The horses stretch their necks toward the stables and whinny as they

think of the bundles of untasted fodder: the dogs require no notes

of the horn to rouse them, for they know the signs and are already

capering about in eager merriment, throwing their heads into the air

occasionally to utter a long and musical bay. This wakes up the

curs about the negro-yard, and their barking stirs up the geese, the

combined chorus rousing all the cocks in the various poultry-houses,

so that we ride off amid a hub-bub of howling, cackling, neighing and

crowing which would awaken the Seven Sleepers. We are first at the

meet, and the old woods ring with the mellow, winding notes of

our horns--no twanging brass reeds in the mouth-pieces, but honest

cow-horn bugles, which none but a true hunter can blow. The hounds

grow wild at the cheering sound, and howl through every note of the

canine gamut; the echoes catch the strain and fling it from brake to

bay; the dying cadence strengthens into an answering blast, and the

party is soon increased to half a dozen bold riders and twenty eager

dogs. Venus, the beautiful "flag-star of heaven," is just toning her

brilliancy into harmony with the pale light which creeps slowly up

from the eastern horizon, and some wakeful crow in the pine-thicket

gives an answering caw to the goblin laugh of the barred owl in the

cypress, as we leap our horses into a field of sedge and cheer on the

dogs to their work. For half an hour we ride in silence save the

words of encouragement to the hounds, which are snuffing about

unsuccessfully and whipping the hoar-frost with their tails from the

dry yellow stems of the grass. Now and then some eager young dog opens

on the trail of a rabbit which has started from its form, but the

crack of a whip restrains him, and the other hounds pay no attention

to him. Suddenly a sharp, quick yelp comes from the farthest corner of

the field, and the older dogs stop instantly and raise their heads

to listen. Hark to old Blucher! There he is again, and the whole pack

give tongue and dash off to the call which never deceives them. We

catch a glimpse of the old fellow's white throat as he trots about in

a zigzag course, poking his tan muzzle into every clump of tall grass

and giving tongue occasionally as he sniffs the cold trail. Presently

a long, quavering cry comes from old Firefly; again and again Blucher

opens more and more eagerly; another and another dog takes it up, and

the trot quickens into a lope. The trail grows warmer as they follow

the line of fence, and just as we settle ourselves in the saddle for

a run it all stops and the dogs are at fault. But Blucher is hard to

puzzle and knows every trick of his cunning game. Running a few panels

down the fence, he rears up on it and snuffs the top rail, and then,

with a yell of triumph, dashes over it into the woods, with the whole

pack in full cry at his heels. A ringing cheer announces that the

fox has "jumped," and the field scatters in pursuit. Two only, the

subscriber being one, follow the dogs with a flying leap. Some dash

off in search of a low panel, others to head off the cry through the

distant gate, while others stop to pull the rails and make a gap.

For ten minutes we keep well behind the hounds, with a tight rein and

heads bent to avoid the hanging oak limbs. But the fox has turned and

plunged into a brake which no horse can go through, and we draw up

and listen to decide where we can head him off with the greatest

certainty; then turn in different directions and spur through the

young black-jacks. Ah! there he goes, with dragging brush and open

mouth, and the pack, running close enough together to be covered by

a table-cloth, not sixty yards behind him. I am in at the death this

time, for he cannot run a hundred yards farther, and the brush is

mine, for there's no one else in sight. With a savage burst the dogs

dash after him into the thicket and then--dead silence, not a yelp,

as they scatter and run backward and forward, nosing under every dead

leaf and up the trunk of every tree. The fault is complete, and the

young dogs give it up and lie down panting, while the older hounds try

every expedient to puzzle out the trail and take up the scent again.

He certainly has not treed, there is neither earth nor hollow to hide

him, and yet the scent has gone! And it never came back. If any reader

can tell what became of that fox, he is a wiser man than I. Certain

it is that we never heard of him again; and for aught I know to the

contrary, he may have been that identical Japanese animal which turns

into tea-kettles and vanishes in puffs of smoke. It does not take

long, however, to make another find, and we go home after a three

hours' chase with two fine brushes and appetites which would ruin any

hotel-keeper in a week.

After breakfast a walk to the cotton-houses would be in order, for the

successful planter is he who trusts nothing to the overseer which can

have his personal supervision, and he must excuse himself to such of

his guests as prefer a cigar by the library fire to an hour spent in

observing the details of plantation work. In the days of which I write

horse-power was preferred to steam, and negro-power to both; and few

planters of the fine black-seed cotton could be convinced that any

"power-gin" could be invented which would not injure the long, silky

"staple" or fibre of the lint. The old-time "foot-gins" were used

exclusively, and the gin-house was a place of curious interest to all

visitors. In one end of the long room was the huge pile of seed-cotton

which was to pass through the rollers as the first step toward

its preparation for the market. How simply does a sudden stroke of

inventive genius solve a problem which wise men have regarded as

insoluble! Not much more than a century ago a commission of practical

English _savans_ discouraged the cultivation of a textile fabric

which "might be useful but for the impossibility of clearing it of the

seeds!" But the foot-gin appeared on the scene, and indigo went down

before cotton. Ranged along the walls of the room are some twenty

rough wooden frames, looking like a compromise between a straw-cutter

and a sewing-machine, each furnished with two strong rollers operated

by a treadle and acting precisely like those of a clothes-wringer.

Behind each of these machines stands a man or woman with one

ever-moving foot upon the treadle-board, feeding the seed-cotton from

a large bag to the greedy rollers, which seize it and pass the lint

in fleecy rolls into another bag prepared for it, while the seed, like

shirt-buttons touched by the afore-mentioned wringer, rolls off from

the hither side to form a pile upon the floor. Thence it will be

carted to the seed-house to be rotted into manure for the next crop,

there being no better fertilizer for cotton than a compost of which

it forms the base. A portion of it, however, will be reserved to

be boiled with cow-peas and fed to the milch-cattle, no food being

superior to its rich, oily kernel in milk-producing qualities. The

negro mothers use it largely in decoction as a substitute for cocoa,

and the white mothers under similar circumstances having it parched

and ground like coffee, when it makes an exceedingly palatable and

nutritious beverage. The "green-seed" or short-staple variety is far

inferior to the black for this purpose, and produces white, sticky,

cottony-looking butter; indeed, most dairywomen insist that "you

can pick the lint out of it." The ginned cotton is carried to the

platforms, where it is "specked" by the women--leaves, dirt and other

impurities being picked out by hand--and spread out to dry and bleach

in the sun; thence we follow it to the "moting-room," where it is

thoroughly and finally overhauled, every minute particle of dirt or

other foreign matter and every flock of stained and discolored cotton

being picked out. This room is always in the second story, and at one

end of it a circular hole is cut in the floor; through this hole hangs

the bag of strong, close gunny-cloth, very different from the coarse

covering which suffices for the lower grades of "short-staple,"

supported by a stout iron hoop larger by some inches than the hole

in the floor, and to which the end of the bag is securely sewed. The

cotton is thrown into this bag and packed with an iron rammer by a man

who stands in it, his weight assisting in the packing, each bag being

made to contain upward of four hundred pounds.

Everything seeming to go on as it ought and all the necessary orders

and directions being given, we walk out to take a look at the poultry.

There are fowls in abundance and superabundance, but our kind host

is most proud of his flock of three hundred white turkeys; and a

beautiful sight they are, scattered over the grassy lawn. Ranging, as

these fine birds will, over a mile or two of woods abounding in their

wild brethren, convenient mistakes were often made by the pineland

gunners, whose rifles were always ready to pick off a stray gobbler

without waiting to know whether he was wild or tame, and so the old

gentleman introduced the white stock to prevent the possibility of

such errors. For a similar reason no ducks were raised except those

which wear top-knots. It is no unusual thing for wild gobblers and

mallards to come up with the tame stock to the poultry-yard, and

the bronze feathers and shy habits of many of the young turkeys show

evidence of their free parentage.

It is just impossible for a city man to remain indoors in the country

with the broad fields, the shady woods, the bright blue sky and

the merry pipe of birds calling him out to active exercise and

unaccustomed sport. He is sure to think himself a sportsman, even if

uncertain whether the shot or powder should first enter the gun;

and if an old hand at the trigger, his uneasiness while in the house

becomes almost painful. Every article of hunting-gear is

overhauled again and again; boots are greased, shot-pouches filled,

powder-charges remeasured, guns cleaned and ramrods oiled; and I

once had a fine Manton--as sweet a piece as ever came to the

shoulder--almost ruined by an eager friend, who, after going through

all this during a stormy morning, insisted on taking off the locks

and triggers, just to while away the time. The introduction of the

breech-loader most happily obviates all this, since such lagging hours

may now be occupied in charging and crimping cartridges. But there is

nothing to detain us longer to-day: the "Bob Whites" are waiting for

us among the pea-vines, and the snipe among the tussocky grass of the

old rice-field. Di and Sancho have caught sight of the guns, and are

capering about in the wildest excitement, for it is a long time since

they have seen anything more "gamey" than a city pigeon. Birding over

good dogs is the very poetry of field-sports. The silken-haired setter

and the lithe pointer are as far the superiors of the half-savage

hound as the Coldstream Guards are of the Comanches. The hound has no

affection and but little intelligence, and the qualities which make

him valuable are purely those of instinct. The long, hungry cry with

which he follows the deer and the sharp, angry yelp which he utters

when chasing the fox tell plainly that the motives which prompt him

thus to use his delicate nose and unwearying powers of endurance are

precisely those which carry the Indian to the hunt or on the war-path.

He hunts for any master who will cheer him on, has no tactics but to

stick to the trail and give tongue as long as the scent will lie, and

must be whipped off the game when caught to prevent his devouring

it on the spot. The setter, on the other hand, is intelligent,

affectionate and faithful. If properly trained and reared, he loves

his master and will hunt for no one else, learns to understand human

language to an astonishing degree and exhibits reasoning powers of no

mean order. He hunts purely for sport, understands the habits of his

game, and regulates his tactics accordingly, and delivers the birds

uninjured to his master, sometimes controlling his appetite and

carrying the game long distances for this purpose. I have frequently

discovered that my dogs, brought up in the house, understood words

which had never been taught them. My old favorite Di always answers

the dinner-bell and stands near my chair for odd scraps. Being

somewhat annoyed one day by her eagerness, I said playfully, "Go to

the kitchen and tell Annie to feed you." She at once rushed off and

scratched the kitchen door until the girl opened it, and then stood by

the tray of scraps looking at her and wagging her tail. Wanting one of

my little sons one evening, I said, "Di, go find the boys!" She rushed

off, looking and smelling about their usual haunts, but returned

unsuccessful. I scolded and sent her a second and third time, with the

same result: a few minutes after she came quietly behind me with the

_hat_ of my youngest boy in her mouth: she had taken it from a table

in the passage, and her wagging tail said plainly, "Will this answer?

It's the best I can do." The same dog will creep carefully upon

partridges, and stand as if cut in marble lest they should fly, but

will chase turkeys at full speed, giving tongue like a hound, and then

lie still for hours while they are called up and shot, nor will she

ever confound the different habits of the two birds or the different

methods of hunting them.

Such are the highly-bred and intelligent animals which are eagerly

waiting for us to-day--Di, with her white coat, soft as wavy silk, her

chestnut ears and one spot on the back alone marring its snowy purity;

Sancho, jet black, with "featherings" like a King Charles spaniel.

They are over the fence already, and tearing about the field so

recklessly in the exuberance of their joy that they must certainly

startle any game which may be there. The timid little field-buntings

glide away on silent wing through the grass; the meadow-larks rise

with gentle flappings and sail off with that easy flight so tempting

to very young wing-shots; now and then a flock of doves whistle off

too far for a certain shot, and clouds of crow-blackbirds rise with

hoarse chirps and seek less public feeding-grounds; a rabbit dashes

off from a brier-patch and both dogs rush pell-mell at his heels, but

a single note from the whistle brings them to a sudden halt and makes

them look thoroughly ashamed of themselves. Off they go again, as

wild as deer; but suddenly Di's whole action changes: crouching to the

ground and beating her sides rapidly with her tail, she runs hither

and thither, snuffing eagerly in the grass. Now Sancho comes up and

catches the cold trail, for a covey has certainly been in that place

to-day. Most probably they rose from the spot, frightened by the swoop

of a hawk, and made for the nearest cover, for the dogs can do nothing

with the scent. But that little whiff of the exciting effluvia has

brought them down to their work, and a beautiful sight it is as they

quarter the ground with quickly-beating tails and noses high in the

air, crossing and recrossing the wind in zigzag lines and concentric

circles, hunting the ground so closely that no trail, however cold,

can escape their keen sense of smell. A wave of the hand to Sancho,

and the sagacious fellow is off toward the far corner of the field,

when suddenly Di stops in mid-career with a jerk that must try every

sinew in her frame. The birds are right under her nose, and she dares

not move a muscle, but stands as if changed into stone, her eyes

starting with excitement, her nostrils expanded, her feathery stern

quivering stiffly out behind and every line of her figure standing out

like whipcord. "Toho!" The black dog catches the sound and turns his

head: he sees her rigid form, and backs her where he stands as firmly

as if he too had the scent. There is no hurry, for the dogs are true

as steel and will stand there as long as the frightened birds lie,

while the latter, obedient to the instinct of sudden terror, will

cower where they are for an hour, with their heads drawn back, their

mottled breasts pressed to the earth and their legs gathered under

them, ready to spring into the air. We cock our guns, agree to shoot

respectively at the birds which go right or left or straight before

us, and then advance to flush the covey ourselves. The staunch dog

never winces as we pass her: two paces, three, a sudden rush and whirr

as of many wings, five sharp reports in quick succession and four

birds down! Another, wild with fright, rises straight up for twenty

feet and darts off behind us, but his beautiful head droops as the

crack of my last barrel resounds on the air and a cloud of feathers

floats downward. The shot has struck him in the line of flight, and he

goes to the ground with a bounce, some thirty yards away, as if hurled

there by a vigorous arm. The well-trained dogs come to the "Down!

charge!" while we reload our guns, and then seek the dead birds and

bring them carefully in to us.

Leaving the broken covey to be worked up on our return, we push on to

another part of the large pea-field, where, perched upon the topmost

limb of a tall dead pine, we see a red-tailed hawk engaged in quiet

observation. There is no surer sign of birds, but it takes close

hunting to find them, for they dare not move about while their savage

enemy is on the watch. As we approach the hawk stretches out his neck,

jerks his wings two or three times and oscillates his ungainly body,

and then, with a loud scream of angry disappointment, he is off. The

tree stands in a little piece of sedge, not far from a dense growth of

pine-saplings, and we know that the moment the hawk left his perch the

birds started for the cover, and our only chance for shooting is to

head them off and turn them. The dogs have struck the running trail,

and their action is totally different from what it was with the first

covey. Crouching flat to the ground, they glide after the startled

birds with a snake-like movement, now stopping, now running swiftly

in. Suddenly Di leaves the trail and dashes off at full speed to the

right. Making a wide circuit, she skirts the pines, and, turning short

round, comes to a firm stand in the very face of the retreating covey,

while Sancho lies prone with his nose between his paws. It is an

old trick of hers thus to "huddle" running birds, and we follow her

example, come up behind her, and get six with four barrels as the

birds rise in a bunch.

But if the reader follows us too closely, he will have all the fatigue

of a long tramp without the compensation of healthful excitement

and full game-pockets. Thirty-five fine birds in a pile on the

pantry-table offer a capital _raison d'être_ for weary feet and soiled

fingers when we reach home just in time for the supper-bell. There

have been some arrivals while we were gone, for Christmas is near at

hand, and the old house is filling up with guests. To-morrow the "St.

John's Hunting-Club" has its monthly deer-hunt and dinner at Black

Oak, and we need a good night's rest to prepare us for an experience

the omission of which would render imperfect any truthful reminiscence

of life at the old plantation.

During the months spent at the plantation there is little social

visiting among the gentlemen, and, except on Sundays and occasions

of public meetings, the various local clubs offer their only

opportunities for seeing each other, Another object--at least, under

the old _régime_--was to bring together those who occupied somewhat

different social positions. Formerly the clubs were strictly

exclusive, and, indeed, this feature was never lost, but in every

community there would be some _novi homines_, clever men many of them,

whom the old gentry were quite willing to recognize, though a marked

difference in culture prevented family visiting. These could be

admitted to membership, and at the club-house could be met on equal

terms. The hunting feature was always preserved, though few of the

older members ever joined in the sport. Under the rules there was a

place, a day and an hour for the weekly meet; and I remember when it

was a safe thing to be at "the White Bridge" on the Santee Canal any

Saturday morning at nine o'clock. Somebody was sure to be there with

dogs and driver, prepared for a "wallet-hunt"--i.e., an all-day hunt

with wallets at the crupper well filled with hunter's cheer. Once a

month the club met for dinner, each member "finding" in turn, and

on that day a single drive, or at most two, was all that could be

enjoyed. The club-house was a plain frame building in the woods, with

a huge fireplace at each end, heavy stationary pine table extending

the length of the room, and broad soft-pine benches. The dishes,

wines, liquors and cigars were all specified in the rules, the

finder being allowed two extra dishes at will, and supplying all the

crockery, cutlery and glass. The kitchen was a rough shed close to the

cool and shaded spring of pure, clear water. Being myself but a guest,

I have not the privilege of extending an invitation to the reader;

so, by his leave, we will drop the present tense and I will assume the

part of _raconteur_. How vividly do the scenes of that day come back

through the highways of memory, crowded as they are with experiences

of more than twenty varied years! As I rode up to the bridge on that

bright December morning I found a party which promised rare sport.

There was Kit Gillam with his crooked nose, and Tom Clifton with his

deadly Manton and fine cry of dogs, and cheery Jack Parker, who hunted

only for the good company, and whose gun was as likely as not to be

unloaded when the deer came out to him. Two drives were decided on

which might be relied on for shooting, and yet were small enough to

give ample time for reaching the club-house before dinner.

As we rode toward our stands I thought it a good chance to settle

a point which had long excited my curiosity. "Kit," said I, "I have

often wondered how your nose got out of plumb. What caused it?"

"When I was a little bit of a boy I fell down and stepped on it."

This very satisfactory explanation brought us to our ground, and

we were soon at our respective stands and listening eagerly for the

trail-notes of the old hounds. The deer have regular runs, from which

they rarely deviate, and which do not vary in the course of years.

These are guarded by the standers while the game is driven down

from the opposite direction. A large drive may have a dozen of these

stands, by one of which the deer will almost certainly pass, but which

one nobody knows. Quiet is absolutely necessary and a cigar is fatal

to sport, but concealment is useless, as these animals see imperfectly

in daylight.

I had not to wait long before I caught the distant cheering and

hand-clapping of the drivers as they encouraged the dogs to hunt.

In the quiet of the sombre woods every sound was distinctly audible.

Suddenly three or four quick, sharp yelps brought my gun to the

"ready," and the hammers clicked as a burst of music followed. But

above the clamor of the hounds came the crack of the driver's whip,

and his voice, mellowed by distance, was heard in angry tones: "Come

back yah, you good-for-nuttin', wutless lee' rabbit-dog, you! I sway

maussa ha' for shoot da' puppy 'fore he spile ebery dog in de pack!"

Soon, however, came another open, deep and musical, and there was no

mistaking old Drummer's trail-note: then Killbuck joined in, and then

the cry became general. For a while the broken, quavering tongue tells

that the dogs are only trailing and the deer is still cowering in his

bed, or perhaps has sneaked out of the drive at the first sound of the

horn. Hark! what a burst! They had "started" within two hundred yards

of me. The next moment there was a rustle of leaves, and a yearling

doe dashed by. I am not a dead shot, and have nothing to say about

that first barrel, but the second sent her down and over with a roll

that almost broke her neck. The dogs were stopped and the deer

thrown over the pommel of one of the boys, and we rode on to try the

Brunswick swamp. The boy had assured us that "One pow'ful big buck bin

in day (there) las' night. I see all he track gwine in, an' I nebber

see none come out."

We were soon strung along the narrow dam across which the game was to

be forced by the drivers, who had to make their way through an ugly

bog among cypress "knees" and dense brier-patches. Jack Parker stood

next to me, fidgeting about uneasily, because it was against rules to

talk on stand. Jack's prominent feature was his nose, and he had

an incorrigible trick of blowing it "out loud" whenever there was a

particular reason for keeping perfectly quiet. The dogs had begun

to open, and their loose, scattering trail-notes indicated turkeys.

Looking directly before me, I saw seven noble gobblers stepping

cautiously toward my stand. Their glossy breasts glittered with

coppery lustre in the straggling sunbeams as, with drooping wings and

expanded tails, they advanced, looking fearfully about and uttering

their low alarm-notes, "Quit! quit! quit!" Three more steps will make

a certain shot, and--out rang Jack's nasal clarion, loud and clear as

the _morte_ at a fox-chase. I looked round in horror, and there

stood my hunter complacently eying me and flourishing his white silk

handkerchief, while his gun leaned against a tree ten paces distant:

"Expect I'd better go back to my stand, eh? Are those dogs barking at

a deer?"

I jumped to my feet for a snap-shot at the old gobbler which flew over

me, making a clear miss. Bang! bang! went two more guns; a woodcock

whistled up from the bog and two swamp-rabbits dashed into the

brier. The dogs came out, shaking the water from their coats, and the

spattered drivers rode through the creek. There was not a feather to

show, and of course everybody was "down" on Jack, but with an air of

deep injury he put it off on me with the question, "Why didn't you

tell me the turkeys were coming? How can a fellow help having a cold?"

We reached the club-house just in time to take our seats as dinner was

served, and were in capital condition to enjoy the rich mutton, the

fat turkey, the juicy home-cured ham and the rare old madeira which

graced the board. This last was a specialty with the gentlemen of

those days, and probably no cellars in the world could boast choicer

vintage than the "Newton & Gordon" and "Old Leacock" which cheered the

table of that "hunting-club." There were stronger liquors, too, though

these were chiefly used as appetizers before dinner. The moderate use

of brandy was universal, but the drunkenness which blots these days of

prohibitory laws was comparatively rare. Few ever left the club-house

"disguised" by liquor except the young men, who then, as now and

always, would occasionally indulge in a "frolic." With the clearing of

the board came the regular and volunteer toasts, and then an hour of

"crop-talk" and "horse-talk" and hunting-stories over the wine and

cigars. With the departure of the older members came the inevitable

quarter-race, with its accompaniment of riding feats which would have

done credit to a Don Cossack. The equestrian performance was commenced

by Kit Gillam (who now dismounts and leads over every little

ditch) forcing his active chestnut up the wooden steps and into

the club-room, and rearing him on the dining-table. Then came a

leaping-match over a ten-railed fence, resulting in the barking of

some shins and the demolition of sundry panels of rail. Joe Keating,

the wildest rider I ever knew, had emptied his tumbler too often, and

insisted on running his horse home through the woods. An hour after

he was overtaken trudging along the road, perfectly sober, with the

saddle on his shoulders and the bridle over his arm.

"Why, Joe, where's your horse?"

"Dead!" was the laconic reply.

Sure enough. He had run full against a huge pine, and the horse had

gone down with a broken skull. He never tried it again.

Christmas Eve has come at last, and the old plantation is in all its

glory. Carriage after carriage has deposited its freight of blooming

girls and merry-eyed children at the broad, open hall-door. There is

not a vacant stall in the stables, nor an unoccupied bedroom among all

the seventeen of the spacious mansion. The broad dinner-table is

set diagonally in the long dining-room, and to-morrow, at least, the

guests will have to take two turns at filling its twenty seats, while

the children go through the same manoeuvre in the pantry. Where they

will all sleep to-night is a mystery which none can unravel save the

busy, hospitable "lady of the manor;" but it makes little

difference, for there will be little sleeping done. The day passes

in riding-parties and rowing-parties and similar amusements, as

each freely follows the bent of his inclination. "Brass," the negro

fiddler, has been summoned, and "Newport" comes with his stirrup and

steel for the "triangle" accompaniment, and the merry feet of the

dancers are soon keeping time to the homely but inspiriting music. The

"German" and the "Boston" have not usurped the places of the old-time

cotillon, quadrille and Virginia reel, and the dance is often varied

by romping games of "Blindman's Buff," "Move-House" and "Stage-Coach,"

in which old and young unite with equal zest.

But this is not the limit of the fun. From time immemorial Christmas

Eve has been licensed for the performance of all sorts of tricks,

and demure little faces are flitting about convulsed by the effort to

conceal the merry sense of mischief. The stockings are duly hung for

Saint Nicholas, and the holly, with its glossy leaves and scarlet

berries, stands ready to be planted in the parlor, to bloom to-morrow

into all kinds of rich flowers and gift-fruit. At nine o'clock the

work of arranging the Christmas tree begins. The ladies retire, and

after a quiet smoke by the roaring hall-fire the gentlemen follow

suit. To bed, but not to sleep. Jack Parker is the first man ready,

and bounces into the best bed to secure the softest place; but the

bars have been skillfully removed, and he is the centre of a rather

mixed pile on the floor. I feel another, to be sure that all is right,

and slip cozily between the sheets, but some graceless little wretch

has placed a walking-cane "athwart-ships," which nearly breaks my

back. None escape. Some find their sheets strewed with chaff or

cockle-burs, some find no sheets at all. At midnight a fearful roar

comes from the girls' room, followed by pretty shrieks and terrible

confusion; but it is only the old Cochin rooster, which was slyly shut

up in the empty chimney-place before they retired, indulging in his

first crow.

Daylight puts an end to all sleep, for the boys are on the piazza

ready to welcome Christmas with innumerable packages of fire-crackers.

We rise to find our pantaloons sewed up, our boots stuffed with wet

cotton, our tooth-brushes dusted with quinine and our _café noir_

sweetened with salt. These practical jokes are all taken in good

part and made to contribute to the jollity of the season. At

the breakfast-table lumps of cracked marble serve admirably for

loaf-sugar, except that the hottest coffee will not dissolve them, and

boiled eggs tempt the appetite only to disappoint with their sawdust

filling. Then all assemble on the piazza to witness the merriment

of the crowd of negroes who have assembled to claim little gifts of

tobacco and sugar and to receive the annual glass of whisky which a

time-honored custom bestows. The liquor is served in a wine-glass, and

swallowed eagerly by men, women and boys from ten years old upward.

Then they disperse to get their portion of the Christmas beef which

has been slaughtered for their special benefit, and we prepare for

service at the parish church, which stands among the shadows of the

old forest oaks an easy walk from the house. There the solemn services

temper and soften, but do not check or lessen, the joy and good-will

which so well become the season, and which find their appropriate

manifestation in all kinds of innocent amusement. The religious and

the social observances of the day react each upon the other, and

harmonize most admirably in the impressions which they produce. The

interchange of gifts and tokens around the Christmas tree follows

most appropriately, and the Christmas feast is marked by profuse

hospitality and keen enjoyment unmarred by riot or excess.

Ah, well! there are piles of dusty memories in the old cockloft still

untouched, but I shall rummage no more to-night. The scenes which have

floated past me with the wreathing smoke of my cigar are green and

fragrant to me with a freshness which time can never blight, but they

never can harden into reality again for any mortal experience. They

have gone into the irretrievable past with a state of things which

some may regret and others rejoice in, and well will it be if the new

_régime_ shall supply their places with other pictures which twenty

years hence it may be no less pleasant to remember.

ROBERT WILSON.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

A GERMAN AGRICULTURAL FAIR.

From the 27th to the 30th of September all Stuttgart flocks to

Cannstatt for the _Volksfest_; and this year every good Würtemberger

was bound to feel an additional interest in the fête on account of

the opening ceremony, the inauguration of a statue to the late king,

Wilhelm I.--and "well beloved," one is tempted to add from the way

in which his people still speak of him. "The old king" and "this one"

they say with an inflection of voice anything but flattering to

the latter. Our landlady assures us that let the weather look as

threatening as it would, the sun always contrived to burst out when in

former times the late king rode into the arena to give the prizes; and

she is evidently by no means certain it will not pour all three days

of the fair this year. However, to judge from the skies, "this one" is

not so bad as he might be: the sun shines propitious on him too, and

consequently on us as we set forth to see what we can see. The second

is the great day, as the prizes are then distributed; but already on

Monday the booths and shows were on the field, and Cannstatt was gay

with banners and wreaths and garlands of green. The carpenters were

still hard at work hammering at seats for us to occupy next day,

but the wonderful triumphal arch stood quite completed and worthy of

sincere admiration. No one knows who has not seen it worked into an

architectural design how beautiful a string of onions can be, how

gorgeous a row of vegetable-marrows, how delicate a cluster of

turnips. It sounds puerile, but it was lovely nevertheless. Imagine a

temple-like construction all composed of odorous pine, with an arched

portal on either hand, and then every line and curve, every niche and

pillar and balustrade, defined with glowing fruit. It was looped in

festoons and hung in tassels of red and white and gold: the arms of

Würtemberg even were traced in yellow corn, while above it all rose

a graceful column, a mosaic from base to summit of every fruit that

autumn can bring to perfection.

That was the great show: after that, mammoth cucumbers and carrots or

rows of agricultural implements did not detain us long. The next best

thing was to see the booths and the crowd on the outskirts of the

exhibition. There the circus was in full blast, and triumphant,

brazen-throated opposition to all smaller attractions that had

ventured into that neighborhood. The performing dogs in red petticoats

were reduced to making an appearance before their tent to entice

spectators, and Harlequin and Columbine had to shout themselves hoarse

inviting people to come in and split with laughter for sixpence. Those

who did not aspire to a seat under painted canvas gathered round a

melancholy bear dancing a _pas seul_ on the grass with heartbroken

gravity. Then came the _Schützhallen_, where the marksmen stationed

themselves three feet from the target and cracked away at it with no

other visible effect than that produced on a monkey doing its tricks

close by: at every shot the poor little creature stopped fiddling and

looked over its shoulder with a distressed air of "If I'm not hit this

time!" Hand-organs, penny trumpets and rattles quite drowned the voice

of a street-songstress with a large assortment of vocal music before

her, from which she was giving the public a selection. Whether the

songs had any reference to the pictures that formed her background we

did not discover, but, at all events, the latter were tragic in the

extreme. "The twenty-four-year-old murderer of his mother and six

brothers and sisters" was there portrayed in a neat suit of black,

with a hatchet in his hand and a very irresolute expression of

countenance, while the various members of his family, seen through

the open bedroom doors, awaited their fate in peaceful slumber. The

booths, with toys, gingerbread, sausages, cheese and light literature

tastefully intermingled, went on and on like the restaurants that

lined each side of the long avenue. Around primitive tables family

parties clinked foaming glasses and hailed with demonstrative

hospitality any stray cousin who chanced that way. In one of the last

of these improvised _Trinkhallen_ we came upon a young man and maiden

who had the place quite to themselves. Her brown parasol kept the

sun off them both, and it was of no sort of consequence that they had

nothing more interesting than the back of a shed to look at. Future

prospects were the only ones they cared for: the present had no need

of anything but a faint beeriness, conducive to day-dreaming.

As we get into the carriage again our coachman says we must see the

new statue. Accordingly, we drive through the town and halt before it

in the square. It is very fine, glowing like gold from the mint.

The king sits his charger well, and gazes majestically at nothing in

particular: still, one must be a little critical, and we imagine the

horse's tail is not quite right. But then is not the whisk of a tail

in bronze almost impossible to conceive of? If the artist suffers no

severer censure than that, he will probably call himself a happy

man. The inscription on the pedestal of the statue reads, "From his

grateful people." High and low have contributed to it, and gladly.

"That was a man!" says our driver. He was a soldier under him, and

knows. And in fact the old king seems to have been always doing

something for the country, so that the gratitude is not without a

cause. The inhabitants of Cannstatt have special reason to remember

him kindly: he himself was grateful to them and showed it. In the

troublous times of 1848 he was sadly in need of money: Ludwigsburg

(another satellite of Stuttgart) refused it, while Cannstatt came

up to the mark handsomely. The royal creditor never forgot that. He

instituted the _Volksfest_ as a sort of memorial, and Cannstatt is

proud and prosperous, while Ludwigsburg is like a city of the dead.

So the coachman affirms; and once conversation is opened between us it

flows without intermission. His head is over his shoulder all the way

as we roll back to the city under the beautiful trees of the palace

grounds. "If the old king had been living, Würtemberg would never have

joined in the last war: he would have told Prussia to fight it out by

herself." Apropos of the war, we ask what he thinks of Bismarck.

He evidently thinks a great deal of him, though not perhaps in the

generally accepted sense of that expression. He states as a fact that

there _are_ limits, leaving it to us to understand that the chancellor

of the empire has overstepped them. He declares further that a

Prussian, and especially a Berliner, is always to him an obnoxious

member of society through his insisting on knowing everything (except

his own place) better than anybody else. "Now, there was the Prussian

general before this last one," he continues, changing from politics

to court-gossip (naturally, since 1870, military matters in Würtemberg

flourish under Prussian auspices): "the first ball he went to at the

palace he asked the queen to dance! _Our_ queen!! And then he took his

whole family, and they sat in chairs that never were meant for them,

so that the king had to say to him next day, "Mr. General, first come

I, and then my ministers, and then this one, and then that one, and

_then_ you." He went back to Berlin soon after. It is pleasanter to

sit one's self down where one doesn't belong than to be set down

by somebody else." Our driver chuckles, and then bursts out afresh,

"Asking the _queen_ to dance!" He certainly has perfect faith in his

own stories.

We saw the successor of that presumptuous military man next day

among the greater and lesser lights that revolve around the throne of

Würtemberg. We ourselves were stationary, crowded into the foremost of

the tiers of seats that rose surrounding the immense enclosure, and

in the best place for observation, close by the royal pavilion.

The hills, bright in the sun and velvet in shadow, made a natural

amphitheatre beyond, a little church with its pretty tower looked

picturesquely down from a neighboring height, and the whole place

was gay with flags and branches, glittering uniforms and gorgeous

liveries. We were to see the _hohe Herrschaften_ come in at the

farthest entrance and drive around directly before our seats. As the

trumpets flourish and the first magnificence sweeps by we hear all

about us, "The princess Vera," and "No, the duchess of Uhra," and "Is

it?" "Isn't it?" "Which is it?" till we finally settle down to the

serene conclusion that it is either one or the other. There is no

mistaking the queen, however, with the outriders, six superb black

horses and postilions in scarlet and gold. The Majesty herself looks

pale and resigned, bending to the right and left in answer to the

bows and _hochs._ Our neighbors "the Weimars" come in full force. A

superfluous prince of that family appears to have drifted to these

regions, and makes our street aristocratic for us. Young Weimar looks

uncommonly well in his hussar uniform, and the old prince and his wife

and daughter are resplendent. We met them later that same day in town,

but they had taken off their best clothes, and truth compels us sadly

to admit that we should hardly have known them.

In the course of time, after various false alarms on our part, the

band confidently strikes up "God Save the King!" and there is a

flashing and prancing in the distance that creates a great stir. The

citizen guard, a stately body of burghers, rides out with the king on

this day of all the year, and comes caracoling by in fine style, he in

the midst bowing and smiling. And now, after the _Herrschaften--hohe_

and _höchste_--come the animals. First, horses haughtily stepping,

and then splendid bulls with wreaths on their horns and garlands round

their--waists shall we say?--are led before the king, standing at the

foot of the steps and handing the prizes to the farmers, who present

themselves, ducking and scraping. It seems a shame to tie up the

creatures' legs so, and put rings through their noses: some have

even a cloth bound over their heads; and if all these precautionary

measures are necessary, it ought to be a relief when the procession of

mild cows begins, They look out amiably from under the floral crowns

that have slipped low on their brows, or turn with half-conscious

pride to the handsome little calves that trot beside them. The sheep,

seeking to attract too early the notice of royalty, dash out in a

flock, and are driven back with jeering and hooting, as they deserve

to be. Then the pigs stagger by: their garlands are excessively

unbecoming. Such of the family of swine as are too young to stagger

are wheeled in handcarts in the rear; and so the ceremonies are

closed, except for a couple of races which take place immediately, and

with no great éclat. The burgher races these are called, while on the

third and last day are the officers' races. The rain prevented our

attending them, and we consoled ourselves, hearing it intimated by

those who had been at Ascot and Longchamps that we had not lost a

great deal.

G.H.P.

A PAIR OF WHEELS AND AN OLD PARASOL.

The threads from which the tissue of history is being woven are ever

in unceasing and rapid motion in the hands of the Fates. But these

deities for the most part love to work unseen, like the bees. It is

only when the spinning is going on with exceptional rapidity and

vigor that the movements of the threads and the characteristics of the

operation can be observed on the surface of social life, Such is

the case in these days at Rome, and it is not necessary to watch the

actions of governments or listen to the discussions of legislative

chambers in order to assure one's self of the fact. One cannot walk

the streets without having the phenomena which are the outward and

visible signs of it thrust in a thousand ways on the observation

of our senses. The other day I read a whole chapter of contemporary

history compressed into the appearance of a pair of wheels engaged in

their ordinary daily duty in the streets. It was in that central and

crowded part of the city which is between the church of the Gesù and

the Farnese palace, a labyrinth of tortuous streets and lanes,

not often visited by foreigners unless when bent on some special

expedition of sight-seeing. There are no sidewalks for foot-passengers

in these streets. They are narrow, very tortuous and very crowded.

Foot-passengers and vehicles of all sorts find their way along as best

they may in one confused mass. It was there I saw the historic pair

of wheels in question. They were attached to the barrow of a

coster-monger, who was retailing a stock of onions, carrots and

"cavolo Romano" which he had just purchased at the neighboring market

of the "Campo de' Fiori." His wares, I fear, had been selected from

the refuse of the market, and he and his barrow were in a state of

dilapidated shabbiness that matched his stock in trade. But not so the

wheels on which his barrow was supported. They were wheels of the most

gorgeous description. The spokes and the circumference were painted

of the most brilliant scarlet, and the entire nave was gilded so as

to have the appearance of a solid mass of gold. It is impossible to

imagine anything more _bizarre_ than the effect of these magnificent

wheels doing the work of carrying such an equipage. Nevertheless,

the apparition seemed to attract very little attention in the crowded

street. The grand scarlet and gilded wheels flamed along among the

crowd of shabby men and shabby vehicles with their load of onions and

cabbages, and scarcely anybody turned his head to stare at them. I

suppose the denizens of the district were used to the apparition of

them. To me they looked as if they had been the originals from

which Guido Reni painted those of the car in which he has placed the

celebrated Aurora of his world-famous fresco. They were solidly and

heavily built wheels--very barbarous an English carriage-builder would

have considered them in their heavy and clumsy magnificence--but they

were very gorgeous. What could be the meaning of their appearance in

public under such circumstances? I was walking with an Italian friend

at the time, who saw my state of amazement at so strange a phenomenon,

and explained it all by a single remark.

"Yes," said he, "there go a pair of His Eminence's wheels. They are

sharing the fortunes of their late master in a manner that is at once

dramatic and historical."

The wheels from a cardinal's carriage! Of course they were. How was

it possible that such wheels should be mistaken for any other in the

world? A few years ago, when pope and cardinals had not yet suffered

the horrible eclipse which has overtaken them, one of the most notable

features of the Roman streets and suburban roads used to consist

of the carriages of the members of the Sacred College taking their

diurnal drive. It was not etiquette for a cardinal to walk in the

streets, or indeed anywhere else, without his carriage following him.

There was no mistaking these barbarously gorgeous vehicles. They were

all exactly like each other, and unlike any other carriages to be

seen in the nineteenth century--heavy, clumsy, coarsely built and

gorgeously painted of the most flaming scarlet, and largely gilded.

They were drawn by long-tailed black horses covered with heavy harness

richly plated with silver, or something that looked like it, and

driven by a coachman whose livery, always as shabby as magnificent,

was as heavily laden with huge masses of worsted lace of the kind that

used to be placed on carriage-linings some five-and-twenty years ago.

Two similarly bedizened footmen always stood on the monkey-board

at the rear, who descended and walked behind His Eminence and

his chaplain when the cardinal left his carriage to get his

constitutional. Ichabod! Ichabod! The glory has departed! Such

cavalcades are no longer to be seen crawling along the Via Appia,

or following His Eminence on a fine and sunny afternoon about four

o'clock as he walks on the footpath between the Porta Pia and the

Basilica of St. Agnes in search of an appetite for his dinner. The

world will never see such carriages and such servants any more. _Fuit

Ilium!_ I thought of the old lines on the "high--mettled racer," and

of "imperial Cæsar, dead and turned to clay, stopping a hole to keep

the wind away." To see such splendor reduced to the service of such

vile uses! Yes, as my Italian friend said, "There go the cardinal's

wheels," and it is impossible not to feel sure that the phenomenon

is symbolical of the way the cardinal is going himself. When an

institution, a dignity, a social arrangement of any sort, has grown

to be purely ornamental, has become so splendid that its splendor has

come to be the essence of it, it will no longer be able to exist shorn

of its splendor, however much it may in its origin have been adapted

for use rather than for show. The wheels were heavy, cumbrous and

ill put together; they were not well adapted for the costermonger's

purpose, and will probably fall to pieces before long. Their fate is

a type of that of their once master. That ornamental individual, shorn

of his ornamental character, is useless. His _raison d'être_ is gone

as entirely as Othello's occupation was. And it will probably not be

long before the fate of the cardinal's wheels overtakes the cardinal

himself.

The second little bit of street incident which recently occurred to me

was in itself less striking, but seemed to me to symbolize changes of

yet higher moment and wider significance. This time what I saw was in

the Ghetto. Many of my readers probably know what the Ghetto at Rome

is, but untraveled stayers-at-home may very excusably never have heard

of it. The Ghetto is the Jews' quarter in Rome--the district in which

they were for many generations compelled to reside and to be locked

in by night, and where from habit the greater part, especially of the

poorer members of the Jewish community, still live. As will be easily

believed, it is the worst and most wretched quarter of the city--the

lowest physically as well as morally--and inundated with tolerable

certainty every year by the rising of the Tiber. The dilapidated and

filthy streets of the other parts of old papal Rome used to look

clean and spruce by comparison with the lurid and darksome dens of

the Ghetto. There are Ghettos in London--streets where the children of

Israel congregate, not in obedience to any law old or new, but drawn

together by mutual attraction and similarity of occupation. And the

occupations there are very much of the same nature as those pursued

in the Ghetto of Rome--the buying and selling of old clothes and

second-hand property of all sorts, the preparation and distribution of

fried fish, and here and there a little usury. But the _genius loci_

here impresses on the trade in discarded odds and ends a peculiar

character of its own. A much larger number of old pictures figure

among the hoards of useless "property" than would be the case

elsewhere. The constant decay of noble and once wealthy families

furnishes to the second-hand market a much more abundant supply of

the remains of articles that were once rich and rare in their day--old

damask hangings torn from walls that have witnessed the princely

revelry of many a generation; rich brocades and stuffs that have made

part of the moving pageant in the same saloons; lace of the finest

and rarest from the vestments of deceased prelates, whose heirs, as

regards such property, have probably been their serving-men; purple

and scarlet articles from the wardrobes of cardinals and princes of

the Church; and odds and ends of various sorts widely different in

kind from aught that could be found in similar repositories in other

cities. And another specialty of the Roman Ghetto is that it is not

altogether easy to obtain a sight of the miscellaneous treasures of

this rag-fair. Partly because the low-lying and narrow lanes of the

Ghetto are too murky and filthy to permit of the advantageous exposure

of the merchandise in question; partly, probably, from an habitual

consciousness on the part of the dealers that the details of their

traffic in all its particulars are not of a nature to be safely

submitted to the public eye; partly from that secretiveness which is

the natural result of living for many generations from father to son

under the tyranny of an alien race, whose bitterly hostile prejudices

were but little restrained by law or justice; and partly also, no

doubt, from the genuine Roman laziness, which in its perfection is

capable of overriding even Jewish keenness of trade,--the Jew brokers

of the Ghetto are often unwilling to show their hidden stores to the

first comer. Some amount of diplomacy and some show of the probability

of effecting an advantageous deal must be had recourse to in order to

attain the purpose of the explorer.

On the recent occasion to which I have referred these difficulties had

been overcome, and I had made my way into the interior of one of

the dens I have described in the company of a lady friend who is a

confirmed and irreclaimable lace-hunter, and who in pursuit of her

game would have confronted worse obstacles than any that we had

to encounter. For, in truth, the exterior appearance and the

entrance-chambers are the worst part of the Ghetto dwellings. One is

curiously reminded of the old mediæval stories of Jewish dwellings,

where the utmost squalor and poverty of exterior was a mere blind for

an interior gorgeous with every manifestation of wealth and luxury. I

will not say that much of the latter is to be found in the dwellings

of the Ghetto, but a degree of comfortable decency and indications

of the possession of capital may be met with which the exterior

appearances would not have led one to anticipate. Well, we had reached

the third floor of one of these sinister-looking abodes, conducted by

a fat old Jewess with a pair of huge black eyes, a large smooth face

as yellow as a guinea, and a vast development of bust clad in dirty

white wrappers of some sort. A door on the landing-place jealously

locked with two huge keys admitted us into a suite of three good-sized

rooms crammed from floor to ceiling with a collection of articles more

heterogeneous than can easily be conceived--far more so than can be

described.

Those who have ever accompanied a lady lace-hunter when she has struck

a promising trail know that the business in hand is likely to be a

somewhat long one. My companion on the present occasion very soon

convinced the Jewess that she knew quite as much about the matter as

she, the dealer, did. But I presume that some of the old yellow stores

produced were "the real thing;" for my friend and the old Jewess soon

became immersed in an eager and, as it seemed to me interminable,

discussion as to qualities, condition and values. Meantime, I had to

amuse myself as best I might by looking at the multifarious objects.

I must content myself with mentioning one article, the appearance

of which in such a place struck me as strange and not a little

significant. It was simply an old parasol, very much faded and a

little tattered, but not such a parasol as your fair hands ever

carried, my dear madam, nor such as the once equally fair hands of any

generation of your ancestors ever carried. The article in question was

more like the shelter which we see represented in Chinese paintings as

carried over the heads of persons of high rank among the Celestials.

It was very large, not much curved into the shape of a dome when

expanded, very clumsily and coarsely put together, but of gorgeous

magnificence of material. It was made of a very thick and rich damask

silk, additionally ornamented by embroidery in gold and silver thread,

and the handle and points of the supports were richly gilt. In a word,

I perceived at once, not being a novice in such matters, that the

article before me was one of the canopies used for holding over the

"Host" when the holy sacrament is carried by the priest through the

streets to a dying person. It needs but a moment's reflection on the

Roman Catholic theory of the sacrament of the "Last Supper" to be

aware of the extremely sacred nature of the uses to which this parasol

had been put, and of the associations connected with it. Nevertheless,

I found this bit of sacred church property in the hands of a Jew

broker, exposed to sale for a few francs to the first comer, heretic,

scoffer or infidel, that might take a fancy to buy it. This would

hardly have been the case when the pope was absolute master of Rome

and of all in it. The thing could not have happened save by the

dishonesty and cynical disbelief of some priest, and indeed probably

of more than one. And, upon the whole, it struck me as a second

curious indication of the somewhat breakneck speed with which the

threads of history are spinning themselves in these days and in these

latitudes.

T.A.T.

MEDICAL EDUCATION IN THE UNITED STATES.

A great deal of discussion has recently taken place on the subject of

medical education in the United States. To a foreigner, or to one not

acquainted with the influences that have led to and have kept up this

discussion, it might seem to be the result of a spontaneous outburst

of popular feeling, earnestly demanding much-needed progress. Really,

however, the very reverse is the case; and the revolutionists are

those whose _kind_ and _sympathetic_ interest in the welfare of the

community is prompted solely by selfish considerations. The changes

urged by these self-condemning philanthropists are not demanded by the

medical profession nor by the public; neither have they been, nor will

they be, sustained by both or by either. This assertion is clearly

proved by the experience of the University of Pennsylvania, In 1846

the American Medical Association recommended to all medical colleges

certain changes and improvements in their courses of instruction.

In consequence of this recommendation the University of Pennsylvania

extended its session to six months: not a _single medical college in

the country followed_ its progressive lead, and after continuing the

experiment for six years at great pecuniary loss, it was reluctantly

obliged to retrace its steps, and to return to the old standard as to

length of session. During the period of this advance the classes of

the University fell off greatly, and the classes of other medical

schools correspondingly increased. Even medical men sent their sons

to other medical schools, to save the time and money necessary for the

longer course. Indeed, medical men, as a rule, have sought to evade

the restrictions as to length of time of study, etc. more than any

other class; and the statement, that the "student usually dates his

medical studies from the time he buys his first _Chemistry_" applies

more frequently to the sons of _physicians_ than to any others. Hence,

I declare that these proposed changes are not demanded by the medical

profession nor by the public.

The writer of a recent article in _Lippincott's Magazine_ (Dr. H.C.

Wood) on "Medical Education in the United States" seems to have

been so lost in admiration at the methods of instruction followed in

European medical colleges as to be utterly blind to the good in the

system of medical education as it exists in this country--a system the

_necessary_ result of our political, social, financial and territorial

conditions; a system which, though in the abstract may not be the

best, is certainly, judging from its results, the best _possible_

under our peculiar circumstances. This much abused system of

medical education (only greatly improved in its extent and

thoroughness--improvements developed by the constant advances in

knowledge) is the same system which has produced the great medical

men of the United States during the past seventy-five years--medical

practitioners whose success has been surpassed by none in Europe;

surgeons whose skill has been, and is, world-wide in reputation;

authors whose works are standard authorities everywhere. It is the

same system of medical instruction--I quote verbatim (italics mine)

from this article that holds it up to scorn--which "accomplished such

_splendid results_ during the late rebellion." The writer says: "The

great resources of the medical profession were proved during the

civil war, when there was created in a few months a service which

for magnitude and efficiency has rarely if ever been equaled. Indeed,

military medicine was raised by it to a point _never reached before

that time in Europe_ and the results achieved have, in many points,

_worked a revolution in science_." After this frank declaration of the

inestimable value and glorious results of American medical education,

the writer draws the _logical_(?) sequence that it (American medical

education) is responsible for a case of most heartrending malpractice,

which he relates, compared to which the Japanese hari-kari were

merciful mildness, and approaching more nearly the tortures by

crucifixion as administered by this same _kind-hearted_ people. With

about as much reason and justice might he conclude that the _American

system_ of Sunday-school education is lamentably inferior to that of

Great Britain, _because_(!) Jesse Pomeroy was a possibility in that

most respectable town of Boston.

Dr. Wood alludes to the ignorance of the American medical student,

and makes a statement "not founded on the authority of official

publication," in which he endeavors to show that from "six to ten

per cent." of American medical students have an ignorance of vulgar

fractions and rudimentary astronomy that would exclude them from an

ordinary infant-school. Every one familiar with the students attending

our first-class American medical colleges knows perfectly well that

in origin and in culture they compare favorably with the young men

engaged in the study of law and divinity, or with those entering upon

mercantile or manufacturing pursuits. True, there are some imperfectly

educated, but certainly not "six or ten per cent." destitute of

that knowledge taught even in _American_ infant-schools, and without

knowing, and without the statement "being founded on the authority of

any official publication," I _infer_ that in _Europe_, owing to their

"better methods," similar knowledge is communicated to the average

European child many months _before its birth_.

Next follows a comment on the poverty of the American medical student.

Dr. Wood says: "Even worse than this, however, is the fact that the

summer between the winter courses is often not spent in study, but

in idleness, or, not rarely, in acquiring in the school-room or

harvest-field the pecuniary means of spending the subsequent winter in

the city." Alas! this _is_ too true. Providence seems to have ordained

that our young _American_ doctors are not always reared in the lap of

luxury and wealth as the fittest preparation for the trials, hardships

and self-denials of their future lives. It is also true that some

_other_ young American professional men have been compelled "in the

school-room or harvest-field" to acquire the means to prosecute their

professional studies. Daniel Webster, the son of a New England farmer,

taught school at Fryeburg, Maine, "upon a salary of about one dollar

per diem." "His salary was all saved ... as a fund for his _own

professional_ education and to help his brother through college."

"During his residence at Fryeburg, Mr. Webster borrowed (he was too

poor to buy) Blackstone's _Commentaries_." Mr. Webster's great rival,

Henry Clay, also was compelled to resort to the "school-room and

harvest-field to obtain the pecuniary means," etc. etc. etc. The son

of the poor widow with seven children "applied himself to the labor of

the field with alacrity and diligence;" "and there yet live those who

remember to have seen him oftentimes riding his sorry horse, with a

rope bridle, no saddle, and a bag of grain." "By the familiar name

of the Mill-boy of the Slashes do these men ... perpetuate the

remembrance of his lowly yet dutiful and unrepining employments."

American biography is so filled with similar instances, showing how

the great characters of her great men acquired their development and

strength in the stern gymnasium of poverty, even in "the school-room

and harvest-field," that I could fill volumes with the glowing

records. The youngest American school-boy recognizes Abraham Lincoln

and Henry Wilson in this _American_ galaxy. Whose heart has not been

stirred by the life-story of the great Hugh Miller, the stonecutter's

pick earning for him humble means, thereby enabling him to acquire

that learning which made his name a household word even in America.

Truth, then, as I have remarked, obliges me to admit that we have in

our medical colleges some young men who labor "in harvest-fields and

school-rooms" in order that they may honorably pay their way, rather

than eat the bread or accept the gratuities of pauperism.

Last March there graduated at the medical department of the University

of Pennsylvania one of these self-supporting young men. He was the son

of a missionary clergyman: the father was poor in pocket, but the son

was not poor in spirit. During the interval between his winter courses

of lectures, rather than be a burden to his father, rather than accept

gratuitous instruction from the school, he went into the coal regions

of Pennsylvania and worked in a coal-mine, as a common miner, to

procure funds to enable him to complete his professional studies;

and, _strange_ as it may seem, this young miner passed an excellent

examination, and received the unanimous vote of the medical faculty

for his degree. I mention this case, but every year there are several

similar; and we always find that the school-teachers and miners are by

no means at the foot of the graduating class.

Concerning clinical teaching, we have the following statement:

"The clinical teaching in an American hospital is comprised in the

following routine: Once or twice a week, from one to five hundred men

being congregated in an amphitheatre, the professor lectures upon a

case brought into the arena, perhaps operates, and when the hour has

expired the class is dismissed. Evidently, under such circumstances

there cannot be the training of the senses, the acquiring of a

knowledge of the hourly play of symptoms of disease and of familiarity

with the proper handling of the sick and wounded, which is of such

vital importance, and which can be the outcome only of daily contact

with patients." What can the writer of this sentence mean? Certainly,

no one knows better than he does that such _is not_ the practice in

the hospital of the University of Pennsylvania, in Bellevue and in

many other large hospitals, where clinics and dispensary services

are held for _several hours daily_ throughout the year, and where the

student has furnished him abundant opportunities four "acquiring a

knowledge of the ... symptoms of disease, ... of handling the sick and

wounded," etc. etc. That the American medical student profits by these

opportunities, and learns his clinic lessons well, is proved by the

unexpected and evidently unintended testimony which occurs toward the

close of the article, where Dr. Wood says, "The great resources of the

medical profession in America were proved during the civil war, when

there was created in a _few months_ a service which for _magnitude_

and _efficiency_ has _rarefy if ever been equaled_. Indeed, military

medicine was raised by it to a point _never reached before_ that time

_in Europe_, and the results achieved have in many points worked a

_revolution in science_." The italics in this quotation are mine, as

they also are in those which follow.

But (says the article under review) "the largest proportion of our

prominent physicians have educated themselves after graduation." As

if this were an extraordinary or unusual circumstance! Certainly,

they have; and so have all prominent men in all professions and all

pursuits of life, in every age and every country, not even excepting

the much-lauded men of Great Britain and the continent of Europe. What

young lawyer is entrusted with an important cause immediately after

admission to the Bar? And as the young doctor (according to the

aforesaid showing) "gains his first practical knowledge while serving

as a hospital resident, under the supervision of experienced men,"

so the young lawyer, _even in Great Britain_, must gain _his_ first

practical knowledge by constant attention at the courts, and by

diligently following the proceedings of his preceptor's and other

offices. Even the young clergyman, whose business it is to save

_souls_, has to do very much as the young doctor does, and, like him,

is often "thrown at once on his own resources, gaining his experience

without supervision, and at the _expense_ of the _poorer classes_,

who _naturally_ fall to his charge, and whose ignorance precludes them

from an even approximately correct estimate of" his fitness. "It is

one of the saddest features of our system that the famed skill of our

best" _(clergymen)_ "should so often be acquired at such a cost."

What can be more unphilosophical and illogical than to compare the

young doctor, or any other young professional man, to a new piece of

machinery, fresh from the manufactory, complete and perfect in all

its parts? And yet something like this is _attempted_ in the article

before us. Even as Minerva sprang from the brain of Jove the complete

and perfect goddess of learning, so would our Utopian writer have

the young doctors to come from the brains of their medical professors

complete and perfect; only, if his idea be correct, their medical

professors have so little brains that the annual graduating medical

classes of the United States would be immediately reduced from

the frightful army of three thousand "legalized murderers" to the

comparatively small and easily counted number of _one graduate_ (of

course, springing from one head). No; the young doctor, at graduation,

cannot be compared to a new, complete and perfect machine fresh from

the manufactory; rather, let him be compared to the young marsupial

creature at birth, extremely rudimentary, whose natural, and hence

fittest, place is the parental pouch, but which in due time becomes

the vigorous and well-developed specimen. I suppose, if I compare

the young doctor to the young marsupial, I should also say that _his_

protecting parental pouch, in which he acquires growth and vigor, is

the hospital where he goes after graduation, or the practice which he

sees under his preceptor's supervision.

The article continues: "The remarks which follow do not apply to

the medical department of Harvard College or to _one or two other

schools_" (the italics are mine); and farther on it continues: "In

other words, Harvard has copied the European plan of medical teaching

in some of its essential features, and as a consequence its medical

diploma is the _only one_ issued by _any prominent medical American_

college which is a _guarantee_ that its possessor has been well

educated in the science and practice of medicine." Where can we

find meekness and modesty like this?--modesty as becoming as it

is unexpected and surprising, seeing that the writer fills _two_

professorships in the University of Pennsylvania, Does he hang his

head so low in his--I was about to say _singular_--self-abasement

(but, considering, the _two_ professorships, I suppose I should say

_doubled_ self-abasement) that he cannot see? or are his eyes so

blinded by the effulgence of "Harvard" and "European" plans that he

fails to recognize and appreciate the immense advantages offered by

his own home institutions? I do not propose to make any invidious

remarks concerning Harvard, but I maintain that an _honest_ and _just_

comparison of the schools, of their requirements, of the character of

their teachings and the facilities they furnish their students, _must_

show that modesty alone prevented Professor "H.C. Wood, Jr., M.D.,"

also excepting from his sweeping denunciations the two great schools

of Philadelphia, though I only speak for and defend the medical

department of the University of Pennsylvania from an attack unjust,

uncalled-for and untrue.

R.A.F. PENROSE.

The party opposed to any reforms in medical education has, of course,

a right to be heard, and Dr. Penrose is well entitled to represent it

both by his position and by the evident heartiness with which he is

prepared to defend the existing system at every point. In impugning

the motives of those who have attacked it he lays himself open to an

obvious retort; but it is sufficient to remark that the contest is

not of a nature to call for or justify the use of personalities, which

could serve only to divert attention from the real issues.

The arguments put forward by Dr. Penrose may be summarized as follows:

1st, that the proposed changes are not demanded either by the public

or by the profession; 2d, that the present system is the best possible

in a nation constituted like ours; 3d, that the preparatory education

of our medical students is equal to that of law or divinity students,

or of young men entering upon mercantile or manufacturing pursuits;

4th, that in certain cases obstacles in the way of a regular and

thorough training have been overcome and success achieved in spite of

them; and 5th, that it is unavoidable and proper that medical men, as

well as members of other professions, should educate themselves after

graduation.

It will be observed that none of these arguments except the last,

which is based on a mere verbal ambiguity, touches the two subjects

discussed in Dr. Wood's article--namely, the _need_ of reform and the

_methods_ by which, if practicable, it is to be effected. Dr. Penrose

does not venture to assert that the existing system is perfect, or

to deny that the suggested changes are in the nature of improvements.

What he wishes us to believe is that the system, whatever its defects,

is as good a one as Americans have a right to demand, and that it is

so closely interwoven with our political and social institutions as to

admit of no separate handling. Similar arguments are frequently urged

against the desire to raise the standard and widen the avenues of the

"higher education." We are thus taught to regard ourselves as a poor

and struggling nation with no claim to the possession of intellectual

luxuries, or as having bound ourselves to forego any aspirations to an

equality with other nations in respect of culture when we secured the

advantages of popular government and its social concomitants. It would

seem, however, to be a sounder, as it is certainly a more gratifying

belief, that precisely because we have attained these advantages

it will be easier for us to appropriate all the benefits which

civilization has to offer--possible for us to make more rapid strides

than have been made by other nations, impeded by a diversity of

interests and conflicts between the government and the people. No

doubt the comparative youthfulness of the nation will account for

our backward condition in certain respects; but surely it is time to

abandon this and every similar plea as an argument against any attempt

at progress.

We have not space, and for the reasons indicated we see no necessity,

to discuss Dr. Penrose's positions in detail. It will be sufficient

to notice generally what seems to us their inherent weakness. His

assertion that no changes are _now_ demanded by the public or the

profession is, he thinks, "clearly proved" by the fact that thirty

years ago some that were introduced in the University of Pennsylvania

at the suggestion of the American Medical Association ended in

failure. But what this experience really proves is, that the defects

of the system were even then admitted, while the remedies are still to

be applied. At Harvard this has been done; and the question for other

medical schools is whether they are to follow the example or to

be deterred by a bugbear--whether, for example, the University of

Pennsylvania, after raising her scientific and art departments to

a higher level, shall be content to let her medical school remain

stationary. It is the opinion of intelligent physicians who are not

parties to this controversy that the experiment which failed in 1846

would succeed now. The new plan adopted at Harvard, which exacts

three years of study, and embraces lectures, recitations, clinical

conferences and written examinations of the most stringent character,

has, we are informed, attracted a class of very superior men. Compared

with the effort made here in 1846, this change may be described as a

revolution, and it has proved a success.

We are at a loss to understand what Dr. Penrose wishes to prove by his

citation of cases in which eminence has been reached--chiefly, it

is to be noticed, in politics or the law--by persons who have

had insufficient opportunities for study. If the disadvantage was

imaginary, where was the merit of overcoming it? If it was real, as

most people would admit, what is the objection to insisting on it as

such? In the great majority of cases it is _not_ overcome, and the

result is, that the country is overstocked with men engaged in the

practice of professions for which they are inadequately qualified. As

to the skill that is gained by practice, the ripe knowledge that may

result from experience, this cannot without a confusion of terms

be described as "education." It will in general be most surely and

rapidly acquired by those who have received the best training, and

the great object of our higher educational institutions should be

to provide such training--not, by maintaining a low standard, to

facilitate the efforts of those who, from whatever cause, would find

it difficult to meet the demands of a higher one. Such persons may

have a claim to encouragement and assistance in their endeavors to

reach the mark; but they have no right to expect that the distance

shall be regulated to suit their convenience.

Dr. Wood's admissions in regard to the excellence of the army medical

service during the war are seized upon with natural exultation by his

opponent, who draws from them a legitimate inference in favor of the

general status of medical skill and knowledge throughout the country.

If Dr. Wood really intended to say--what his language, we confess,

would seem to imply--that the service attained its high state of

efficiency in a few months, we do not well see how he is to resist the

conclusion thus pressed upon him. But we conceive the truth to be that

either his phraseology or his recollection of the facts was at fault.

It is well known that at the beginning of the war it was impossible to

find competent surgeons in anything like the number that was

needed, and that the examining boards were consequently forced to be

ridiculously lenient. We know of an able surgeon who after a battle

found that he had not a single assistant in his corps who could be

trusted to perform an operation. This state of matters was the direct

result of the imperfect education given in the schools. Not one man in

ten who leaves them has ever been practically exercised in operations

on the cadaver, and the proportion was still smaller before the war.

It is easy therefore to understand, while it would be painful to

recall, the circumstances under which the great bulk of our army

surgeons acquired the requisite proficiency. The ultimate success

of our medical service, like the final triumph of our armies, was

preceded by many woeful blunders and mishaps, and, like that, was due

in great measure to a lavish outlay which would scarcely have been

possible in any European war, and to the general devotion and united

efforts which drew out all the resources of the country, of whatever

kind, and directed them to the furtherance of a single aim.

OUR EARLY NEWSPAPERS.

In looking over the contents of the old newspapers of this country, of

which there was a considerable number as early as the year 1730, one

is specially struck by the number of advertisements of slave sales and

of runaway slaves, apprentices and servants. The following are common

examples:

"To be sold, a very likely Negro woman about 30 years of Age, has been

in this city about 10. She is a fine Cook, has been brought up to all

sorts of House Work, and speaks very good English. She has had the

small Pox, and has now a Young Child. Enquire further concerning

her and the Conditions of Sale of Mary Kippen, or the Printer

hereof."--_New York Weekly Journal_, May 9, 1735.

"Just arrived from _Great Britain_, and are to be Sold on board the

Ship Alice and Elizabeth, Capt. _Paine_ Commander several likely

_Welch_ and _English_ Servant Men, most of them Tradesmen. Whoever

inclines to purchase any of them may agree with said Commander, or Mr.

_Thomas Noble_, Merchant, at Mr. Hazard's, in New York; where also

is to be Sold several Negro Girls and a Negro Boy, and likewise good

_Cheshire_ Cheese."--_New York Gazette_, Sept. 11, 1732.

Here is a notice from the same paper, date 1735, which shows very

clearly the position of the apprentice one hundred and forty years

ago:

"Run away on the 5th. Instant from John Bell of the city of New York

Carpenter, an Apprentice Boy named James Harding, aged about 19 years,

being a tall well-set Lad of a Fresh Complexion, he wears a Wig, he

is spley-footed and shuffles with his feet as he Walks, has a Copper

coloured Kersey Coat with large flat white Mettle Buttons, a grey

Duroy Coat lined with Silk, it is pretty much faded by wearing, a

broad blue striped Waistcoat and Breeches and a pair of blue striped

Tickin Breeches, in warm weather he often bleeds at the nose."

Then follows the offer of forty shillings to any one who will give

information whereby his master, John Bell, can regain possession of

the runaway.

That the women of that time were strong-minded, or at least that they

were disposed to assist in the reformation of bad husbands, is shown

by the following from the same journal, date December 31, 1733. The

subject, or victim, was one William Drinkwater, living near New York,

who had proved quarrelsome with his neighbors and abusive to his wife:

"The good Women of the Place took the Matter into Consideration and

laid hold of an Opportunity, to get him tied to a Cart, and there with

Rods belaboured him on his Back, till, in striveing to get away, he

pulled one of his Arms out of Joint, and then they unti'd him. Mr.

_Drinkwater_ Complained to Sundrie Magistrates of this useage, but all

he got by it was to be Laughed at; Whereupon he removed to New Milford

where we hear he proves a good Neighhour and a loving Husband. _A

Remarkable Reformation ariseing from the Justice of the good Women._"

Another advertisement indicates a toilet article now out of fashion:

"To be Sold by _Peter Lynch_, near Mr. _Rutgers_ Brewhouse, very good

Orange Butter, it is excellent for Gentlewomen to comb up their Hair

with, it also cures Children's sore Heads."

The next sounds quite as odd:

"_James Munden_ Partner with _Thomas Butwell_ from London, Maketh

Gentlewomens Stays and Childrens Coats in the Newest Fashion, that

Crooked Women and Children will appear strait," Same paper, date

February, 1735.

It is a curious fact that the deaths at that time, both in the New

York and New England papers, were announced not by the names of the

deceased, but by the churches to which they belonged. For example:

"Buried in the city last week, _viz._, Church of England 26, Dutch 24,

Lutheran 2, French 1, Presbyterians 3. The number of Blacks we

refer till Next Week."--_New England Weekly Journal_, Nov. 1, 1731.

Sometimes the number is recorded as four or five, or even less:

therefore the record must be very imperfect, and there seems to have

been no notice taken of those who were not buried from any church.

M.H.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

Dante and his Circle; with the Italian Poets preceding him.

Edited and translated in the original Metres by Dante Gabriel

Rossetti. Revised and rearranged edition, Boston: Roberts

Bros.

Dante is so great a figure in Italian literature that he hides from

sight the host of minor poets who preceded him, and throws his own

contemporaries so into the shade that we are apt to think that Italian

poetry began with him, and that its second exponent is Petrarch. Such

a view is to be regretted, not only because it overlooks much that

is in itself valuable, but because it attributes to a period of

slow development a phenomenal character. There were many poets worth

listening to before the great Florentine wrote the _New Life_ or the

_Divine Comedy_, and many whom he listened to and praised, although

his prophetic foresight told him that he would one day bear their

glory from them.

It was to make us acquainted with these forgotten singers that Mr.

Rossetti wrote some years ago his charming book. _The Early Italian

Poets_, which, after being long out of print, he now presents to us in

a revised and rearranged edition. The author's wish is not merely to

give us a glimpse of the quaint conceits of a school that continued in

Italy the waning influence of the Troubadours, but to open to us the

intimate social life of the literary men of that period as reflected

in their vague Platonic rhapsodies, their friendly letters, their

jests and quarrels, their joy and sadness. Interwoven with all this

are stately _canzoni_, and dainty sonnets full of quaint conceits,

like that wherein Jacopo da Lentino (1250) sings _Of his Lady in

Heaven_:

I have it in my heart to serve God so

That into Paradise I shall repair--

The holy place through the which everywhere

I have heard say that joy and solace flow.

Without my lady I were loath to go--

She who has the bright face and the bright hair--

Because if she were absent, I being there,

My pleasure would be less than naught, I know.

Look you, I say not this to such intent

As that I there would deal in any sin:

I only would behold her gracious mien,

And beautiful soft eyes, and lovely face,

That so it should be my complete content

To see my lady joyful in her place.

We seem, in turning over these pages, to see the brilliant,

ever-changing current of Italian thirteenth and fourteenth century

life--from Palermo, where Frederick II. held an almost Oriental

court, to the communes of Central Italy, the best type of which is

the merchant-city of the Arno, whose sons in those days could fight as

well as wield the yardstick, and sing in strains that have rarely

been equaled. In the first division of the work the great poet and his

friends are brought vividly before us from the time when, a sensitive

child, his eyes first beheld Beatrice and his new life began, to the

painful hours of bereavement and exile. The poet, it is known, made

a curious sonnet out of a dream he had after his first meeting with

Beatrice, and, in accordance with the fashion of the day, sent it to

various well-known poets, asking them to interpret his vision. The

answers are all given here; and among those whose attention was thus

attracted to the precocious youth was one whom he calls his "first

friend," Guido Cavalcanti--after Dante one of the most interesting

literary personages of the day. Rash and chivalrous, we can follow him

in his poems from the time he made his pilgrimage to the shrine of St.

James, and fell in love on the way with Mandetta of Toulouse, to the

turbulent days of Florentine party strife, when he rides down Messer

Corso Donati, "the baron," and wounds him with his javelin, and then

goes into exile at Sarzana, where he sings his dying song and sends

it to his lady, "who," he says, "of her noble grace shall show thee

courtesy." All the poets were not as constant as their own lines

would have us believe. Dante reproaches the famous Cino da Pistoja

for fickleness, and the latter confesses the charge, and declares he

cannot get "free from Love's pitiless aim." Guido Cavalcanti rebukes

Dante himself for his way of life after the death of Beatrice; and

this valuable sonnet should be read in connection with the beautiful

passage in the _Purgatory_ (xxx. 55-75) where Beatrice herself

upbraids the tearful poet.

In the second part, comprising _Poets chiefly before Dante_, we have

specimens of the Sicilian school--a _canzone_ by the great Frederick,

and a sonnet by his luckless son Enzo, who died in prison at Bologna

after a confinement of nearly twenty-three years. Of more importance

are the poems of Guido Guinicelli, of which the philosophical one

entitled "Of the Gentle Heart" was a nine days' wonder, but which,

even in Rossetti's elegant version, seems cold and formal. The

most natural and pleasing pieces among much that is artificial and

conventional are a ballad and two "catches" by Sacchetti, who died

just after 1400, and properly does not belong to Dante's circle.

Mr. Rossetti's readers will, however, be grateful to him for his

delightful versions of the two catches, one "On a Fine Day," the other

"On a Wet Day," giving the experiences of a band of young girls who

have gone to spend the afternoon in the fields and are overtaken by a

shower.

Poems like these, unfortunately, are rare. The range is a limited

one--Platonic love in its conventional form, or the still more

conventional form of chivalric love, imported bodily from the

Troubadours. Scattered here and there are some noble poems; as, for

instance, the one attributed to Fazio degli Uberti on his lady's

portrait, which begins--

I look at the crisp golden-threaded hair,

Whereof, to thrall my heart, Love twists a net;

Using at times a string of pearls for bait,

And sometimes with a single rose therein.

Mr. Rossetti has performed his task in a way to deserve the warmest

praise. The difficulties he has overcome are very great, consisting

not merely of intricate rhyme and assonance, which he has faithfully

reproduced, but a text often corrupt and meaning often obscure.

He says himself in his preface that "The life-blood of rhythmical

translation is this commandment--that a good poem shall not be turned

into a bad one;" and this commandment, as far as we can see, he has

not broken in a single case, while in some instances, we are bold

enough to say, the translation is better than the original.

History of the Army of the Cumberland, its Organization,

Campaigns and Battles. Written at the request of Maj.-Gen.

George H. Thomas, chiefly from his private military journal

and other official documents furnished by him. By Thomas B.

Van Horne, U.S. Army. Illustrated with campaign and

battle maps compiled by Edward Ruger, late Superintendent

Topographical Engineer Office, Head quarters Department of the

Cumberland. 2 vols. and atlas. Cincinnati: Robert Clarke & Co.

It was natural that General Thomas should make choice of some one to

whom he could entrust the task of writing his military history. For

that purpose he chose Mr. T.B. Van Home, a chaplain in the regular

army, and the work, which was begun in 1865 and finished in 1872, was

subject to Thomas's own examination. The result is now, after this

long delay, presented to the public in a shape that does great credit

to the publishers, whose imprint is almost synonymous with good

workmanship. Of the literary skill, or want of it, on the part of the

author not much need be said: he is evidently zealous in his anxiety

to do honor to the memory of General Thomas, and to do justice to all

who served with him; but he is sadly lacking in the art of suitably

clothing his ideas with fitting words, and much of his elaborate

composition is badly wasted in trying to find extravagant language

for the recital of important events. In some cases, where the official

reports printed at the close of each chapter recite in simple words

the actual occurrences, the text of the book is overlaid with unusual

words and involved sentences, in which the statement of the same facts

is lost in a cloud of phraseology of a very curious and original kind.

"Primal success," "the expression of a stride," "the belligerence of

the two armies," "philosophy of the victory," "palpable co-operation,"

"the expression of an insurrection,"--these are some of the odd

inventions of the author; and for instances of passages just as odd,

but too long for citation, we refer to the description of the battle

of Shiloh--a weak imitation of Kinglake's worst style--where we

are told that "change is the prophecy of unexpected conditions."

Fortunately, the second volume is much less marred by such faults, and

the great event of Thomas's career, the battle of Nashville, is told

with clearness and in full detail.

Although Thomas is the hero of the book from the time when he took

command at Camp Dick Robinson in August of 1861, it was not till

October, 1863, which brings us to page 394 of the first volume, that

he succeeded to the command of the Army of the Cumberland, after

Rosecrans, who had followed Buell and Sherman and Anderson. Under the

other generals Thomas had served with marked ability and fidelity, and

his dealing with them is fairly reflected by the author of this work,

for he rarely criticises either of Thomas's commanding officers--for

the most part merely records the operations of the army, and puts in

most prominence Thomas's own services, just as his military journal no

doubt supplied the material. Of all that long and dreary marching and

countermarching through Kentucky and Tennessee the account is full and

clear, and we find Buell and Halleck saying that they know nothing of

any plan of campaign in the very midst of their operations. At last

with Halleck, and still more with Grant in authority, there were

movements ordered that had some relation to each other and a general

plan of operations, and then the overwhelming strength of the North

began to turn the scale. Thomas was called on by Rosecrans, as he had

been by Buell, for advice, but he was obliged to act independently

too; and then, as at Stone River, he showed an energy and a capacity

that ought to have secured his earlier promotion. At Chickamauga he

was actually left in command by Rosecrans, and while the latter

was looking for new help elsewhere, Thomas at the front saved the

shattered army and led it safely back to Chattanooga, where it

underwent its famous long siege. The measures for its relief were

planned by Rosecrans, approved by Grant, and executed by Thomas, with

large assistance from "Baldy" Smith, whose skill as an engineer was

fully attested then. When Thomas did at last succeed to the command

of the Army of the Cumberland, he showed his superiority to his

predecessors by marked improvement in his method of securing supplies,

in his use of cavalry, and in the increased efficiency of his

infantry. When Johnston, thanks to Davis's unwise interference with

the Confederate armies, gave way to Hood, the latter almost at once

gave token of his inferior skill by being defeated by the Army of the

Cumberland--by less than half of it, in fact--in an attack intended to

destroy three armies of more than five times the number of the Union

force actually engaged. Thomas was in command at this battle of

Peach-tree Creek, one of the sharpest and most significant actions

of the campaign, though no official report is found at the end of

the chapter in which it is described. The events that led up to the

victory of Nashville are always worth the telling, and the account

given in this work may be looked upon as in some respects Thomas's own

version of them. A brief chapter by Colonel Merrill of the Engineers

gives a very good description of three of the leading features of the

work done by that corps in the Army of the Cumberland. To cross great

rivers there was need of pontoon-bridges; to protect the long lines

of railroads it was necessary to provide block-houses; to go through

a country that was often a trackless forest, and always badly provided

with real high-roads, it was all-important to have maps, and to

reproduce them rapidly and plentifully. Colonel Merrill's chapter

is pithy, pointed and to the purpose, showing how well our technical

troops did their share of work, and how large and important that share

was in securing the general result. The maps are also well done, and

therefore useful in enabling a reader to follow out the details of the

narrative.

_BOOKS RECEIVED._

Dissertations and Discussions; Political, Philosophical and

Historical. By John Stuart Mill. Vol. V. New York: Henry Holt & Co.

From Everglade to Canon with the Second Dragoons, 1836-75, Compiled by

Theo. F. Rodenbough. New York: D. Van Nostrand.

Grand'ther Baldwin's Thanksgiving, with other Ballads and Poems. By

Horatio Alger, Jr. Boston: Loring.

Shakespeare Hermeneutics; or, The Still Lion. By C.M. Ingleby, M.A.,

LL.D. London: Trübner & Co.

Minutes of the Ohio State Archæological Convention. Columbus: Printed

for the Society by Paul & Thrall.

Strength of Beams under Transverse Loads. By Prof. W. Allan. New York:

D. Van Nostrand.

The Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac for 1876. New York: Catholic

Publication Society.

Report of the Commissioner of Education for 1874. Washington:

Government Printing-office.

Our Poetical Favorites. Second Series. By Aschel C. Kendrick. New

York: Sheldon &Co.

Camp-Life in Florida. By Charles Hallock. New York: Forest and Stream

Publishing Co.

Lectures on Art. Second Series. By H. Taine. New York: Henry Holt &

Co.

Pretty Miss Bellew. By Theo. Gift. New York: Henry Holt & Co.

Drawn from. Life. By Charles Dickens. New York: E.J. Hale & Son.

The Conquest of Europe: A Poem of the Future. By Confucius.

Cartoons. By Margaret J. Preston. Boston: Roberts Brothers.