picturesque little creek (dappled here and there with wood-crowned
islets) in order to get well into our work before the sun is high in the
sky, for a forty-mile march, knapsack on shoulder, across a difficult
country, in the heat of a real Russian summer, is not a thing to be
trifled with, even by men who have seen Turkey and Syria. A sudden turn
of the road soon blots out the sea, and we plunge at once into the
green silent depths of the northern forest.
It is characteristic of the country that, barely out of sight of one of
the principal ports of Finland, we are in the midst of a loneliness as
utter as if it had never been broken by man. The only tokens of his
presence are the narrow swathe of road running between the dim, unending
files of the shadowy pine trees, and the tall wooden posts, striped
black and white like a zebra, which mark the distance in versts from
Viborg, the verst being two-thirds of a mile.
To an unpractised eye the marvelous smoothness and hardness of this
forest highway (unsurpassed by any macadamized road in England) might
suggest a better opinion of the local civilization than it deserves; for
in this case it is the soil, not the administration, that merits all the
credit. In granite-paved Finland, as in limestone-paved Barbados, Nature
has already laid down your road in a way that no human engineering can
rival, and all you have to do is to smooth it to your own liking.
And now the great panorama of the far North--a noble change from the
flat unending monotony of the Russian steppes--begins in all its
splendor. At one moment we are buried in a dark depth of forest, shadowy
and spectral as those which haunt us in the weird outlines of Retzsch;
the next minute we burst upon an open valley, bright with fresh grass,
and with a still, shining lake slumbering in the centre, the whole
picture framed in a background of sombre woods. Here rise giant boulders
of granite, crested with spreading pines--own brothers, perhaps, of the
block dragged hence eighty years ago from which the greatest of Russian
rulers still looks down upon the city that bears his name;[F] there,
bluffs of wooded hill rear themselves above the surrounding sea of
foliage, and at times the roadside is dotted with the little wooden huts
of the natives, whence wooden-faced women, turbaned with colored
handkerchiefs, and white-headed children, in nothing but a short
night-gown with a warm lining of dirt, stare wonderingly at us as we go
striding past. And over all hangs the clear, pearly-gray northern sky.
One hour is past, and still the air keeps moderately fresh, although the
increasing glare warns us that it will be what I once heard a British
tourist call "more hotterer" by and by. So far, however, we have not
turned a hair, and the second hour's work matches the first to an inch.
As we pass through the little hamlet which marks the first quarter of
our allotted distance we instinctively pull out our watches: "Ten miles
in two hours! Not so bad, but we must keep it up."
So we set ourselves to the third hour, and out comes the sun--bright and
beautiful and destroying as Homer's Achilles:
Bright are his rays, but evil fate they send,
And to sad man destroying heat portend.
Hitherto, despite the severity of our pace, we have contrived to keep up
a kind of flying conversation, but now grim silence settles on our way.
There is a point in every match against time when the innate ferocity of
man, called forth by the exercises which civilization has borrowed from
the brute creation, comes to the front in earnest--when your best friend
becomes your deadly enemy, and the fact of his being one stride in
advance of you is an injury only to be atoned by blood. Such is the
precise point that we have reached now; and when we turn from exchanging
malignant looks with each other, it is only to watch with ominous
eagerness for the coming in sight of the painted verst-posts, which
somehow appear to succeed one another far more slowly than they did an
hour ago.
By the middle of the fourth hour we are marching with coats off and
sleeves rolled up, like amateur butchers; and although our "pace" is as
good as ever, the elastic swing of our first start is now replaced by
that dogged, "hard-and-heavy" tramp which marks the point where the
flesh and the spirit begin to pull in opposite directions. Were either
of us alone, the pace would probably slacken at once, and each may
safely say in his heart, as Condorcet said of the dying D'Alembert,
"Had I not been there he _must_ have flinched!"
But just as the fourth hour comes to an end (during which we have looked
at our watches as often as Wellington during the terrible mid-day hours
that preceded the distant boom of the Prussian cannon) we come round a
sharp bend in the road, and there before us lies the quaint little
log-built post-house (the "halfway house" in very truth), with its
projecting roof and painted front and striped doorposts; just at which
auspicious moment I stumble and twist my foot.
"You were right to reserve _that_ performance to the last," remarks
P---- with a grin, helping me to the door; and we order a _samovar_
(tea-urn) to be heated, while we ourselves indulge in a scrambling wash
of the rudest kind, but very refreshing nevertheless.
Reader, did you ever walk five miles an hour for four hours together
over a hilly country, with the thermometer at eighty-three degrees in
the shade? If so, then will you appreciate our satisfaction as we throw
aside our heavy boots, plunge our swollen feet into cold water, and,
with coats off and collars thrown open, sit over our tea and black bread
in that quaint little cross-beamed room, with an appetite never excited
by the best _plats_ of the Erz-Herzog Karl or the Trois Freres
Provencaux. Two things, at least, one may always be sure of finding in
perfection at a Russian post-station: tea is the one; the other I need
not particularize, as its presence does not usually become apparent till
you "retire to rest" (?).
Our meal being over and my foot still unfit for active service, we order
a _telyayga_ (cart) and start anew for Imatra Foss. Our vehicle is
simply a wooden tray on wheels, with a bag of hay in it, on which we do
our best to recline, while our driver perches himself on the edge of the
cart, thereby doubtless realizing vividly the sensation of rowing hard
in a pair of thin unmentionables. Thanks to the perpetual gaps in the
road formed by the great thaw two months ago (the Finnish winter ending
about the beginning of May), during the greater part of the ride we
play an animated though involuntary game of cup-and-ball, being thrown
up and caught again incessantly. At length a dull roar, growing ever
louder and louder, breaks the dreamy stillness of the forest, and before
long we come to a little chalet-like inn embosomed in trees, where we
alight, for this is the "Imatra Hotel."
Let us cast one glance out of the back window before sitting down to
supper (in a long, bare, chilly chamber like a third-class
waiting-room), for such a view is not seen every day. We are on the very
brink of a deep narrow gorge, the upper part of which is so thickly clad
with pines as to resemble the crest of some gigantic helmet, but beneath
the naked granite stands out in all its grim barrenness, lashed by the
spray of the mighty torrent that roars between its projecting rocks.
Just below us, the river, forced back by a huge boulder in the centre of
its course, literally piles itself up into a kind of liquid mound,
foaming, flashing and trembling incessantly, the ceaseless motion and
tremendous din of the rapids having an indescribably bewildering effect.
On quitting our inn the next morning a very picturesque walk of half an
hour brings us to a little hut beside the Saima Ferry, where we find a
party of "three fishers" from St. Petersburg, comprising a Russian
colonel, an ex-chasseur d'Afrique (now an actor at one of the Russian
theatres) and an Englishman. The three give us a cordial welcome, and
insist upon our joining them; and for the next few days our surroundings
are savagely picturesque enough to satisfy Jean-Jacques himself--living
in a cabin of rough-hewn logs plastered with mud, sleeping on a bundle
of straw, with our knapsacks for a pillow; tramping for miles every day
through the sombre pine forest or fishing by moonlight in the shadowy
lake, with the silence of a newly-created world all around; and having
an "early pull" every morning across the ferry with our host, a squat,
yellow-haired, gnome-like creature in sheepskin frock and bark shoes,
who manifests unbounded amazement every time he sees us washing our
hands.
But the lake itself is, if possible, even more picturesque than the
river. It is one of those long, straggling bodies of water so common in
the far North, resembling not so much one great lake as an endless
series of small ones. Just at the sortie of the river a succession of
rapids, scarcely less magnificent than those of the "Foss" itself, rush
between the wooded shores, their unresting whirl and fury contrasting
gloriously with the vast expanse of glassy water above, crested with
leafy islets and mirroring the green boughs that droop over it along the
shore. Here did we spend many a night fishing and "spinning yarns," in
both of which accomplishments the ex-chasseur was pre-eminent; and
strange enough it seemed, lying in the depths of that northern forest,
to listen to descriptions of the treeless sands of Egypt and the burning
wastes of the Sahara. Our midnight camp, on a little promontory just
above the rapids, was a study for Rembrandt--the slender pine-stems
reddened by the blaze of our camp-fire; the group of bearded faces
coming and going as the light waxed and waned; beyond the circle of
light a gloom all the blacker for the contrast; the ghostly white of the
foam shimmering through the leaves, and the clear moonlit sky
overhanging all.
When a wet day came upon us the inexhaustible ex-chasseur (who, like
Frederick the Great, could "do everything but keep still") amused
himself and us with various experiments in cookery, of which art he was
a perfect master. His versatility in sauces might have aroused the envy
of Soyer himself, and the party having brought with them a large stock
of provisions, he was never at a loss for materials. Our ordinary dinner
consisted of trout sauced with red wine, mutton, veal, duck, cheese,
fresh strawberries and coffee; after which every man took his tumbler of
tea, with a slice of lemon in it, from the stove, and the evening began.
_The_ sight of the country, however, is undoubtedly the natives
themselves. Their tawny skins, rough yellow hair and coarse flat faces
would look uninviting enough to those who have never seen a Kalmuck or a
Samoyede, but, despite their diet of dried fish and bread mixed with
sawdust, both men and women are remarkably healthy and capable of
surprising feats of strength and endurance. They make great use of bark
for caps, shoes, plates, etc., in the making of which they are very
skillful. As to their dress, it baffles description, and the horror of
my friend the ex-chasseur at his first glimpse of it was as good as a
play. On one occasion he was criticising severely the "rig" of some
passing natives: "Voila un qui porte un pantalon et point de bottes--un
autre qui a des bottes et point de pantalon; peut-etre que le troisieme
n'aura ni l'un ni l'autre!" At last came one with a pair of boots almost
big enough to go to sea in, and turned up like an Indian canoe. Our
critic eyed them in silence for a moment, and then said with a shudder,
"Ce sont des bottes impossibles!"
But there needs only a short journey here to show the folly of further
annexations on the part of Russia while those already made are so
lamentably undeveloped. Finland, which, rightly handled, might be one of
the czar's richest possessions, is now, after nearly seventy years'
occupation, as unprofitable as ever. Throughout the whole province there
are only three hundred and ninety-eight miles of railway.[G] Post-roads,
scarce enough in the South, are absolutely wanting in the North. Steam
navigation on the Gulf of Bothnia extends only to Uleaborg, and is, so
far as I can learn, actually non-existent on the great lakes, except
between Tanasthuus and Tammerfors. Such is the state of a land
containing boundless water-power, countless acres of fine timber,
countless shiploads of splendid granite. But what can be expected of an
untaught population under two millions left to themselves in an
unreclaimed country nearly as large as France?
Helsingfors can now be reached from St. Petersburg, _via_ Viborg, in
fourteen and a half hours; but what is one such line to the boundless
emptiness of Finland? The fearful lesson of 1869 will not be easily
forgotten, when all the horrors of famine were let loose at once upon
the unhappy province. Seed-corn was exhausted: bread became dear, dearer
still, and then failed altogether. Men, women and children, struggling
over snowy moors and frozen lakes toward the distant towns in which lay
their only chance of life, dropped one by one on the long march of
death, and were devoured ere they were cold by the pursuing wolves. Nor
did the survivors fare much better: some reached the haven of refuge
only to fall dead in its very streets. Others gorged themselves with
unwholesome food, and died with it in their mouths. Fields lying waste;
villages dispeopled; private houses turned into hospitals; fever-parched
skeletons tottering from the doors of overcrowded asylums; children
wandering about in gaunt and squalid nakedness; crowds of men, frenzied
by prolonged misery and ripe for any outrage, roaming the streets night
and day,--such were the scenes enacted throughout the length of Finland
during two months and a half.
But better days are now dawning on the afflicted land. Roads and
railways are being pushed forward into the interior, and the ill-judged
attempts formerly made to Russianize the population have given place to
a more conciliatory policy. A Russian from Helsingfors tells me that
lectures are being delivered there, and extracts from native works read,
in the aboriginal tongue; that it is being treated with special
attention in the great schools of Southern Finland; that there has even
been some talk of dramatic representations in Finnish at the Helsingfors
theatre. Such a policy is at once prudent and generous, and far better
calculated to bind together the heterogeneous races of the empire than
that absurd "Panslavism" which is best translated as "making every one a
slave."
DAVID KER.
FOOTNOTES:
[D] Finland still retains its own currency of "marks" and "pennia."
[E] A fact.
[F] The statue of Peter the Great stands at the corner of the
Senate-House Square, overlooking the Neva, on a block of Finnish granite
twenty feet high.
[G] Since this was written two new lines have been opened.
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.
THE DEAD OF PARIS.
It is an expensive operation to die in Paris, particularly for a
foreigner. If an unhappy American chances to pay the debt of Nature in a
furnished apartment or a hotel, the proprietor makes the heirs of the
deceased pay roundly for the privilege which their relation has enjoyed.
No matter by what manner of death the departed may have made his or her
exit, be it chronic or epidemic--anything so impossible to communicate
as heart disease or apoplexy, for instance--every article in the room
must be paid for at its full value, or rather quadruple that amount. As
much as one thousand dollars has sometimes been charged for the
plenishing of a room, everything in which, if put up at auction, would
not have realized a tenth part of that amount. Through the efforts of
our representatives, however, this tax has been fixed at a somewhat less
exorbitant amount.
Parisian funerals are conducted by a company--which, like most of such
enterprises in France, is a gigantic monopoly--under the direct
supervision of the government. The tariff of its charges includes nine
grades of funerals, at prices ranging from fifteen hundred dollars down
to four dollars. For the first amount the mourners enjoy all the
splendors possible to the occasion--a hearse draped with velvet and
drawn by four horses, each decked with ostrich-plumes and led by a groom
clothed in a mourning livery; velvet draperies sprinkled with silver
tears for the porte-cochere wherein the coffin lies in state; and grand
funeral lamps lit with spirits to flame around the bier at the church.
For the last tariff a pine coffin painted black, a stretcher and two men
to bear the body to the _fosse commune_, are accorded. But between these
two extremes lies every variety of funeral that one can imagine, a very
respectable affair with two mourning carriages being offered for about
sixty dollars. Very few Americans are ever interred in a Paris cemetery,
the prejudices of our nation exacting that the remains of the dead
should be transferred to their native land. To the foreigner this
process appears to be inexplicable, for, as a French gentleman once
remarked to me with a shrug of his shoulders, "Only the Americans and
English are fond of making corpses travel" (_de faire voyager leurs
morts_). They generally prefer to call in the services of the embalmer,
who for a charge of six hundred dollars will do his work wisely if not
too well. Still, there are some graves of our fellow-citizens still
visible even at Pere la Chaise. And at that historic cemetery for years
there existed a beautiful spot, a sort of hollow on the hillside, where
flowers, trees and grass all flourished luxuriantly, thanks to years of
neglect. It was a wild and lovely oasis of Nature in the midst of the
stiff, artificial formality of the rest of the cemetery, and became one
of the sights of the place. Unfortunately, French formality revolted
against the untamed charm of this neglected spot: the proprietor, an
American gentleman, was sought out, the lot was repurchased by the city,
the trees were uprooted, the hollow filled in, and the beautiful ravine
exists no longer.
The Compagnie des Pompes Funebres is obliged to inter the poor
gratuitously; nor is this service light, as the number of free funerals
is considerably greater than that of paying ones. The city pays one
dollar to the company for each pauper funeral. The mass of material
possessed by the company is very great, comprising six hundred vehicles
of all kinds, three hundred horses, six thousand biers or stretchers,
and a vast number of draperies, cushions, torches, etc. Over five
hundred and seventy-five men are employed by this organization. Thanks
to these ample arrangements, the terrible spectacle afforded during the
cholera outbreaks of 1832 and 1849, when the dead were conveyed to the
cemeteries piled in upholsterers' wagons, is not likely to be renewed,
as during the exceptional mortality from the same cause in 1854 and 1865
the arrangements were found to suffice for all demands.
In olden times Paris was full of cemeteries: they were attached to every
hospital and every church. The wealthy were interred in the churches
themselves: in the church of Les Innocents, which was specially affected
by the nobility, the aisles were often crowded with coffins awaiting
their turn to be placed in the overcrowded vaults. Nobody troubled
himself about the sanitary side of the question in those days, as
witness the cemetery of Saint Roch, which in 1763 was established beside
one of the city wells. During the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
cemeteries were popular places of resort. Les Innocents was especially
popular: it was surrounded by arcades, where booths and stores were
established, and people came there to promenade and to amuse themselves.
Nor were private cemeteries unknown, many prominent Jewish and
Protestant families being privileged to inter their dead (to whom the
Church denied burial in consecrated ground) in the gardens attached to
their houses. Thus, when the work of reconstructing Paris under the
Second Empire was begun, the enormous quantity of graves that were
discovered filled the workers with amaze. The bones thus found were at
first transferred to the Western Cemetery, which had been closed for
over twenty years, but the accumulation speedily became unmanageable,
and when a mass of over three thousand square feet of bones had been
deposited there, a decree of the authorities caused the whole and all
similar discoveries to be deposited in the catacombs.
The Revolution did away with the greater part of the intramural
cemeteries by suppressing those attached to the churches and declaring
the ground to be national property: they were consequently parceled out
into lots and sold. But the guillotine created a need for new
burial-grounds, two of which were accordingly established. One, situated
near the Place du Trone, still exists: it occupies the former site of
the gardens of the Dames Chauvinesses de Picpus. After the Revolution it
was purchased by an association of the surviving members of families who
had relatives interred there. This cemetery ought to be a pilgrim shrine
for every American visiting Paris, for it was chosen as a last
resting-place for the remains of La Fayette. The other "garden of the
guillotine," as these cemeteries were once significantly called, has
long since disappeared, but the Chapelle Expiatoire erected to the
memory of Marie Antoinette and of Louis XVI. on the Boulevard Haussmann
now marks its former site. It was there that the bodies of these royal
victims of revolutionary fury were hastily interred in a bed of
quicklime, with a thick layer of quicklime cast over each of them. When,
after the Restoration, the task of exhuming the royal remains was
undertaken, crumbling bones alone remained to point out the
resting-place of the once beautiful daughter of the Caesars and of the
descendant of Saint Louis. The smaller bones of the skeleton of Louis
XVI., in particular, had almost wholly disappeared: that of the queen
was in better preservation, owing to a smaller quantity of quicklime
having been used. Strange to say, her garters, which were of elastic
webbing, were found in a state of almost perfect preservation, while of
the rest of her garments only a few rotting fragments remained. These
garters, together with some pieces of the coffins, were presented as
precious relics to Louis XVIII. But grave doubts have frequently been
expressed, in view of the very slight means of identification afforded
by the state of the remains, as to whether these crumbling relics of
mortality were really those of the king and queen. With the exception of
the plot on which stands the Chapelle Expiatoire, every vestige of the
revolutionary cemetery has long since disappeared. The splendid
Boulevard Haussmann now passes directly over its site, and the gayety
and animation of one of the most brilliant quarters of modern Paris
surround what was once the last resting-place of those who perished by
the guillotine on the Place de la Revolution.
The present system of Parisian cemeteries was only adopted at the
beginning of this century. Paris now possesses twenty, the most
important of which are Pere la Chaise and Montparnasse. The ground of
all of these belongs to the city. You can purchase a lot to be held for
ever, or you can buy a temporary concession, the price varying with the
length of time for which the ground is to be held. Five years is the
shortest period for which a lot can be accorded, as experts declare that
the body is not wholly absorbed into the surrounding earth before that
time.
What shall Paris do with her dead? is now becoming a very serious
question. It is against the law to bury bodies within her limits, yet
fourteen out of her twenty cemeteries are within her bounds, and the
vast city, spreading out on either side, soon catches up with those
established on her exterior territories.
It has been proposed to construct a new and immense cemetery at a
distance of some twenty or thirty miles from the city, to which the
funeral corteges could be transferred by rail. But the strong sentiment
of the French for the dead has as yet prevented the realization of this
very sensible and really necessary project. As a rule, the French are
very fond of visiting the graves of their departed relatives, and on the
great anniversary for such visits, "Le Jour des Morts," it is calculated
that over half a million persons are present in the different cemeteries
during the day. On such occasions not only are wreaths of natural
flowers, of beads and of immortelles deposited on the tombs, but often
the visiting-cards of the persons who have come to pay due respect to
the dead. The tomb of Rachel, for instance, has been specially honored
in that way, some of the visitors even turning up the corner of the card
to show that they had called in person. The question suggests itself,
_What if the visit should be returned?_ Edgar A. Poe might have found in
this idea material for one of his weird and wondrous tales. We all know
what happened when Don Juan in merry fashion begged that the statue of
his former victim would come to take supper with him.
The French authorities have indeed purchased a vast tract of ground at
Mery-sur-Oise, distant from Paris about one hour by rail, with intent to
found there a vast central necropolis, but the prejudices or
indifference of the Parisian populace have as yet prevented the
realization of this project. Something must be done, however, and that
speedily. Were cremation an established fact, that would settle the
whole matter, but the French, who always seem to get an attack of piety
in the wrong place, are horrified at such an idea. It is probable,
therefore, that a law will be adopted, such as is now in force in
Switzerland, making all concessions of burial-lots merely temporary.
Such a law is already talked of, and the duration of the longest
concession is fixed at ten years. A regulation of this kind would of
course do away with much of the elegance of decoration that now
distinguishes the Parisian cemeteries, as few families would care to
erect costly monuments over a grave that must be vacated at the end of
ten years.
L. H. H.
THE RELIGIOUS STRUGGLE AT GENEVA.
Even for a chance resident in Geneva, for a disinterested stranger to
the strife, the Ultramontane and Old Catholic question is no more to be
avoided than the _bise_ which blows in the month of November upon the
just and the unjust. You take the longest way round through the
sheltered streets, if you like, but the terrific north wind is certain
to catch you at the first square you cross. And you may say you have no
particular interest in the war of churches, and no adequate means of
forming a judgment: you still hear a good deal that is said, and read
much that is written, on the burning topic. If a supporter of the ruling
party describes what occurred some months since at Bellerive on the
lake shore, when a company of gendarmes marched into the village, took
possession of the church, set the Swiss cross floating from the steeple
and established the new _cure_ by force of arms, in place of the
Ultramontane incumbent, who had long defied the cantonal authorities and
remained at his post in spite of reiterated orders to depart, the
impression you receive is that of the might and majesty of the law
triumphant. What else can be done, they ask, when the government of the
land is flouted in open scorn? What, indeed? And the counter-display of
banners by the vanquished party on that eventful day illustrated, it
would appear, the well-known step from the sublime to the ridiculous.
Every black rag on which they could lay hands dangled from the windows
of the faithful in sign of distress: not even a petticoat rather the
worse for wear but did duty on the occasion. And yet one thoroughly
convinced of the puerility of such demonstrations may also think that
the Swiss flag itself has been unfurled in causes more glorious.
"The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the Church," say the
persecuted. "Where the government has put in an apostate priest, he
celebrates mass to empty benches: we set up our altar in a barn, and it
is full to overflowing." So far as this city is concerned, the statement
is correct. The place of worship to which the Ultramontanes retired when
driven from the cathedral of Notre Dame may, if they choose, be called a
barn--a large one--and it is furnished with a goodly congregation,
whereas the forty or fifty persons who assemble in their former church
look no more than "a handful of corn upon the mountains." It must be
admitted also that in sowing after the manner of the martyrs the
Ultramontanes are ready and willing, and should the official rigors be
insufficient they will perhaps do a little private bloodletting for the
sake of contributing handsomely to the support of their cause. The
Sisters of Charity, expelled from Geneva last year as exercising a
pernicious influence, are said to have opened all their veins before
they went. Excepting that blood, however, it is not apparent that they
lost a great deal: they merely crossed the boundary into France, can
revisit the scene of their martyrdom whenever they please, and moreover,
in their present quality of strangers, the government has lost the right
of interference with their apparel, so that the stiff white bonnets may
now walk with impunity under the very nose of a _conseiller d'etat_. The
inhabitants of the canton are severely restricted as to costume under
the present regime. No native priest is permitted a distinctive dress,
and where a couple of large hats and long skirts are seen strolling
through the streets, you know they are from over the border. Jesuitism
is not to parade in full uniform, nor is it to lurk privily under never
so humble a roof. In their struggles with the hydra-headed monster the
men in the high places of this canton found themselves lately face to
face with an odd set of opponents. An association of servant-girls,
animated by the spirit of party, had stepped into the vacant quarters of
the Sisters--a locality already confiscated by the government. The
object of the society is praiseworthy: it provides a home for servants
out of place, and nurses and maintains such as are sick or destitute.
Still, the powers that be thought such Christian charity might be
exercised as well elsewhere, and sent a notice to quit, of which the
domestics, with a traditional contempt for lawful authority, made no
account whatever. They were threatened with the police, but still stood
firm, and not until an armed force actually descended upon them did they
retire in good order, bearing one of their company on a mattress. Those
interested in their behalf call attention to the fact that the sick
person had to be transported through the streets on the coldest day of
the season, while the party of the gendarmerie cause it to be understood
that said person only took to her bed when the judicial knock sounded at
the door.
Scandalous wrangling, petty bickering, the zealous wrath of true
conviction on either side,--there is room for them all in a contest like
this, where every one must wear the badge of party in plain sight, and
defend it as best he may, but defend it at all costs. To stand between
two such hostile forces is to be regarded as an enemy by both, and is a
situation that may seem equivocal even to lookers-on. Yet those who
listen habitually to the one man who has chosen that unenviable post can
hardly complain of want of clearness in his own defining of his
position. Pere Hyacinthe is sometimes held to be on the high road to
Protestantism. Any one who went out in the middle of some discourse of
his, and so heard only the warm-hearted, candid confession of sympathy
with all that is excellent among heretics, might carry away such an
impression: those who remain until the inevitable "_mais_" with which
the second proposition begins are convinced that to grasp the hand he
holds out for Church unity the Protestants would have many more steps to
take than he contemplates on his side, and that the meeting could by no
means be a halfway one. Another numerously-supported opinion is that of
his waiting only for a good opportunity to return to the true fold.
Certain it is that at all times and in all places he calls himself a
faithful son of that Church of which, as he ceases not to reiterate, he
has never sought the ruin, but the reform. Who, however, hearing the
scathing apostrophe that follows to the address of the misguided old man
who holds the keys of St. Peter can feel that this son of Rome, devoted
though he be, is very ready to sue for pardon? On the contrary, let the
shepherd repent, then the wandering sheep may come back to the flock. A
weightier charge against him than any other is that of betraying party,
of faithlessly turning his back on the cause he once espoused. But that
cause is still his, as he declares: no one has more at heart the success
of the Old Catholic movement than he, no one a warmer desire to see the
purified Church in the place that is hers of right; but also no one has
a deeper abhorrence of that Church lending herself as a servant to
political intrigues, be the government that sets them on foot called
despotic or republican. And then the Grand Conseil comes in for no
little scorn and contempt. Pere Hyacinthe may be a Jesuit in disguise,
or a Calvinist at heart, or a broken reed that pierces the hand of him
who leans on it; but there is still another hypothesis: he may be a man
endowed with the rare gift of seeing all sides of a question with equal
impartiality, and one not to be deterred by any party considerations
from speaking his free opinion: in that case it is certain that he would
find no place in either of the factions at variance in this
commonwealth.
How large the number of those who followed Pere Hyacinthe when he took
up his present isolated position it would be difficult to estimate, for
the services at the Casino are attended by others besides his own flock;
Sunday after Sunday the barren concert-hall is filled, but many faces
wear an expectant look that distinguishes them as passing strangers from
the frequenters of the place; and when the mass begins there is evident
doubt in the minds of some how far loyalty to their own simpler forms
permits them to unite in this worship. They solve the question by
standing up whenever a change of position seems to be called for; and in
fact to kneel in the narrow, crowded seats is almost impossible, so that
the front row, with more space at its disposal, may be properly expected
to act as proxy for all the rest. There comes a moment, however, that
unites Catholic and Protestant under one spell: it is when the first
word falls from the lips of the great speaker. Whatever the subject,
whether Catholic reform or the state of the soul after death, a
breathless stillness bears witness to enchained attention. Such a theme
as the latter must lead far from the daily ways of thought that many
tread who listen: when the silver tongue ceases, one may murmur to
another, "Mystical!" and yet a very untranscendental mind, borne upward
for the moment by that wondrous eloquence, might well catch some vision
of a mysterious bond between the Church militant and the Church
triumphant--might all but feel a tie linking that strangely-mingled
assemblage with the Blessed Company of All Saints.
G. H. P.
THE COMING ELECTIONS IN FRANCE.
The crisis brought about in France by Marshal MacMahon's _coup de
palais_ of May 16, 1877, has thrown the country just four years back.
Circumstances widely different in character from those which caused the
overthrow of M. Thiers on May 24, 1873, have once more placed the
government in the hands of men of whom the Republic might well have
thought itself for ever rid. At that time the blow was struck by a
parliamentary majority. This time it is the representative of the
executive power who has thought fit to interfere, seeking to substitute
an authoritative for a parliamentary government. When MacMahon assumed
power he declared that his post was that of "a sentinel who has to watch
over the integrity of your sovereign powers;" but it would appear as
though the recollection of his own earlier career, his clerical
associations and other secret influences at work, had made him ambitious
to occupy a higher position. From the post of sentinel he leaps to that
of generalissimo; and there can be little doubt as to the cause which
the transition is intended to serve.
There is no longer anything to fear from the Legitimists: the
death-knell of that party was rung by the Count de Chambord's famous
letter of October 30, 1873, declaring his continued adherence to Bourbon
principles. Nor is aught to be apprehended from the Orleanists.
They--the Centre-Right in the two houses--long hesitated whether to cast
in their lot with the Republic, which would annihilate them by
absorption with the Centre-Left, or to join the ranks of the so-called
Conservatives, who are undoubtedly destined to swamp them in the stream
of imperialism. After much swaying to and fro they have, it would seem,
at length determined to follow their usual party tactics and go over
bodily to the side which appears to them to present the least immediate
danger--viz., the Imperialist. There is no disguising the matter. The
battle this time will be between the Republicans and the Bonapartists.
M. Gambetta, in the course of his eloquent speech of May 4, 1877,
cried, "Le clericalisme, voila l'ennemi." Powerful, however, as is the
clerical party to embarrass, it is not strong enough at the urns to
over-turn the Republic. Imperialism alone can hope to do that when,
arrayed in fight against the present form of government, it seeks to win
over to its side the country population, those six million electors for
the most part owners of the soil they till, and on whose decision hinges
to a large extent the future of France. These _paysans_ will vote for
one of two things--the Republic or the Empire, the marshal-president
before the 16th of May, or the marshal-president who "belongs to the
Right."
In France this is, in some degree at least, understood, and even now
each party is mustering all its forces so as to be prepared for the
October elections. The Republicans are already well organized, with
their committees and sub-committees awaiting the instructions of their
leader. They will proceed to the polls encouraged by their success at
the last elections, taking credit for the tranquil state of France up to
the 16th of May, 1877, setting forth their moderation when in power, the
guarantees they have given for the maintenance of order, and the almost
unanimous approbation their conduct of affairs has met with at the hands
of the foreign press.
The Bonapartists will put on their panoply of battle, strong in the
support of the marshal, his prefects, his mayors and the cohorts of
inferior appointees, such as the gendarmes, the rural constabulary, and
all that powerful mechanism at the disposal of a government which sets
up official candidates with the avowed intention of carrying the
elections by the almost irresistible force of French centralization. All
who have seen in motion that formidable political machine called a
French prefecture know what this implies. It will be recollected that
nearly all the prefects have been changed since the 16th of May. The
prefect is appointed by the Minister of the Interior, and receives from
him every day by telegraph the word of command, while the post brings
him official circulars. These orders he in turn communicates to his
subordinates, the mayors. The mayors are, it is true, not all appointed
by the prefects, those in the rural districts being elected by the town
councils. Nevertheless, they are all more or less under the thumb of the
prefects. They need the prefect's signature almost every day to stamp
some official act; they require government grants for the maintenance of
schools, roads and other purposes in their communes; they dare not
offend the prefects, under penalty of having men appointed as rural
constables, mayors' secretaries and letter-carriers who shall be so many
enemies of the mayors and shall thwart them at every step. The prefect
thus exercises enormous influence in every commune, both over the mayor
and the lower class of appointees. He likewise holds in subjection in
the various districts the justices of the peace, whose appointments can
be revoked at will should they vote against orders or fail to use their
influence on behalf of the official candidate. The prefect also reigns
supreme over the brigades of foot and mounted gendarmerie scattered
throughout his department. Of course, the gendarmes do not follow a man
to the poll to see that he votes to order, but both the gendarmes and
the rural constables understand that they are to act as gently toward
the liquor-sellers who vote as they are bidden as they are to proceed
rigorously against those who contend for the right of private judgment.
If the latter get into trouble, they must be made an example of, whereas
should the supporters of the official candidates have broken the law,
matters may easily be arranged. Besides these instruments, the prefect
has his newspaper, containing articles carefully prepared beforehand at
Paris, which he has distributed gratuitously among the electors during
the whole of the campaign. This newspaper enjoys the patronage of the
judicial and official advertisements, for the insertion of which,
American readers need scarcely be told, it receives very handsome pay.
Even the post-office is made to join in the conspiracy against the
opposition candidate, and it is no rare occurrence for the newspapers
and the voting tickets issued by the anti-official party to be held back
at the post-office until the day after the election.
All these means, and others besides, are used to intimidate the country
population. The strength of the administration is paraded before them. A
great show of energy--or, to use the expressive French word, _de
poigne_--is made. This is done in order that the French peasant,
instinctively attracted by a display of power and repelled by an
exhibition of weakness, may cast his vote for the man who appears to be
the stronger candidate, and who enjoys the friendship of Monsieur le
Prefet.
In February, 1876, M. Buffet, then Minister of the Interior, only
employed the means above described sparingly and stealthily. The favor
with which he viewed the aspirations of the clerical party caused him to
allow the Bonapartist machine to get somewhat rusty. In October, 1877,
M. de Fourtou, the Bonapartist Minister of the Interior, selected by the
marshal and his advisers as the fittest for the post, will, we may rest
assured, make ample use of the levers of administrative centralization.
His past career furnishes evidence that he will not hesitate an instant
to declare as the official nominee, and energetically to support, any
anti-Republican candidate having the least chance of success. Under such
circumstances in almost every electoral district in the north, centre
and west of France there will be a Bonapartist candidate. The situation
insensibly recalls Dryden's well-known lines:
To further this, Achitophel unites
The malcontents of all the Israelites,
Whose differing parties he could wisely join
For several ends to serve the same design.
Even in 1876, when they were left to their own resources, the
Imperialists were able to carry the election of about a hundred of their
adherents. Now, with one of their own party as the leading wire-puller,
and with the aid of the not over-scrupulous _prefets a poigne_--who have
scarcely forgotten the instruction they received during Napoleon's
reign--the Imperialists will not despair of getting another one hundred
and fifty, perhaps even two hundred, members into the Chamber.
C. H. H.
VON MOLTKE IN TURKEY.
Artemus Ward, giving his reasons for approving of G. Washington, adduced
the pleasing fact that "George never slopped over." Had that king of
jokers ever uttered a "sparkling remark" about H. von Moltke (as we may
be sure he would have done if he had lived until now), it would most
probably have conveyed a very similar idea in equally scintillating
language. It is currently reported of the last-named gentleman that he
"keeps silence in seven languages." Like the great William of Orange, he
is popularly nicknamed in his own country "the silent man" (_der
Schweiger_). Perhaps this habitual reticence is one reason why his
utterances are received--when he speaks at all--by his countrymen
generally with such deep respect and interest; for even the all-powerful
Bismarck cannot command, among Germans, a stricter attention to his
speeches. And with regard to military subjects at least, it is natural
that the rest of the world should not be altogether indifferent to what
the famous strategist may have to say.
But this ability to refrain from utterance did not, at an earlier period
of his life, prevent his doing what is traditionally asserted to gratify
a man's enemies; and patriotic Frenchmen ought to be glad to know that
he once wrote a book. Indeed, he has written more than one, but there is
one of his productions which is now attracting a great deal of
attention. This work is entitled "_Letters on the State of, and Events
in, Turkey, from 1835 to 1839_. By Helmuth von Moltke, Captain on the
General Staff, afterward General and Field-marshal." At least this is
the title under which the book has lately been republished at Berlin.
The original designation was a little less overpowering, but quite huge
enough, apparently, to smother the young literary effort; for it died
quickly, and though some forty years have passed since the first edition
appeared (with a warm recommendation from the eminent geographer Karl
Ritter), yet the one just issued is only the second. It is now preceded
by a short introduction written for the publishers at their urgent
request; and no more widely-popular book has appeared in Germany for
many years. The people take a vast amount of pleasure in reading the
descriptions of their staid, soldierly old field-marshal attired in
Oriental garb and figuring among scenes which might have been taken from
the _Arabian Nights_.
But, aside from any personal considerations, the book is really a very
interesting and valuable one, and unquestionably deserved a better fate
than that which overtook it at first. And now that everything connected
with Turkey possesses a special interest for the world at large, it will
well repay a careful perusal.
"Captain" von Moltke went to Turkey in the thirty-fifth year of his age,
and at a time when the public interest in that country was hardly less
active than it has been lately. The war of 1828 and 1829, and Sultan
Mahmud II.'s energetic action in fighting his foes and undertaking vast
internal reforms, had caused the attention of the world to be
concentrated upon his affairs. The young German staff-officer intended
spending only a few weeks in the Ottoman empire. But the sultan was
anxious to avail himself of the services of just such men, and the offer
of an appointment as _musteschar_ ("imperial councilor") was too
tempting for Von Moltke to refuse. Installed in his office, he soon made
his value apparent to both the sultan and Chosrew Pasha, the seraskier,
who was in high favor at court, and in a short time a vast number and
variety of duties were assigned to him. Was a difficult bridge-building
project to be carried out, he was the man to make it a success; did the
sultan's palace need to have another tower perched upon it, he must
direct the work: in fact, it seemed to be the prevailing impression that
the advice and assistance of "Moltke Pasha" were good things to have in
any situation.
His good standing in high government circles made him much sought after
by Turkish subordinate officials, who hoped to make use of his interest
to their own advantage. According to the common custom in that part of
the world, they sent him presents in great numbers. Horses enough were
given to him to mount a whole company of cavalry, and not unfrequently
also these propitiatory offerings took the form of hard cash. He asserts
that any hesitation about accepting these donations would merely have
convinced the givers that he thought them too small; and he was
therefore obliged to resort to the expedient of dividing them among his
servants and employes. These proceedings won for him the honorable
distinction of being considered _delih_, which may be translated by the
popular expression "cracked." Among other delicate attentions offered to
him as a stranger was the infliction of the bastinado upon certain
criminals in his presence and with a view to his gratification. Certain
Greeks, who were thus made to take a very important part in getting the
entertainment to the foreigner _on foot_, were considerately allowed a
very liberal reduction in the number of blows they were to receive,
which was only twenty-five hundred!
But, in addition to such diversions, Von Moltke's experiences in Turkey
included many opportunities to become thoroughly acquainted with the
face of the country and the characteristics of the various races
inhabiting it. He accompanied the sultan during an extensive tour made
by the latter among the Christian provinces, and gives an interesting
account of the journey. At another time he was sent to Syria, where the
royal forces were operating against Ibrahim Pasha, and here it was that
the future great general went through his first campaign. That it ended
in a most disastrous defeat for the side upon which he was enlisted does
not seem to have been due to any want of energy on his part. Soon after
this he gave up his post under the Turkish government and returned to
his native land.
W. W. C.
PUNCHING THE DRINKS.
The latest move upon John Barleycorn's works is engineered by the
legislative wisdom of the Old Dominion. It consists in a bell-punch on
the model, embalmed already in poetry, of the implement which forms the
most conspicuous feature of the street-car conductor's outfit. The
disappearance of each drink is to be announced to all within hearing by
a sprightly peal on a kind of joy-bell Edgar A. Poe lived too soon to
include in his tintinnabulatory verses. The chimes vary in intensity and
glee according to the magnitude of the event they at once celebrate and
record. Lager elicits but a modest jingle, whisky unadorned is honored
with a louder greeting, and the arrival of an artistic cobbler at the
seat of thirst is the signal for a triple bob-major of the most
brilliant vivacity. On a court day, an election day or a circus day the
air will vibrate to the incessant and inspiriting clangor; and as in one
part or another of the Commonwealth one at least of those festivals so
dear to freemen is in blast always, the din will be ended only by
midnight, resounding over her whole surface from daylight to the
witching hour.
J.B.'s assailants, and their modes of attack, are innumerable. Every
foot of his enceinte is scarred with the dint of siege, and from every
battlement "the flight of baffled foes" he has "watched along the
plain." Sap and storm have alike failed to bring down his rosy colors.
Father Mathew, Gough, the Sons of Temperance, the Straight-Outs,--where
are they? He stands intact and defiant. Should he surrender, it will be
a wondrous triumph, and all the more so for the simplicity of the means.
The marvel will be, as with Columbus and the egg, why everybody did not
think of it long ago.
The way once opened, all will flock in. Divines, statesmen, moralists
and financiers will all strike for the new placer. The moral reformers
will brandish aloft the tinkling weapon, enthusiastic in their
determination to use it to the utmost and bring down tippling to a
minimum. Lawmakers and tax-gatherers will rejoice over a new and fertile
source of revenue, and pile upon it impost on impost, secure of the
approval of the most grumbling of tax-payers. To the new fiscal and
moral California all will flock.
The extent of the revolution is as little to be estimated in advance as
was that caused by Columbus's voyage. Strong drink pervades all
civilized lands. It is a universal element, the elimination of which
must produce changes impossible to be calculated or foreseen. Should the
grand moral results anticipated follow, the difference between civilized
man and his sober savage fellow will be widened. Progress will no longer
be handicapped, and will press forward with accelerated speed. Its path
will cease to be strewn with broken fortunes, happiness and bottles.
Policemen and criminal courts will lose, according to standard
statistics, four-fifths of their occupation. In that proportion the
cause of virtue will gain. Mankind will be four hundred per cent. more
honest and peaceable than before the passage of the whisky-punch bill.
With the public treasury full, and the detective, the juryman and the
shyster existent only in a fossil state, the millennium will have been,
as the phrase runs, discounted.
But we run foul of the inevitable and inexorable _If_. Is the machine
invented that is to do such work? Is it within the reach of any
combination of springs, ratchets and clappers? Is the leviathan of
strong drink to be hooked after that fashion--a bit put in his mouth and
the monster made to draw the car of state? We shall see. The end would
justify much more ponderous and hazardous means, and the chance is worth
taking. Independent of the general blessing to mankind involved in the
punch idea, Virginia proposes in it a special benefit to herself; and
that of course is her chief motive. States so very much in debt as she
is are not prone to quixotic philanthropy. Should this novel form of
taxation assist in paying the interest on her bonds, she will patiently
wait for the secondary, if broader, good accruing to the world at large.
Men, she argues, who are able to indulge in stimulants are able to pay
their debts, and at least their share of the public debt. Each click of
the bell proclaims her adoption of this theory, and at the same time her
anxiety to find some means of satisfying her creditors. If she can
cancel at once her bonds and Barleycorn, so much the better.
E. B.
THE NAUTCH-DANCERS OF INDIA.
The Prince of Wales was severely censured by some of the English
journals for dignifying by his presence the nautch-dancing of India.
These performances are peculiar to the country and its religion, and
constitute so important a part of the marvels of the East that few male
travelers at least fail to witness them. Probably the prince saw no good
reason why he should forego any of the benefits of sightseeing
vouchsafed to the ordinary traveler. Dancing has always been an
important feature of the ceremonial worship of most Oriental peoples.
Every temple of note in India has attached to it a troop of
nautch-dancers. According to Mr. Sellen, the author of _Annotations of
the Sacred Writing's of the Hindus_ (London, 1865), these young girls
are "early initiated into all the mysteries of their profession. They
are instructed in dancing and vocal and instrumental music, their chief
employment being to chant the sacred hymns and perform nautches before
their god on the recurrence of high festivals." One of the English
papers declared that "witnessing the physical contortions of half-nude
prostitutes" was hardly a commendable amusement in the future sovereign
of Great Britain. But this is hardly just. Vile as the calling of the
nautch-women may be--and one of their duties is to raise funds for the
aggrandizement of the temple to which they are attached by selling
themselves in its courts--it does not degrade like ordinary prostitution
where all society shuns and abhors its votary. In India both priest and
layman respect the calling of the nautch-girls as one advancing the
cause of religion. It is possible, therefore, to see that their moral
nature is, in a sense, sustained by self-respect. "Being always women of
more or less personal attractions, which are enhanced," says the same
author, "by all the seductions of dress, jewels, accomplishments and
art, they frequently receive large sums for the favors they grant, and
fifty, one hundred, and even two hundred, rupees have been known to be
paid to these sirens at one time." Nor is this very much to be wondered
at if it be true that they comprise among their number "some of the
loveliest women in the world."
M. H.
LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
The Two Americas: An Account of Sport and Travel, with Notes
on Men and Manners, in North and South America. By Major Sir
Rose Lambart Price, Bart. Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott &
Co.
It would hardly be inferred from such a title that the duodecimo in
large print which assumes to discuss the New World is occupied with the
diary of a tour in a gunboat from Rio de Janeiro through Magellan's
Straits and up the west coast of South America to San Diego, and thence
by stage and railway to San Francisco, Salt Lake and Chicago. An
exploration of this character could not be exhaustive, and the
successors of the gallant major will find an abundance of matter left in
the twin continents for much larger books with much smaller titles.
It must be said, in justice to the writer, that the pretentiousness of
his book is only skin-deep. It "thunders in the index," but disappears
after the front page. He makes no claim to profundity, and is satisfied
to be an authority among Nimrods rather than with statesmen and
philosophers. The rod and gun suit his hand better than the pen, and he
takes not the least trouble to disguise the fact. Style is the very
least of his cares: we should almost judge, indeed, that he likes to
parade his contempt for it. The pronoun _who_ he constantly applies to
animals, from a sheep to a shellfish. Of the Uruguayan thistles he
notes: "The abundance of this weed was quite surprising, and consisted
chiefly of two kinds." The gentleman of color he invariably mentions as
a _nigger_--a word as strange to ears polite in America, and perhaps as
natural to them in England, as _nasty_. He plucks at Sir G. Wolseley's
laurels won in "licking a few miserable niggers in Ashantee."
But literary vanities can be despised by a man who drops a prong-horned
antelope at one thousand and ninety yards; overtakes by swimming, and
captures, a turtle in mid-ocean; finishes with a single ball a grizzly
_who_ had put to flight the settlers of half a county in Idaho; stalks a
guanaco in Patagonia nine feet high to the top of the head; and catches
in one day's fishing, "the only day I really worked hard, twenty-seven
California salmon, weighing three hundred and twenty-four pounds." The
majesty of the facts utterly overshadows any little blemishes in the
method of stating them. Truth so grand might well afford to present
itself quite naked, as Truth poetically does--much more somewhat
defective in the cut of its garments.
Sir Rose Price is a cosmopolitan sportsman, having hunted the jungles of
India, the swamps of Eastern Africa and China, the fjelds of Norway, and
most other fields of "mimic war." As usual with persons of that taste,
he enjoys perfect health, and, like most persons who know that great
blessing, he is full of bonhommie and looks on the rosy side of things.
Mosquitoes he dislikes: he denounces also the modern Peruvians. But his
chief bitterness is reserved for the unhappy gunboat, the Rocket, which
took eight months to get him to San Diego, and spent half an hour in
turning round. Whether or not that particular segment of England's
wooden walls was built in the eclipse, no reader of Sir Rose's book will
doubt that she is rigged with curses dark. When he leaves her a cloud
seems to be lifted from his soul. Everything thereafter is delightful,
if we except the climate of San Francisco, which he abominates as windy
and extreme in its daily changes, and the social system which prevails
under Brigham Young. The "big trees" transport him; the California
stage-drivers are unapproachable in the world; the officers of the
United States army treat him with the most assiduous and unvaried
courtesy and hospitality; the ladies of both coasts of the United
States are unrivaled for beauty; and "the more one sees of America, both
of people and country, the better one likes both." He sums up in the
following climax: "Should any visit America after reading these lines,
let me advise them to pay particular attention to three subjects--_i.
e._, canvas-back ducks, terrapin and madeira. This to the uninitiated is
a hint worth remembering." The last word, we take it, refers to the wine
of that name, which we had thought was still in process of very slow
recovery from the eclipse of twenty-five years ago. The major, however,
knows wine, and speaks impartially of it. The wines of California he
damns unreservedly: the Californians themselves, he says, never drink
them.
Sir Rose Price became intimate with the brave and unfortunate Custer. He
was to have joined that officer on the expedition which terminated so
fatally. His "traps were packed" and he was ready to start, when, as he
states it, a singular train of untoward events interposed and saved his
scalp. Secretary Belknap was impeached--General Custer was summoned to
Washington and gave testimony unfavorable to the accused. General
Grant's alleged disgust thereat caused Custer to be deprived of
independent command and the power of appointing a staff. Hence _The Two
Americas_ and one scalp less at the belt of Sitting Bull.
Bryan Waller Procter (Barry Cornwall): An Autobiographical
Fragment and Biographical Notes; with Personal Sketches of
Contemporaries, Unpublished Lyrics, and Letters of Literary
Friends. Boston: Roberts Brothers.
Neither the biographer nor the critic finds it easy to get a good grip
on a personal or literary career so little marked by salient features as
that of Procter. The lives of few individuals have rolled on more evenly
than his did for the round eighty years which made its term. Not of high
or of low birth, rich or poor, feeble or vigorous in health, a man of
the world or a recluse, ardent or cold in emotions, his figure is
strangely wanting in light and shade. As a poet and a thinker his
character is equally evasive. His verse can rarely be pronounced
decidedly feeble or commonplace, and never lofty or thrilling. He will
be remembered by two or three short poems tender in fancy and soft in
finish. Inquirers who are tempted by these to explore the rest of his
productions will find them readable, but not memorable, and will wonder
at learning that a tragedy of Procter's attained a success on the London
stage denied to either of Tennyson's.
The poet will go down to posterity under an assumed name, that under
which he was almost exclusively known to readers of his own day. Thus
buried under an anonym, and gravitating at all points toward mediocrity,
it is odd that so much interest should centre in his life and works as
we actually find to exist. This interest may be mainly ascribed to his
surroundings. Like Rogers, he shines by reflected light. He numbered
among his friends or acquaintances, in varied shades of intimacy, almost
every celebrity in British literature during two generations. To these
were added leading representatives of the fine arts, music and the
drama--Mendelssohn, Lawrence, Landseer, Turner, the Kembles, Edmund
Kean. It was a notable visiting-list that embraced all the Lake school,
Byron, Dickens, Thackeray, the two Lyttons, Scott, Sydney Smith and a
number of others as incongruous in time and tenets. Good taste,
amiability, the means and disposition to entertain, would have sufficed,
with the aid of less of intellectual and imaginative power than Procter
possessed, to keep him in good companionship with men like these, who
felt the need of a common professional rallying-point in the metropolis.
He avoided collision with any of their crotchets and idiosyncrasies. His
antipathies were few, and what he had he was generally successful in
repressing. De Quincey seems to have been lowest in his estimation. The
genial Elia and the fiery Hazlitt divided his especial and lasting
attachment.
Procter was always haunted by the very natural impression that he owed
to the world some use of the opportunities afforded him for the study of
mind and character by such a concourse of leading men. But he failed to
make even a move toward the discharge of that task until a short time
before the close of his life. The results, slight as they are, form
perhaps the most interesting section of the book before us. It embraces
short notices of Byron, Rogers, Crabbe, the three chief Lakers, Leigh
Hunt, Hazlitt, Carlyle, Haydon, Campbell, Moore and a few others.
Coleridge, we are told, had a "prodigious amount of miscellaneous
reading" always at command, and forgot everything in the pleasure of
hearing himself talk when he could secure an audience. Wordsworth's
poverty at one period of his life is illustrated by his having been met
emerging from a wood with a quantity of hazelnuts which he had gathered
to eke out the scanty dinner of his family. Doubtless he had collected
finer things than nuts, if less available for material sustenance.
Wordsworth, breakfasting with Rogers, excused his being late by saying
he had been detained by one of Coleridge's long monologues. He had
called so early on Coleridge, he explained, because he was to dine with
him that evening. "And," said Rogers, "you wanted to draw the sting out
of him beforehand." Campbell was in society cautious, stiff and precise,
like much of his verse, but was subject to occasional outbreaks,
analogous to the "Battle of the Baltic" and "Ye Mariners of England."
Crabbe resembled Moore in his passion for lords. Walter Scott was big,
broad, easy and self-poised, like one of his own historical novels. He
impressed Procter more than any of the rest as great, and consciously
great. Leigh Hunt was "essentially a gentleman;" he "treated all people
fairly, yet seldom or never looked up to any one with much respect;" and
"his mind was feminine rather than manly, without intending to speak
disrespectfully of his intellect."
Part IV. of the book is devoted to selections from letters written to
Procter. Jeffrey, Byron, Carlyle and Beddoes are the chief
correspondents quoted. Those from Byron are strongly Byronesque, but
give us no new points, unless in the high moral tone he assumes in
defending _Don Juan_. That poem does, he avers, no injustice to the
English aristocracy, which he maintains to have been at that time the
most profligate in Europe. The prominent details of the queen's trial
and others like it would "in no other country have been _publicly_
tolerated a moment." Was it Byron's theory, then, that all kinds of
morality are merely relative, and the outgrowth of local conditions?
The materials at the command of the editor of this book were obviously
very meagre. Yet it has undoubted value. If neither a corner-stone, a
voussoir nor a capital, it has at least its place in the edifice which
forms the literary history of the nineteenth century. Beyond that value
it has merit as the simple record of a life enriched by the charms of
poetry and elegant taste and the social and domestic charities.
Turkey. By James Baker, M.A., Lieutenant-Colonel Auxiliary
Forces, formerly Eighth Hussars. New York: Henry Holt & Co.
The announcement of this book as "a companion volume to Wallace's
_Russia_" provokes a comparison greatly to its disadvantage. The
qualities most conspicuous in Mr. Wallace's work, thoroughness of
exposition, skillful arrangement, breadth of view and mastery of
details, are wholly wanting in Colonel Baker's _Turkey_. The information
which it gives from the author's personal observation is fragmentary and
disappointing; the matter gleaned from other sources is chiefly
surplusage; the expressions of opinion indicate positiveness rather than
keen insight or impartial judgment; and, what renders the contrast still
more striking, the book as evidently owes its dimensions, if not its
existence, to the immediate interest of the subject as Mr. Wallace's
work was the slowly-ripened fruit of long and patient study, and its
opportune appearance a fortuitous advantage that added little to its
attractiveness. It is, however, no ground for condemning a book that it
has been written to supply information for which there is a present
demand; and if Colonel Baker had confined himself to telling us what he
knew, and his publishers had refrained from exciting undue expectations,
the contribution might have been accepted thankfully for what it was
worth, without special complaint in regard to its deficiencies. About
half the book is readable, and this includes some portions which,
besides being interesting, derive a special value from the author's
qualifications for speaking authoritatively on the points discussed in
them. He traveled somewhat extensively in Bulgaria; he purchased and
cultivated an estate in the neighborhood of Salonica, and was thus
brought into those relations of landlord, employer and taxpayer which
entail a certain familiarity with the workings of the administrative
machinery and with the habits and feelings of the rural population; and,
finally, as a soldier, he writes with full comprehension and
intelligence on the military resources of the country and the prospects
of the war which was seen to be inevitable when his book went to press.
In reference to the last point, he even sketches a plan of defence which
it seems not improbable may be that which the government will adopt, if
its own collapse or the intervention of other powers does not bring the
struggle to a speedier termination or an unforeseen issue. He considers
the Danube with its defences as offering no obstacle of importance to
the overwhelming forces preparing to cross it. The Balkan affords
numerous passes which may be traversed at all seasons except in the
depth of winter, and no points of defence that may not easily be turned.
But after crossing this range the Russians will be more than three
hundred miles from their base, and all their supplies will have to be
brought over the mountains. Their numbers will have been so diminished
by sickness and by the large detachments necessary for masking the
fortresses in their rear, that out of the four hundred thousand with
which Colonel Baker supposes them to open the campaign, they cannot be
expected to operate with more than one hundred thousand south of the
Balkan. They will still have a difficult country before them, and from
Burgas, on the Black Sea, where Colonel Baker proposes the establishment
of an entrenched camp, to be constantly supplied and reinforced by
water-transport from Constantinople, their flanks may be harassed and
their communications threatened, making it impossible for them to march
on Adrianople before ridding themselves of this danger. "It may be
argued," says Colonel Baker, "that this plan of defence would be giving
over a large portion of the empire to Russian occupation, but the answer
is, that Turkey, being in command of the Black Sea, could strangle all
Russian commerce in those waters until that power released her grip of
the Ottoman throat." But whatever be the merit or the feasibility of
this plan, it presupposes not only a design on the part of Russia to
advance upon Constantinople, which is doubtful, but a degree of energy
in the Turkish government and military commanders which it is almost
certain does not exist. The Ottoman power is to all appearance perishing
of inanition, and the mere hastening of its dissolution through external
shocks is not to be deprecated. But it is puerile to imagine that this
will be the only or chief result of the war now going on, if not
arrested by intervention in one form or another. In the delicate and
complicated relations of the European states the dismemberment of one
empire and the aggrandizement of another are not such changes as can
occur without affecting the whole system, and that harmony of action
which it was found impossible to secure as a means of averting war is
not likely to show itself when some decisive catastrophe shall have
developed the possibilities to be hoped or apprehended, brought
conflicting interests into play and suggested new combinations. Whether
a different course, with joint action, on the part of the powers that
now affect neutrality would have led to a more satisfactory result, is
itself a mere matter of speculation; but out of England few persons will
be disposed to agree with Colonel Baker in putting on Russia the whole
responsibility both of the war and of the events which are pleaded as
the justification of it. While conceding the corruption, apathy and
general incompetence of the Turkish government, he contends that
oppression is the exception, not the rule, that the chief mischiefs have
sprung directly from Russian intrigue, that the country has been making
rapid progress in many ways, and that time alone might safely have been
trusted to bring about all desirable reforms. So far as the general
condition of the people is concerned, his statements are entitled to
weight. But beyond the limits of his own experience his boldness in
assertion will not incline the reader to accept him as a safe guide. His
book would have left a far more favorable impression had he confined
himself to the description of what he saw and the relation of his own
adventures, leaving Turkish history and political speculations to
writers of a different class.
_Books Received._
The Music Reader; or, The Practice and Principles of the Art, especially
adapted to Vocal Music. For the use of Schools, Classes and Private
Instruction. By Leopold Meignen and Wm. W. Keys. Philadelphia: W. H.
Boner & Co., Agts.
Standard Facts and Figures; or, What you Do Know! What you Don't Know!!
What you Want to Know!!! (Revised and enlarged edition.) Edited by A. G.
Sullivan. New York: Morton & Dumont.
The Divine Order of the Universe, as interpreted by Emanuel Swedenborg;
with especial relation to Modern Astronomy. By Rev. Augustus Clissold,
M. A. London: Longmans, Green & Co.
From Traditional to Rational Faith; or, The Way I came from Baptist to
Liberal Christianity. By R. Andrew Griffin. (Town-and-Country Series.)
Boston: Roberts Brothers.
The Life, Times and Character of Oliver Cromwell. (Half-Hour Series.) By
the Right Honorable E. H. Knatchbull-Hugessen, M. P. New York: Harper &
Bros.
How to Teach according to Temperament and Mental Development; or,
Phrenology in the School-room and the Family. By Nelson Sizer. New York:
S. R. Wells & Co.
Rise of the People and Growth of Parliament, 1215-1485: Epochs of
English History. By James Rowley, M. A. (Harper's Half-Hour Series.) New
York: Harper & Bros.
Imaginary Conversations. By Walter Savage Landor. (Fourth Series.)
Dialogues of Literary Men, of Famous Women, etc. Boston: Roberts
Brothers.
Peru: Incidents of Travel and Exploration in the Land of the Incas, By
E. George Squier, M. A., F. S. A. New York: Harper & Brothers.
A Winter Story. By Miss Peard, author of "The Rose Garden."
(Town-and-Country Series.) Boston: Roberts Brothers.
That Lass o' Lowrie's. By Frances Hodgson Burnett. Illustrated by Alfred
Fredericks. New York: Scribner, Armstrong & Co.
Shakespeare's Tragedy of Macbeth. Edited, with Notes, by William J.
Rolfe, A. M. New York: Harper & Brothers.
Aloys. By B. Auerbach. Translated by Charles T. Brooks. (Leisure-Hour
Series.) New York: Henry Holt & Co.
Steam Injectors: Their Theory and Use. From the French of M. Leon
Pochet. New York: D. Van Nostrand.
Academy Sketches, Exhibition of 1877. With Descriptive Notes by "Nemo."
New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.
Miss Nancy's Pilgrimage: A Story of Travel. By Virginia W. Johnson. New
York: Harper & Brothers.
Mark Twain's Adhesive Scrap Book. By Samuel L. Clemens. New York: Slote,
Woodman & Co.
Transmission of Power by Wire Ropes. By Albert W. Stahl, M. E. New York:
D. Van Nostrand.
Dot and Dime. Two Characters in Ebony. By One who Knows all about them.
Boston: Loring.
Hours with Men and Books. By William Mathews, LL.D. Chicago: S. C.
Griggs & Co.
Bessie Lang. By Alice Corkran. (Leisure-Hour Series.) New York: Henry
Holt & Co.
Annual Report of the Chief Signal-Officer for 1876. Washington:
Government Printing office.
Will it Be? By Mrs. Helen J. Ford. (Loring's Tales of the Day.) Boston:
Loring.
My Lady-Help, and What she Taught me, By Mrs. Warren. Boston: Loring.
A Modern Mephistopheles. (No-Name Series.) Boston: Roberts Brothers.