CHAPTER LXXII.

KNOTTED STRANDS.

Lady Clementina had to return to England to see her lawyers and arrange

her affairs. Before she went she would gladly have gone with Malcolm

over every spot where had passed any portion of his history, and at each

heard its own chapter or paragraph; but Malcolm obstinately refused to

begin such a narration before Clementina was mistress of the region to

which it mainly belonged. After that, he said, he would, even more

gladly, he believed, than she, occupy all the time that could be spared

from the duties of the present in piecing together the broken

reflections of the past in the pools of memory until they had lived both

their lives over again together, from earliest recollection to the time

when the two streams flowed into one, thenceforth to mingle more and

more inwardly to endless ages.

So the Psyche was launched: Lady Clementina, Florimel and Lenorme were

the passengers, and Malcolm, Blue Peter and Davy the crew. There was no

room for servants, yet was there no lack of service. They had rough

weather a part of the time, and neither Clementina nor Lenorme was

altogether comfortable, but they made a rapid voyage, and were all well

when they landed at Greenwich.

Knowing nothing of Lady Bellair's proceedings, they sent Davy to

reconnoitre in Portland Place. He brought back word that there was no

one in the house but an old woman. So Malcolm took Florimel there.

Everything belonging to their late visitors had vanished, and nobody

knew where they had gone.

Searching the drawers and cabinets, Malcolm, to his unspeakable delight,

found a miniature of his mother, along with one of his father--a younger

likeness than he had yet seen. Also he found a few letters of his

mother--mostly mere notes in pencil--but neither these nor those of his

father which Miss Horn had given him would he read. "What right has life

over the secrets of death?" he said. "Or, rather, what right have we who

sleep over the secrets of those who have waked from their sleep and left

the fragments of their dreams behind them?" Lovingly he laid them

together and burned them to dust-flakes. "My mother shall tell me what

she pleases when I find her," he said. "She shall not reprove me for

reading her letters to my father."

They were married at Wastbeach, both couples in the same ceremony.

Immediately after the wedding the painter and his bride set out for

Rome, and the marquis and marchioness went on board the Psyche. For

nothing would content Clementina, troubled at the experience of her

first voyage, but she must get herself accustomed to the sea, as became

the wife of a fisherman: therefore in no way would she journey but on

board the Psyche; and as it was the desire of each to begin their

married life at home, they sailed direct for Portlossie. After a good

voyage, however, they landed, in order to reach home quietly, at Duff

Harbor, took horses from there, and arrived at Lossie House late in the

evening.

Malcolm had written to the housekeeper to prepare for them the Wizard's

Chamber, but to alter nothing on walls or in furniture. That room, he

had resolved, should be the first he occupied with his bride. Mrs.

Courthope was scandalized at the idea of taking an earl's daughter to

sleep in the garret, not to mention that the room had for centuries had

an ill name; but she had no choice, and therefore contented herself with

doing all that lay in the power of woman, under such severe

restrictions, to make the dingy old room cheerful.

Alone at length in their somewhat strange quarters--concerning which

Malcolm had merely told her that the room was that in which he was

born--what place fitter, thought Clementina, wherein to commence the

long and wonderful story she hungered to hear? Malcolm would still have

delayed it, but she asked question upon question till she had him fairly

afloat. He had not gone far, however, before he had to make mention of

the stair in the wall, which led from the place where they sat straight

from the house.

"Can there be such a stair to this room?" she asked in surprise.

He rose took a candle, opened a door, then another, and showed her the

first of the steps down which the midwife had carried him, and

descending which, twenty years after, his father had come by his death.

"Let us go down," said Clementina.

"Are you not afraid? Look!" said Malcolm.

"Afraid, and you with me!" she exclaimed.

"But it is dark, and the steps are broken."

"If it led to Hades I would go with my fisherman. The only horror would

be to be left behind."

"Come, then," said Malcolm; "only you must be very careful."

He laid a shawl on her shoulders, and down they went, Malcolm a few

steps in front, holding the candle to every step for her, many being

broken.

They came at length where the stair ceased in ruin. He leaped down: she

stooped, put her hands on his shoulders and dropped into his arms. Then

over the fallen rubbish, out by the groaning door, they went into the

moonlight.

Clementina was merry as a child. All was so safe and peaceful with her

fisherman! She would not hear of returning: they must have a walk in the

moonlight first. So down the steps and the winding path into the valley

of the burn, and up to the flower-garden, they wandered, Clementina

telling him how sick the moonlight had made her feel that night she met

him first on the Boar's Tail, when his words concerning her revived the

conviction that he loved Florimel. At the great stone basin Malcolm set

the swan spouting, but the sweet musical jargon of the falling water

seemed almost coarse in the soundless diapason of the moonlight. So he

stopped it again, and they strolled farther up the garden.

Clementina venturing to remind him of the sexton-like gardener's story

of the lady and the hermit's cave, which, because of its Scotch, she was

unable to follow, Malcolm told her now what John Jack had narrated,

adding that the lady was his own mother, and that from the gardener's

tale he learned that morning at length how to account for the horror

which had seized him on his first entering the cave, as also for his

father's peculiar carriage on that occasion: doubtless he then caught a

likeness in him to his mother. He then recounted the occurrence

circumstantially.

"I have ever since felt ashamed of the weakness," he concluded; "but at

this moment I believe I could walk in with perfect coolness."

"We won't try it to-night," said Clementina, and once more turned him

from the place, reverencing the shadow he had brought with him from the

spirit of his mother.

They walked and sat and talked in the moonlight, for how long neither

knew; and when the moon went behind the trees on the cliff, and the

valley was left in darkness, but a darkness that seemed alive with the

new day soon to be born, they sat yet, lost in a peaceful unveiling of

hearts, till a sudden gust of wind roused Malcolm, and looking up he saw

that the stars were clouded, and knew that the chill of the morning was

drawing near.

He kept that chamber just as it was ever after, and often retired to it

for meditation. He never restored the ruinous parts of the stair, and he

kept the door at the top carefully closed. But he cleared out the

rubbish that choked the place where the stair had led lower down, came

upon it again in tolerable preservation a little beneath, and followed

it into a passage that ran under the burn, appearing to lead in the

direction of the cave behind the Baillies' Barn. Doubtless there was

some foundation for the legend of Lord Gernon.

There, however, he abandoned the work, thinking of the possibility of a

time when employment would be scarce and his people in want of all he

could give them. And when such a time arrived, as arrive it did before

they had been two years married, a far more important undertaking was

found needful to employ the many who must earn or starve. Then it was

that Clementina had the desire of her heart, and began to lay out the

money she had been saving for the purpose in rebuilding the ancient

castle of Colonsay. Its vaults were emptied of rubbish and ruin, the

rock faced afresh, walls and towers and battlements raised, until at

last, when the loftiest tower seemed to have reached its height, it rose

yet higher and blossomed in radiance; for, top-most crown of all, there,

flaming far into the northern night, shone a splendid beacon-lamp to

guide the fisherman when his way was hid. Every summer for years

Florimel and her husband spent weeks in the castle, and many a study the

painter made there of the ever-changing face of the sea.

Malcolm, as he well might, had such a strong feeling of the power for

good of every high-souled schoolmaster that nothing would serve him but

Mr. Graham must be reinstated. He told the presbytery that if it were

not done he would himself build a school-house for him, and the

consequence, he said, needed no prediction. Finding, at the same time,

that the young man they had put in his place was willing to act as his

assistant, he proposed that he should keep the cottage and all other

emoluments of the office, on the sole condition that when he found he

could no longer conscientiously and heartily further the endeavors of

Mr. Graham he should say so; whereupon the marquis would endeavor to

procure him another appointment; and on these understandings the thing

was arranged.

Mr. Graham thenceforward lived in the House, a spiritual father to the

whole family, reverenced by all, ever greeted with gladness, ever

obeyed. The spiritual dignity and simplicity, the fine sense and

delicate feeling of the man, rendered him a saving presence in the

place; and Clementina felt as if one of the ancient prophets, blossomed

into a Christian, was the glory of their family and house. Like a

perfect daughter she watched him, tried to discover preferences of which

he might not himself be aware, and often waited upon him with her own

hands.

There was an ancient building connected with the house, divided now for

many years into barn and dairy, but evidently the chapel of the

monastery: this Malcolm soon set about reconverting. It made a lovely

chapel--too large for the household, but not too large for its

congregation upon Wednesday evenings, when many of the fishermen and

their families, and not a few of the inhabitants of the upper town,

with occasionally several farm-servants from the neighborhood, assembled

to listen devoutly to the fervent and loving expostulations and

rousings, or the tender consolings and wise instructions, of the

_master_, as every one called him. The hold he had of their hearts was

firm, and his influence on their consciences far reaching.

When there was need of conference or ground for any wide expostulation

the marquis would call a meeting in the chapel; but this occurred very

seldom. Now and then the master, sometimes the marquis himself, would

use it for a course of lectures or a succession of readings from some

specially interesting book; and in what had been the sacristy they

gathered a small library for the use of the neighborhood.

No meeting was held there of a Sunday, for although the clergyman was

the one person to whom all his life the marquis never came any nearer,

he was not the less careful to avoid everything that might rouse

contention or encourage division. "I find the doing of the will of God,"

he would say, "leaves me no time for disputing about His plans--I do not

say for thinking about them." Not, therefore, however, would he waive

the exercise of the inborn right of teaching, and anybody might come to

the house and see the master on Sunday evenings. As to whether people

went to church or stayed away, he never troubled himself in the least;

and no more did the schoolmaster.

The chapel had not been long finished when he had an organ built in it.

Lady Lossie played upon it. Almost every evening, at a certain hour, she

played for a while: the door was always open, and any one who pleased

might sit down and listen. Gradually the feeling of the community, from

the strengthening and concentrating influence of the House, began to

bear upon offenders; and any whose conduct had become in the least

flagrant soon felt that the general eye was upon them, and that

gradually the human tide was falling from them, and leaving them

prisoned in a rocky basin on a barren shore. But at the same time, all

three of the powers at the House were watching to come in the moment

there was a chance; and what with the marquis's warnings, his wife's

encouragements and the master's expostulations there was no little hope

of the final recovery of several who would otherwise most likely have

sunk deeper and deeper.

The marchioness took Lizzy for her personal attendant, and had her boy

much about her; so that by the time she had children of her own she had

some genuine and worthy notion of what a child was, and what could and

ought to be done for the development of the divine germ that lay in the

human egg, and had found that the best she could do for any child, or

indeed anybody, was to be good herself.

Rose married a young fisherman, and made a brave wife and mother. To the

end of her days she regarded the marquis almost as a being higher than

human, an angel that had found and saved her.

Kelpie had a foal, and, apparently in consequence, grew so much more

gentle that at length Malcolm consented that Clementina, who was an

excellent horsewoman, should mount her. After a few attempts to unseat

her, not of the most determined kind, however, Kelpie, on her part,

consented to carry her, and ever after seemed proud of having a mistress

that could ride. Her foal turned out a magnificent horse. Malcolm did

not allow him to do anything that could be called work before he was

eight years old, and had the return at the other end, for when Goblin

was thirty he rode him still, and, to judge by appearances, might but

for an accident have ridden him ten years more.

It was not long ere people began to remark that no one now ever heard

the piper utter the name _Campbell_. An ill-bred youth once--it was well

for him that Malcolm was not near--dared the evil word in his presence:

a cloud swept across the old man's face, but he held his peace, and to

the day of his death, which arrived in his ninety-first year, it never

crossed his lips. He died with the Lossie pipes on his bed, Malcolm on

one side of him and Clementina on the other.

Some of my readers may care to know that Phemy and Davy were married,

and made the quaintest, oldest-fashioned little couple, with hearts

which king and beggar might equally have trusted.

Malcolm's relations with the fisher-folk, founded as they were in truth

and open uprightness, were not in the least injured by his change of

position. He made it a point to be always at home during the

herring-fishing. Whatever might be going on in London, the marquis and

marchioness, their family and household, were sure to leave in time for

the commencement of that. Those who admired Malcolm--of whom there were

not a few even in Vanity Fair--called him the fisher-king: the wags

called him the kingfisher, and laughed at the oddity of his taste in

preferring what he called his duty to the pleasures of the season. But

the marquis found even the hen-pecked Partan a nobler and more elevating

presence than any strutting platitude of Bond street. And when he was at

home he was always about amongst the people. Almost every day he would

look in at some door in the Seaton, and call out a salutation to the

busy house-wife--perhaps go in and sit down for a minute. Now he would

be walking with this one, now talking with that--oftenest with Blue

Peter; and sometimes both their wives would be with them upon the shore

or in the grounds. Nor was there a family meal to which any one or all

together of the six men whom he had set over the Seaton and Scaurnose

would not have been welcomed by the marquis and his Clemency. The House

was head and heart of the whole district.

A conventional visitor was certain to feel very shruggish at first sight

of the terms on which the marquis was with "persons of that sort;" but

often such a one came to allow that it was no great matter: the persons

did not seem to presume unpleasantly, and, notwithstanding his atrocious

training, the marquis was after all a very good sort of

fellow--considering.

In the third year he launched a strange vessel. Her tonnage was two

hundred, but she was built like a fishing-boat. She had great stowage

forward and below: if there was a large take, boat after boat could

empty its load into her, and go back and draw its nets again. But this

was not the original design in her. The after half of her deck was

parted off with a light rope-rail, was kept as white as holy-stone could

make it, and had a brass-railed bulwark. She was steered with a wheel,

for more room; the top of the binnacle was made sloping, to serve as a

lectern; there were seats all round the bulwarks; and she was called the

Clemency.

For more than two years he had provided training for the fittest youths

he could find amongst the fishers, and now he had a pretty good band

playing on wind-instruments, able to give back to God a shadow of His

own music. The same formed the Clemency's crew. And every Sunday evening

the great fishing-boat, with the marquis and almost always the

marchioness on board, and the latter never without a child or children,

led out from the harbor such of the boats as were going to spend the

night on the water.

When they reached the ground all the other boats gathered about the

great boat, and the chief men came on board, and Malcolm stood up

betwixt the wheel and the binnacle, and read--always from the gospel,

and generally words of Jesus, and talked to them, striving earnestly to

get the truth alive into their hearts. Then he would pray aloud to the

living God, as One so living that they could not see Him, so One with

them that they could not behold Him. When they rose from their knees man

after man dropped into his boat, and the fleet scattered wide over the

waters to search them for their treasure.

Then the little ones were put to bed, and Malcolm and Clementina would

sit on the deck, reading and talking, till the night fell, when they too

went below and slept in peace. But if ever a boat wanted help or the

slightest danger arose, the first thing was to call the marquis, and he

was on deck in a moment.

In the morning, when a few of the boats had gathered, they would make

for the harbor again, but now with full blast of praising trumpets and

horns, the waves seeming to dance to the well-ordered noise divine. Or

if the wind was contrary or no wind blew, the lightest-laden of the

boats would take the Clemency in tow, and with frequent change of rowers

draw her softly back to the harbor.

For such Monday mornings the marquis wrote a little song, and his

Clemency made an air to it and harmonized it for the band. Here is the

last stanza of it:

Like the fish that brought the coin,

We in ministry will join--

Bring what pleases Thee the best--

Help from each to all the rest.

OUR BLACKBIRDS.

I have in mind the delta of a river whose shores are so level that it is

a constant struggle whether land or water shall prevail. The river finds

its way to the broad harbor through a dozen or more channels, between

which are low islands overgrown with great trees burdened and festooned

with grapevines and moss, and tangled with thickets and rank fernbrakes,

or growths of wild rice and luxuriant water-weeds so dense and tall as

to be impenetrable to even a canoe. Here blooms the magnificent lotus

(_Nelumbium luteum_), with its corolla as large as your hat and its leaf

half a boat-length broad--great banks of it, which give out a sweet,

faint, intoxicating odor.

Curious sounds reach you as you thread the mazes of the swamp. The water

boils up from the oozy bottom, and the bubbles break at the surface with

a faint lisping sound: the reeds softly rattle against one another like

the rustle of heavy silks, and you can hear the lily-pads and

deeply-anchored stems of the water-weeds rubbing against one another.

More articulate noises strike your ear--the sharp-clucking lectures on

propriety of the mud-hen to its young; the _brek-kek-kek, coaz-coaz_ of

the frog; the splash of a tumbling turtle; the rushing of a flock of

startled ducks rising on swift wings; the sprightly contagious laughter

of those little elves the marsh-wrens, teetering on the elastic leaves

of the cat-tails.

No birds are more characteristic of such a reedy tract than the

blackbirds, of which there are several more or less common species in

different parts of the country. The most striking of all, in the eastern

half of the Union, is

THE RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD.

The red-wing's favorite resort is the vicinity of water where the rushes

grow densely, among which he places his nest; but the little swales in

the meadows, where tufts of rank grass flourish upon islands formed by

the roots of previous years' growth, and a few stunted alders and

cranberry-bushes shade the black water, are nearly always sure to be the

home of a few pairs. Such extensive marshes as I have just described

are, however, the great centres of blackbird population, where they

breed, where they collect in great hordes of young and old as the end of

the season approaches, and whence they repair to the neighboring fields

of Indian corn to tear open the husks and pick the succulent kernels. In

September I have seen them literally in tens of thousands wheeling about

the inundated wild-rice fields bounding the western end of Lake Erie,

their black backs and gay red epaulets glistening in the sun "like an

army with banners." The Canadian _voyageurs_ call them "officer-birds,"

and the impression of an army before him is always strong upon the

beholder as he gazes at these prodigious flocks in autumn; and it is

extremely interesting to watch the swift evolutions of the crowded

ranks, and observe the regularity and concert of action which governs

the movements of the splendidly uniformed birds.

The red-wings are among the earliest of our spring visitors, and south

of the Ohio River and Washington may be found all through the winter.

Their loud and rollicking spring note is familiar to every one in the

country. _Conk-quiree! conk-quiree!_ sings out the male, as though he

knew a good story if only he had a mind to tell it; and then adds

_Chuck!_ as though he thought it of no use to try to interest you in it,

and that he had been indiscreet in betraying an enthusiasm beneath his

dignity over a matter beyond your appreciation. His plain brown mate

immediately says _Chuck!_ too, quite agreeing with her lord and master

that it is not best to waste their confidence upon _you_.

The centre of all their interest is the compact, tight basket woven of

wet grass-blades and split rush-leaves which is supported among the

reeds or rests on a tussock of wire-grass surrounded by water. It is a

model nest, and they understand so well the labor it cost that they are

mightily jealous of harm coming to it. The eggs are five in number, of a

faded blue tint, marbled, streaked and spotted with leather-color and

black, in shape rather elongated and pointed. The fledglings are abroad

about the first of June, when the parents proceed to the production of

another blood.

These blackbirds have the bump of domesticity largely developed, and if

their household is disturbed they make a terrible fuss, calling upon all

Nature to witness their sorrow and execrate the wretch that is violating

their privacy.

During all the spring season, and particularly while the young are being

provided for, the red-wings subsist almost exclusively on worms, grubs,

caterpillars and a great variety of such sluggish insects and their

voracious larvae as do great damage to the roots and early sprouts of

whatever the farmer plants, nor do they abandon this diet until the

ripening of the wild rice and maize in the fall. "For these vermin,"

says Wilson, "the starlings search with great diligence in the ground at

the roots of plants in orchards and meadows, as well as among buds,

leaves and blossoms; and from their known voracity the multitudes of

these insects which they destroy must be immense. Let me illustrate this

fact by a short computation: If we suppose each bird on an average to

devour fifty of these larvae in a day (a very moderate allowance), a

single pair in four months, the usual time such food is sought after,

will devour upward of 12,000. It is believed that not less than a

million pair of these birds are distributed over the whole extent of the

United States in summer, whose food, being nearly the same, would swell

the amount of vermin destroyed to 12,000,000,000. But the number of

young birds may be fairly estimated at double that of their parents; and

as these are constantly fed on larvae for three weeks, making only the

same allowance for them as for the older ones, their share would amount

to 42,000,000,000, making a grand total of 54,000,000,000 of noxious

insects destroyed in the space of four months by this single species!

The combined ravages of such a hideous host of vermin would be

sufficient to spread famine and desolation over a wide extent of the

richest, best-cultivated country on the earth."

The yellow-headed blackbird belongs properly north-west of Lake

Superior, but frequently gets into Michigan and Illinois. The bright

yellow head and neck make it very noticeable if seen. Its habits are

essentially those of the red-wing.

We have another set of blackbirds of greater size, commonly known as

"crow" blackbirds, but which in the books are called grakles. There are

several species, but none are greatly different from that too-common

pest of our cornfields,

THE PURPLE GRAKLE.

The real home of the grakles is along the edges of the swamps--not among

the reeds where the red-wing and bobolink sit and swing, but rather in

the bushes and trees skirting the muddy shores. They build their nests

in a variety of positions, but usually a convenient fork in an

alder-bush is chosen, twenty or thirty pairs often nesting within a

radius of a hundred feet. The nest is a rude, strong affair of sticks

and coarse grass-stalks lined with finer grass, and looks very bulky and

rough beside the neat structure of the red-wing; which illustrates how

much better a result can be produced by an artistic use of the same

material. In the case of both these birds, however, the female does not

wear the jetty, iridescent coat which adorns the head of the family and

reflects the sunlight in a thousand prismatic tints, but hides herself

and the home she cares for by affecting a dull, brown-black, streaked

suit, assimilating her closely with the surrounding objects. This

protective coloration of plumage is possessed by the females of many

species of birds, which would be very conspicuous, and of course greatly

liable to danger while incubating their eggs, if they wore the bright

tints of the males. The tanager and indigo-bird afford prominent

examples. Sometimes the crow blackbirds make their homes at a distance

from the water, and occasionally they choose odd places, such as the

tops of tall pine trees, the spires of churches, martin-boxes in gardens

and holes in trees. The latter situation is one which the bronzed

blackbird of the Mississippi Valley (var. _AEneus_) especially makes use

of.

Grakles' eggs are among the first on every boy's string, and until he

gains experience the young collector supposes he has almost as many

different species represented as he has specimens, so much do they

differ, even in the same nestful, in respect to color, shape and size.

Their length averages about 1.25 by .90 of an inch, but some are long,

slender and pointed, while others are round, fat, and blunt at both

ends. The ground color may be any shade of dirty white, light blue,

greenish or olive brown; the markings consist of sharply-defined spots

and confused blotches, scratches and straggling lines of obscure colors,

from blue-black to lilac and rusty brown--sometimes scantily and

prettily marbled upon the surface of the egg, and sometimes painted on

so thick as to wholly conceal the ground color.

The crow blackbirds are in the advance-guard of the returning hosts of

spring, making their appearance in small scattering flocks, and

announcing their presence by loud smacks frequently repeated. They

obtain most of their food from the ground, and walk about with great

liveliness, scratching up the leaves, turning over chips and poking

about the pastures for insects and seeds softened by the spring rains.

Their destruction of insects--especially during May, when their young

are in the nest--is enormous; yet their forays upon the cornfields, I

fear, overbalance the good done the farmer by putting an end to grubs

noxious to his crops.

"The depredations committed by these birds are almost wholly on Indian

corn at different stages. As soon as its blades appear above the ground

after it has been planted, the grakles descend upon the fields, pull up

the tender plant and devour the seeds, scattering the green blades

around. It is of little use to attempt to drive them away with a gun:

they only fly from one part of the field to another. And again, as soon

as the tender corn has formed, these flocks, now replenished by the

growing of the year, once more swarm in the cornfields, tear off the

husks and devour the tender grains. Wilson has seen fields of corn in

which more than half the corn was thus ruined.

"These birds winter in immense numbers in the lower parts of Virginia,

North and South Carolina and Georgia, sometimes forming one congregated

multitude of several hundred thousand. On one occasion Wilson met, on

the banks of the Roanoke, on the 20th of January, one of these

prodigious armies of crow blackbirds. They arose, he states, from the

surrounding fields with a noise like thunder, and descending on the

length of the road before him, they covered it and the fences completely

with black: when they again rose, and after a few evolutions descended

on the skirts of the high-timbered woods, they produced a most singular

and striking effect. Whole trees, for a considerable extent, from the

top to the lowest branches, seemed as if hung with mourning. Their notes

and screaming, he adds, seemed all the while like the distant sounds of

a great cataract, but in a musical cadence."

ERNEST INGERSOLL.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

THE MODERN FRENCH NOVELISTS.

The grand old race of French story-tellers has wellnigh departed. One by

one the great names in this department of modern French literature

become erased from the lists of the living. Nor is this all. Many of the

most brilliant of the novelists of the day have relinquished the pen of

the romance-writer for that of the politician. About, for instance,

expends in the leading articles of the _XIXe. Siecle_ the wit, the

sparkle, the energy that charmed us long years ago in the pages of his

novels. The younger Dumas--always less a novelist than a dramatist

and (we must coin a word to do justice to the position) an

_im_moralist--confines his efforts now to the production of unclean

plays and uncleaner prefaces, that glow with unwholesome lustre like the

phosphorescent flames that are bred of corruption and quiver over

graves. Pitiless and cold, with a scalpel in one hand and a

magnifying-glass in the other, he is at once the closest observer and

the most eloquent denunciator of the moral maladies of French society.

But he is not a novelist, strictly speaking. His gifts have another

direction, his mind another bent. Nor is he altogether a dramatist, as

is Sardou. His comedies are less remarkable on the stage than they are

in the library. An invincible passion for preaching mars the development

of the action. His characters say more than they do, and his plays charm

less by any actual theatrical qualifications than by the extreme finish

and brilliancy of their style. He will bring two men on the stage, and

will let them talk together for half an hour without moving a muscle.

They say wonderfully wise and witty things, it is true. But such

dramatic writing is not exactly in the manner of Shakespeare. M. Dumas

evidently dreams that his mission is to regenerate French society, but,

apparently, he has as yet found the task beyond his powers. Nor are the

means he suggested--in _L'Etrangere_, for instance--exactly those that

would most strongly commend themselves to the Anglo-Saxon mind.

Among the most daring and successful of the novel-writers of the day we

must undoubtedly number M. Emile Zola, whose recent works have created a

deep and widespread sensation in literary circles in France. He is the

chief of the so-called Realistic school, and is already recognized as a

power in the land. To describe the characteristics of his works it is

necessary to speak in superlatives. They are immensely strong, immensely

realistic, and, it must also be added, immensely repulsive. Vice stands

before us stripped of all her plumes and tinsel--naked, hideous and

unclean. In _Therese Roquin_, for instance, he tells a tale of

adulterous passion, of murder and of remorse. It is precisely the theme

that used to arouse the genius of George Sand to its loftiest and most

impassioned flights. But instead of poets and high-born ladies, moonlit

nights and Italian landscapes, poetry, romance, art and music, Zola

descends to the lower classes of society: he takes his characters from

the shop and the factory, and shows us evil in all its abominations,

remorse in all its horrors. In _L'Assommoir_, his latest and, in some

respects, his most remarkable work, he has given us so atrocious and so

powerful a delineation of the vices of the French working-classes that

the mind recoils, sickened and terrified, from the contemplation of the

tremendous picture. To find its parallel even in another form of art we

must turn to some of the most repulsive of the pictures of Hogarth, the

representation of Gin Lane or the dissection-scene in the "Successive

Stages of Cruelty." Yet the foremost figures in this terrible

delineation, his hero and heroine, are not wicked: they are simply weak.

The _assommoir_--otherwise the drinking-shop--is the spider that poisons

and ensnares their humble natures. The first pages of the book, the

wedding and installation of Gervaise and Coupeau, the birth of their

child, her anxieties, her cares, her longing for a clock, her pride in

her modest home, are all told with a touch of tenderness, which,

however, speedily disappears amid an accumulation of unclean horrors.

The book is hideous, terrific, disgusting, but it is _not_ immoral. It

is scarcely fit for any decent woman to read, but it is no more

demoralizing than is the interior of a dissecting-room.

In the _History of the Rougon Macquart Family_, a series of six separate

works united by the slightest of links, M. Zola attempted to trace the

career of a family during the period of the Second Empire, or rather he

tried, in imitation of Victor Hugo, to make an epoch, and not a human

being, the hero of the work. In this he has but partially succeeded. The

_Rougon Macquart Family_ is less a novel or series of novels than it is

a dissertation on the Second Empire from a hostile point of view. As a

gallery of historical pictures, painted by an able and contemporaneous

hand, it is a work of considerable value, but this value is in spite of,

not on account of, the story. Victor Hugo could indeed embody in his

_Quatre-Vingt Treize_ the mighty image of the first Revolution, but M.

Zola is not Victor Hugo, and such a task is beyond his powers.

One of the peculiarities of this tremendous and iconoclastic realist is

the care with which he writes and the indefatigable polish he bestows

upon his style. He writes and re-writes, corrects and copies, weighs

every phrase, and is never content till the written words exactly

reproduce the image of his thought. Another is his extreme reticence and

self-possession. There are no traces of a fine frenzy about the most

vigorous of his works. He paints vice from the standpoint of a

street-corner. To others he leaves the roses and the raptures: for him

are the mud and the stones. He has no illusions respecting the lower

orders, as had Dickens and Eugene Sue. He reminds one of a certain

picture by Courbet, who, disgusted with the elegant studies of the nude

in the annual exhibition, painted a group of real every-day bathers,

some half a dozen washerwomen at Asnieres. The picture was revolting,

but it was great, because there was truth in the subject and power in

the execution. And notwithstanding the tempest of adverse criticism

which his later works, and especially his _Assommoir_, have called

forth, he holds a high and recognized place amid the writers of the day.

To turn from Zola to Alphonse Daudet is to leave the back slums of a

city for a flower-decked forest-path: it is to exchange the hideous

facts of police records and city statistics for the fresh and tender

poesy of the woods and fields. M. Daudet is yet so young that he may

possibly surpass in the future even the great success of his earlier

career--namely, _Fromont Jeune et Risler Aine_. His _Nabob_, now in

course of publication as a feuilleton in one of the Parisian newspapers,

is a work of far different style and scope from his first great success.

Among the rising writers of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ the name of

Andre Theuriet is rapidly becoming prominent. As chaste, as tender, as

sincere as Daudet, if less gifted and poetical, he depicts provincial

life and manners with scarcely less skill than does his brilliant

contemporary the factory and the salons of the Marais. He is, above all,

an adorer of the woods--not such wild virgin forests as may still be

met with in our own land, but the decorous and well-trained woods of

France, where the very trees seem to have learned politeness and keep to

their own places, not one of them daring to tower to an undue height or

to spread its roots or branches over an unaccustomed breadth of space.

Born at Marly-le-Roi, his youth was spent at Bar-le-Duc, and in his

mature manhood he was transferred to Auberive--three points where his

love of forests could be indulged in to any extent. Something of the

freshness, the summer sweetness, the natural charm of his favorite

haunts seems to pervade the atmosphere of his graceful and delicate

tales. He is one of the few French novelists one can imagine writing in

English. _Gerard's Marriage_, _Angele's Fortune_, _An Undine_, are all

imbued with that peculiar quality which the French call _honnetete_--an

expression for which our language furnishes no equivalent. Neither

striking in incident nor complicated in plot, his stories charm by their

delicate delineations of character, their refinement of tone and

sincerity of sentiment, and their truthfulness of description. His

stories remind one of what Miss Mulock's novels used to be when she

wrote her best, while Daudet might be characterized as a Parisian

mingling of Hawthorne and Bret Harte, and Zola as a brutal Thackeray.

M. Jules Claretie has written many novels. But he has also written

plays, histories, biographies, leading articles: he is the most

indefatigable of writers, as he is one of the most intelligent and

clear-headed. He has, however, the defect of being a literary Don Juan,

wasting his smiles amid the _mille e tre_ instead of consecrating his

pen in legitimate wedlock to a single Muse. The immense facility with

which he writes is fatal to the enduring success of his novels. They

abound in powerful episodes and strong bits of description, and here and

there some single scene, original in conception and forcible in

treatment, starts out from the mass like the scarlet draperies in a

faded piece of Gobelin tapestry. His gifts are those of an historian or

of a critic, not those of a novel-writer. When in his historical

novels, such as _Les Muscadins_ or _Le Beau Solignac_, he trenches on

the firm ground of the Real, his true force displays itself. In these

works he has attempted to revive the lengthy chronicles of the elder

Dumas, but without that irrepressible verve, that headlong vehemence of

animal spirits, which, like the rush of a locomotive, bore the reader,

breathless and interested, over rough places and smooth alike. The

draught M. Claretie brews for our drinking bears no affinity to that

intoxicating and sparkling champagne. The Dumas brand is exhausted, and

all imitations are but as flat cider in comparison. In the _Renegade_,

which is a specimen of a style of fiction largely in vogue at present in

France--one that might be called the contemporaneous historical

novel--M. Claretie found himself once more on firm and familiar ground.

The hero of the _Renegade_ is a Republican politician who turns

Bonapartist, and who finally commits suicide something after the fashion

of M. Prevost-Paradol, whose career, it is indeed said, suggested the

book.

But M. Claretie is seen at his best when he lays down the pen of a

novel-writer and takes up that of a critic or that of a chronicler of

passing events. His plays possess the same defects as his novels, being

diffuse, devoid of incident and overloaded with unnecessary details. But

the clearness and vigor of the style, the strong sense and daylight

intelligence that reign in all his writings, prevent his poorest works

from being commonplace or uninteresting.

Arsene Houssaye, like his almost un-namable contemporary Belot, is the

Laureate of Vice. His imagination is as unclean as a street-gutter, only

it is a gutter that runs rose-water. He deals exclusively with the

"roses-and-raptures" side of the question. He always lays the scene of

his romances in dainty boudoirs, beneath the soft light of real wax

candles (gas would be far too vulgar). He revels in annals of the

nobility. His heroes seldom or never are without a "handle to their

names." His heroines are usually selected from a set whose name he has

chosen as the title of one of his novels--_Les Courtisanes du Grand

Monde_. His books would be injurious if they were not so very stupid.

They are improbable in incident, immoral in tone, exaggerated in style

and lamentably dragged out in length. The trail of the class among which

M. Houssaye spends his days is visible in every page. M. Houssaye is

possessed with a passionate desire to become a member of the French

Academy. Well, why should he not sit where Taine does not and where

Sardou does? His _History of the Forty-first Fauteuil_, one of the

brightest and wittiest of his works, will probably avail, not to open

the doors to him, but to bar them against him.

L. H. H.

FRANCOIS BULOZ.

The man whose fortunes were to be during nearly half a century connected

with the _Revue des Deux Mondes_ was born in 1804 at Vulbens, a village

in French Savoy. Without becoming anything of a savant, M. Buloz

received the fair education then obtainable at the College Louis le

Grand. After leaving school he was forced to take a situation at some

chemical works in Sologne, but soon returned disgusted and without means

to Paris. There we find him passing his days in a printing-office, and

his evenings--and often, too, his nights--in miscellaneous reading. In

all that he did he displayed that indomitable energy which characterized

his entire subsequent career.

The _Revue des Deux Mondes_ had been started in 1829. It was a sickly

bantling, and had to change its name the following year to the _Journal

des Voyages_. The new name, however, brought no fresh subscribers, and

the _Journal_ was dragging on a dreary existence when M. Auffray, the

printer, bought it, and engaged his former schoolfellow, Francois Buloz,

as editor of the new series of the _Revue des Deux Mondes_. His yearly

salary was twelve hundred francs, and two francs for every subscriber.

There were then but three hundred and fifty of these, but in 1834 the

three hundred and fifty had become one thousand; in 1838 five hundred

more had been added; in 1843 there were two thousand; in 1846, two

thousand five hundred; and in 1851, five thousand. Long before this the

_Revue_ had become a power. Buloz remained as a partner, but M. Auffray

had long since given up his interest in it: he had been succeeded by

Alexander Bixio, and the latter by Messrs. Florestan and Felix Bonnaire,

the owners of the _Revue de Paris_. Messrs. Bonnaire in 1845 proposed to

buy out Buloz for a sum exceeding one hundred thousand francs. After

consulting with Merimee, Sainte-Beuve and others, Buloz declined the

proposal, and with the aid of his friends bought out the brothers

Bonnaire for a sum just double that which they had offered him. It was

then, in 1846, that the new company was constituted, with Buloz as

managing director, and M. Mole, M. d'Haussonville, M. de Saint Priest,

Count Roger, the duc de Broglie, M. de Rothschild, M. Baude and others

as stockholders. A number of writers too were interested in the concern,

and were to pay for their stock in the shape of contributions. A year or

two before, the _Revue_ had been most violently attacked by persons ill

disposed to bear with M. Buloz's firm determination to admit nothing

into the _Revue_ but what he considered up to the standard requisite to

maintain its reputation. Alexandre Dumas led the coalition, which was in

part made up of men who had been criticised by the _Revue_. As was

natural, their enmity only advertised the periodical and increased its

circulation. Still, his enemies managed in more ways than one to make

him feel their power. Ever since 1838, M. Buloz, under the title of

"commissaire du roi," had been manager of the Theatre Francais, but

after the revolution of 1848 he was abruptly dismissed. Thenceforth he

gave his attention exclusively to his literary enterprise, and the

_Revue_ gained thereby.

From the very first, Buloz had secured the rising literary talent of the

day for the _Revue_. Alfred de Vigny contributed to it successively

_Stello_, _Laurette_ and _Le Capitaine Renaud_; Alexandre Dumas, whose

jealousy was only aroused later on, published therein his _Impressions

de Voyage_; Balzac wrote for it, as did also Nodier, Victor Hugo,

Barbier, Brizeux, Merimee, Lerminier, George Sand, Jouffry, Alfred de

Musset, Sainte-Beuve, Gustave Planche and Augustin Thierry, whose

_Nouvelles lettres sur l'Histoire de France_ first appeared in the

_Revue_.

In 1840, M. Thiers, while president of the council, wrote an article for

the _Revue_. Buloz, who greatly admired the statesman-historian, pressed

him strongly the following year to write upon the Eastern Question. M.

Thiers, then at Lille, was about to go to Germany in order to examine

the battle-fields of Napoleon for his great work. We find him writing to

Buloz a letter which is not less interesting at the present time than it

was thirty-six years ago: "I often think of writing for you an article

on the Eastern Question, but it is somewhat difficult for me to leave my

work. However, I am preparing to put pen to paper in order to carry out

my promise. I must tell you that with an ever-increasing taste for _la

grande politique_, I daily care less and less for _la petite politique_,

which consists in simply providing each day for the requirements of the

hour. This daily bread upon which men live at Paris is repugnant to my

tastes. I am a strong partisan of our institutions, for I know of none

other possible, but they convert the government of the country into an

association for the merest chit-chat.... It is therefore for me a real

sacrifice to return to the narrow sphere of affairs of the present day,

and to speak or write thereon. I am happy where I am, and in doing what

I am now about.... Still, I will make an effort to write for you before

leaving for Germany. I see nothing very important except the Eastern

Question, which is not a _question du moment_, and which will outlive

us."

It is truly wonderful how many men eminent in various departments Buloz

managed to enrol among the contributors to the _Revue_. Of course, his

strict adherence to the rule he had laid down of rigidly exercising his

prerogative as director led many who had written a few articles for the

_Revue_ to abandon it in disgust. Still, many even of these returned

after years of separation to their old love. Buloz maintained his even

course undaunted by storms of criticism. He was to be found early and

late at work, constantly reading, correcting proofs, busying himself as

to the punctuation, the type, even the appearance of the title-pages. He

himself was wont to define his position thus: "I am the public: all I

ask is to be instructed or interested. If a work neither instructs nor

interests me, the chances are that it will produce no better effect on

the real public for whom it is written." He was always fearing that

something would intervene to prevent the publication appearing by the

1st or the 15th of each month, and became almost feverishly agitated as

the calendar pointed to the near approach of the day of publication.

He received a severe blow by the death in 1869 of Louis Buloz, an

intelligent, active and devoted young man who had already become the

sharer of his father's toils. He went off to the estate he had purchased

in 1859 in Savoy, commanding a view of the Valley of Chambery and the

Lake of Bourget. While in this charming retreat the news reached him of

the successive French defeats, culminating in the surrender of Sedan,

the revolution of the 4th of September and the march of the Germans upon

Paris. Without paying heed to his already weakened condition of health,

he set out at once for Paris. Duty called him there, as he considered,

and every other consideration was hushed. "What," his friends asked,

"could the _Revue_ do in a besieged city, separated from so large a

proportion of its readers and contributors?" Buloz was deaf to their

remonstrances, and, struggling bravely against the enormous difficulties

of his position, he managed, with the aid of a few devoted writers like

M. de Mazade and Vitel, to get the _Revue_ out regularly during all

those painful, weary weeks. When at length Paris capitulated, on the

28th of January, 1871, the world first knew to what straits the _Revue_

had been reduced. Its means had become completely exhausted. There was

no paper left, nor were there funds to replenish the stock of the

printing-office, even supposing that such a stock could have been

purchased at that time. Yet, terrible as had been the struggle to keep

up the _Revue_ during the siege, there was yet a harder task in store

for M. Buloz and his family. After the capitulation he and his

associates at once set about organizing afresh the entire machinery of

the _Revue_. This occupied some six weeks, and when all the arrangements

had been completed one contributor after another left the city. M.

Buloz, too, went away. All at once broke forth, on the 18th of March,

the Communist insurrection, and Paris for more than two months was in

the hands of the rabble. It is not too much to say that but for the

intrepidity and intelligent management of affairs by Madame Buloz the

publication of the _Revue_ must have been suspended during part, at

least, of that period. She feared nothing, but, braving the danger of

frequent journeys between Paris and Versailles, she summoned to her aid

all the contributors and friends she was able to communicate with. Of

course it was not long ere the Communist leaders perceived that true

liberty, such as they understood it, was incompatible with the existence

of such an outspoken periodical as the _Revue_. They arrested M. Emile

Beaussaire for his courageous article entitled "Le proces entre Paris et

la Province," and the other contributors, as well as M. Buloz himself,

would have certainly shared the same fate could they have been found.

After the number of the 15th of May had appeared the rulers of the city

voted that the continuance of the _Revue_ was prejudicial to the

interests of the Commune, and accordingly its suppression was decreed.

On the 25th of May, however, Paris was again occupied by the government

troops, and thus the number of the 1st of June was published as

punctually as all its predecessors.

C. H. H.

WATER-LILIES.

Who does not love the beautiful water-lily, the _Nympha odorata_ of our

ponds and lakes? No one, not even he of whom the poet said,

A primrose by the river's brim

A yellow primrose was to him,

And it was nothing more,

could be quite insensible to the charms of this loveliest of wild

flowers. Yet those who have seen it only in those crowded, half-wilted

bunches in the vegetable markets or in the hands of enterprising urchins

on railroad trains know little of its perfect state. To come upon it

unexpectedly, holding its snowy petals proudly open upon the still water

of some sylvan lake, is a poetic inspiration. There it breathes its

divinest fragrance. There, enthroned with its companions among its

shining green leaves spread out upon the water, it is an enchanting

vision. Plucked from its anchorage at the bottom of the lake, it soon

closes its corolla, as if hiding its beauty and its sorrow from the eyes

of the captor.

Our pond-lily closely resembles the lotus, the _Nympha lotus_ of Egypt,

Syria and other countries of the East, which has been venerated in all

times, and figures extensively in Egyptian hieroglyphics, besides

forming the model for the capital of Egyptian columns. Another, or

perhaps the same species, is held sacred among the Hindoos. It is

intimately connected with their religion, and they give it a wonderful

origin. Vishnu, the God of Light, the Preserver, is represented seated

upon the lotus and holding one of the flowers in his hand.

There are two species of the water-lily in the East--the one mentioned

and the _Nympha coerulea_. The latter, as the name implies, is blue,

and said to be wonderfully beautiful. A blue water-lily! What an object

to thrill the soul of the florist! It must be rare even in gardens of

acclimatization. Who has ever seen one? Perhaps it would flourish in

some of our small lakes farther South. It would produce a splendid

effect growing with the white water-lily in our ponds.

During the last year or two there have been paragraphs in our newspapers

declaring that the pond-lily could be made to grow in gardens. Most

people have doubted it. Could a flower so naturally wild, so secluded

in its loveliness, so fond of shady nooks and comparatively deep water,

be made to expand its shy petals and exhale its rare perfume in a vulgar

tub? Yet is it true. Like the noblest beauty of every kind, it blesses

despite captivity and ignoble surroundings.

Last spring I determined to give the cultivation of the water-lily a

trial, and impressed an old lime hogshead into the service. This I had

sawed through the middle, and one half sunk in the ground at the

north-east end of the veranda, under the rain-spout. Then, armed with a

big basket and a long rake, two of us started for the pond, about a mile

distant, where the lilies grew. Some of the leaves, as yet all rolled

together, were just peeping from the water.

The process of dragging out the roots was rather difficult, but

exhilarating. First, we threw out the long rake, let it sink, worked it

down into the mud as far as practicable, and then pulled together with

all our strength. At every pull we brought up a long piece of the fleshy

root with several leaves just sprouting; but every pull, or rather every

yielding of a root, resulted in our sudden sitting down on the marshy

ground with peals of laughter. This was the exhilarating part. We placed

the roots, with all the doughy clay adhering, in the basket, and tugged

it home with many pauses for rest and frequent changing of hands. The

basket seemed freighted with lead, and the dripping of yellow mud was

not improving to the appearance of shoes and stockings.

Seeing the kind of bed the lily flourished in in the pond, we did not

dare trust the roots to common mould, and therefore packed the bottom of

the tub a foot deep with the common swamp-muck used on the farm. In this

we planted the roots, put in several pails of cistern-water, and left

the rain, already falling, to do the rest. The next morning the tub was

full of the dirtiest-looking liquid imaginable. It did not become

perfectly clear for several weeks; and then our labor was rewarded by

the sight of numerous little folded leaves, which soon reached the top

and unfolded their satiny, green surface upon the water. The smallness

of the leaves troubled me greatly at first, not knowing that they grow

broad after opening. After patient waiting, and after covering the tub

with mosquito-netting to disabuse the young turkeys of the notion that

it was specially designed as a drinking-cup and a watery grave for them,

and the young ducks of the notion that it was preordained for them to

swim in, we were delighted to see a veritable lily-bud coming up.

At the present moment (July 25th) the whole surface of the water is

covered with leaves so large and fresh and beautiful that these alone

would compensate for all the trouble taken. The leaves are quite as

large, many of them, as the largest seen in the wild state, and among

them are two superbly perfect lilies, and several more struggling up to

the light. For the winter I shall cover the tub with boards and a thick

layer of straw, which will keep the water from freezing much below the

surface, and, I trust, preserve the precious roots at the bottom.

A little visitor from Philadelphia, whose grand passion is collecting

turtles, lizards, frogs, etc., has added five small frogs to the tub. At

any time one or more of them may be seen enthroned on a large leaf,

while at night callers sitting on the veranda hear the gentle croaking

and are greatly puzzled to account for it.

M. H.

A NEGLECTED BRANCH OF PHILOLOGY.

Slang must be coeval with the race. That part of the race which delights

in and creates it must have always existed. It is found in the oldest

light literature we possess, and in some of the gravest. It abounds in

the Greek plays, not being limited to those of them which avowedly

"Aristophanize." We can imagine the gamins of Israel echoing and

embellishing the "chaff" launched by Elijah at the discomfited priests

of Baal. Miriam comes as close to it as a lady may in her exultations

over the drenched Egyptians. Terence is full of it, and the _graffiti_

exhumed in Italy further enlighten us as to the deadest portion of one

of the dead languages.

Slang is one form of popular poetry. It will maintain its existence, in

ever-fleeting shapes, so long as the mind of the masses has a poetic

side, and will particularly flourish wherever circumstances favor the

combination, in the ideas of the masses, of the grotesque and the novel

with the imaginative. In this country, the West--and California, the

farthest border of the West--is the hotbed of slang. A Western writer

"spreads himself" at the expense of a rival who "welters" in "gush" or

"slops over" too profusely. His darling aim is to get his own "head

level" and to send his opponent off "on his ear." Of some of the phrases

of this kind the origin is difficult to trace, and generally not worth

tracing. Others are markedly metaphorical fittings of words with new

meanings, and often highly expressive meanings. They are efforts of

fancy not conveyed in metre, nor even in prose, but condensed into a

single word or phrase. They thus become portable enough to run like

lightning from tongue to tongue and pen to pen over a continent. But,

like other electric flashes, they are not usually of long duration. If

quickly started, they are as quickly forgotten. Each generation or

decade or year manufactures its own supply of slang words, and seldom

bequeaths any of them as a permanent inheritance. Delineators of rude or

low life, like the litterateurs of the Pacific coast school, Dickens and

Thackeray, embed in their writings the slang of their day; but it stays

there, recommended though it may be by the brilliancy of its setting,

and rarely passes into currency outside of their pages. Its flavor is

usually too local and fugitive for that.

As slang blends in one direction with genuine poetry, in another it

sinks into the base jargon invented by evil-doers for the disguise of

their intercourse and concealment of their purposes. Of the latter

description are the dialects of the prize-ring and the fraternity of

thieves. These are rich and copious, and often ingenious, like the other

devices of their originators. How far the gypsy language may be

included with them it is impossible to say; but it has been largely

borrowed from by them, thanks either to community of objects, and

consequent sympathy of feelings, or to its obscurity and shapelessness,

and the utter ignorance of it among the intelligent and plunderable

classes.

These classes have a slang of their own too; and some of it gets

established in the language. Broadly speaking, all foreign words which

are adopted from affectation, and not from the growing necessities of

science and thought, may be ranked as slang. That they should

occasionally effect a lodgment it is not at all indispensable that they

should impart a new idea. Very often they merely elbow out an old member

of the vernacular conveying precisely the same meaning. It would be easy

to cite such cases, and to point to naturalized foreigners, now

unnoticed in every-day intercourse, but at their first appearance

conspicuous enough in fashionable slang. Scores of them have been

introduced to us by the milliner and the tailor. Vouched for by such

august authority, they are of course elegant. But they are nothing more.

More solid merit than theirs, in the eyes of the student of language,

belongs to the humbler products of the popular fancy--words more

pointed, more pithy and more graphic, but more fleeting.

ANOTHER DEFUNCT MONOPOLY.

The patent on sewing-machines has passed into limbo with the patent on

the revolver and the steam-engine and the patent on gunpowder, if Friar

Bacon ever entered his caveat, paid his fee, fought the pirates through

the courts and took one out--a point on which history, which chronicles

the minutest military or judicial homicide and the most contemptible

court-intrigue of his day, forgets to inform us. His last possible

renewal, however, would have in any case died out long ago, and left his

valuable contribution to human happiness as common property as the

contrivance of the blind, bedevilled, rich and unhappy originator of the

sewing-machine.

This great change extinguishes a tribe of agents as numerous and

troublesome as any that roams the Upper Missouri or the Lower Colorado.

As numerous, did we say? It outnumbered all the septs of the Sioux--did

more travelling and peopled more lodges. It had its peculiar literature

and its peculiar vehicles. We have known a single contract made with a

Western carriage-factory for five hundred sewing-machine wagons, for the

use of one out of the fifteen or twenty companies. All these gay and

jaunty equipages go into quod, like the tumbrils and ambulances left

over in 1865, and with them, into yet more helpless disuse, a mass of

literature, written, printed and oral, great beyond computation. It is a

fossil industry whereof even the bones have suddenly perished. To its

credit, be it said, it died game, struggling to the last, its

battlefield the lobbies of Congress and the halls of the Patent Office.

Gold and greenbacks were shed like water, but not much blood save the

blood of the grape. All was in vain. The little needle, with an eye near

the point, the sharp steel weapon of Howe that so long held at bay all

assailants, puzzled a succession of judges of first and second instance,

original and appellate, and enriched a generation of attorneys, was

forced finally to succumb. All the world and his wife--his wife

especially--may make and use a needle with any style or position of hole

without paying a cent of royalty for the inestimable privilege. That

historic implement has the largest liberty, and may disport itself in an

infinity of scrolls and intricacies over the raiment of male and female.

The befrogged officer is no longer limited in the arabesques of braid

and tinsel that make gay his manly breast. He commands all the resources

of Snip's imagination, and whirligigs beyond what hath entered the mind

of man to conceive will shortly meander over the cerulean expanse.

KATERFELTO IN REPOSE.

Is there not a lull in the quack-medicine business? Its advertisements

do not appear to us to shine with the brilliancy of old. Those

astonishing portraits of Old Doctor So-and-So, and the gorgeous

perspective view of the interior of Professor Snooks's laboratory, all

alive with forty 'prentice-power pill-machines and tincture-vats like

the pools of a swimming academy, have ceased to illustrate the condition

of modern art and medicine.

Possibly, the sensational style has been found to have lost its force,

and a more quiet and stately tone to be more promotive of the popularity

of bread-pills and root-bitters. It looks more professional.

Mountebankery in physic has been overdone, as it has in a great many

other things. The quacks, if they successfully inculcate this lesson and

bring in a corresponding reform, will have been useful public servants.

Others have been forcing the pace as well as they, and may well slacken

speed, if not call a halt. The blatant and dogmatic has been

increasingly predominant in the announcement of new theories, notions

and "missions." We are all concerned in seeing it checked, and simple

truth and plodding inquiry once more given a chance. Repeated

disappointments have made the world distrustful of startling discoveries

and sweeping panaceas--a fact which should commend itself to the

attention of all the charlatans, and of those who, not charlatans, have

caught from them the fashion of violent and premature trumpeting.

Political and social cure-alls will have to work their way slowly and

painfully into notice. They must submit to the rules of trade, and not

look for success until they have demonstrated that what they offer in

the market is what it pretends to be. The world is tired of being taken

by storm. Just now it is in a more than usually distrustful mood--in a

state of marked disillusionment. It declines to have a creed of any kind

slammed into its face--so many new ones have palpably failed, and so

many old ones have proved themselves possessed of forgotten virtues.

Good and evil have proved to be omnipresent, and to pervade everything,

like iron and sulphur.

E. C. B.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

Madame Gervaisais. By Edmond and Jules de Goncourt. New

Edition. Paris.

This is in many respects a remarkable book. It shows unusual talent and

thought--skill in the morbid anatomy of the soul. It is out of the

common line in having but one character, the heroine, and not a word

about love. It is, in fact, the biography of a woman during her

conversion to Roman Catholicism: the incidents are merely the successive

steps by which she is brought within the pale. The interest lies in the

mental and moral fluctuations through which she passes while under the

influence to which she is subjected, and which in one way or another

does not cease to act upon her for an instant. The book is a complement

to Madame Craven's pictures of conversion and the devout life, but

differs from them in the point of view.

Madame Gervaisais is the widow of a man who filled for years an

important office under the government by dint of small gifts of

precision and punctuality, being in himself an insignificant person. His

position and wealth, and the beauty and superior endowments of his wife,

attracted men of mark to the house, and her _salon_ was long one of the

most sought in Paris. Her marriage had not been a happy one: the

intellectual resources in which she has sought compensation have been

insufficient, although she has never tried more exciting distractions,

and at thirty-seven she finds herself free, rich, still handsome, with

one child, delicate and slow of development, born after ten years of

wedlock, the spring of her heart and hopes broken from the long pressure

of conjugal despotism and unkindness, her health enfeebled to a degree

which makes it advisable for her to spend a winter in Rome. This is the

_status quo_ at the opening of the history. Her life in Rome is told

almost day by day, affording opportunity for the most detailed

descriptions of places and customs, times and seasons, festivals and

ceremonies: these are given with extreme, scrupulous fidelity and an

accurate choice of words, but they have not the magic touch which brings

unvisited scenes before you or revives half-forgotten ones with the

freshness of things seen yesterday. This is strange, as the impressions,

the sensations of mind and body, produced upon a stranger by Rome are

wonderfully conveyed. "She was astonished at the refinement and

acuteness of perception which she had acquired since coming thither....

She remembered a glass of water which she had drunk at the door of a

little cafe on one of the first evenings, and which had seemed the most

delicious draught she had ever tasted. It struck her that warm countries

must possess all sorts of little felicities of soil and climate unknown

in colder ones, an enchanted _aqua felice_ trickling everywhere. And day

by day she felt the nothings of her life assuming an intensity of

pleasure and enjoyment that nothings have when one is in love." "In the

gardens of the Villa Borghese on those spring days she had hours of

singular well-being--a sort of sweet oppression, a relaxation which made

her happy: they were days whose temperature was like a tepid bath, with

warm whiffs of acacia and orange blossoms; a dusty sky; a sun which was

only an orange glow; a smothering of the sound of the distant bells; a

song of disconnected notes, as if the birds were tired; an atmosphere

where a line which might be taken for the flight of an insect proved to

be a drop of rain, which fell every five minutes without wetting you."

Her life, which is very solitary, consists principally of sightseeing,

study, the care and companionship of her child, and the revery which

hangs about existence in Italy like an exhalation from the ground.

Madame Gervaisais, brought up of course a French Catholic, has gradually

become a free-thinker of the serious kind, high-principled and earnest:

she is described as a woman of elevated mind and character, the force of

whose will and intelligence has kept her from being betrayed by a

naturally loving disposition, which has expended itself in friendship

and filial and maternal affection, the latter being her only passion.

The respectful distance which the author places between her and the rest

of the world is indicated by her first name never being mentioned: she

is only Madame Gervaisais. But she is not only a woman of reading: she

is an artist and a musician, and these tastes increase her

susceptibility to the soft masterdom of the place.

Rome is considered by those who make such matters their business a

peculiarly favorable spot for proselytizing: there is supposed to be an

afflatus from various sources which disposes the unbelieving soul to the

reception of the Church's teaching. The MM. de Goncourt understand this:

"What a vast embrace, what an immense holy contagion, is religion at

Rome!" We become aware of a general lassitude and ennervation in the

firm texture of Madame Gervaisais's nature before the first approach is

made to her convictions. And how are those approaches made? Can any one

point to the first step? Has it ever been positively ascertained whether

a certain meeting, a borrowed book, a striking coincidence, a

conversation which has insensibly glided into a particular channel, was

the result of chance or long premeditation? In the present case it is

impossible to detect the earliest shadow of design falling across

circumstance. Was Madame Gervaisais's landlady sent to offer prayers for

the recovery of the sick child at the Sant' Agostino? Did the

man-servant read her journal and report its contents? Had the Russian

countess come on purpose to make her acquaintance when she found her

sitting under the oak tree at Castel Gandolfo reading Lammenais's essay

on religious indifference? The mystery which surrounds these questions

corresponds entirely to similar unexplained occurrences in Madame

Craven's seductive pages, where the finger of the sacred-supernatural is

tacitly supposed to play a decisive part. But, chance or calculation, it

leads in the same direction; and after a year and a half in Rome, Madame

Gervaisais, who has given up Lammenais for a book of her Russian

friend's, and has fallen into a state of languid dejection, takes to

attending the regular sermon at the Jesuits' church, where the music,

the paintings, the architecture, corrupt in style as they are, gradually

induce a sort of somnolent ecstasy. Before many Sundays pass a

celebrated preacher ascends the pulpit. "He was known as a man of talent

in the order--an actor, a pantomimist, a comedian, a tragedian, whose

gesticulatory and perambulatery eloquence swept the platform, and whose

dramatic fire was enough to kindle the wood of the desk. He declaimed,

wept, sobbed, raised his voice, let it break, whimpered, thundered, and

his discourse gave the congregation all the emotions and illusions of a

theatrical recitation." Madame Gervaisais at first hardly listens, but a

few words suddenly arrest her attention, and she hears the preacher

say, "Rash and audacious woman--and not only rash and audacious, but

wretched and unhappy--who dares to disdain the manifestations of the

divine will, and declares that her own reason is the only light she

needs!" proceeding to describe her habitual attitude of mind, and

winding up with a terrible denunciation delivered with the authority

which those alone can wield who believe themselves the mouthpieces of

Infallibility. She returns home profoundly shaken, with the dreadful

suspicion that her inmost secrets have somehow been discovered, and that

she has been preached at. A few days later she accidentally hears that

it is the princess de Belgiojoso who has been the object of the

fulmination: the relief is unspeakable, and produces a momentary

reaction, but the mark has been made.

It is impossible to follow in detail an operation which is like the

perpetual falling of drops of water or friction of grains of sand,

accompanied, moreover, by an occult, spiritual process like the function

of an organ. Before many months the proselyte put herself under the

direction of a Jesuit confessor. Little by little she had separated

herself from her few relations with the outer world; she went no more to

the French embassy or the French academy, where she had met fresh

currents of thought from political, artistic and literary circles; she

gave up a pleasant Italian house where there was superstition enough,

but not bigotry, broke off her intercourse with a lifelong friend, a

sincere but liberal member of the Gallican Church, and left the letters

of her only brother unanswered and unread. Her faculties were absorbed

by her fanaticism. "A secret metamorphosis was taking place within her:

her pride of intellect, her spirit of analysis, research, criticism, her

individuality of judgment, the energy of her own opinions, gave way

little by little under a revolution of her moral temperament, a sort of

inversion of her nature." She undergoes various phases of beatitude and

depression, and is amazed at the penetration with which her Jesuit

confessor, whose study has been human nature and whose learning is

soul-craft, divines her condition of mind. She lends herself to his

practices in the same way that assistant mortals unconsciously help the

spirits in table-turning. He finds her too self-tormenting and

scrupulous, and after a long and perfectly graduated exordium, in which

he has felt her spiritual pulse from time to time to ascertain that it

gave the due number of beats, and no more, concludes by telling her to

throw off all individual responsibility: he assumes that for her.

"Believe that when you appear before the tribunal of the Sovereign Judge

you can say, Lord, what I have done or omitted has been in obedience to

those whom you have given to govern me in your name. And be sure that a

soul cannot sin in acting according to the orders and lights of its

spiritual father." But by the time she had entirely abnegated her

accountability she finds the easy rule of the Jesuits too lax, and for

her further humiliation and penance takes for her director a monk of one

of the barefooted orders--a coarse and ignorant Calabrian peasant, whose

austerity has given him a widespread reputation for sanctity.

There is something more than painful in the minute portrayal of the

degradation of mind, character, even temper, which occupies the latter

part of the book: it is repulsive, and it strikes us as overdone,

although we know of at least one similar instance in real life. But

Madame Gervaisais has been represented as an uncommon woman in every

way, and we are forced to allow the progress of undermining disease some

share in her abasement. The last ten or a dozen chapters and the

tragical conclusion are among the weaker portions of the book, which as

a novel has many defects. It is nevertheless an able performance, and

might be a useful one if people, as a rule, were not more eager for the

poison than the antidote. All the phenomena and experiences which are

unfolded like holy relics by Madame Craven's high-bred hands are

recognized by MM. de Goncourt, but they are differently accounted for.

In _Renee Mauperin_, another book by the same authors, which with

considerable cleverness has also many faults of construction and

development, we have a glimpse of the cheerful social aspect of the

Roman hierarchy through its intervention in mundane affairs. "The Abbe

Blampoix had neither parish nor curacy. He had a special vocation: he

was the priest of the world, the gay world, the great world.... His

voice was musical and his style flowery. He called the devil 'the prince

of evil,' and the Eucharist 'the divine aliment.' He abounded in

periphrases colored like sacred prints.... From time to time fashionable

phrases and colloquialisms of the day mingled in his spiritual

consolations, like bits of a newspaper in a book of devotion. He had

the odor of the century. His gown kept, as it were, the perfume of all

the pretty sins which had come near it.... Mothers consulted him before

they took their daughters to their first ball: daughters sought his

advice before going thither. He was the man from whom permission was

obtained to wear low-neck dresses--of whom one inquired the novels which

might be perused and the plays which might be seen. He baptized children

and confessed adulteries of heart.... Great sorrows, despair, had

recourse to him, and he ordered a journey to Italy, the diversions of

painting and music and a good confession at Rome." By this and analogous

counsel on still more delicate matters he superseded the fashionable

physician. But what kept him most busy was a species of matrimonial

agency which he managed for the benefit of his flock. "There was an

instant's silence, during which nothing was heard but the rustling of

the abbe's papers. At last he drew out a visiting-card turned down at

the corner, which he held toward the light, and read: 'Three hundred

thousand francs interest, obligations; fifteen thousand francs income

from the wedding-day; father and mother dead; six hundred thousand at

the death of some uncles and aunts who are not married and will not

marry. The young lady is nineteen--charming, prettier than she is aware

of. Here, let us think about that,' said the abbe, putting back the

card. 'Well--let's see: I have also--yes, at this very moment--an

orphan: twenty-five thousand francs income on marrying. But no, that

won't do: the guardian is desirous of an influential connection. Ah!

wait: perhaps this will do: twenty-two years old, not pretty,

accomplished, intelligent, dresses well; the father has fifteen hundred

thousand francs, three children, a solid fortune."

The authors of these books may not be very good Catholics, but, at all

events, they are not Protestants, and it cannot be objected that they

are writing of things they know nothing about.

Charlotte Bronte: A Monograph. By T. Wemyss Reid. New York:

Scribner, Armstrong & Co.

We should all be grateful to one who lets in a glint of sunshine on a

scene, a career, a life or a group of lives which we have been

accustomed to see wrapped in unbroken shade. Perfect shadow we distrust

instinctively, for we know that it is false Art and false Nature. There

must be a bit of light somewhere for every picture and every being. We

have long been looking for it, in the face of persistent denial, in the

case of that famous Haworth household and its literary productions. Mrs.

Gaskell rather deepened the gloom of Jane Eyre and Villette, and left us

small hope of a glance at the bright side of the characters and the

daily life of the three weird sisters, their brother Patrick and their

father, Patrick senior.

Mr. Reid cries _fiat lux_, and carries the proclamation into effect,

like the impatient gentleman who broke the windows which were obscured

by the too frequent repetition of that motto burnt in on every pane. And

he suggests, or leaves to dawn upon our after-perception, more light

than he directly makes. To carry out the glass simile, panes merely

cracked by him drop out piecemeal after he has withdrawn his hand, and

we come to see more and farther than our guide himself.

In this way he unwittingly enlightens us in the trivial matter of the

family name. Everybody has wondered how an English country parson came

to have for patronymic Lord Nelson's second title, won in battle from

the Mediterranean. This Mr. Reid explains by a short cut like the

well-known solution of an extraordinary story: "The man lied." Bronte,

with or without an unaccountable diaeresis on the last letter, was an

assumed name, adopted by the first and last who bore it purely for the

sake of euphony. Now, while we could believe anything sombre and stern

of one sporting that deep, nasal and majestic appellative, we find it

impossible to associate thoughts of unearthly gloom with the airy

Milesian cognomen of Pat Prunty, even though weighted with the solemn

prefix of "Reverend." Sure enough, we satisfy ourselves very speedily

that the parent we have been accustomed to denounce as having blighted

three or four young lives, and cheated English literature out of several

good novels, was by no means the savage depicted by Mrs. Gaskell, or

even by Mr. Reid. His worst recorded exploits have something of the

bizarre about them, as when he cut into bits a dress presented to his

wife by one to whom he was not willing she should be indebted, and fired

off pocket-pistols at unseasonable hours and places. Mrs. Prunty does

not appear to have run short in her wardrobe, nor did the pistols ever

hit any one. The old gentleman, in spite of narrow circumstances, gave

his daughters and son a good education and what social advantages lay

within his reach. The world was clearly more open to them than it was to

him. A widower from the infancy of all his children, he not unnaturally

became a little peculiar and exacting. When, his only son having drunk

himself to death, the last of three daughters who had reached elderly

and acidulated maidenhood indicated a wish to marry a man she confesses

she did not love, he objected. Yet he persisted in his opposition only a

few months. As soon as he perceived Charlotte to be really anxious for

the union, he gave his full and kindly consent. All his daughters used

him and his scapegrace of a son freely as literary material, drawing

from them the central figures of the most effective of the novels. Nor

was he an unconscious or unwilling sitter. The writing of the tales soon

ceased to be a secret to him. He criticised, suggested and otherwise

assisted with some of them in a more active sense of the term than that

in which it is applied to a spectator.

A secluded life and narrow range of observation mainly account for what

of morbidness and lack of geniality marks these works. Charlotte's

private correspondence, when printed precisely as written and not

clipped or garbled, shows distinctly a sunny side, and justifies the

conclusion that the early life of the sisters was "unquestionably

peaceful, happy and wholesome." That this should be the fact adds to our

enjoyment of the novels. Our confidence in, and consequent admiration

of, a powerful picture are the more assured by our knowledge that the

touch under which it grew was not cramped or warped by suffering. Had

Charlotte Bronte's literary life been prolonged under the new conditions

opened to her by her sudden fame, we have small reason to suppose that

she would have created a more telling character than Rochester, though

she would not have exhausted her powers in the microscopic delineation

of commonplace people which constitutes the province of her most popular

female successor. She would have portrayed stronger subjects in a more

vigorous and incisive style. Some critical remarks in her few letters

from London are strikingly direct and acute. Thackeray, Mrs. Browning,

Turner and Macready come in for a few lines each which hit them to the

life. She possessed the critical temperament and faculty. The

metropolitan field suited to its best exercise she was, alas! destined

never to enter.

Kismet. (No-Name Series.) Boston: Roberts Brothers.

As long as there are readers who care for a novel packed from cover to

cover with interesting scenes of a promising flirtation that ripens into

enthusiastic love-making by which three persons are in turn made

miserable, so long such books as _Kismet_ will be liked. The scene of

the story is the Nile, the characters are for the most part voyagers on

that river, and descriptions of the wonders that line its shores make an

imposing background to the lightness of the incidents. This setting of

the story makes the book really impressive: the scenery is brought

before the reader not in the way a topographical map is constructed, but

by dexterous touches which show that the anonymous author can rise above

recording the vicissitudes of a more or less conventional courtship. But

a good many writers have ship-wrecked just at that which seems so easy

and is really so hard. All the good scenery in the world will not make a

dull novel entertaining; but when, as is the case here, the story is

interesting, the reader can only be grateful for everything thrown in

over measure. This story is clever, because it describes so well the way

in which a young woman who at the beginning of the tale is engaged to a

young painter, George Ferris, whom she does not really love, learns a

good deal about that passion when she meets the more fascinating Arthur

Livingston on the Nile, and travels for a long time in his company. This

Livingston, too, is not the conventional hero whose success wins the

envious hatred of every man that reads its history: on the contrary, he

is a well-drawn, probable character, who is well informed without being

priggish, and whose sentimentality does not too thickly overlie his more

active qualities. He seems like what he is--a rich young American who

prefers Europe to this country, and who is not spoiled by living abroad.

The whole relation in which he stands to the heroine, Bell Hamlyn--or

Miss Hamlyn, as she is generally called, while her step-mother is almost

always known as Flossy--is entertainingly and naturally told. To be

sure, the veteran reader of novels will have a sense of having come

across some of the incidents several times before, but what will seem

much less familiar are the humor and the amusing satire with which the

foibles of travellers are made fun of. The collarless American, the

artless young Englishman, the light-minded flirt of the same country,

and the more solemn British tourist, are shown up with great cleverness;

and the talk of all the people is natural and amusing, although at times

the solemn parts are not so well done as the lighter and more frivolous

bits of the conversation. The book abounds with hits at social faults of

one kind and another, and shows a perception of the ridiculous which

promises well for the future success of the writer. It is not a great

book, but it is a clever one, which belongs in the same category with

_The Initials_; and every one has had, has, or will have a period of his

or her life in which no more is asked than is to be found in that famous

story. In both books the characters have a great resemblance to human

beings as seen by a bright, observant, humorous person whose experience

has not been wasted. It is not everybody who has afterward been famous

that has made so good a beginning as the author of _Kismet_.

_Books Received._

Narrative of the North Pole Expedition: U. S. Ship Polaris. Edited,

under the direction of the Hon. G. M. Robeson, by Rear-Admiral C. H.

Davis, U. S. N., U. S. Naval Observatory. Washington: Government

Printing-Office.

Life and Letters of Lord Macaulay. By his Nephew, George Otto Trevelyan,

M. P. (Leipsic edition.) Vols. I. and II. Leipsic: Lemmermann & Co. From

R. Worthington, New York.

Fruit and Bread: A Scientific Diet. By Gustav Schlickeysen. Translated

from the German by M. L. Holbrook, M. D. New York: M. L. Holbrook & Co.

A Woman-Hater. By Charles Reade. (Harpers' Household and Popular

Editions.) New York: Harper & Brothers.

Unclaimed: A Story of English Life. By an Englishwoman. (Loring's Tales

of the Day.) Boston: Loring.

Lectures on the History of Protection in the United States. By W. G.

Sumner. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.

The Scripture Club of Valley Rest. By the author of "Helen's Babies."

New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.

In Change Unchanged. By Linda Villari. (Leisure-Hour Series.) New York:

Henry Holt & Co.

Afterglow. (No-Name Series.) Boston: Roberts Brothers.