounted and
heavily ornamented with white watered silk, purple and gilt draperies, a
gilt crown surmounting all. The base of the ponderous vehicle was alone
permitted to boast a fringe of deep black cloth--as if, however, for the
sole purpose of hiding the wheels. The six horses, three abreast, were also
enveloped in black cloth drapery touching the ground on either side. Right
and left of the coffin itself, and mounted therefore considerably aloft,
stood two yellow _stoicharioned_ (or robed) deacons, wearing the
_epimanikia_ and _orarion_--the former being a portion of the priestly
dress used for covering the arms, and signifying the thongs with which the
hands of Christ were bound; the latter a stole worn over the left shoulder.
The head of each deacon was adorned with long waving hair, and each carried
a censer in his hand. They faced each other, keeping watch together over
the dead. A procession of priests, duly robed, began to move, preceded by
censer-bearers and singing men and boys.
The point whence the procession started--Mala Greuzin, situated at the
extreme east end of Moscow--lay several miles away from the cemetery for
which they were all _en route;_ and this veritably ancient Asiatic city had
to be traversed at an angle in this solemn fashion, seventy or eighty
carriages following. From the beginning to the end of the prescribed route
Muscovites lined the road on either side, and it is fair to add that I
never beheld more respect shown even to royalty itself. All was quietness,
the general expression of sympathy and respect being permitted to find vent
only in excessive gesticulation and genuflection. Not a head remained
covered, not a single person by whom the procession passed permitted it to
do so without crossing himself several times from forehead to chest and
from shoulder to shoulder.
At the first church which the procession reached, the bells of which had
begun to toll--clash rather--long before it came in sight, the entire party
halted. A bell was rung by one of those in advance, and then all waited.
The priests and their various acolytes clustered reverently by the hearse,
the followers and spectators standing at a respectful distance, but
nevertheless taking part in the service. After first incensing the hearse,
themselves and all around, further prayers were said and chanted: then a
signal was given and all moved on again, only, however, to again pause on
the route, for at every church we passed--and we must have encountered at
least thirty or forty, if not more, seeing that such sacred edifices rise
upon one's view in Moscow at wellnigh every three or four minutes'
space--the ceremony was repeated. No sooner had one set of bells ceased to
sound in our ears than another took its place, and again all halted, and
then again all marched onward. Every window as the cortége passed along was
thrown open, and figures bent forward ever and anon, enacting their wonted
part in the pageant. And the pageant, be it remembered, was, after all,
only one of frequent occurrence.
Only the week before I had had the privilege of watching this identical old
priest baptize the child of one of the most ancient nobles here, the
ceremony being performed not in a church, but at the nobleman's house. One
godfather and one godmother are all that are required, the latter of whom
holds the infant. On the godmother also a large share of duty devolves,
there being certain gifts which she is bound by national custom to offer
for acceptance on the occasion. Often, therefore, the duty of selecting a
female sponsor becomes a somewhat invidious one. A handsome dress to the
mother, no matter in what rank of life; a delicate lace cap to the main
object of the occasion; a lace chemise for the same highly-honored small
individual; and an elaborate silk pocket handkerchief to the officiating
priest,--these, when of the best quality, and they are invariably so, mount
up somewhat as regards price, seeing that everything is marvellously dear
here in the matter of dress. The godfather, standing immediately in front
of the large font brought specially for the purpose from the adjacent
church, and at the right hand of his fellow-sponsor, simply presents a
small golden cross, to be worn, it is supposed, ever afterward. Immediately
behind the font, and facing the entire audience--for a large circle of
friends had been invited to witness the ceremony--was placed the "holy
picture" of the household, without which in Russia no homestead, whether
belonging to rich or poor, is considered complete, and before which a
lighted oil lamp ever stands burning--a "picture of God," as the Russian
children are taught from their earliest years to call it. Before this the
priests bowed on entering.
The mode of baptism was immersion, after several exorcisms had been read
and the priest had thrice blown in the infant's face, signing him, also
thrice, on the forehead and breast. Three tall lighted candles were affixed
to the font, and others were held by the god-parents, except when they
marched round the font in procession three times during "the chrism," when
the candles were laid down. The chrism consists in anointing the infant's
forehead, breast, shoulders and middle of the back with holy oil, after
which comes the service, when the forehead, eyes, nostrils, mouth, ears,
breast, hands and feet are again anointed, but this time with the holy
unction prepared once a year, on Monday in Holy Week, within the walls of
the Kremlin, and consecrated by the metropolitan in the cathedral of the
Annunciation on Holy Thursday. Then comes the concluding act, when the
priest cuts off a small portion of the child's hair in four different
places on the crown of the head, encloses it in a morsel of wax and throws
it into the font, as a sort of first-fruits of that which has been
consecrated.
S.E.
A DAY AT THE PARIS CONSERVATOIRE.
It was ten o'clock in the morning when we drove up to the door of the
world-famous institution, but, early as it was, an animated throng already
filled the wide marble-paved entrance-hall--former pupils in elegant
attire; girl aspirants for future honors, accompanied by the inevitable
mamma with the invariable little hand-bag; young men and old; celebrated
dramatists and well-known actors, visitors, critics, etc.--all passing to
and fro or engaged in conversation while awaiting the hour for taking their
seats. Passing through these, we ascend a narrow staircase that gives one
good hopes of a martyr's death should the theatre chance to catch fire, and
we instal ourselves in a narrow and by no means comfortable box in the
dress-circle. The theatre of the Conservatoire, though not very large, is
very elegantly and artistically decorated in the Pompeian style, the stage
being set with a single "box scene," as it is technically called, which is
never changed, as plays are never acted there. Here take place the
far-famed concerts du Conservatoire, for which tickets are as hard to
obtain as are invitations to the entertainments of a duchess, all the seats
being owned by private individuals. But what we are now here to witness is
the competition in dramatic declamation, tragic and comic. The jury occupy
a box in the centre of the dress-circle and opposite to the stage. This
terrifying tribunal is enough to try the nerves of the stoutest aspirant
for dramatic honors, comprising as it does among its members such powers in
the land as Legouvé, Camilla-Doucet, Alexandre Dumas, the directors of the
Comédie Française and the Odéon, and the great actors Got and Delaunay. An
elderly gentleman comes forward on the stage and reads from a printed paper
the name of each competitor and those of his or her assistants, and that of
the play from which the scene that is to be represented is chosen. Each
pupil selects a scene, and the persons who in French technical parlance are
to "give the reply" (_i.e._ to take the other characters in the scene) are
chosen from among the ranks of the pupil's fellow-competitors. Lots are
drawn to decide the place that each one is to occupy on the programme, the
first place and the last being considered the least desirable. Printed
bills are distributed among the audience giving a list of the competitors,
with the names of the plays from which they have chosen scenes, and
(horrible innovation for the lady pupils!) the age of each one as well.
The competition is opened by M. Levanz, a young man of thirty, who took a
second prize last year, and who has chosen the closet-scene from _Hamlet_
(the translation of the elder Dumas) as his _cheval de bataille_. He has a
marked Germanic countenance, decidedly the reverse of handsome, yet mobile
and expressive: his voice is good, his figure tall and manly. He has
evidently seen Rossi in Hamlet, and models his conception of the character
on that grand impersonation. Next comes M. Bregaint in a scene from
_Andromaque:_ he is so bad, so _very_ bad, that the audience are moved to
sudden outbursts of hilarity by his grand tragic points. He is succeeded by
a boy of sixteen, tall and graceful, with a fine tragic face of the heroic
Kemble mould, and great blue-gray eyes that dilate or contract beneath the
impulses of the moment--a born actor from head to foot. He fairly thrills
the audience in the great scene of the duke de Nemours from _Louis XI_.
This youth, M. Guitry, is undoubtedly, if his life be spared, the coming
tragedian of the French stage. Then we have the first one of the lady
competitors, Mademoiselle Edet, a tall, awkward girl of eighteen, with a
flat face and Chinese-like features, dressed up in a gown of cream-yellow
foulard trimmed with wide fringe and made with a loose jacket, whereon the
fringes wave wildly in the air as she flings her arms around in the tragic
love-making of Phèdre. Two or three others of moderate merit succeed, and
then comes Mademoiselle Jullien, who gives the great scene of Roxane in
_Bajazet_ with so much intelligence of intonation and grace of gesture that
the audience are moved to sudden applause. She is rather too short and of
too delicate a physique for tragedy, but her face is expressive, her eyes
fine, and there are intellect and talent in every tone and movement. She is
nearly twenty-nine years of age, so has not much time to waste if she is to
make her mark in her profession. Last on the list of tragic aspirants comes
a gentleman of thirty-one, M. Aubert, who goes through a scene from
_Hamlet_ in a very tolerable manner. He was in the army, was doing well and
was rising in grade when, seized by the theatrical mania, he relinquished
his profession and turned his attention to the stage. Thus far, he has
proved, practically speaking, a failure: he has won no prizes, and no
manager will engage him. This is his last chance, as his age will prevent
him, by the rules of the Conservatoire, from taking part in any future
competition.
The tragedy concours ended, a recess of an hour is proclaimed, and there is
a rush to the refreshment-tables and a great consumption of sandwiches and
cakes, of coffee and water (known as "mazagran") and of _vin ordinaire_.
Under that vestibule pass and repass the literary luminaries of modern
France. Here is Henri de Bornier, the author of _La Fille de Roland_, a
quiet, earnest-looking gentleman, with clear luminous eyes and the smallest
hands imaginable. Here comes Francisque Sarcey, the greatest dramatic
critic of France and one of the most noted of her Republican journalists,
broad-shouldered, black-eyed and stalwart-looking. Yonder stand a group of
Academicians--Legouvé, Doucet, Dumas--in earnest conversation with Édouard
Thierry, the librarian of the Arsénal. The handsome, delicate,
aristocratic-looking gentleman who joins the group is M. Perrin, the
director of the Comédie Française, the most accomplished and intelligent
theatrical manager in France. There is an elderly, reserved-looking
gentleman beside him who looks like a solemn _savant_ out on a holiday. It
takes more than one glance for us to recognize in him the most accomplished
light comedian of our day, that embodiment of grace, vivacity, sparkling
wit and unfading youth, who is known to the boards of the Comédie Française
by the name of Delaunay. There are other minor luminaries, too numerous to
mention.
We go up stairs and resume our seats, and the competition of comedy is
begun. Scene succeeds to scene and competitor to competitor: the day wears
on, and flitting clouds from time to time obscure the dome, bringing out
the glare of the footlights that have been burning all day in a singularly
effective manner. Of the nineteen competitors, the deepest impression is
made by M. Barral, who plays a scene from _L'Avare_ magnificently; by
Mademoiselle Carrière, who reveals herself as a sparkling and intelligent
soubrette; and by Mademoiselle Sisos, a genuine _comédienne_, only sixteen
years of age and as pretty as a peach. It is six o'clock when the last
competitor has said his say, and then the jury retire to deliberate
respecting the awards. What a flutter there must be among the young things
whose future destiny is now swaying in the balance, for success means
fortune, and failure a disheartening postponement, and to the elder ones
downright and disastrous ruin of all their hopes! Half an hour passes, and
then, after what seems a weary period of suspense, the box-door is thrown
open and the jury resume their seats. Ambroise Thomas, the president of the
Conservatoire, strikes his bell and a dead silence ensues. In a full
sonorous voice he begins: "Concours of tragedy, men's class. No
prizes.--Usher, summon M. Guitry." The gifted boy comes forward to the
footlights. "M. Guitry, the jury have awarded to you a _premier accessit_."
He bows and retires amid the hearty applause of the audience. "Women's
class.--Usher, call Mademoiselle Jullien." She comes out pale and agitated,
the slight form quivering like a wind-swept flower in her robes of creamy
cashmere. Is it the Odéon that awaits her--the second prize? for in her
modesty she had only hoped for a _premier accessit._ "Mademoiselle Jullien,
the jury have awarded to you the first prize." The first prize! Those words
mean to her an assured career, a brilliant future, the doors of the Comédie
Française flung wide open to receive her. She falters, trembles, bows
profoundly, and goes off in a very passion of hysterical weeping. Then come
the comedy awards. M. Barral gets a first prize, as is his just due, as
does also Mademoiselle Carrière. "Usher, call Mademoiselle Sisos." She
comes forward, her great brown eyes dilated with excitement, her cheeks
burning like two red roses, a mass of faded white roses clinging amid the
rumpled gold of her hair--a very bewitching picture of childish grace and
beauty. "Mademoiselle Sisos, the jury have awarded to you a second prize."
She laughs and blushes, and brings her hands together with a childlike
gesture of delight. "Oh, merci!" she cries, and drops a courtesy, and then
away she goes--happy little creature, thus consecrated artiste at sixteen!
The other awards are given, the jury leave their box, and the audience
disperse. The friends of the competitors crowd around the stage-door, and
each of the successful ones is seized by the hand and congratulated and
embraced, the youthful Guitry being especially surrounded. Two or three
more years of study will land this gifted boy on the boards of the Comédie
Française. The queen of the day, Mademoiselle Jullien, has stolen away
overcome by excess of emotion, which, though joyful, is still exhausting to
her delicate frame. Finally, everybody retires, the doors are closed, and
the long, exciting _séance_ has come to an end at last.
L.H.H.
BRIGHAM YOUNG AND MORMONISM.
Brigham Young's career is a valuable commentary on that of Mohammed, and
will hereafter be a standard citation with explorers of the natural history
of religions. It might be more proper to go back of Young, and adhere to
Joe Smith as the figure-head of the Mormon dispensation. How Smith would
have turned out had he lived, and whether he would have made as much of
Utah as the man upon whose shoulders his mantle fell, is not easy to say;
but his was a less robust character, the enthusiast in him too far
obscuring the organizer and commander. The Church is the thing to look at,
rather than its leaders, when we consider duration--the soil rather than
the plough. Why has Mohammed's creation lasted longer and spread wider than
that of Charlemagne or Tamerlane? And is Smith's to have the like fortune,
or to die out like those of Münster and Joanna Southcote?
The Mormon "revelation" has been before the world more than forty years. In
twenty-two years from his first vision Mohammed had reduced all Arabia
under his religious and political sway. Young's dominions have not expanded
territorially. His faith cannot be said to exist outside of Utah. His
converts are compelled to go thither for the exercise of their religion.
Salt Lake City is not a Mecca, the goal of a passing pilgrimage, but the
one and only possible abiding-place of those who profess its creed. A
system thus localized is in danger of being stifled. Especially is this the
case when its seat is exposed to invasion by a swelling current of
non-sympathizers or open enemies. These may be repelled or prevented from
improving their foothold by the firmness, unity and numerical predominance
of the invaded. So it has happened at Salt Lake. The Mormons hold all the
serviceable soil, and it is difficult for the "Gentiles" to effect a
lodgment. Until they do, they must occupy, even in their own eyes, somewhat
the position of adventurers. They cannot hope to secure the respect of the
industrious sectaries who own and till the soil, and who are taught to
count them aliens and persecutors. Irrigation is here the only means of
successful agriculture. It involves great outlay of capital and labor, and
creates great fixedness of tenure. Newcomers are thus additionally
discouraged.
Thus entrenched in a well-provisioned citadel, welcoming all the new levies
it can win, and amply able to provide for them, Mormonism bids fair to
make a prolonged stand. To emerge from a defensive position and strike for
unlimited sway is what it cannot, to judge by all precedents, expect. It
will be compelled, in fact, to lighten itself of some dead weights in order
to maintain its actual situation. Polygamy must go, and the absolute power
of the priesthood be modified. With some such adaptations it may continue a
reality for generations to come. And time is a great sanctifier. A creed
that lives for one or two centuries is by so much the more likely to live
longer. Youth is the critical period with religions, as with animals and
plants and nations. Through that period Mormonism is passing with
flattering success. That such a lusty juvenile will, by favor of the
mellowing effect imposed on all creeds by early years of toil, trouble and
experience, reach a middle age of presentable decency, is not a more
unlikely supposition than the worthy Vermont clergyman would have
pronounced, half a century ago, the idea that his _jeu d'esprit_ would
become the Bible of sixty thousand industrious, well-ordered
English-speaking people in the heart of the American continent.
E.C.B.
THE EDUCATION OF WOMEN IN INDIA.
According to a report sent to our Commissioner of Education at Washington
four years ago, there were then in India one thousand girls' schools
supported by the government and some five hundred missionary schools
devoted to female education. Besides these, there has sprung up during the
last few years a new field for the women-educators in that country. This is
the teaching of women in their homes. It is called _zenana-work._ The
_zenana_ is the women's apartment in the house--the _harem_ of the Turks.
Women have been sent from England and from America for this special object,
and their labors are meeting with encouraging success. They are constantly
gaining admission to new families, which from caste or other causes are
opposed to sending their young women to the regular schools. Some of the
zenana-teachers are regularly-educated physicians.
For the government schools each province has a director of public
instruction, with inspectors of divisions and subdivisions. These directors
are "gentlemen of high qualification and well paid." It is a notable fact
that in one of the provinces the office of director is filled by a
Christian woman--a foreigner no doubt, though the report does not say.
At Dehra, at the foot of the Himalaya Mountains, there is a high school for
girls organized on the plan of the Mount Holyoke Seminary. Here English is
spoken, and the pupils are carried through a course of training that may
justly be termed _high_. One of the pupils of this school has lately been
appointed by the government to go to England and qualify herself as a
physician, under a contract to return and serve the government by taking
charge of a hospital and college for training young women as midwives and
nurses.
Of course, in a country containing a population of over one hundred and
fifty-one millions, one thousand public schools for girls, supplemented as
these are by missionary schools of many denominations, are inadequate to
meet the needs of the people. There is an increasing demand in all the
provinces for schools and colleges; and the native young men especially are
eagerly seeking the educational advantages of the colleges and
universities, because they know that these are a sure road to preferment.
"The government takes care to give employment to those who wish it."
The difficulties in the way of female education in India are well expressed
in a late letter from one of the most distinguished native reformers, Baboo
Keshub Chunder Sen of Calcutta. "No words of mine," he says, "would convey
to you an adequate idea of the great obstacles which the social and
religious condition of the Hindoo community presents in the way of female
education and advancement. In a country where superstition and caste
prejudices prevail to an alarming extent, where widows are cruelly
persecuted and prevented from remarrying, where high-caste Hindoos are
allowed to marry as many wives as they like without undertaking the
responsibility of protecting them, and where little girls marry at a most
tender age and sacrifice all prospects of healthy physical and mental
development, it will take centuries before any solid and extensive reform
is achieved."
Until recently, scarcely one woman in ten thousand learned to read or
acquired any of the accomplishments common to women of Christian countries.
Occasionally, women of vicious lives in cities, having leisure, became
quite learned, and this made learning a shame for women of irreproachable
reputation. Moreover, Hindoo husbands declared, and believed, that if you
taught a woman to read she would be sure in time to have illicit relations
with some one. Ignorance was innocence, the safeguard of both rank and
chastity.
The missionaries, who were the first to attempt the amelioration of the
people, had to commence with the lowest castes or classes, those having
nothing to lose; and even then the teachers had to pay the girls a small
copper coin daily for attending school. Even the government schools in some
places pay the girls for attending, but they are much more popular than the
missionary schools, because, according to the Rev. Joseph Warren in the
report mentioned, the parents are not afraid that their girls will become
Christians by attending them; and he adds that the government teachers and
books are "all positively heathen or quite destitute of all religion." In
some parts of the country the government schools secure the attendance of
high-caste girls by allowing them to be placed behind a curtain, and thus
screened from the eyes of the male teacher or inspector, as all the women
of such classes are screened from male visitors. Even the physician sees
only a hand protruded from under a curtain, and by the touch of this, with
a few unsatisfactory answers to his questions, he is supposed to be able to
know what the malady is, and how to prescribe for it.
M.H.
LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
Birds and Poets: with other Papers. By John Burroughs. New York: Hurd &
Houghton.
A duodecimo that discourses on equal terms of Emerson and the chickadee,
and unites Carlyle and the author's cow with a cement or filling-in
indescribable in variety and in the comminution of materials, need not be
held to strict account in the matter of neatness or accuracy of title. The
closing article, headed "The Flight of the Eagle," is the most remarkable
of the collection. Who would suspect, under such a heading, an elaborate
eulogy of Walt Whitman? The writer is obviously more at home among the
song-birds than among the Raptores, unless he be the discoverer of some new
species of eagle characterized by traits very unlike those of other members
of the genus. It were to be wished that he had left out the disquisition on
Whitman, for it is a jarring chord in his little orchestra of lyric and
ornithologic song. He might have kept it by him till the longer growing of
his critical beard, and then, if still a devotee at that singular shrine,
have expanded it into a volume or two explanatory of the imagination,
animus and metre of his favorite bard.
The feathered warblers have always been popular with the featherless, who
are indebted to them for no end of similes and suggestions. What would
poetry be without the skylark, the nightingale, the dove and the eagle? It
is far yet from having exhausted them. It cannot be said to have approached
them in the right way--on the most eloquent and interesting side. It
forgets that each species of bird stands by itself, and has its special
life and history as truly as man. We counted thirty-nine kinds in a grove
the centre whereof was our delightful abode for two-thirds of the past
summer, each endowed with its separate outfit of language, ways and means
of living, tastes and political and social notions. In each, moreover,
individualism showed itself--if not to our apprehension as articulately,
yet as indubitably, as among the race which considers them to have been all
created for its amusement and advantage. It does not take long, superficial
as is our acquaintance with their vernacular and the workings of their
little brains, to single out particular specimens, and perceive that no two
"birds of a feather" are exactly alike. A particular robin will rule the
roost, and assert successfully for his mate the choice of resting-places
above competing redbreasts. It is a particular catbird, identified, it may
be, by a missing feather in his tail, that heads the foray on our
strawberries and cherries. We recognize afar off either of the pair of
"flickers," or yellow-shafted woodpeckers, which have set up their penates
in the heart of the left-hand garden gatepost. The wren whose modest
tabernacle occupies the top of the porch pilaster we have little difficulty
in "spotting" when we meet her in a joint stroll along the lawn-fence. Her
ways are not as the ways of other wrens. She has a somewhat different style
of diving into the ivy and exploring the syringa. A new generation of doves
has grown up since the lilacs were in bloom, and nothing is easier than to
distinguish the old and young of the two or three separate families till
all leave the grass and the gravel together and hie to the stubble-fields
beyond our ken. Of the one mocking bird who made night hideous by his
masterly imitations of the screaking of a wheel-barrow (regreased at an
early period in self-defence) and the wheezy bark of Beppo, the
superannuated St. Bernard, there could of course be no doubt. There was
none of his kind to compare him with--not even a mate, for "sexual
selection" could not possibly operate in face of so inharmonious a
love-song. His isolation had its parallel in the one white guinea-fowl that
haunted the shrubbery like a ghost, much more silent and placid than it
would have been in society, and its antitype in the hennery, where
individuality of course ran riot among the Brahmas, Dominicas and
Hamburgs--hens that would and would not lay, that would and would not set,
that would and would not scratch up seeds, and presented generally as great
a variety of vagaries as of feathers. So, when we turned our back at last
on lovely Boscobel, itself shut out, as the common phrase goes, "from the
world" by serried ramparts of maple, elm, acacia and catalpa, we knew well
that that enceinte of leafage enclosed many little worlds of its
own--winged microcosms, epicycles of the grand cycle of dateless life which
man in his humility assumes to be merely a subsidiary appendage of his own
orbit.
Birds should be studied seriously. The naturalists will tell us more about
them, and interest us more, than the poets. Mr. Bryant makes fun of the
bobolink, and turns into an aimless whistle the solemn oration on domestic
matters uttered by that small but energetic American to his mate. The
waterfowl he treats more gravely and respectfully, but he still makes it
only a part of the landscape and the theme, without ascribing any
intelligent purpose to its flight. The bird, proceeding steadily and calmly
to its business, may well have confounded its versifier with his fellow the
fowler, and looked upon him, too, as regretting only that it was out of
gunshot. Audubon or Wilson would have noted more sensibly the floating
figure, far above "falling dew," and the earth-bound mortal who was
evidently afraid of rheumatics and calculating whether he could walk home
before dark. The bird, they would have been perfectly aware, was neither
"wandering" nor "lost," and no more in need of the special interposition of
a protecting Providence than they or Mr. Bryant. They would infer its
motives, its point of departure and its destination, the character of the
friends it left behind or sought--whether it was carrying out a plan of
the day or bound on an expedition covering half the year. Its species would
have been plain to them at half a glance, and its scientific name would
have replaced the vague designation of "waterfowl." Its life, habits and
habitat winter and summer, would have unrolled before them, and the
dogs-eared and rain-stained note-book sprung open for a new entry. The
poet, on the other hand, got happily home without injury to his health (for
he is still hale half a century after the fact), lit the gas, nibbed the
quill pen of the day, and sent down to us what must be confessed a
pleasanter memorandum than we should have had from the forest-students.
These, brave and ardent fellows! have long been asleep beneath the birds.
Mr. Burroughs is half poet, half naturalist in his way of looking at
Nature, and steers clear of the poetic vagueness in regard to species. A
passing description of the brown thrush as "skulking" among the bushes hits
that bird to the life. Some remarks on page 119 would seem to be applied by
a slip of the pen to the crow blackbird, instead of the cowbird, which has
always enjoyed the distinction of being the only American species that
disposes of its offspring after the fashion of the cuckoo and Jean Jacques
Rousseau. The chapter on Emerson contains some acute remarks, but the
warmest tribute to Emerson is the book itself, in which that writer's
influence is everywhere patent both in style and thought. Mr. Burroughs has
a happy facility of expression, and could well afford by this time to
discard the Emersonian props and stand on his own merits.
The Life of Edgar Allan Poe. By W.F. Gill. Illustrated. New York:
Dillingham.
Griswold's memoir of Poe has been actually beneficial to the reputation of
its subject, contrary to its obvious design. It has caused a thorough
sifting of all accessible records of the poet's short and dreary life, and
elicited many reminiscences from men of mark who were in one way or another
personally associated with him. We know now, more certainly than we might
have done but for Griswold's effort to prove the opposite, that Poe was not
expelled in disgrace from the University of Virginia, but bore himself well
there as a student and a man; that he deliberately went to work and
procured his being dropped from the rolls of West Point by building up with
venial faults the requisite sum of "demerits," after having repeatedly and
in vain sought permission to withdraw from the control of a system of
discipline so unsuited to his temperament; that, so far from being
intemperate, a single glass of wine sufficed to bring on something like
insanity; that, instead of neglecting his family, he devoted himself to
them with a very rare exclusiveness, and wore down his health by watching
at the bedside of his sick wife; that he was as faithful to his business as
to his domestic obligations; and that, wholly disqualified for battling
with the world, he managed to keep his necessarily troubled life at least
unstained. We know, moreover, that he did not appoint Griswold his
literary executor, and that the document used by the latter as a means of
deriving from that assumed office an opportunity of vindictive defamation
was drawn up after the poet's death by Griswold himself. To the controversy
thus excited we are indebted for the illumination of one or two poems
relinquished by the critics as hopelessly, if not intentionally, obscure.
_Ulalume_, for example, held by some to be a mere experiment on the
jingling capacity of words and the taste of readers for grappling with
insoluble puzzles, is pronounced by one familiar with his most intimate
feelings at the time of its composition a sublimated but distinct reflex of
them and of the circumstances which gave them color.
Could Poe's pen have cleared itself from the morbid influences which fixed
it in a peculiar path, we might have missed some of his finest and most
subtle poems and some prose efforts which we could better spare. But his
wonderful powers of analysis would have been serviceable upon a broader and
more practical field. He had an insight into the laws of language and of
rhythm equalled by no one else in our day. What is most mysterious in the
forms and relations of matter had a special charm for him. None could trace
it more acutely; and his powers, matured by more and healthier years and
applied in their favorite direction, were quite equal to results like those
attained by his predecessor Goethe, the savant of poets. He died a few
years older than Burns and Byron, but more of a boy than either. The man
Poe we never saw. The best of him was to come, and it never came. Poe had,
however, what he is not always credited with--the sincerity and earnestness
of maturity. He was anything but a mere propounder of riddles. Had he lived
to our day, his office would have been to aid science, so wonderfully
advanced in the intervening third of a century, in solving some of its own.
And in addition to that possible work we should have been none the poorer
in the treasures of poetry he actually gave us.
Olivia Raleigh. By W.W. Follett Synge. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott & Co.
In the few choice words of introduction to the American reprint Mrs. Annis
Lee Wister admirably characterizes this charming novel. It is indeed like a
"clear, pure breath of English air:" from the first page to the last it is
redolent of the health of an "incense-breathing morn." There are no dark
scenes here, leaving on the reader a feeling of degradation that such
things can be--no impossible villain weaving a web of intricate or
purposeless villainy--but all is fresh and genuine, and we close the volume
with a sense of gratitude that such a story is possible.
Even if this be not in itself a recommendation sufficient to enlist the
interest of novel-readers, _Olivia Raleigh_ is something more: it is a work
of art: there is in it nothing crude or hasty or ill-digested. Around the
four or five prominent characters all the interest centres, and the
attention is not distracted by any wearisome episodes that have nothing to
do with the main story. The characters are admirably thought out, and
reveal themselves more by their actions than by any microscopical analysis
of motives. They pass before us like veritable human beings, and what they
are we learn from what they do. The transformation of one of the characters
from a gay, debonnair bachelor past middle age into a penurious miser of
the Blueberry-Jones type is bold, and in less skilful hands would be a
blemish, but Mr. Synge has amply justified it, and admirably uses it to
cement the structure of his plot. There is no weakness in any chapter, and
as we read so secure do we feel in the author's strength that, had he
chosen to end the story in sorrow and not in joy, we should submit as
though to an inflexible decree of Fate.
Les Koumiassine. Par Henry Gréville. Paris: Plon.
It is always interesting to watch the course of French fiction, because
while the novel is in all countries at the present time the favorite form
of expression of those writers who eschew scientific work on the one side
and stand aloof from poetry on the other, in France, which is noticeably
the country where theories are put into practice as well as invented, all
sorts of literary methods have their clever defenders, who furnish examples
of what they preach. Since Balzac and George Sand died, the post of leading
novelist has been vacant, although there has been no lack of writers of the
second or third, and especially of still lower, rank. Octave Feuillet still
produces occasionally a clever piece of workmanship; Cherbuliez at
intervals writes a novel which proves how lamentable a thing is the
possession of brilliancy alone apart from the seriousness of character, or
of some sides of character, which must exist alongside of even high
intellectual qualities in order that the man may make a lasting impression
on his time. Great gifts frittered away on meaningless trifles are as
disappointing as possible, and are the more disappointing in proportion to
the greatness of the gifts; so that the decadence of Cherbuliez--or, if
this is too severe, his lack of improvement after his brilliant
beginning--is a very melancholy thing. Zola is among the younger men, the
head of a number of enthusiasts who revel in the exact study of social
ordure, and who threaten to destroy fiction by ridding it of what makes its
life--imagination, that is--and substituting for it scientific fact.
Theuriet is an amiable but by no means a powerful writer, who so far has
contented himself with following different models without striking out any
special path of his own.
Henry Gréville is a new author, who has reached by no means the highest,
yet a very respectable, place--such as would be a source of gratification
to most people. The name signed to her novels is the _nom-de-plume_ of a
lady who, as is also apparent from her work, has lived long enough in
Russia to become familiar with the people and their ways. _Les Koumiassine_
is a story of Russian life, treating of a rich family whose name gives the
title to the novel. The family is one of great wealth, and consists of the
Count Koumiassine and his wife, their two children--one a boy of nine or
ten, the other a girl half a dozen years older--and a niece of about
seventeen. The plot concerns itself with the efforts of the countess to
give her niece, whom she values much less than her daughter, a suitable
husband. The poor girl is bullied and badgered after the most approved
methods of domestic tyranny, and her high-spirited struggle against adverse
circumstances makes the book as readable as one could wish. After all, the
family is a microcosm, and furnishes frequent opportunity for the practice
of good or bad qualities; and the cleverest novel-writers have chosen just
this subject which seems so bald to the romantic writer. The contest in
this case is a long one, and is hotly contested, and the imperiousness of
the countess and the graceful courage of the girl are excellently well
described. The other characters too are clearly put before the reader, so
that those who exercise care in their choice of French novels may take up
this one with the certainty that they will be entertained, and, what is
rarer, innocently entertained. For in a large pile of French novels it
would be hard to find so pretty a story so well told as is the intimacy
between the two young girls, the cousins, who in their different ways
circumvent Fate in the person of the countess. Their amiability and jollity
and loyalty to each other give the book an air of attractive truthfulness
and refinement which well replaces the priggishness generally to be found
in innocuous French fiction. More than this, the plot is intelligently
handled, and no person is introduced who is not carefully studied. In this
respect of careful execution the author resembles Tourgueneff, whose friend
and disciple she is. Like him, and like those who have been affected by his
influence, she gives attention to the minor characters and comparatively
insignificant incidents, so that the book makes a really lifelike
impression. This is not a story of great passion, but it deals very
cleverly with the less open waters of domestic strife. While what it shows
of human nature in general is the most important thing, what is shown of
Russian life is of great interest. The position of the countess, and the
habit of her mind with its over-bearing self-will and ingenious
self-approval, are studies possible, of course, anywhere, but pretty sure
to be found especially in a land like Russia, where the habit of command
was until recently so strongly fostered by the existence of serfdom. The
condition of those who are exposed to this aggressive imperiousness is
clearly illustrated in the numerous dependants who make their appearance in
this story. But it is the countess who is the best drawn and most
impressive personage. She is really lifelike, and yet not a commonplace
figure.
_Books Received_.
Disease of the Mind: Notes on the Early Management, European and American
Progress, Modern Methods, etc., in the Treatment of Insanity, with especial
reference to the needs of Massachusetts and the United States. By Charles
F. Folsom, M.D. Boston: A. Williams & Co.
Cicero's Tusculan Disputations; also Treatises on The Nature of the Gods,
and on The Commonwealth. Literally translated by C.D. Yonge. New York:
Harper & Brothers.
Shakespeare: The Man and the Book. Being a collection of Occasional Papers
on the Bard and his Writings. Part I. By C.M. Ingleby, M.A. London: Trübner
& Co.
Shakespeare's Comedy of a Midsummer Night's Dream. Edited with Notes by
William J. Rolfe, A.M. New York: Harper & Brothers.
Four Irrepressibles; or, The Tribe of Benjamin: Their Summer with Aunt
Agnes, what they Did, and what they Undid. Boston: Loring.
The Magnetism of Iron Vessels, with a Short Treatise on Terrestrial
Magnetism. By Fairman Rogers. New York: D. Van Nostrand.
Virgin Soil. By Ivan Tourgueneff. From the French by T.S. Perry.
(Leisure-Hour Series.) New York: Henry Holt & Co.
Personal Appearance and the Culture of Beauty. By T.S. Sozinsky, M.D.,
Ph.D. Philadelphia: Allen, Lane & Scott.
An English Commentary on the Tragedies of Euripides. By Charles Anthon,
LL.D. New York: Harper & Brothers.
Strength of Men and Stability of Nations. By P.A. Chadbourne, D.D., LL.D.
New York: G.P. Putnam's Sons.
Eighth Annual Report of the State Board of Health of Massachusetts. Boston:
Albert J. Wright. State Printer.
The Antelope and Deer of America. By John Dean Caton, LL.D. New York: Hurd
& Houghton.
G.T.T.; or, The Wonderful Adventures of a Pullman. By Edward E. Hale.
Boston: Roberts Brothers.
Until the Day Break. By Mrs. J.M.D. Bartlett ("Birch Arnold").
Philadelphia: Porter & Coates.
Other People's Children. By the author of "Helen's Babies." New York: G.P.
Putnam's Sons.
Poet and Merchant. By B. Auerbach. (Leisure-Hour Series.) New York: Henry
Holt & Co.
Mental Education. By J. Edward Cranage, M.A., Ph.D. London: Bemrose & Sons.
Beautiful Edith, the Child-Woman. (Loring's Tales of the Day.) Boston:
Loring.
Aliunde; or, Love Ventures of Tom, Dick and Harry. New York: Charles P.
Somerby.
Ideals made Real: A Romance. By George L. Raymond. New York: Hurd &
Houghton.
Lola. By A. Griffiths. (Leisure-Hour Series.) New York: Henry Holt & Co.
Kilmeny: A Novel. By William Black. New York: Harper & Brothers.
Winstowe: A Novel. By Mrs. Leith-Adams. New York: Harper & Brothers.