the parish, some twenty miles away. The sky seems brighter and the
grass more green than on the work-days of the week: the birds sing
more cheerily, and seem to know that for one day they are safe from
man's persecution. Certain it is that the wary crow will on that day
eye you saucily as you pass within ten yards of him, while on any
other you cannot approach him within a hundred. At ten o'clock the
household is assembled in the drawing-room, the piano--with, it may
be, a flute accompaniment--is made to do the organ's duty, and the
full service of the Prayer-Book is read and sung and listened to with
reverent attention. There are yet two hours to dinner, and as the
wild, wailing chant from the negro-yard comes to our ears we determine
to visit their chapel. If there was one point in which, more than
in others, the Carolina planter was faithful to his duty, it was in
securing the privileges of religion to his slaves. Every plantation
had its chapel, sometimes rivaling in its appointments the churches
for the whites. One of the largest congregations of the Protestant
Episcopal Church in South Carolina, having lost its silver during the
sack of Columbia, is still using the sterling communion service of a
chapel for negroes which was burned upon a neighboring plantation. The
missionary is to-day upon another portion of his circuit, and we have
a specimen of genuine African Christianity. On one side the rough
benches are filled with men clad, for once in the week, in _clean_
cotton shirts, with coat and pants of heavy "white plains," some young
dandies here and there being "fixed up" with old black silk waistcoats
and flashy neckties, holding conspicuously old mashed beaver hats,
which have been carefully wetted to make them shine. On the other are
ranged the women, the front benches holding the sedate old "maumas,"
with gaudy yellow and red kerchiefs tied about their heads in stiff
high turbans, and others folded _à la_ Lady Washington over their
bosoms; behind them sit the young women in white woolen "frocks,"
without handkerchiefs on head or breast; while the children who
are not minding babies at home or hunting rabbits in the woods are
gathered about the door.
Old Bob, the preacher, rises and fixes his eyes severely on the small
fry near the door: "We's gwine to wushup de Lawd, an' I desiah dem
chilluns to know dat no noise nor laffin', nor no so't o' onbehavin',
kin be 'lowed; so min' wot you's 'bout dere. You yerry me? (hear me)."
Then, adjusting the great silver-rimmed spectacles and opening a
ragged prayer-book (upside down), he proceeds to read over the hymn,
the whole congregation listening with rapt attention. As he utters the
last word all rise together, the old women with closed eyes, heads on
one side and hands crossed over their breasts, and he begins to "line
out," dividing the words rhythmically into spondaic measure, with the
accent strongly on every second syllable and the falling inflection
invariably on the last uttered:
When I'--kin read'--my ti'--tul clear'--
To man'--shuns in'--de skies'.
Immediately the old mauma at the end of the front bench "sets de
tchune," a sad, quavering minor, and pitched so high that any attempt
to follow it seems utterly hopeless. But no: the women all strike in
on the same soaring key, while the men, by a skillful management of
the _falsetto_, keep up with the screamiest flights. As they wail out
the last word, "skies," the women all curtsey with a sharp jerk of the
body and the men droop their heads upon their breasts--a token that
the strophe is ended; and the next two lines follow in the same
manner. Then follows the prayer, in which due remembrance is made of
"ole maussa" and "nyoung missis an' maussa," and all their friends
and visitors. We are considerate enough to withdraw before the
sermon, lest our presence should embarrass the preacher, but a little
eavesdropping gives us an opportunity of hearing how practically
he deals with "lyin' an' tiefin', an' onbehavin' 'mongst de nyoung
'omans," and how he holds up "de obeshay," as Saint Paul did the
magistrate, in terror to those who "play 'possum w'en de grass too
t'ick," or "stick t'orn in he finger so he can't pick 'nuff cotton
w'en de sun too hot." With our withdrawal is removed a restraint which
has chilled the active devotion of the assembly, and soon the singing
begins again, accompanied now, however, by the heavy tramp of feet
and the clapping of hands keeping time to the sad, wailing minor which
characterizes all their music. The hymn, too, is no longer selected
from the prayer-book, but from some unwritten collection better
adapted to their ideas of "heart-religion":
De angel cry out A-men,
A-men! A-men!
De angel cry out A-men!
I'se bound to de promis' lan'!
I da gwine up to hebbin in a long w'ite robe,
Long w'ite robe! long w'ite robe!
My Sabiour tell me wear dat robe
W'en I meet him in de promis' lan'!
We've a great deal before us during the coming week, for we must give
a day to the partridges (never called "quail" in the South), and we
have a fox-hunt or two in the mornings, and that old buck to look
after whose tracks I showed you in the road; besides the ducks
and turkeys which are waiting to be shot, and all the Christmas
frolicking, from which the ladies will not excuse us. We will
therefore take this quiet Sunday afternoon for a walk among the fields
and woods to see what manner of country we are in. Bending our steps
first toward the huge old oak which seems to hang upon the very edge
of the green hill near the house, we suddenly find ourselves just over
a large basin enclosed with an octagonal brick wall, except where the
clear water runs out over silvery gravel between curbings of heavy
plank. This is the spring, and a queer sort of spring it is. Just
under the tree-roots the water is but a few inches deep over a bed
of bluish-gray limestone, and in no part of the basin, which is about
twelve by twenty feet, does it seem to be more than a half fathom in
depth. But just under the ledge of rock a shelving hole slopes back
under the hill, the bottom of which no man has ever found. This hole
is only about three feet by two, and the narrow outlet to the basin is
but four inches deep, and loses itself within fifty yards in an oozy
bog. Yet, peering into the depth, you catch a glimpse of the black
head and beady white eyes of a mudfish at least two feet long, and
presently of the silvery side of a three-pound bass which glides
across the opening. Drop a line with the cork set at ten feet, and you
will draw out of the very bosom of the earth a mess of fat perch and
bream each as large and as thick as your hand, and eels three feet in
length are sometimes caught in the basin at night. Two miles away,
in the direction of the "run," there are on Woodboo plantation two
similar basins connected by a shallow streamlet, and with no outlet
which a minnow could navigate: one of them is large enough for a
little skiff to float on, and the gray rock slopes down to a centre
depth of ten feet. Just where the sides meet is a long, irregular
fissure, out of which huge bass, pike, jack and mudfish are constantly
emerging, and into which they retreat when disturbed. Hundreds of
perch, bream and young bass sport in the shallow parts, and are easily
caught with rod and line, the water being so clear that you can watch
the fish gorging the bait, and strike when the entire hook disappears.
Now, where do these fish live? where do they breed? and upon what do
they feed? But the mystery does not end there. About a mile in the
opposite direction as we walk through a little belt of wet pineland,
where the woodcock runs across our path or whistles up from the wet
leaves, we come suddenly upon a dozen or more little basins, the
largest not over six feet by nine, which have no outlet whatever. One
hole about two feet in diameter goes sheer down between two pine trees
to a depth never yet fathomed: you cannot see it until right on it,
and you cannot use a rod, but drop your line about twelve feet deep,
and your cork will go down like lead, while you pull up red perch and
blue bream until your arm wearies of the sport. I have caught five
dozen in a winter's afternoon, for the fish bite best in the coldest
weather, the temperature of the water being sixty-two degrees the year
round, irrespective of the weather. You must go fifteen miles before
reaching another of these springs or fountains, and then ten more
to the last of the chain, the famous Eutaw Springs of Revolutionary
memory. Here, then, must be a subterranean river or reservoir at least
twenty-eight miles long, teeming with the same fish which swim in the
surface-streams, yet having no discoverable connection with any of
these. We meet with no rocks or stones anywhere, but our walk leads
us past many marl-pits from which numerous fossil remains have been
obtained. The fertile and superstitious imagination of the negroes has
not been idle in such a suggestive field, and they have peopled these
fountains with spirits which they call "cymbies," akin to the undine
and the kelpie. On Saturday nights you may hear a strange rhythmic,
thumping sound from the spring, and looking out you may see by the
wild, fitful glare of lightwood torches dark figures moving to and
fro. These are the negro women at their laundry-work, knee-deep in the
stream, beating the clothes with heavy clubs. They are merry enough
when together, but not one of them will go alone for a "piggin" of
water, and if you slip up in the shadow of the old oak and throw a
stone into the spring, the entire party will rush away at the splash,
screaming with fear, convinced that the "cymbie" is after them.
Leaving the spring behind us, we pass up the long lane between two
cotton-fields of a hundred acres each, in which the blackened stalks
are still standing, as are the dried cornstalks and gray pea-vines in
the field beyond. These will remain until the early spring, when they
will be cut down and "listed in" with the hoe, for not a foot of this
rich and profitable plantation has ever been broken with the plough.
Incredible as it may appear, there is not a plough or a work-horse,
and but one old mule, upon this highly-cultivated tract of one
thousand acres. All the hauling is done by ox-teams, with three sturdy
negroes to each cart, and the heavy cotton-hoe does everything else.
Where one man and a plough could till three acres, twenty men and
women with hoes 'ridge up the ground, scatter manure in the furrows,
and draw the ridges down on it again. True, the surface only is
scratched, and the soil is soon exhausted, but who cares for that when
there is abundance of rich timber-land from which to clear new fields?
and as to economizing labor, that is the last thing a planter cares
about, for what are the negroes to do? None are ever sold, the
"picknies" who swarm around every cabin growing up to stock the
plantations bought for each child as he or she "comes of age or is
married," and work has to be made for them to do.
"What shall I put the hands at to-day, sir?" asked an overseer of an
old planter when the last bale of cotton had been packed.
"Hum! let's see! Well, set them to filling up the old ditches and
digging new ones."
For the same reason power-gins and saw-mills found little favor, the
single-treadle "foot-gin" and the saw-pit and cross-cut employing ten
times as many hands. It was the aim of every large planter to produce
and manufacture by hand-power everything needed on the place. Of
course, it required a heavy expenditure of labor and land to raise
provisions for such an army of unprofitable workers, on which account
slave capital was the poorest paying property in the world. The
planter was wealthy, but he owned only land and negroes: when the
latter were emancipated the former became useless; and this is the
reason why the war so utterly ruined the rich land-owners of the
South.
ROBERT WILSON.
OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.
'76.
Pass, '75, across the Styx!
Make way for stately '76,
Who comes with mincing, minuet pace,
Well-powdered hair and patch-deckt face--
An antiquated kerchief on:
White-capped, like Martha Washington;
Clock-hosed and high-heeled slipper-shod,
To give no Nineteenth Century nod;
Nay, but a courtesy profound,
Whose look demure consults the ground.
O rare-seen bloom! No flower perennial,
This aloe-crowned Dame Centennial!
She comes with shades of days long fled--
Knee-breeched; long silk-stockingèd;
Well-braided queues; bright-buckled shoon
That flash with diamonds; gold galloon
On rebel uniforms of blue---
A color that this land found _true_;
Three-cornered hats, and plumes that flew
Through conflicts where men dare and do.
A patriot throng, a gallant host,
Our Dame Centennial's train can boast.
O aloe-flower upon her brow!
Of what strange birth-pangs breathest thou,
The while we gaze with dreamy eyes
Back o'er a sea of memories,
And see thy seed of foreign skies
Here washt, to spring beneath our sun
And ripen till its bloom is won!
What storms have rocked thy stem aslant,
O changeful-nurtured Century-Plant!
Whose living flower now opens bland
Its kindly promise o'er the land!
With blood and tears 'twas watered,
The bud whose blossom now is spread
A floral cap her head upon,
Who, _à la_ Martha Washington,
Our Dame Centennial now appears,
Our '76, our crown of years!
Brave preparations thee await,
O dame arrayed in olden state!
For thee, for thee, Penn's city stands
And stretches forth inviting hands
To guests of home and foreign lands,
And gathers all historic pride
Of ancient records at her side,
With gifts from all, on thee to rain
Who bring'st such mem'ries in thy train.
Hail, city well named "Brother's Love!"
The Quaker City of the dove,
That fain would call a land to fling
Its spites away, and 'neath thy wing
Renew the treaty made by Penn
In the wildwood with wilder men;
Yet true men still! Be this the token---
loyal faith, a pledge unbroken!
O year that wear'st thy aloe-flower
So proudly! may thy touch have power
Of healing! May thy visage bland
Drive threatening discord from the land,
And thronèd Peace more firmly fix!
Then shall the elder '76,
From out the eighteenth century's band
Of Time's host in the shadowy land,
Greet thee as one true soul may smile
Upon another, where nor guile
Nor sorrow can its brightness dim.
So greet the clear-eyed seraphim--
So once in Eden's sinless bower
Unfading flower smiled on flower.
LATIENNE.
THE KREUZESSCHULE.
OBER-AMMERGAU, BAVARIA, OCT. 4, 1875.
The town lies at the end of a lovely green valley. Behind it are
fir-clad mountains with rocky peaks: on one side a great square rocky
peak, which towers above all and is surmounted by a cross. On each
side of the valley sloping hills, fir-clad to the top. A rapid, clear
stream runs by on the edge of the village. Green pastures dotted with
haymakers, a few scattered trees and a distant town fill the charming
valley. Virginia creepers hang on the walls, and gay flowers fill
pretty balconies and peep through sunny little casements. All is
simple and neat, and the bright fresco pictures on the fronts of many
houses lighten it all.
On a high hill overlooking the town they are placing a colossal
crucifixion group, presented by King Ludwig II. in _Erinnerung an die
Passionsspiele_--in memory of the Passion play--Christ on the cross,
with the Virgin and St. John, one on each side. The two latter were
ready to be hoisted on to the pedestal: the former is partly up the
hill. All are surrounded by heavy planking, so that it is impossible
to judge of the artistic merit, but the great group cannot fail to
have a fine effect when viewed from a distance.
Yesterday (October 3d) was the eventful day. Our tickets had been
ordered by telegraph, and we had "the best seats." The performance was
to begin at nine o'clock, and at a quarter before nine we were in our
places.
The building in which the play is given is of plain rough wood without
paint ("or polish"); in the interior a gallery and two side-galleries,
below them a parterre, and on each side of it a standing-place, all of
plain, unpainted boards. The orchestra was sunk below the level of the
stage, the proscenium painted to represent columns and entablature.
The curtain represented, or seemed intended to represent, Jerusalem.
The whole place could not probably contain over six hundred people,
and was about half full. There were very few foreigners.
The play to be represented was not the "Passion play," which is given
every ten years, but the _Kreuzesschule_, which is played once in
fifty years--last in 1825. In it the play is taken from the Old
Testament, and the tableaux from the New Testament--the reverse of the
Passion play.
The orchestra began punctually at nine o'clock. There were about
twenty performers, and they played with skill and taste. The selection
of music was admirable. They commenced with a sort of prelude, slow
and declamatory. Perfect silence reigned, and the deep interest of
the spectators was, from the first and throughout, shown in their
expressive faces. Men and women at times shed tears, and made not the
slightest effort to hide their emotion. The black head-*kerchiefs of
many of the women spectators, tight to the skull with ends hanging
down behind, seemed in harmony with the scene.
The prelude ended, the Chorus entered with slow and dignified
pace--seven men and women from one side, six from the other, all in a
kind of Oriental costume, picturesque and handsome. The tallest came
first, and so on in gradation, so that when ranged in front of the
curtain they formed a kind of pyramid. The central figure then began
the prologue, an explanation. Then the basso commenced singing an
air, during which the Chorus divided, falling back to the sides and
kneeling, while the curtain rose, displaying the first tableau. This
lasted nearly three minutes, during which time the figures were really
perfectly motionless. The basso finished his air and the tenor sang
another while the curtain was up. This tableau represented the cross
supported by an angel, while grouped around were men, women
and children looking up at it in adoration. This was the
"Kreuzesschule"--the school of the Cross--the prologue to the piece.
The picture had the simplicity of the best school: no affected
attitudes--all plain, earnest and beautiful. When the curtain fell the
Chorus again took their places in front of it, a duet was sung, then a
chorus, and then they countermarched and retired in quiet dignity.
Then came the first part. A prelude by the orchestra, and the curtain
rises on Abel, dressed in sheep skin, by his altar, from which
smoke ascends, he returning thanks. Enter Cain in leopard skin, much
disturbed and angry. They discourse, Abel all sweetness, Cain bitter
and cross. An angel in blue mantle, like one of Raphael's in the
"Loggia," appears at the side and comforts Abel. Then Eve in white
dress--evidently it had been a puzzle to dress her--and buskins, who
says sweet words to Cain. Then Adam in sheep skin, very sad at all
this difficulty. Eve sweetly strives to reconcile Cain to his brother,
and appeals to him with much feeling. He discourses at length, then
appears to relent and embraces Abel, but is evidently playing the
hypocrite, and as the curtain falls you see that hate is in his heart.
The curtain down, the orchestra plays a prelude, the Chorus enters
as before, and the leader speculates on Cain's behavior. "Is he
honest?"--"Ah no, his heart is full of hate: he meditates evil."
The Chorus divides as before, falls back and the curtain rises. This
tableau represents the hate and rage of the people and Pharisees
toward Christ, who drives the traders out of the Temple. In grouping,
costume, color, tone, action and completeness it was truly a marvelous
picture. The stage was crowded with figures: Christ in the centre,
behind--a row of columns on each side--a scourge in his left hand, his
right upheld in admirable action; in the background a group in
wild confusion; on the right, richly dressed priests and Pharisees,
indignant and fierce; in front, sellers of sheep and doves,
money-changers and traders of various kinds. All the elements of a
great picture were here shown in the highest degree, and no words of
praise could be too strong to express the idea of its merits and its
charm. This tableau lasted nearly two minutes, with the most complete
steadiness, the basso singing an aria. The curtain then fell, and the
Chorus, taking its place, sang and retired as before. This ended the
first part, Cain's hate prefiguring the hatred toward Christ.
Then came Part Second. The curtain rose on Cain by the side of his
ruined in a soliloquy. Enter Abel, gentle and mild. Eve comes in,
and again tries to make peace, and Cain again plays the hypocrite
and invites his brother into the wood on some pretext. They retire,
leaving Eve disturbed by she knows not what. Adam enters, shares her
fears and goes out to seek his sons. Thunder and lightning, admirably
represented, and then enter Cain disheveled and disturbed. His mother
knows not what has happened, but is agonized and calls for her Abel.
An angel appears at the side and discloses all by asking Cain, "Where
is thy brother?" and then announcing the fiat of the Most High to him.
He rushes off as Adam enters bearing the body of Abel; and his mother,
sitting down beside the dead body, makes a most touching picture of
a _Pietà_. Adam with upstretched arms appeals to God, and the curtain
falls. This was the "Blutschuld"--the crime of blood--and prefigured
the betrayal of Christ by Judas for the thirty pieces of silver.
After a most beautiful prelude by the orchestra, the Chorus again
enters; the leader expresses his horror at Cain's action and his
pity for a fate thus given over to Satan; they again divide, and the
curtain rises on the tableau of Judas receiving the money. At the end
the high priest and other priests, in appropriate costume, stand on a
platform beyond a railing. Judas in the centre, by a table, is
taking the money from an attendant: all around are groups, admirably
arranged, expressing, in face and attitude, wonder or pleasure or
disgust. The same artistic ideas and beautiful arrangement and the
same unaffected simplicity. This tableau lasted one minute and a half,
while the tenor sang an aria, "Oh, better for him that he had never
been born."
The third part was _Das Opfermahl_--the offering of bread and wine
by Melchisedek to Abraham, prefiguring the Last Supper. Prelude by
orchestra. The curtain rises, displaying Melchisedek before an altar,
on which are bread and wine. Four attendants are near him. He, in
a flowing white robe, discourses to them. The scene is simple
and natural. Enter Abraham and attendants on one side and Lot and
attendants on the other, all dressed in Roman mantles, buskins and
helmets. The stage was filled and the grouping admirable. Abraham
and Lot discourse, embrace and part, Lot and his followers retiring.
Melchisedek comes forward and addresses Abraham, who replies at some
length. Then Melchisedek prepares his bread and wine, takes some,
then offers to Abraham, who eats and drinks. Meantime, a most charming
chorus of Handel is sung behind the scenes, while Melchisedek and his
attendants offer the bread and wine to all of Abraham's suite, who
partake reverentially. Tableau and chorus, and the curtain descends.
The ease and simple quiet action of all this scene were remarkable.
Enter Chorus as before: leader speaks. They divide and the curtain
rises on the tableau of the Last Supper. I know not whether it
was taken from any one picture--I think not--but it was simply and
effectively grouped, and it recalled both Lionardo and Andrea del
Sarto. This lasted two and a half minutes, during which time the
contralto sang an air of Mozart's.
The fourth part--_Die Ergebung_ (Resignation)--was represented in the
play by Abraham's willingness to sacrifice his son at God's command,
prefiguring the agony of Christ in the Garden.
After a prelude by the orchestra the curtain rose and discovered
Abraham and Isaac in loving discourse, with figures in the background,
admirably costumed and grouped. An angel in white robe and blue mantle
appears and delivers his heavenly message to the astounded Abraham.
His agony was simply and feelingly depicted. He appears at last
resigned, when Sarah, in red robe and Eastern headdress, enters to
renew his grief. The beauty of this woman was of the highest order in
feature and expression, and her dress was truly artistic. The scene
between these two was most touchingly acted. Isaac reappears, thinking
that he is simply going on a journey, and, scarcely comprehending his
mother's great grief, presents his companion to her as a comfort and
stay, thus prefiguring John and Mary at the cross. Abraham and Isaac
depart, and the curtain falls.
Then another prelude by the orchestra, and the Chorus appears: the
leader delivers the epilogue. They divide and kneel, and the curtain
rises on the tableau of the scene in Gethsemane.
Christ, on an elevation, is kneeling: an angel stands in front of him.
Below, the apostles are all asleep in groups. Behind, in the centre,
Judas advances with the soldiers, who bear tall lanterns. It was like
a picture of Carpaccio, and worthy of that great master. This tableau
lasted two and a quarter minutes, during which time the tenor sang an
aria.
The fifth part--_Es ist vollbracht_ (It is fulfilled)--represents
Abraham going out to sacrifice his son, prefiguring the Crucifixion.
The curtain rises on Sarah, full of agony, which is most simply and
powerfully depicted. Attendants enter, who tell a long story: then
Abraham and Isaac appear, and there is a most striking scene--Sarah
fainting, the friend sustaining her, the others grouped around in
various picturesque attitudes. An angel appears, simple and practical,
like those of the good old painters, and delivers the blessing. The
curtain falls.
Again the orchestra in a superb prelude: then the Chorus appears,
and, after the epilogue, divides and kneels as the curtain rises on
a tableau which my imagination never could have pictured, for its
wonderful completeness, its power, its feeling, its artistic beauty
and its marvelous expression far exceeded any idea that I had of the
power of men and women to represent such a picture--the Crucifixion.
The stage was crowded with figures, Christ in the centre, fully
extended on the cross, with no signs whatever of support to disturb
the illusion--the thieves on one side and the other, with arms over
the cross, as frequently represented; the group at the foot of the
cross so touchingly tender--the soldiers, the priests, the people--all
grouped with such consummate skill, such harmony of colors, such
appropriateness and vigor of expression, as have never, to my
thinking, been excelled in the greatest pictures of the greatest
masters. Here was most remarkably shown the wonderful artistic talent
and feeling of these simple people. There was nothing repulsive in any
way, scarcely painful, except tenderly so. You breathlessly gazed on
this wondrous scene, and when, after three minutes, the curtain fell,
you were speechless with admiration and emotion. A lovely air by the
soprano accompanied this tableau, and after the curtain fell a grand
chorus completed the fifth part.
The sixth part--_Durch Dunkel zum Lichte_ (through Darkness to
Light)--ended the programme. The play represented Joseph, with all his
honors upon him, receiving his old father and his brothers--prefiguring
the Ascension of Christ.
After the prelude by the orchestra the curtain rises and discovers
old Jacob, surrounded by his sons in various groups. The scene and
costumes were admirable and appropriate. In the midst of a discourse
Joseph bursts in in fine attire, followed by a great train, among
which are two darkies, taken bodily from Flemish pictures. After much
embracing and blessing and forgiveness, the curtain falls as Jacob
with outstretched arms thanks the Lord and prophesies all good things.
Then again the orchestra, and again our Chorus enters on the scene,
and after the epilogue, "At last all woe is ended," they divide and
kneel, as the curtain rises on the scene of the Ascension. This was
most simply represented. Christ ascends from the tomb, standing on it,
surrounded by angels, while figures appropriately grouped around make
a picture which recalled Perugino. The basso sings an aria, and a
grand chorus, "Alleluja!" ends this most remarkable performance.
There was no delay nor interruption throughout. Not the sound of a
hammer nor the whisper of a prompter was ever heard. There was no
applause whatever from the audience until the end, and then it seemed
to come from the strangers. The three hours--for the end was precisely
at twelve--seemed not more than one, so filled was the mind with the
simple, grand beauty and the artistic completeness of the whole thing.
No personality appears for an instant. There are no bills to tell the
names of the actors, nor did any actor or actress at any time look
toward the audience.
Never since early childhood have the Bible stories been brought back
with such vividness, such tender and absorbing interest. Tradition,
faith and earnestness have made this a people of artists. If one could
believe, as all must wish, that love of money-making and speculation
will not invade this simple village, to the demoralization of its
people, the satisfaction would be most complete. Be that as it may, I
shall always owe a debt of gratitude to Ober-Ammergau, and as long as
memory lasts shall remember _Die Kreuzesschule_.
J.W.F.
VARESE.
Varese is an ancient little town on a hill overlooking the small lake
of the same name in the midst of the mountainous country between
Como and Lago Maggiore, and a little to the southward of the Lake of
Lugano. It is within a very few miles of the Swiss frontier. All
this lacustrine region has for many generations been celebrated as a
specially privileged one. It is Italy without the enervating heat and
aridity which are such serious drawbacks to the enjoyment of its other
charms by Northern folk. It is Switzerland without the rigidity of its
climate and the comparative poverty of the northern vegetation. You
have the oleander and cactus around your feet, while the snow-peaks
high above your head are rose-colored morning and evening by a
southern sun. You wander amid groves of Spanish chestnut, and may hear
the while the Swiss-sounding cattle-bells from Alpine pastures high
above them. The lakes themselves, with their branching arms and bays
and their fairy-like islands, are of course a feature of ever-varying
and incomparable beauty.
Accordingly, Fortune's favorites of all countries have long, even from
the old Roman times downward, thickly studded the district with their
villas and gardens and palaces and parks. But the possession of a
villa on one of the Italian lakes implies that the happy owner is
nothing very much less than a millionaire. And it has been reserved
for these quite latter days to find the means of placing within the
reach of the many all the delights which were heretofore the exclusive
privilege of the few. In no instance has this been done with so
complete a measure of success as at Varese. The hotel is situated
about a mile from the little town. Its gardens look down on the lake,
the intervening slope being covered with forest. To the left, as one
stands at the garden-front of the house, looking toward the lake, are
the hills in the midst of which the Lake of Lugano nestles, and on
the right, beyond the Lago Maggiore, is a view of Monte Rosa with its
eternal snows, perhaps the finest to be found anywhere. I have seen
Monte Rosa and its chain very finely from the top of the pass called
the Col di Tenda, between Turin and Nice, but I think the view from
the terrace in front of this house is finer. Immediately at the back
of the house we have the hills--mountains they would be called in any
other part of Europe--of which Monte Generoso, now covered with snow,
though with a hotel on the top, is the most conspicuous. The country
more immediately around us is a district of rolling hills, partly
vineyard, but in a larger degree wooded, and here and there
diversified by the well-cared-for gardens of some large villa. Our
outlook, it will be admitted, is pleasant enough. The house I am
speaking of, now known under the style and title of the "Excelsior
Hotel," was recently a magnificent villa of the Morosini family at
Venice. The name will not be new to any who have visited Venice; for
the traveler, even if his tastes did not lead him to take any heed of
such matters, will not have been allowed by the _ciceroni_ to overlook
the tombs of the doges of that family in the grand old church of the
beheaded Saint John, _San Giovanni decollata,_ or "San Zuan Degolà,"
as the soft-lisping Venetians call it. Yes, the Morosini were very
great men in their day: more than one of the brightest chapters in
the history of the great republic on the Adriatic is filled with their
name. But now their place knows them no more: the family is extinct.
The last scion of the race, an old lady who died quite recently at
Varese, is said to have declared that it was time for a Morosini to
retire from the scene when their house was about to be turned into an
inn. Poor old lady! One could have wished that she had vanished before
that desecration had been threatened, especially as her end was so
near at hand; for it would, I fear, have been too much to wish that
the Excelsior Hotel should have been kept out of existence for another
generation.
The Morosini had palaces among the most splendid of that city of
palaces, Venice, as may be seen to the present day. But this Varese
villa was their place of delight and enjoyment. And truly the ideas
which we generally attach to the word "villa" are scarcely
represented by the magnificent building to which the public are now
indiscriminately invited. It is an enormous pile of building, the vast
garden-frontage of which makes considerable claims to architectural
magnificence. There are, especially in Switzerland, very magnificent
and palace-like hotels which have been built for the purpose they
now serve, but the fact that they were so built has very effectually
prevented even the most splendid among them from rivaling, or indeed
approaching, the grandiose magnificence of this superb hostelrie,
which has chosen its name in no idle spirit of vaunting. For building
is costly, space is precious, and the necessity of finding a due
return for the capital employed is the paramount rule which the
architect has to keep ever in mind. The old Morosini, who raised this
pile with the abundant profits of the trade with the East when Venice
had the monopoly of it, were curbed in their architectural ambition by
no such considerations. The building of this Villa Morosini must
have cost a sum which no possible amount of success in the way of
hotel-keeping could ever be expected to pay a tolerable interest on.
But the sum for which it was purchased by the present proprietors by
no means represents the whole of the capital which has been expended
on it as it now stands. It needed the expenditure of no less a sum
than sixty thousand pounds sterling to adapt it in all respects to its
present purpose, and it is now really such a hotel as does not
exist elsewhere in Europe. The whole of the ground floor of the vast
building, looking in its entire length on the trimly-kept gardens and
on the lake below them, is devoted to public rooms, the spaciousness
of which is such that even if the entire house were filled to its
utmost capacity they would never be in the least degree crowded.
First on the right hand is the breakfast-room. Then comes an enormous
dining-hall, the coved ceiling of which, supported by noble pillars
and ornamented with stuccoes in relief, is in perfect keeping with the
style of the rest of the ornamentation. Next to the dining-room is
a reading-room well furnished with papers and books: then comes a
so-called ladies' drawing-room, though I do not observe that that
better half of the creation has the smallest wish to monopolize it.
Next to that is the very handsome general drawing-room; then a large
music-room with a grand pianoforte and harmonium; then an equally
spacious smoking-room; and, lastly, a billiard-room;--truly a princely
suite of rooms. The manager speaks English perfectly, and the results
of his English education may be seen in the admirably comfortable and
clean arrangements of the chambers and every part of the house. The
bedrooms are all warmed with hot air, and really nothing has been
neglected which can contribute to ensure the comfort of the inmates.
And all this can be enjoyed for nine francs per diem! A palace to live
in, placed in one of the choicest spots in the world, abundant and
well-skilled service, an excellently well-kept and well-served table,
charming gardens, and all for about two dollars a day! Truly wonderful
are the possibilities brought within our reach by _co-operation!_
Still, I do not suppose that quite the same results could be attained
without the fortunate chance which placed a magnificent palace at the
disposal of the present proprietors at doubtless a comparatively very
small cost. _Morosini "nobis hæc otra fecit"_ The princely expenditure
of that noble family in days long since gone by provided for us nomads
these enjoyments; for one is afraid to guess what the cost at the
present day of erecting such a pile would be. Throughout a large part
of the house, in the huge corridors and antechambers, a great deal
of the old furniture and the vast marble chimney-pieces and mural
decorations remain as the Morosini left them, and contribute their
part toward persuading us that we are not dwellers in a vulgar inn,
but the guests of some magnificent old doge, who leaves his friends
the most complete liberty and independence, and merely gratifies the
commercial traditions of his race by requesting us _pro formâ_ to drop
a small present to his domestics at parting.
There are a great variety of charming drives and walks in the
neighborhood in every direction; and the whole district is full of
the villas and well-kept gardens of the rich Milanese, who have
chosen this favored spot for their country residences. I have said
_well-kept_ gardens advisedly; and it is worth noting that the love
of gardens and gardening seems to be a specialty of the Milanese among
all the Italians. One sees in other parts of Italy the remains of care
and magnificence of this sort--at Rome especially; but all (though
in many cases belonging to owners still wealthy as well as noble)
dilapidated, little cared for, and speaking in melancholy tones of
decay and perished splendor. A ruined building may be an extremely
picturesque object, but a ruined garden can never be other than a
melancholy and repulsive one. But the whole of this district testifies
to the love of the Milanese for their gardens; and most of them are
on a truly princely scale of magnificence. There is one villa which I
will mention, because the owner of it is doing there what recalls
to our minds strikingly the old days which saw the creation of that
Italian splendor the remains of which we still admire, and suggests
that it is not beyond hope that the privileged soil of Italy and the
genius for the arts which seems inherent in this people may, under
their new political circumstances, lead to yet another renaissance.
The villa I am alluding to is in the immediate neighborhood of Varese,
on a rising ground above the town, commanding the most magnificent
views of Monte Rosa, Monte Viso and the country between the lakes of
Como and Maggiore. It is a new creation, and is the property and the
work of the Milanese banker, Signor Ponti. The house and gardens
are well worth a visit--if the traveler is fortunate enough to be
permitted to see them--for the sake of the happy originality of idea
which has inspired the architecture of the former and the excellent
taste which has turned the favorable circumstances of the ground to
the best account in laying out the latter. But the feature which I
specially wished to mention is the ornamentation of the principal
_salon_ or ball-room in the villa. When permitted to visit it we found
Signor Bertini, a Milanese artist well known in all parts of Italy,
engaged in putting the last touches to a series of frescoes which form
the principal ornamentation of the room. The four largest paintings
commemorate the glories of Italy in the history of human discovery.
In one the monk, Guido of Arezzo, the inventor of modern musical
notation, is teaching a class of four boys to sing from the page of an
illuminated missal--a really charming composition. In another Columbus
is showing to the Spanish monarchs the natives of the newly-found
world whom he had brought home with him. In a third Galileo is showing
to the astonished pope, by means of a telescope, the wonders of that
other newly-found world of which he was the discoverer. The fourth
shows us the very striking and lifelike figure of Volta explaining
the wonders of the "pile" to which he has given his name to the First
Napoleon. The whole of these, as well as of the other decorations of
the room, are in "real fresco"--that is to say, the colors are laid
on while the mortar is yet wet (whence the name _fresco_), and thus
become so entirely incorporated with the substance of the wall that
the painting is indestructible save by the destruction of at least
the coating of the latter. Of course, it is evident that a painting so
executed admits of no second touch. The hand of the artist must
obey his thought with absolutely unfailing fidelity or the work is
worthless. Hence the special difficulty of this description of art,
and the necessity of a very high degree of mastery in him who attempts
it. In the present case Signor Bertini has succeeded admirably. But
I was especially struck by the taste and liberality of the Milanese
banker, who, instead of making his room gorgeous with damask hangings
and satin and velvet, which any man who has cash in his pocket may
have, is giving encouragement to the art of his country, and doing at
this day exactly that which the Strozzi, the Borghesi, the Medici and
so many other bankers and merchants did three hundred and odd years
ago, and by doing made Italy what it was.
T.A.T.
A STATE GOVERNOR IN THE RÔLE OF ENOCH ARDEN.
The conventional romance of the long-lost husband returning home just
in time to interrupt the second nuptials of his wife is told of Samuel
Cranston, governor of Rhode Island, who died in 1727, after being
elected to that office thirty-two times in succession.
It appears that when quite a young man Mr. Cranston married Mary, a
granddaughter of Roger Williams. Soon after the marriage he went to
sea, was captured by pirates and carried to some country--Algiers,
it is supposed--where he was detained for several years without
being able to communicate with his family. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cranston,
believing him to be dead, accepted an offer of marriage, and was on
the eve of the nuptial ceremonies when her first husband arrived in
Boston. There he heard the news of the proposed marriage, but there
being no such thing then as telegraphs or railroads, he started for
home by means of post-horses as fast as they could carry him. When he
reached Howland's Ferry, just before night, he learned that his wife
was to be married that very evening. "With increased speed he flew to
Newport, but not until the wedding-guests had begun to assemble. She
was called by a servant into the kitchen, 'a person being there
who wished to speak with her.' A man in sailor's habit advanced and
informed her that her husband had arrived in Boston, and requested him
to inform her that he was on his way to Newport." It does not appear
that the hero of this romance made any attempt to find out if his wife
had become more attached to his rival, with the purpose of remaining
incognito should he find this to be the fact. On the contrary, after
being questioned very closely by her, he advanced toward her, "raised
his cap, and pointing to a scar on his forehead, said, 'Do you
recollect that scar?'" Whereupon she at once recognized him, though
the romance is marred by the absence of the assurance that she "flew
into his arms." This may be inferred, however, for the returned
wanderer became the hero of the evening, entertaining the
wedding-guests with an account of his adventures and sufferings among
the pirates.
THE PALATINE LIGHT.
This phenomenon appeared off the northern coast of Block Island about
1720, and reappeared at irregular intervals down to the year 1832,
since which it has not been seen. A common impression of those seeing
it for the first time was that it was a light on board of some ship,
or a ship on fire when very bright. Arnold, in his _History of Rhode
Island_, gives an account of it, and also of the tradition which
assigned to it a strange origin. "This light," he remarks, "has been
the theme of much learned discussion within the present century,
and, while the superstition connected with it is of course rejected,
science has failed thus far in giving it a satisfactory explanation."
Dr. Aaron C. Willey, a resident physician of Block Island, wrote a
careful account of the phenomenon in 1811, which was published at the
time in the _Parthenon_, whatever that may have been. He says: "Its
appellation originated from that of a ship called the Palatine, which
was designedly cast away at this place in the beginning of the last
century, in order to conceal, as tradition reports, the inhuman
treatment and murder of some of its unfortunate passengers." This was
an emigrant ship bound from Holland to Pennsylvania. Some seventeen
of the survivors were landed on the island, but they all died except
three. One lady, it was said, having "much gold and silver plate on
board," refused to land. The ship floated off the rocks, and soon
after disappeared for ever. Dr, Willey says he saw this light in
February, 1810. "It was twilight, and the light was then large and
greatly lambent, very bright, broad at the bottom and terminating
acutely upward. From each side seemed to issue rays of faint light
similar to those perceptible in any blaze placed in the open air
at night. It continued about fifteen minutes from the time I first
observed it, then gradually became smaller and more dim until it
was entirely extinguished." The same gentleman saw it again in the
following December, when he thought it was a light on board of some
vessel until undeceived. It moved along apparently parallel to the
shore on this occasion, after a time falling behind the doctor, who
was riding along the coast. Finally, it stopped, then moved off some
rods and stopped again. The same authority declares that he had been
told by a gentleman living near the sea that it had often been so
bright as to "illuminate considerably the walls of his room through
the windows." This happened only when the light was within half a mile
from the shore, for it was "often seen blazing at six or seven miles'
distance, and strangers supposed it to be a vessel on fire."
M.H.
NOTES.
It is not very extraordinary that printers' ink is a poor pigment for
painting sunsets or sunrises. The strange thing is that travelers and
sentimentalizers obstinately ignore the fact, and hang their paper
walls with more scenery of that description than any other. What a
gallery of alpine, arctic and marine sunsets we have, and how blank an
impression do they all produce! From any of them, done with a clever
pen by one who undertakes to describe what he has freshly seen, we
gather that the spectacle must have been very fine, and must have
deeply delighted the spectator. We can even catch some tints here
and there, but they are fugitive, and each escapes the eye before it
grasps the next one. If we shut our eyes on Tennyson's page we may
realize a glimpse of Mont Blanc blushing through "a thousand shadowy
penciled valleys," and have a momentary pleasure; but the poet's
picture does not abide with us. Some one devotes a couple of pages
to mapping out the infinitude of half-tints that composed a summer's
evening view looking seaward from the North Cape--a good subject
faithfully gone into, but still not a satisfactory sketch even of the
reality. The pen and type will outline and shade, but cannot color.
They give us some fair landscapes made up of form and effect; they can
compass a cavernous bit of Rembrandt, a curtain of fog or shower, or
a staircase of wood and rock climbing into the distance, just as they
can sometimes faintly depict the infinite chiaroscuro of the Miserere
in St. Peter's; but the monochrome, in music as in painting, is their
limit.
* * * * *
Has photography dealt hardly with portrait-painting as a branch of
art, or has it benefited it by weeding out the feeble? The Memorial
Exhibition will assist in determining. It will, we hope, allow the
best living painters in this department to be fully represented by the
side of their predecessors. We shall then see if the Inmans, Neagles,
and Sullys are an extinct species, and if the ranks of their pupils
have melted away before the cannon-like camera. We cannot believe that
the sun, always exaggerating perspective except when rectified by
the stereoscope, and more or less falsifying light and shade by the
chemical effect of different rays, is to be the only limner of faces.
Thus imperfect even in mechanical execution, it seems impossible that
he should supersede future Vandycks. As Webster used to say to young
lawyers, there is plenty of room up stairs. Painters may fearlessly
aim to get above the sun. Take one of Sully's women and compare it
with the smoothest print softened into inanity by the dots of the
retoucher of negatives--the representative of the element of art in
the process. A difference exists equivalent to that between brain and
no brain. No woman, "primp" herself for the sitting as she may, can
present her soul to the dapper gentleman under the canopy of black
velvet as Sully saw it. She does not know herself, as reflected in her
lineaments, as he did; and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the
knight of the tripod does not know her at all.
The same is true of John Neagle as a perpetuator of character with the
pencil. Men were his best subjects. In individualizing them he has had
no superior, if an equal, among American artists. His finish was not
always good, and his coloring for that reason occasionally crude.
In female heads he was less happy: character-painters generally are.
Stuart's women are equally defective, but in a rather different way,
being hard and angular in drawing.
* * * * *
England is determined not to shrink from the solution of the
time-honored problem of the result of the meeting between an
irresistible force and an impregnable target. Her iron-clads have
piled pellicle on pellicle of iron till two feet thick has become
their normal shell. Everything thinner has been punctured, and now
an eighty-ton gun, to cost sixty thousand pounds, is getting ready to
perforate that. There must be a stopping-point for all this somewhere.
Perhaps the fate of armor afloat may soon be settled finally by the
torpedo, as its efficiency on land was disposed of by the bullet,
and the men-at-arms of the sea no longer lord it over hosts of wooden
yeomanry. Happy the nation that can look on with its hands firmly
in its pockets while others lavish their treasure in seeking the new
philosopher's stone!
LITERATURE OF THE DAY.
Nero: An Historical Play. By W.W. Story. Edinburgh and London: Wm.
Blackwood & Sons; New York: Scribner, Welford & Armstrong,
The fashion of so-called historical dramas is spreading, but the
standard is lowering. When Mr. Swinburne wrote _Chastelard_, whatever
its faults, it was entitled to the name of drama: last year he
published _Bothwell_, which, whatever its beauties, does not deserve
to be so ranked. Tennyson's _Queen Mary_ followed during the
past summer, and many similar attempts may be expected from less
illustrious pens. It is an unfortunate direction for dramatic and
poetic composition to have taken, tending to impair the excellence of
both styles, while fulfilling the exigencies of neither. _Bothwell_
and _Queen Mary_ are not historical dramas, but versified chronicles,
a certain number of pages of the annals of Scotland and England in
metre, divided into acts and scenes and distributed into parts. Such
a production, be it called what it may, must necessarily lack the
essential qualities of the true drama, while it introduces into a
branch of literature which belongs to the imagination the realism
against which art is struggling. The latest specimen of this new
school is Mr. Story's _Nero_, for, although by his preface it appears
that the publication did not follow the writing for several years, it
comes to the world in the wake of the aforementioned works. It is to
be remembered that Mr. Story's pen is as versatile as his talent is
various. He has given the public two law-books, commonly attributed to
his eminent father; the delightful _Roba di Roma_, which embodies the
actual animate beauty and interest of Roman life; a volume of poems,
_Graffiti d'Italia_, full of fine dramatic fragments and studies of
character in the manner of Browning, descriptions which are pictures,
and sweet verses which live in the heart; and a number of essays in
the pleasantest style of table-talk. Moreover, we are to bear in mind
that this gentleman is not an author by profession, but one of
the most distinguished living sculptors. But the very merit of his
productions subjects them to a code of criticism more severe than that
by which amateur performances are usually judged, and the faults one
finds are by comparison with a standard which makes fault-finding
flattery. In the first place, one cannot turn over a few pages of Mr.
Story's _Nero_ without perceiving that he is imbued with the knowledge
of classical things and times, and with the study of Shakespeare and
the old English playwrights. The turn of the phrases and the march of
the passages recall those best models, though without imitation. As
in them, there is less beauty than vigor and spirit: the dialogue is
strewn with expressions as striking as they are simple. Speaking of
Claudius's murder, Burrhus says:
And Agrippina, startled, pushed him down
The dark declivity to death.
Agrippina herself to Nero:
Oh what a day it was
When, with a shout that seemed to rend the air,
The army hailed you Cæsar! _My poor heart
Shook like the standards straining to the breeze
With that great cheer of triumph_.
The finest portions of the play are those in which Agrippina has the
principal part, and, notwithstanding some flaws and inconsistencies
in the character, which is evidently meant to be complete and
homogeneous, the whole impression is very forcible and _single_. Her
final menace (Act ii., Scene 5) when Nero defies her, the terrible
scene in which she tries to regain her failing influence by kindling
unholy fire in his blood, her rage at the inaction and ignorance of
her forced retirement, her monologue when she knows that her last
hour has come, are all of a piece and exceedingly well sustained. The
dramatic ends of the play would have been better answered if she and
her son had been the central figures, and the tragedy had ended with
her death. Poppæa is closely studied: her petty, feline personality
contrasts well with the large, imperial presence of Agrippina. Nero
himself is not so successful as a whole: his puerility in the first
part is overdone, though as the play goes on the creation takes
definite shape, and becomes at once more complex and more distinct.
The invariable recurrence of his vanity at the most tremendous moments
is admirably managed: it is like an unconscious trick of look or
gesture for which we watch. In his first outburst of grief at Poppæa's
death he cries:
How still she lies!
How perfect in her calm! No more distress,
No agitations more, no joy, no pain.
I'll keep her as she is. Fire shall not burn
That lovely shape; but it shall sleep embalmed--
Thus, thus for ever in the Julian tomb,
And she shall be enrolled among the gods.
A splendid temple shall be raised to her,
A public funeral be hers, _and I
The funeral eulogy myself will speak_.
There are some impressive dramatic situations, the finest of which is
at the close of the second act, after the murder of Britannicus, the
result of a threat from Agrippina to dethrone her refractory son in
behalf of the rightful heir:
_Nero_. How is Britannicus?
_Agrip_. Dead.
_Nero_. Are you sure?
_Agrip_. Go see his corpse there, and assure yourself.
_Nero_. Dead? Poor Britannicus! who might have sat
Upon this very throne instead of me!
_Agrip_. Nero!
_Nero_. My mother!
_Agrip_. Ah! I understand.
_Nero_. Take him and make him emperor--if you can.
This has what the French call the _coup de fouet_. But the power and
progress of the play are clogged by two faults--defective construction
and a curious diffuseness and lack of concentration in many of the
scenes and speeches. The action is sadly impeded, for instance, by the
author's not making one business of Seneca's death, but spinning it
out through four scenes of going and coming, as also with Poppæa's,
and even more with Nero's, where the intercalation of long
conversations with changes of places and personages is hurtful, almost
destructive, to the effect. This appears to be the result of too close
an adherence to fact, which brings us back to our original grievance
against dramatizing history. The loss of force from lack of
concentration probably arises from carelessness, haste or want of
revision. From the same causes may spring, too, sundry anachronisms of
expression, such as "For God's sake;" vulgarisms like "Leave me alone"
for "Let me alone;" extraordinary commonplaces, as in the comparison
of popular favor to a weathercock, and of woman's love to a flower
worn, then thrown aside; and a constant lapsing from the energy and
spirit of the dialogue into flatness, familiarity and triviality.
There is an occasional not unwholesome coarseness which recalls Mr.
Story's Elizabethan masters, as in the following passage:
What a crew is this
Which just have fled! Foul suckers that drop off
When they no more can on their victims gorge!
This Tigellinus....
Within his sunshine basked and buzzed and stung;
And, now the shadow comes, off, like a fly--
A pestilent and stinking fly--he goes!
But it is unpardonable to make even Nero say, "I have to rinse my
mouth after her kiss."
The fine qualities of the composition give the blemishes relief, and
the material deserved that Mr. Story should work it up to its utmost
possible perfection.
* * * * *
Autobiography of Mrs. Fletcher. With Letters and other Family
Memorials. Edited by the Survivor of her Family. Boston: Roberts
Brothers.
There are in this work several elements of a gentle but unfailing
interest, such as generally attaches to the class of books to which
it belongs. It gives us some delineations of bygone manners and social
changes, glimpses of many more or less notable persons, and above all
the record of a life which, without being in the usual sense of these
terms eventful or distinguished, stands forth as one in a great degree
self-determined and bearing a strong impress of individuality. Mrs
Fletcher was one of those women who easily become the central figures
of the circles in which they move, and who owe this position, not
to any transcendent qualities, but to the combined and irresistible
influence of great personal charms, a high degree of mental vivacity,
and those sympathetic and harmonizing qualities which it is so
difficult to define, but which are equally distinct from mere
amiability on the one hand and intense self-devotion on the other.
There seems to be in such characters a hint of heroic possibilities
that would only be narrowed and despoiled of some of their charm if
put to the test of action. Lord Brougham compared Mrs. Fletcher to
Madame Roland, but she had neither the soaring intellect nor the
self-assertive tendencies that mark the representative of a cause.
Principle, however, counted for much more with her than with the sex
generally, and one can easily believe that her tenacity in adhering to
it would have been proof against any ordeal whether of persecution
or persuasion. This trait was not more strikingly illustrated by
the strength and fervency of her Whiggism amid the reactionary
tide produced by the excesses of the French Revolution than by the
circumstances of her marriage. The only child of a small landed
proprietor in Yorkshire, she had no lack of opportunities for
gratifying her father's ambition by marrying in a rank far above her
own. Nor was it her ardent affection for the man of her choice that
made her strong against entreaties and reproaches. She would probably
have been capable of any sacrifice of feeling imposed by her sense of
duty, but it was this latter sentiment that forbade the sacrifice.
"I was not, perhaps," she writes, "what in the language of romance
is called in love with Mr. Fletcher, but I was deeply and tenderly
attached to him. He had inspired a confidence and regard I had never
felt for any other man. I could not bear the thought of marrying in
opposition to my father's will, but I was resolved _on principle_
never to marry so long as Mr. Fletcher remained single." He was twenty
years her senior, without fortune, and hindered, instead of aided, in
his struggle at the Scottish bar by his prominence as an advocate of
reform. These, she admits, were "sound and rational objections,"
and could she have prevailed on Mr. Fletcher to release her from the
engagement, this solution, she confesses, would have been less painful
to her than offending her father. But her lover remaining firm, she
decided after two years, having come of age in the interval, to take
the step dictated by honor as well as inclination, and which the event
proved to have been, as she anticipated, "best for the interest and
happiness of all parties."
Her married life lasted thirty-seven years, and she survived her
husband nearly thirty more, dying in 1858 at the age of eighty-seven.
Her career was, on the whole, one of singular happiness and
prosperity, made so in part by fortunate circumstances, but in a still
greater degree by her sunny temperament, her power of attracting and
retaining friends, her unflagging interest in public affairs and her
unshaken belief in human progress. Jeffrey and Brougham were among her
earliest friends, Carlyle and Mazzini among her latest, and there have
been few Englishmen of note in the present century whose names do not
appear in the list. Unfortunately, they appear for the most part as
names only. They occur incidentally in a record intended not for
the public, but for the writer's own family, whose interest in her
personal history needed no stimulant and called for no extraneous
details. Here and there we find a passage calculated to whet if not
to satisfy a more general curiosity, such as the account of a
conversation with Wordsworth after his return from Italy in 1837,
and some letters from Mazzini written soon after his first arrival in
England, But even these belong not to the memoir itself, but to the
editor's additions. The book is therefore not to be judged by a mere
literary standard, or read with expectations founded on a general
knowlege of the writer's position and associations. On all with
whom she came in contact Mrs. Fletcher produced the impression of
a character singularly round and complete. Something of the same
influence is felt in the perusal of her unaffected narrative, and with
readers of a reflective turn may prove a sufficient compensation for
the lack of more ordinary attractions.
* * * * *
_Books Received_.
Notes on the Manufacture of Pottery among Savage Races. By Ch. Fred.
Hartt, A.M. Rio de Janeiro: Printed at the office of the "South
American Mail."
The History of My Friends; or, Home-Life with Animals. Translated from
the French of Emile Achard. New York; G.P. Putnam's Sons.
The Cultivation of Art, and its Relations to Religious Puritanism and
Money-Getting. By A.R. Cooper. New York: Chas. P. Somerby.
Health Fragments; or, Steps toward a True Life. By Geo. H. Everett,
M.D. New York: Chas. P. Somerby.
Sewerage and Sewage Utilization. By Prof. W.H. Corfield, M.A. New
York: D. Van Nostrand.
Notes of Travel in South-western Africa. By C.J. Andersson. New York:
G.P. Putnam's Sons.
St. George and St. Michael: A Novel. By George Macdonald. New York:
J.B. Ford & Co.
Water and Water-Supply. By W.H. Corfield, M.A., M.D. New York: D. Van
Nostrand.
Home Pastorals, Ballads and Lyrics. By Bayard Taylor. Boston: James R.
Osgood & Co.
Soul Problems, with other Papers. By Joseph E. Peck. New York: Chas.
P. Somerby.
Scripture Speculations. By Halsey R. Stevens. New York: Charles P.
Somerby.
Antiquity of Christianity. By John Alberger. New York: Chas. P.
Somerby.
The Ship in the Desert. By Joaquin Miller. Boston: Roberts Brothers.