Winter wakeneth all my care,

Now these leaves waxeth bare:

Oft in cometh into my thought,

Of this worldes joy how it goeth all to naught.

Soon after arriving at the hills he had written to Miss Pinckney a long

letter of explanations and avowals; but he did not know the number of

her lodgings, or, oddly enough, even her Christian name, and the letter

had been returned to him unopened. The next month was one of the

unhappiest in Putnam's life. On returning to the city, thoroughly

restored in health, he had opened an office, but he found it impossible

to devote himself quietly to the duties of his profession. He visited

the cemetery at all hours, but without success. He took to wandering

about in remote quarters and back streets of the town, and eyed sharply

every female figure that passed him in the twilight, especially if it

walked quickly or wore a veil. He slept little at night, and grew

restless and irritable. He had never confided this experience even to

his mother: it seemed to him something apart.

One afternoon toward the middle of November he was returning homeward

weary and dejected from a walk in the suburbs. His way led across an

unenclosed outskirt of the town which served as a common to the poor

people of the neighborhood. It was traversed by a score of footpaths,

and frequented by goats, and by ducks that dabbled in the puddles of

rain-water collected in the hollows. Halfway across this open tract

stood what had formerly been an old-fashioned country-house, now

converted into a soap-boiling establishment. Around this was a clump of

old pine trees, the remnant of a grove which had once flourished in the

sandy soil. There was something in the desolation of the place that

flattered Putnam's mood, and he stopped to take it in. The air was dusk,

but embers of an angry sunset burned low in the west. A cold wind made a

sound in the pine-tops like the beating of surf on a distant shore. A

flock of little winter birds flew suddenly up from the ground into one

of the trees, like a flight of gray leaves whirled up by a gust. As

Putnam turned to look at them he saw, against the strip of sunset along

the horizon, the slim figure of a girl walking rapidly toward the

opposite side of the common. His heart gave a great leap, and he started

after her on a run. At a corner of the open ground the figure vanished,

nor could Putnam decide into which of two or three small streets she had

turned. He ran down one and up another, but met no one except a few

laborers coming home from work, and finally gave up the quest. But this

momentary glimpse produced in him a new excitement. He felt sure that he

had not been mistaken: he knew the swift, graceful step, the slight form

bending in the wind. He fancied that he had even recognized the poise

and shape of the little head. He imagined, too, that he had not been

unobserved, and that she had some reason for avoiding him. For a week or

more he haunted the vicinity of the common, but without result. December

was already drawing to an end when he received the following note:

"DEAR MR. PUTNAM: You must forgive me for running away from you

the other evening: I am right--am I not?--in supposing that you

saw and recognized me. It was rude in me not to wait for you,

but I had not courage to talk with any one just then. Perhaps I

should have seen you before at the cemetery--if you still walk

there--but I have been sick and have not been there for a long

time. I was only out for the first time when I saw you last

Friday. My aunt has sent for me, and I am going South in a few

days. I shall leave directions to have this posted to you as

soon as I am gone.

"I promised to be here when you came back, and I write this to

thank you for your kind interest in me and to explain why I go

away without seeing you again. I think that I know what you

wanted to ask me that day that we went to the green-house, and

perhaps under happier circumstances I could have given you the

answer which you wished. But I have seen so much sorrow, and I

am of such a gloomy disposition, that I am not fit for cheerful

society, and I know you would regret your choice.

"I shall think very often and very gratefully of you, and shall

not forget the words on that little German baby's gravestone.

Good-bye.

"IMOGEN PINCKNEY."

Putnam felt stunned and benumbed on first reading this letter. Then he

read it over mechanically two or three times. The date was a month old,

but the postmark showed that it had just been mailed. She must have

postponed her departure somewhat after writing it, or the person with

whom it had been left had neglected to post it till now. He felt a

sudden oppression and need of air, and taking his hat left the house. It

was evening, and the first snow of the season lay deep on the ground.

Anger and grief divided his heart. "It's too bad! too bad!" he murmured,

with tears in his eyes: "she might have given me one chance to speak.

She hasn't been fair to me. What's the matter with her, anyhow? She has

brooded and brooded till she is downright melancholy-mad;" and then,

with a revulsion of feeling, "My poor darling girl! Here she has been,

sick and all alone, sitting day after day in that cursed graveyard. I

ought never to have gone to the mountains: I ought to have stayed. I

might have known how it would turn out. Well, it's all over now, I

suppose."

He had taken, half unconsciously, the direction of the cemetery, and now

found himself at the entrance. The gate was locked, but he climbed over

the wall and waded through the snow to the spot where he had sat with

her so many summer afternoons. The wicker chair was buried out of sight

in a drift. A scarcely-visible undulation in the white level marked the

position of the mound, and the headstone had a snow-cap. The cedars

stood black in the dim moonlight, and the icy coating of their boughs

rattled like candelabra. He stood a few moments near the railing, and

then tore the letter into fragments and threw them on the snow. "There!

good-bye, good-bye!" he said bitterly as the wind carried them skating

away over the crust.

But what was that? The moon cast a shadow of Henry Pinckney's headstone

on the snow, but what was that other and similar shadow beyond it?

Putnam had been standing edgewise to the slab: he shifted his position

now and saw a second stone and a second mound side by side with the

first. An awful faintness and trembling seized him as he approached it

and bent his head close down to the marble. The jagged shadows of the

cedar-branches played across the surface, but by the uncertain light he

could read the name "Imogen Pinckney," and below it the inscription,

"Wir hoffen auf Wiedersehen."

HENRY A. BEERS.

STUDIES IN THE SLUMS.

VI.--JAN OF THE NORTH.

"You're wanted at 248, and they said go quick. It's Brita, I shouldn't

wonder. Lord pity her, but it's a wild night to go out! Seems like as if

the Lord would have hard work to find anybody, with the rain an' sleet

pourin' an' drivin' so't you can't see a foot before your face. But He

will."

"Yes, He will," the doctor's quiet voice answered. "Poor little Brita! I

am glad her trouble is almost over. Will you come? Remember how dreadful

the place is."

"More so for me than for you?"

"Surely, for I have been in the midst of such for twenty years, and

among them all have never known a worse den than that in which these

poor souls are stranded. If I could only see a way out for them!"

The doctor had not been idle as she spoke, and stood ready now in thick

gray waterproof and close bonnet, her face a shade graver than its

always steady, gentle calm. Jerry followed, his badge of deputy sheriff

hastily put on, for the alley was one of the worst in the Fourth Ward,

and, well as she was known through its length and breadth, here the

bravest might shrink from going unattended. Out into the night, the wild

wind and beating rain seeming best accompaniments to the brutal revelry

in the dance-houses and "bucket-shops" all about. Here, one heard the

cracked and discordant sounds from the squeaking fiddles or clarionets

of the dance-music, and there, were shouts and oaths and the crash of

glass as a drunken fight went on, undisturbed by policeman and watched

with only a languid interest by the crowd of heavy drinkers. Up Cherry

street, past staggering men, and women with the indescribable voice that

once heard is never forgotten, all, seemingly regardless of the storm,

laughing aloud or shrieking as a sudden gust whirled them on. Then the

alley, dark and noisome, the tall tenement-houses rising on either side,

a wall of pestilence and misery, shutting in only a little deeper

misery, a little surer pestilence, to be faced as it might be.

"It's hell on earth," said Jerry as we passed up the stairs, dark and

broken, pausing a moment as the sound of a scuffle and a woman's shrill

scream came from one of the rooms. "Do you wonder there's murder, an'

worse than murder, done in these holes? Oh, what would I give to tumble

them, the whole crop of the devil's own homes, straight into the river!"

"Hush," the doctor said. "Stay, Jerry, a few minutes. You may be wanted,

but there is not room for all in there."

As she spoke the door had opened, and a tall, gaunt woman in the

distinctive Swedish dress stood before us and mutely pointed us in. It

was hard to distinguish anything in the dim light of a flickering tallow

candle placed in a corner to screen it from the wind, which whistled

through cracks and forced the rain through the broken roof. On a pile of

rags lay three children, sleeping soundly. By the table sat a heavy

figure, the face bowed and hidden in the arms folded upon it, and on the

wretched bed lay the wasted figure of the girl whose life was passing in

the storm.

"Poor little Brita!" I said again, for as the doctor bent over her and

took her hand the eyes opened and a faint smile came to the sweet,

child-like face. Long braids of fair hair lay on the pillow, the eyes

were blue and clear, and the face, wearing now the strange gray shadow

of death, held a delicate beauty still, that with health and color would

have made one turn to look at it again wherever encountered. The mother

stood silent and despairing at the foot of the bed. The motionless

figure at the table did not stir. There was no fire or sign of comfort

in the naked room, and but the scantiest of covering on the bed.

The girl looked up faintly and put out her hand. "Pray," she said in a

whisper--"pray for the mother;" but even as she spoke she gasped, half

rose, then fell back, and was gone, the look of entreaty still in the

eyes. The doctor closed them gently, the poor eyes that would never need

to beg for help any more, and then the mother, still silent, came softly

and touched the girl's face, sinking down then by the side of the bed

and stroking the dead hands as if to bring back life.

The man had risen too and came slowly to her side. "I thank God she iss

gone away from all trouble," he said, "but oh, my doctor, it iss so

hard!"

"Hard!" the woman echoed and rose. "I will not hear of God: I hate God.

There iss no God, but only a deffil, who does all he vill. Brita iss

gone, and Lars and little Jan. Now it must be de oders, and den I know

vat you call God vill laugh. He vill say, 'Ah, now I haf dem all. De

fool fader and de fool moder, dey may live.'"

"Brita! poor Brita!" the man said softly, and added some words in his

own tongue. She pushed him away, then burst into wild weeping and sank

down on the floor.

"He will be her best comforter," the doctor said. "We will go now, and I

will see them all to-morrow. That money will get the coffin," she added

as she laid a bill on the table and then went softly out, "but the

coffin would not have been needed if help could have come three months

ago."

"I thought it was some drunken home," I said, "but that man can never

have gone very far wrong. He has a noble head."

"No, it is only hard times," she answered. "Go again, and you will learn

the whole story, unless you choose to hear it from me."

"No," I said as we stood under the shelter of the still unfinished

Franklin Square Station on the elevated road, "I will hear it for myself

if I can."

The time came sooner than I thought. A month later I went up the dark

stairs, whose treacherous places I had learned to know, and found the

room empty of all signs of occupation, though the bed and table still

stood there.

"They're gone," a voice called from below. "They've come into luck, Pat

says, but I don't know. Anyhow, they turned out o' here yesterday, an'

left the things there for whoever 'd be wantin' 'em."

"Bad 'cess to the furriner!" said another voice as I passed down.

"Comin' here wid his set-up ways, an' schornin' a bit of dhrink!"

"An' if ye'd take patthern of him yerself--" the woman's voice began,

and was silenced by a push back into her room and the loud slam of the

door.

"They have come to better times surely," the janitor said as I asked

their whereabouts at the mission, "an' here's their new number. It's a

quiet, decent place, an' he'll have a better soon."

After Cherry and Roosevelt and Water streets, Madison street seems

another Fifth Avenue. The old New Yorker knows it as the once stately

and decorous abode of old Dutch families, a few of whom still cling to

the ancient homes, but most of these are now cheap boarding-Pouses and

tenements, while here and there a new genuine tenement-house is

sandwiched between the tiled roofs and dormer-windows which still hold

suggestions of former better days. The more respectable class of

'longshoremen find quarters here, and some of the mission-people, who,

well-to-do enough to seek quieter homes, choose to be as near as

possible to the work waiting for them, and for more like them, in that

nest of evil and outrage and slime, the Fourth Ward.

Brita's head was bowed on the table as I went in, and Jan's face was

sorrowful as he looked toward her. "It iss not so alvay," he said. "She

hass made it all so good, and now she dinks of Brita, dat vill not see

it, and she say still, 'God iss hard to take her avay.'"

"How is it, Jan? Did work come all at once?"

"No, and yet yes. Shall I say it all, my lady?"

"Surely, Jan, if you have time."

"It iss de last day I vill be here in my home all day," he began,

drawing one of the children between his knees and holding its hands

fondly. "But see on de vall! It iss dat hass done some vork for me."

I looked to where he pointed. On the wall, near the small looking-glass,

hung a round cap with hanging fox's tail--such a cap as the half-bloods

of our north-western forests wear, and the peasants of the European

North as well.

Jan smiled as he saw my puzzled look. "It iss vy I say I vill tell it

all," he went on in his grave, steady voice. "Ven I see dat it iss to

see de North. For, see, it vas not alvays I am in de city. No. It iss

true I am many years in Stockholm, but I am not Swede: I am Finn--yes,

true Finn--and know my own tongue vell, and dat iss vat some Finns vill

nefer do. I haf learn to read Swedish, for I must. Our own tongue iss

not for us, but I learn it, and Brita dere, she know it too. Brita iss

of Helsingfors, and I am of de country far out, but I come dere vid fur,

for I hunt many months each year. Den I know Brita, and ve marry, and I

must stay in de city, and I am strong; and first I am porter, but soon

dey know I read and can be drusted, and it iss china dat I must put in

boxes all day, and I know soon how to touch it so as it nefer break.

"But dere is not money. My Brita iss born, and little Jan, and I dink

alvay, 'I must haf home vere dey may know more;' and all de days it iss

America dat dey say iss home for all, and much money--so much no man can

be hungry, and vork iss for all. Brita iss ready, and soon ve come, and

all de children glad. Yes, dere are six, and good children dat lofe us,

and I say efery day, 'Oh, my God, but you are so good! and my life lofes

you, for so much good I haf.' Brita too iss happy. She vork hard, but ve

do not care, and ve dink, 'Soon ve can rest a little, for it iss not so

hard dere as here;' and ve sail to America.

"But, my lady, how iss it it vas all so bad? For vork iss _not_. It iss

true I haf a little in de beginning. It iss three year ago. I know some

English I haf learn in sailing once to England, for de Finns go

eferyvere to sail. I am not helpless so, and I am large and strong, and

soon I go to de many, many china-stores--so many, I say, dat can nefer

be to vant vork--and in one dey take me. But it iss not much money,

dough I dink it so, for it iss alvay de rent--so much, and ve are

strange and dey cheat us. And ven I am troubled most, and dink to ask

for more, den quick it iss dat I haf none. De place iss failed--dat iss

vat iss tell me--and I go home to Brita to say vat shall to do? I could

dig, I vould go far off, but I haf not money; but I say, 'Ven I get

plenty it shall be ve go to vere earth shall gif us to eat, and not

starve us as here.' For soon it iss little to eat, and it iss dat ve

sell clothes and such as ve must. I get vork--a little on de docks. I

unload, and see men dat can steal all day from coffee-bags and much

sugar, and soon time iss come dat ve are hungry, and men say, 'Steal

too. It's hard times, and you _haf_ to steal.'

"Oh, dere iss one day! It iss here now. My little Jan iss dead, and Carl

so sick, and all dat he must be vidout enough to eat, and my Brita vill

get a dollar and a half a veek to sew--alvays sew and she is pale and

coughs. I pray, 'O God, you know I vill not do wrong, but vat shall I

do? Show me how, for I am afraid.' But it vas all dark. I cannot go

home, for I haf not money. I cannot vork but one, maybe two, times a

veek. And alvays I see my own _hungry_! I dink I could kill myself; but

dat helps not, and I go avay, oh, eferyvere about New York, and beg for

vork. And den eferyvere it iss said, 'He is a _tramp_,' and alvays dey

tell me, 'No, ve gif not to _tramps_. Go to vere you came from.' I say,

'I am not tramps. My children are hungry. Gif me vork: I vant to eat for

dem--not money, but to eat if you vill. Gif me a little vork.'

"I am dirty: Brita iss not dere to haf me clean. I vash as I can, in

vater anyvere, but I sleep on de ground. I eat not often. I am vild

truly, I know, and soon peoples are afraid. Den, my lady, I haf no more

faith. I say, 'God, you haf forgotten me: you haf forgotten vat you

promise. It may be God iss not anyvere.' So I come back, and I find dat

my little Brita iss sick--so sick she cannot vork--and Brita my vife;

she sew all she can, but it iss not enough. I go on de docks once more.

'No vork! no vork!' It iss de vord eferyvere. And one day, all de day

long, ve haf nothing--no fire, nothing to eat, and dere iss no more

anything to pawn, and I say, 'At last I vill steal, for vat else shall

be to do?' And I go out and down to de dock, for I know a boat going out

in de night, and I say, 'I too vill go.' But I go down Vater street. I

know it not much, for first my home iss on de odder side, but ve are so

poor at last ve are in Cherry street, and den vere you see us first. But

den I am just come, and I go by de mission and hear all sing, and I say,

'I vill stay a minute and listen, for soon nefer again shall I sit vid

any dat sing and pray and haf to do vid God.' So I go in, and listen not

much till soon one man stands up, an' he say, 'Friends, I came first

from prison, and I meant not efer to do more vat vould take me dere

again. But dere iss no vork, even ven I look all day, and I am hungry;

and den I dink to steal again. I vait, because perhaps vork come, but at

night I go out and say, "I know my old ground. Dere's plenty ready to

velcome me if I'm a mind to join 'em." And den, as I go, one says to me,

"Come in here;" and I come in and not care, till I hear many tell vat

dey vere, and I say, "I vill vait a leetle longer: I cannot steal now."

And now vork has come, and if God help me I shall never steal again.'

"I stood up den. I said loud, 'I haf nefer steal. I belief in God, but

now how shall I? My heart's dearest, dey starve, dey die before me. Dere

iss no vork, dere iss no help. If I steal not, how shall I do?' I vas

crying: I could not see. Then Jerry came. 'You shall nefer starve,' he

said. 'Stay honest, for God _vill_ care for you, and ve'll all pray Him

to keep you so.'

"And so, when meeting iss done, dey go vid me to see, and dere iss food

and all dey can. Dey are God's angels to me and to mine.

"But, my lady, you know: you haf seen my little Brita. And efery day I

look at her and see her going avay, so fast, so fast, and my heart

breaks, for she is first of all. And den she iss gone, and still vork is

not. You haf seen us. All de days dey say. 'Dere vill come vork soon,'

but it comes not efer. And one morning I look in de chest to see if one

thing may still be to pawn, and dere iss only my cap dat I keep--not to

vear, no, but only to remember. And I sit, and it iss on my hand, and I

hold de fox's tail, and again I am in Finland, and I see de foxes run on

de ice, and I know vell dis one dat I hold de tail. Den quick I haf a

thought. I look for a stick all about: dere iss but a little one for de

fire, and no knife, but I get a knife from a man dat iss at de odder

room, and I cut it and tie it. I vill not tell Brita vat I do, but soon

I haf de tail vid a handle, and I put it inside my coat, and go to a

store vere iss a man I haf seen dat vill make many things, and money

sometimes.

"'Ha, Jan,' he said ven I show it, 'dis _iss_ a notion! I'll gif you ten

dollar for dat notion.'

"'No,' I say. 'If you say ten dollar I know it vorth more, for I know

vat you can do. But let it be more, and I may sell it.'

"Den he talk. Dere is risk, he say, and he must spend much money, but he

say it vill _take_. Oh, I know dat vord, and ven he has talked so much

at last he say he vill write a paper and gif me one hundred dollar, and

make me a foreman ven he shall make dem. For he says, 'It iss vat all

ladies vill vant--so soft to make clean in de beautiful cabinets, and de

china on de vall so as dey hang it in great houses. Vid its handle for

stiffness, den de soft tail vill go eferyvere and nefer break. It iss a

duster, and best of all duster too, for nothing can efer break.'

"So now he hass rooms--dree rooms--and many people are to take dem, and

to-morrow I go to show how one must hold all de tails, and dere is vork,

all I can do; and ven money iss come I dink to go avay, but not soon,

for I must help some dat haf no help. But oh, I dink of de little ones,

and of Brita dat iss gone; and de moder she cannot haf rest, for all day

she say, 'Vy must it be dey are gone, ven now iss plenty?'--'My God, it

iss your vill. And not fery long, and you vill make us a home vid her.'

It iss all right, my lady."

Jan lingers still in his last quarters. The mission holds him fast, and

his grave, steady face is known to many a poor wretch just out of

prison--many a tramp who has returned despairing of work and been helped

to it by this man, himself a workman, but with a sympathy never failing

for any sad soul struggling toward a better life or lost in the despair

of waiting. Their name is legion, and their rescue must come from just

such workers--men who have suffered and know its meaning. Men of this

stamp hold the key to a regeneration of the masses, such as organized

charities are powerless to effect; and already some who believe in this

fact are seeking to make their work easier and to give the substantial

aid that it demands. The poor are the best missionaries to the poor, and

he who has gone hungry, suffered every pang of poverty and known

sharpest temptation to sin can best speak words that will save men and

women entering on the same path.

To this end Jan lives--as truly a priest to the people as if hands laid

upon him had consecrated him to the work, but all unconscious what power

it holds to the on-lookers, and only sure of the one word, the mission

watchword--"Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these,

ye have done it unto Me."

HELEN CAMPBELL.

UNDER THE GRASSES.

What do you hide, O grasses! say,

Among your tangles green and high?

"Warm-hearted violets for May,

And rocking daisies for July."

What burden do you keep beneath

Your knotted green, that none may see?

"The prophecy of life and death,

A hint, a touch, a mystery."

What hope and passion should I find

If I should pierce your meshes through?

"A clover blossoming in the wind,

A wandering harebell budded blue."

DORA READ GOODALE.

"KITTY."

The Idler was hopelessly becalmed off Thomas's Point. Not a ripple could

be seen down the Chesapeake, and the locusts and pines along the shore

were shuddering uncomfortably with the heat of a July afternoon, hidden

halfway to their tops in the summer haze. What was to be done? Five

miles from home in a large sloop yacht filled with strangers from the

North, the crew left behind to be out of the way, and every one

thoroughly convinced that his neighbor was horribly bored!

Thornton gave the tiller a vicious shove, as if that would wake the

yacht up, and glared forward along the row of parasols protecting fair

faces from the sun and of hats cocked over noses that were screwed up

with feelings too deep for words, and more intense than those produced

by heat, he thought. By five o'clock we had sung every song that ever

was written, and flirtations were becoming desperate. Mollie Brogden,

comfortably lodged against the mast, was dropping her blue parasol lower

and lower over one of the New York men as their conversation grew more

and more intense with the heat, and Mrs. Brogden was becoming really

alarmed.

The situation was maddening! Nothing on board to eat; soft-shell crabs

and the best bill of fare of a Southern kitchen ordered at home for

seven o'clock; a couple of fiddlers coming from "the Swamp" at nine; and

Cousin Susan, the cook, even then promising little Stump Neal "all de

bonyclaba he cu'd stow ef he'd jest friz dis yar cream fo' de new

missis."

"It is too provoking for anything!" the new missis whispered to

Thornton, as he stopped by his wife's side for an instant and moved on

to consult with some of the married men who were smoking in luxuriant

carelessness forward. Very little consolation he got there. Ellis from

Annapolis said he had known calms last two days, and sundry forcible

remarks were made when it was discovered that the last cigars were then

in our mouths. This was the last straw. Thornton felt furious with every

one, and muttered dark wishes that ante-war power might be restored to

him over the person of Uncle Brian when we got home--if we ever did--as

he reflected that that ancient African had guaranteed a breeze.

Mollie Brogden smiled lazily at him as Donaldson fanned her slowly, and

waited until Thornton should pass, so that the talk which was leading up

to the inscription of a clever piece of poetry on her fan might be

continued.

"By the way, Donaldson," as a sudden inspiration seemed to strike

Thornton, "did you ever hear anything more of Kitty after I left you at

Christmas?"

The sweetness of that piece of poetry on the fan was never revealed. The

blue parasol went up with a jump, and a look assured Donaldson that

certain words had better have been left unsaid that afternoon if "Kitty"

should not be satisfactorily explained. I felt sorry for him, for every

one caught at the idea of something new, and the thought of an

explanation to the whole of that boatload, keen for all sorts of

badinage, would have tempted me overboard, I am sure. However, Donaldson

smiled very composedly, and said he believed the family were still in

Texas, although he had heard nothing more than Thornton already knew of

their history.

Well, that simply made matters worse: Texas and Kitty were suggestive

enough for anything, and I caught a whisper from Miss Brogden that

seemed to imply that she doubted whether he had really been so

inconsolable for last summer's diversions as he had tried to make her

believe. That settled him, for I knew he had come down to Thornton's

expressly to see her, and he assured us it was a very small story, but

if we cared to hear it perhaps the breeze would come meanwhile, and he

would try to give the facts exactly as they had come to his knowledge.

"We were a few hours out from Liverpool," he began, "and the

smoking-room of the Russia was pretty well filled with all sorts of men,

none of whom of course felt much at home yet, but who were gradually

being shaken together by the civilizing influence of tobacco and the

occasional lurches that the cross-chop of the Channel was favoring us

with. I was sitting near the door with a man from Boston whom I found on

board returning from a wedding-trip, and who, I discovered, had taken

orders since leaving Harvard, where I had known him slightly as a

bookish sort of fellow and not very agreeable; but as I was alone and

his wife was quite pretty, I was glad to meet him.

"Well, we were running over old times, without paying much attention to

the guide-book talk that was being poured out round us, when somebody

laid a hand on my shoulder and one of the most attractive voices I ever

heard asked 'if there was room for a stranger from Texas?' This formal

announcement of himself by a newcomer made a little lull in the

conversation, but my friend made room for him in our corner, and he

quietly enveloped himself in smoke for the rest of the evening.

"He was not inattentive, though, to the drift of our talk, for when

Hamilton mentioned having been at the Pan-Anglican, and spoke of the

effect such conventions should produce, the Texan's cigar came out of

his mouth and his blue eyes grew deeper in their sockets as he

interrupted us with the remark: 'The conventions of all the Bible-men in

the world would not have made La Junta any better if it had not been for

Kitty. You know what Junta was before she came?' he continued, seeing us

look a little surprised--'nothing but cards and drink, and--worse; and

now'--and he laid his hand on his hip as if from habit--'now we have no

trouble there any more.'

"The oddness of the expression 'Bible-men,' I remember, struck me at the

time, but Hamilton made some explanatory reply, for the quiet force of

the soft voice had a certain persuasiveness about it without the aid of

his gesture, although the smoke was so thick that we could not see

whether he carried the instruments of his country or not.

"Standing by the aft wheel-house, I found the Texan the next morning

throwing biscuits to the gulls and gazing wistfully seaward.

"'Your first visit to Europe?' I said, steadying myself by the rail.

"'Yes, but I would give all last year's herd if I had never come, for

Kitty is ill. I have travelled night and day since the telegram reached

me, but La Junta is so far away I am afraid I shall be too late.'

"I wish I could give you an idea of his manner: it was more like that of

a person who had just learned the language and was afraid of making

mistakes, so hesitated before each word, giving every syllable its full

value. He explained this simply enough afterward--that Kitty had broken

him of swearing by making him think before he spoke."

"But you haven't told us who Kitty was," interrupted the blue parasol.

"Was she light or dark?"--"his wife?"--"he wouldn't have dared!"--"a

Texan wife?" and Mrs. Brogden looked very grave at the possibilities the

flying questions aroused.

"No, she wasn't his wife; only the Yankee schoolmistress of La Junta. I

never saw her. She must have been an angel, though, from his

description; so I will leave the details for your acquaintance

hereafter, Miss Brogden;" which outrageous flattery was received with

contemptuous silence.

"She lived at Junta, and would canter over on Saturdays to Trocalara,

the Texan's ranch, to teach his herdsmen's families. His partner,

Parker, and he had a large cattle-ranch not far from the Mexican

frontier, and Kitty could not have lived on a bed of roses, I fancy.

Raids, stampedes and other border pleasantries were constantly

occurring. I remember we thought him too gentle at first to have really

hailed from the Plains; but one night, when Hamilton remonstrated with a

man who, I believe, had allowed himself to get in that state described

by the sailors as 'three sheets in the wind, and the fourth fluttering,'

and was met with rather an uncivil reply, the Texan shut the offender up

like a jack-knife with his heavy grip and the intimation that 'he

proposed to settle the Bible-man's scores.'

"He grew quite intimate with Hamilton and me, and proved a delightful

companion. He would quote readily from many of the later poets, and knew

whole pages of Milton and Shakespeare by heart. Kitty had taught him

these, he said, after she married Parker and came to live with him.

"'She made us read history-books first,' he said--'many, many

volumes--but we soon got to like them better than anything else. The

poetry _she_ read to us; and so we never went to the shows in Junta

after she came. Kitty has a good husband, as fine a fellow as ever

lassoed a steer, but she is too pure for Junta. Parker loves her, and I

love her too, but both of us do not make up for her Eastern comforts.

And so last year, as we made a good herd and there were no raids to

speak of, I came to New York to get a few luxuries for her. She wrote me

then to go to Paris and see the Exposition; so I went because I thought

she knew best, and that if I had seen the world a little I should be

nearer to her, and it would not be quite so hard for her out there. And

now she is ill, and--I am here!'

"He turned impatiently away to ask the quartermaster what we were doing

by the last log. The speed appeared to satisfy him, for he sat quietly

down again and told us how it was that Kitty had come to live with them.

"'For two years, you know'--assuming that we did know--'she spent

Saturdays at Trocalara, teaching our people how to read and write. They

were very rough at first--we all are out there--and did not care much;

but she interested them, and brought picture-books for the little ones,

and by and by she said she would come out on Sunday and we should have

church!' with a triumphant look at Hamilton and his Pan-Anglican

attendance. 'Yes, we had had a priest there before, but he was shot in a

row at Bowler's Paradise, and no one cared to apply for a new one.

"'Kitty came up to the ranch the first Sunday, and asked us to come with

her. We refused at first, but after a while, when we heard the singing,

we went down to the quarters, and found her sitting under one of the

trees with all the young ones clustered round her; and we waited there

and listened until we began to feel very sorry that we had played so

late at Bowler's the night before.

"'But Parker had been in luck, and he swore he would get her as fine a

piano as could be brought from the States (he was a half-Mexican by

birth) if she would sing like that for us at the ranch.

"'She stood up then, with all the young ones looking on in amazement,

the light and shade playing over her through the cool, dark leaves, and,

turning her large gray eyes full on Parker's face, said she would if we

would promise never to go to Bowler's again.

"'I think Parker expected her to refuse to come altogether, because we

had no women there, and we had heard the people in Junta talking of her

quiet, modest ways. But no, she never thought of herself: she only

thought of the nights at Bowler's, and wanted to save us from the end

she had seen often enough in two years in Junta. At any rate, the piano

came, and Parker had it sent as a sort of halfway measure to her house

in Junta, where she and her mother lived, and we were as welcome as the

light there always.

"'You have no idea of her music. They told me at concerts in Paris that

I was hearing the finest musicians in Europe, but they were not like

Kitty. They played for our money--Kitty played for our pleasure: it

makes so much difference,' he added as his fingers drummed an

accompaniment to the air he whistled.

"'One night Parker and I were sitting in a corner at Bowler's when we

heard a Greaser--a Mexican, you know--that Parker had refused to play

poker with the night before ask who the senorita was that had taken the

spirit out of Parker.

"'We both started forward instantly, but as the man was evidently

ignorant of our presence, Parker checked me with a fierce look in his

eyes that showed that the spirit of his former days would be very apt to

put a different ending on the conversation if it continued in that tone.

"'"Kitty," came the reply, as if that settled the matter.

"'"Kitty? Ah, your American names are so strange! Kitty! But she is

beautiful, is this Kitty! I met her in the Gulch road this afternoon

this side of Trocalara. Caramba! how she can ride! The Parker has good

taste: I drink to my future acquaintance with her."

"'As he raised the glass to his lips Parker stood behind his chair and

whispered, "If you drink that liquor, by God it will be the last drop

that shall ever pass your lips!"

"'The next morning they sold the Mexican's horse and traps to pay for

burying him and for the damage done, and Parker lay in bed at Kitty's

with that in his side you would not have cared to see.

"'Kitty never knew why he fought, and never even looked a reproach. It

was not much--I had seen him cut much worse in the stockyard at

home--but somehow he did not get well. The weeks slipped by, and each

time I called Kitty would say he was a little better, and a little

better, and oh yes, he would be back next week; but next week came so

often without Parker that at last, when the time came for changing

pastures, I went with the herd and left him still at Junta.

"'I would willingly have taken his place, look you, if I had known the

result, but perhaps the other way was the best, after all; for now Kitty

has two men to serve her,' he added meditatively.

"'When I got back to Junta in October, Parker was quite recovered, I

found out at the ranch, but was in town that evening, so I went quietly

into Kitty's house to surprise them. As I crossed the hall I heard

Parker's voice. Could I have mistaken the house? was it really his voice

I heard? Yes: he was telling Kitty how he had broken the three-year-old

colt to side-saddle, so when she came to Trocalara she must give up her

old pony. I knew then why Kitty had kept him there so long: he had lost

his reason and she wished to keep me from knowing it!

"'But no. I stood still and listened, and heard him tell her how he had

always loved her, apparently going over an old story to her. My God! I

would as soon have told the Virgin I loved her! And then I heard her

voice. "When I am your wife--" she began.

"'It all flashed on me in an instant then. I slipped noiselessly out,

and if they heard "Odd Trick's" gallop on the turf it was not because

his hoofs lingered too long there.

"'I can't remember how I passed that night. The revelation had been so

sudden that the words seemed to be written in my heart and to be carried

through every vein with each beat. "When I am your wife--" What would

the result be? _Our_ Kitty was to be his wife? Could I still stay at the

ranch? "When I am your wife--" and I loved her!

"'The next day I went into Junta and saw them both. I told Parker how

the herd stood, and how the shooting had been in the mountains, but I

never had the courage to look at her.

"'After a while she went to the piano and played "Home:" then she came

and sat down by me and said, "I have told Parker I will go home with

him: I will try to be a sister to you."

"'I believe I only stared at her, and then wrung Parker's hand and went

out.

"'He married her the next month, and--and--Trocalara has been heaven

ever since.

"'I never knew what a Christian was before she came: you know we have no

faith in Texas in things we can't draw a bead on. But when she read me

the story of the Scribes and Pharisees and Christ I felt ashamed to be

like those Flat-heads and Greasers in the New Testament who did not

believe in him; and now I feel sure of knowing some one in heaven, for

Kitty has promised to find me there.'

"I forget a great many of the incidents he told us," Donaldson went on

in the quiet that was almost equal to the calm around us; "and I dare

say it would bore you to listen. But he certainly was the most

extraordinary man I ever met. I can't do justice to his expressions, for

they lack his soft voice and curious hesitation. I wish we had him here,

though."

"Did you never hear of him again?" some one asked.

"Yes. When we reached New York I found him standing in his old place by

the aft wheel-house in a dazed sort of way, with apparently no intention

of going ashore; so I asked him what hotel he intended to stop at. His

only answer was to hand me a letter dated some days before:

"'JUNTA, Texas.

"'Kitty died last night. It is a boy, and is named after

you--her last wish.

"'PARKER.'

That was all the letter said, but as I looked at his white face and

burning eyes I saw it was what he had feared.

"As I bade him good-night at the hotel that evening he asked me, 'Do you

really feel sure that I could find her--there?'

"'Yes: she said so, did she not?' I replied.

"'I will try,' he said simply.

"The next morning they found him with a bullet-hole in his temple. He

had gone to find Kitty."

* * * * *

"Heads!" said Thornton as the boom swung over and the swirl from the

Idler's bow told us the wind had come. As I changed my place I caught

Miss Brogden's eye, and felt satisfied that Donaldson was forgiven.

LAWRENCE BUCKLEY.

A GREAT SINGER.

There are so few of them! The next generation will hardly understand how

great were some of the lately-vanished kings and queens of the lyric

drama. We who have passed middle age, who have heard Lablache, and

Tamberlik, and Jenny Lind, and Viardot Garcia, and Alboni, and Giuglini

in their prime, and Grisi, Mario, Sontag and Persiani with voices but a

little the worse for wear, can sadly contrast the vocal glories of the

past with those of the present. Who are the great singers of to-day? Two

or three _prime donne_ and as many baritones. There is not a single

basso living to suggest Lablache, not a tenor to revive the triumphs of

Rubini, Mario, Giuglini or the subject of the present article.

Gustave Roger, the celebrated French tenor, who so long reigned a king

at the Grand Opera of Paris, was a born Parisian. He was of gentle

blood, his uncle being Baron Roger, who was a member of the Chamber of

Deputies in the days of Louis Philippe. He was born in 1815, and was

originally destined for the legal profession. But the boy's destiny was

the stage. It is on record that, being sent to a provincial town where

there was no theatre to complete his studies, he got up a representation

on his own account, playing the principal _roles_ in three comedies. The

notary in whose office he had been placed was present on the occasion,

and warmly applauded the young actor, but the next day sent his

refractory pupil back to Paris. Finally, Roger's relatives decided that

his vocation for the stage was stronger than their powers of combating

it, and they placed him at the Conservatoire. He remained there for one

year only, at the end of which time he carried off two first prizes--one

for singing and the other for declamation.

And here a curious fact must be remarked. Side by side with the great

lyric or dramatic celebrities that have won their first renown at the

_concours_ of the Conservatoire there is always some other pupil of

immense promise, who does as well as, if not better than, the future

star at the moment of the competition, but who afterward disappears into

the mists of mediocrity or of oblivion. Thus, in the year in which the

elder Coquelin obtained his prize the public loudly protested against

the award of the jury, declaring that the most gifted pupil of the class

was a certain M. Malard, who now holds a third-rate position on the

boards of the Gymnase. When Delaunay, the accomplished leading actor of

the Comedie Francaise, left the Conservatoire, it was with a second

prize only: the first was carried off by M. Blaisot, who now plays the

"second old men" at the Gymnase. So with Roger as first prize was

associated one Flavio Ping, a tall, handsome young man with a superb

voice. So far as physical advantages were concerned, he was better

fitted for a theatrical career than was the future creator of John of

Leyden, as Roger was not tall and had a tendency to embonpoint. M. Ping,

however, went to Italy, accepted engagements at the opera-houses of

Rome, Naples and Milan, sang there with success for a few years, lost

his voice, and finally disappeared.

In 1838, Roger made his debut at the Opera Comique in _L'Eclair_, by

Auber. His success was immediate and complete. He remained at that

theatre for some years, his favorite character being George Brown in _La

Dame Blanche_. But his greatest triumphs at this period were those which

awaited him in the great opera-houses of London, where he sang the

leading tenor roles in the operas of Bellini and Donizetti. In his

recently-published diary he gives some interesting details respecting

Jenny Lind, then at the height of her fame and the very zenith of her

powers. His first impression, after hearing her in _Norma_, was one of

disappointment. It was in June, 1847. The great tenor thus records his

impressions of the great prima donna: "She is well enough in Casta

Diva--that invocation to the moon suits her dreamy Teutonic nature--but

the fury of the loving woman, the deserted mother--No, no! a thousand

times no!" But the next season he goes to hear her in _Lucia_, and at

once the verdict is reversed. "She is one of the greatest artists it has

ever been my lot to hear," he writes. "Her voice, though charming in the

upper notes, is unfortunately a little weak in the middle register; but

what intelligence and invention! She imitates no one, she studies

unceasingly, both the dramatic situation and the musical phrase, and her

ornamentation is of a novelty and elegance that reconcile me to that

style of execution. I do not love roulades, I must confess, though I may

learn to do so later. Jenny Lind does one thing admirably: during the

malediction, instead of clinging to her lover as all the other Lucias

never fail to do till the act is ended, as soon as Edgar throws her from

him she remains motionless: she is a statue. A livid smile contracts her

features, her haggard eyes are fixed on the table where she signed the

fatal contract, and when the curtain falls one sees that madness has

already seized upon her."

During this season in London, Roger, while singing at the Ancient

Concerts, saw in the audience one evening the duke of Wellington, and

thus writes of the event: "I had Wellington before me. I heard the voice

that commanded the troops at Waterloo. I looked into the eyes that saw

the back of the emperor. I cannot express the rage that seized upon me

at beholding him. To sing to and give pleasure to that man whom I would

fain annihilate!--him, and his past, and his country! As a Frenchman I

hate him, but I am forced also to admire him."

The next year Roger, while fulfilling an engagement in London, was

requested to sing at a garden-fete given, under the patronage of the

queen, at Fulham, for the benefit of the poor. After the concert Roger,

leaning against an acacia, was watching the departure of the royal

carriages. "Lavandy came to me," he writes, "and said in a whisper, 'Do

you know who is at the other side of this tree?'

"'No.'

"I turned round, and saw a man with an aquiline nose and blue eyes,

whose deep yet gloomy gaze was fixed upon the splendors of royalty. 'Who

is it?' I asked of Lavandy.

"'Louis Bonaparte.'

"He had just been elected member of the Chamber of Deputies. As his name

appeared to be dangerous, he had been requested to take a vacation, and

he had returned to London, where he had formerly lived. I am glad that I

saw him: he may be somebody some day."

It was in April of the previous year (1847) that Roger went to a

concert, where he records how he heard a comic opera called _The

Alcove_, by Offenbach and Deforges: "A little inexperience, but some

charming things. Offenbach is a fellow who will go far if the doors of

the Opera Comique are not closed against him: he has the gift of melody

and the perseverance of a demon." It is rather curious to note, in

connection with this prophecy, that the doors of the Opera Comique,

which were closed against Offenbach after the failure of his _Vert-Vert_

some years before the war, are to be reopened to him next season, his

_Contes de Hoffman_ having proved the "Open, sesame!" to those

long-barred portals.

But to return to Roger's reminiscences of Jenny Lind, which are, after

all, the most interesting for music-loving readers. We find him writing

in July, 1848: "I have again been to see Jenny Lind in _Lucia_. She is

indeed a great, a sublime artist, in whom are united inspiration and

industry."

It was during this season that he concluded an engagement with the

English impresario Mitchell to become the tenor of the travelling

opera-troupe in which Jenny Lind was to be the prima donna, and which

was to undertake a tour through Scotland, Ireland and the provincial

towns of England. "I am delighted," he writes: "I shall now be able to

study near at hand this singular woman, whom Paris has never possessed,

but whose reputation, fostered at first in Germany under the auspices of

Meyerbeer, has attained in England such proportions that upon her

arrival in a certain city the bells were rung and the archbishop went

out to meet her and to invite her to his house. She is a noble-hearted

creature, and her munificence is royal: she founds hospitals and

colleges. In her blue eyes glows the flame of genius. Deprived of her

voice, she would still be a remarkable woman. Believing in herself, she

is full of daring, and achieves great things because she never troubles

herself about the critics. She lives the life of a saint: one would say

that she imagines herself sent by God to make the happiness of humanity

by the religion of art. Thus she remains cold and chaste in private

life, never permitting her heart to become inflamed by the ardent

passions wherewith she glows upon the stage. She told me that she could

never comprehend the lapse from virtue of Mademoiselle R----, a woman of

such lofty talent: 'To fail thus in what was due to one's self!'"

It is pleasing to note how Roger's admiration for this great artist

extinguishes all the usual petty jealousy of a fellow-singer. He writes

thus frankly respecting a concert which they gave during their tour at

Birmingham: "It was a brilliant success, but the final triumph was borne

off by Jenny Lind, who fairly carried the audience away with her Swedish

melodies, the effect of which is really remarkable. She has a strength

of voice in the upper notes that is vast and surprising: without

screaming she produces echoes, the loud and soft notes being almost

simultaneous. In the artist's green-room she is kind and courteous

without being either mirthful or expansive. Moreover, she is

indefatigable, which is a precious quality for the manager. She never

stays at the same hotel with the rest of the troupe, which is a rather

imperial proceeding; but it is better so: we are more at our ease. She

lives her own concentrated life like some old wine that never sees the

light excepting on great occasions. I have at last found in Jenny Lind a

partner who understands me. On the stage she becomes animated; her hands

clasp mine with energy, and the thrill of dramatic fervor possesses her

whole being: she becomes thoroughly identified with her part, and yet

she never permits herself to be so carried away as to cease to be

entirely mistress of her voice."

Roger gives us some brief glimpses of Jenny Lind in private life--her

love of dancing, of which she seems to have been as passionately fond as

was Fanny Kemble in her youth, and her delight in horseback riding. He

gives a comical account of an improvised ball, in which he figured as

the prima donna's partner, on board of the steamboat going from Dublin

to Holyhead: "Unfortunately, our orchestra fell off one by one; the

music finally ceased; and when we stopped waltzing and cast an uneasy

glance around us, we beheld all our musicians, their chests pressed

against the railings, their arms extended toward the ocean, in the

pitiable attitude of Punch when knocked down by the policeman." Some

days later, during a performance of _La Fille du Regiment_ at Brighton,

in the last act, while the orchestra was playing the prelude to the

final rondo, "Jenny Lind said to me in a whisper, 'Listen well to this

song, Roger, for these are the last notes of mine that you will hear in

any theatre.'"

The next day a farewell ball, to which a supper succeeded, was given by

the manager at the Bedford Hotel to celebrate the conclusion and

brilliant success of the tour: "That dear Jenny drew from her finger a

ring set with a diamond of the finest water, and presented it to me with

the words, 'May every sparkle of this stone, Roger, recall to you one of

my wishes for your happiness!' In this phrase there was all the woman

and a tinge of the Swede."

The next day he takes a final ride with the prima donna and Madame

Lablache. "I was very sad," he writes: "the idea of ending this happy

day has spoiled my pleasure. How well she looks on horseback, with her

great blue eyes and her loosened fair hair! And why does she quit the

stage? Is she tired of doing good? As long as she has been an artist she

has lived the life of a saint. They tell me of a bishop who has put

certain scruples into her head. May Heaven be his judge!

"I know that in Paris people say, 'Why does she not come here to

consecrate her reputation? She is afraid, doubtless, of comparisons and

recollections.' No, no! she has nothing to fear. She preserves in her

heart of hearts, doubtless, some resentment for the indifference--to

call it no more--wherewith the last manager of the Opera received her

advances for a hearing when her fresh young talent had just left the

hands of Manuel Garcia. But since then Meyerbeer has composed operas for

her; Germany, Sweden, England have set the seal upon her reputation: we

can add nothing to it. As to homage, what could we give her? Wherever

she goes, as soon as she arrives in a city its chief personages hasten

to meet her; when she leaves the theatre five or six hundred persons

await her exit with lighted torches; every leaf that falls from her

laurel-wreaths is quarrelled over; crowds escort her to her hotel; and

serenades are organized under her windows. At Paris, when once the

curtain falls the emotion is over, the artist no longer exists. A

serenade! Who ever saw such a thing outside of the _Barber of Seville?_

It is in bad taste to do anything singular. As to escorting a prima

donna home, Malibran could find her way alone very well."

Roger returned to Paris, recording as he did so the fact that he was by

no means overjoyed at finding himself at home: "And why? I cannot tell.

Perhaps I regret the life of excitement, those great theatres, the

audiences that changed every day, the struggle of the singer with new

_partitions_, the boundless admiration I experienced for that strange

being, that compound of goodness and coldness, of egotism and

benevolence, whom one might not perhaps love, but whom it is impossible

to forget."

The next prominent event in the great tenor's career was his creation of

the character of John of Leyden in Meyerbeer's _Prophete_. There is

something very charming in the naive delight and enthusiasm with which

he speaks of this, the crowning glory of his life. Contrary to the usual

theory respecting the production of a great dramatic effect, he declares

that the grand scene between the prophet and Fides in the third act,

where John of Leyden, by the sheer force of intonation of voice and play

of feature, forces his mother to retract her recognition of him and to

fall at his feet, was created, so to speak, by Madame Viardot and

himself on the inspiration of the moment and without any preliminary

conference or arrangement. How wonderful this fine dramatic situation

appeared when interpreted by these two great artists, I, who had the

delight of seeing them both, can well remember. To this day it forms one

of the great traditions of the French lyric stage.

In the month of July, 1859, just ten years after that crowning triumph,

Roger one day, being then at his country-seat, took his gun and went out

to shoot pheasants: an hour later he was brought I back to the house

with his right arm horribly shattered by the accidental discharge of his

gun. His first action after having the wound dressed was to sing. "My

voice is all right," he remarked to his wife: "there is no harm done."

Unfortunately, the bones were so shattered that amputation was judged

necessary. That accident brought Roger's operatic career to a close.

Notwithstanding the perfection of the mechanical arm that replaced the

missing limb, he was oppressed by the consciousness of a physical

defect. He imagined that the public ridiculed him, and that the critics

only spared him out of pity. He retired from the stage, and devoted

himself to teaching, his amiable character and great artistic renown

gaining him hosts of pupils. In the autumn of 1879 the kindly, blameless

life came to a close.

A devoted husband, a generous and unselfish comrade in his profession

even to his immediate rivals, and a true and faithful friend, he left

behind him a record that shows a singular blending of simple domestic

virtues with great artistic qualities, the union adorning a theatrical

career which was one series of dazzling triumphs.

LUCY H. HOOPER.

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

CONSERVATORY LIFE IN BOSTON.

Our aspiring young friend from the rural districts who comes to Boston,

the great musical centre, for the art-training she cannot enjoy at home,

is full of enthusiasm as she crosses the threshold of that teeming hive,

the New England Conservatory of Music. The conflicting din of organs,

pianos and violins, of ballad, scale and operetta, though discordant to

the actual ear have a harmony which is not lost to her spiritual sense.

It is a choral greeting to the new recruit, who gathers in a moment all

the moral support humanity derives from sympathy and companionship in a

common purpose. Devoutly praying that this inspiration may not ooze out

at her fingers' ends, she goes into the director's sanctum to be

examined. This trial has pictured itself to her active imagination for

weeks past. Of course he will ask her to play one of her pieces, perhaps

several. Has she not, ever since her plans for coming to the

Conservatory were matured, been engaged in carefully training,

manipulating, her battle-horse for this critical experiment? As the door

of that little room closes upon her her knees begin to tremble. But how

easy and reassuring is the director's manner! He requests her to be

seated at the piano. Will she be able to remember a note at all? That is

now the question. Her musical memory is for the nonce obliterated. He

may have an intuition of this, for he says quietly, "Now play me a scale

and a five-finger exercise." Cecilia does this mechanically, and feels

encouraged. Now for the piece, the battle-horse, to be brought out and

shown off. She waits quietly a minute. But he asks for nothing more. Her

mere touch expresses to his practised ear her probable grade of

acquirement, and he assigns her to the instructor he deems best suited

to test her abilities and classify her in accordance with them.

In a day or two she finds herself in regular working order, one of a

class of four. "And am I only to have fifteen minutes for _my_ lesson,"

she asks herself, "when I always had an hour from the professor at

Woodville?" She knows that recitation is the cream of the lesson. In the

actual rendering of her task she can, in justice to her companions,

consume but a quarter of the allotted hour, but she soon discovers that

she is to a great extent a participant in Misses A----, B---- and

C----'s cream. After the master's correction of her own performance, to

see and hear the same study played by others with more or less

excellence--to compare their faults with her own--is perhaps of greater

benefit to her, while in this eminently receptive frame, than a mere

personal repetition would be. The horizon is broader: she gets more

light on the work in hand.

"And now," she asks of her teacher, "how much would you advise, how much

do you wish, me to practise?"

He smiles: memory reverts to his own six hours at Leipsic or Stuttgart,

but "milk for babes:" "Certainly not less than two hours a day under any

circumstances or obstacles, if you care to learn at all. If you have

fair health, and neither onerous household duties nor educational

demands upon your time outside of music, let me earnestly recommend you

to practise four hours. Less than this cannot show the desired result."

The new pupil accepts the maximum of four hours' daily practice. "I

should be ashamed to give less," she generously confides to herself and

her room-mate: "it is but a small proportion, after all, of the

twenty-four."

But this is not all. There are exercises at the Conservatory apart from

her special lessons which are too valuable to a broad musical education

to be neglected--the instruction in harmony, sight reading, the art of

teaching, analyses of compositions, as well as lectures and concerts.

One of the Conservatory exercises strikes her as being alike novel and

edifying. This is called "Questions and Answers." A box in one of the

halls receives anonymous questions from the pupils from day to day, and

once a week a professor of the requisite enlightenment to satisfy the

miscellaneous curiosity of six or seven hundred minds devotes a full

hour to the purpose. These questions are presumed to relate solely to

musical topics, and the custom was instituted for the relief of timid

yet earnest inquirers. A motley crew, however, frequently avail

themselves of the masquerade privilege to steal in uninvited. Cecilia

illustrates these fantastic ramifications of the young idea for the

benefit of friends in the interior. She jots down some of these

questions and their answers in her note-book:

"How does a polka differ from a schottisch?"--"A schottisch is a lazy

polka. A polka is the worst thing in the world: the next worst is a

schottisch. A schottisch is so lazy, so slow, that a fire would hardly

kindle with it."

"In preparing to play a piece in public should one practise it up to the

last moment?"--"Try it and see: you will soon decide in the negative.

Lay it aside some time before if you would avoid nervousness."

"What would you give as a first piano-lesson to a young lady who had

never taken a lesson before?"--"Make her get the piano-stool at exactly

the right height and place: then ensure a good position of her hands

and easy motion of the fingers. Let her practise this for three days."

"How far advanced ought a person to be in music to begin to

teach?"--"Teaching involves three things: first, a knowledge of

something on the part of the teacher; second, a corresponding ignorance

on the part of the learner; third, the ability to impart this knowledge.

These conditions fulfilled might sometimes allow a person to begin to

teach with advantage at a very early age and with a very moderate range

of acquirements, though, as every instructor knows, his earlier methods

were very different from his later ones. The difficulty with young

teachers in general is that they try to teach too much at once, like the

young minister who preached all he knew in his first sermon. Never

introduce more than two principles in any one lesson, and as a rule but

one."

"Is a mazourka as bad as a polka?"--"No. I think it is not morally so

bad as a polka: it has somewhat the grace of the waltz."

"Who is the best music-teacher in Boston?"--"As there are twenty-five

hundred persons teaching music in and about this city, and seventy-five

regular teachers at this Conservatory alone, both ignorance and delicacy

on my part should forbid a definite reply. It were well to remember

Paris, the apple of discord and the Trojan war."

"Is Mr. A---- (a young professor at the Conservatory, voted attractive

by the feminine pupils in general) married?"--"This being Leap Year, a

personal investigation of the subject might be more satisfactory and

effectual than a public decision of this point."

At the expiration of her first term Cecilia realizes that her condition

is one of constant growth: quickening influences are in the air. She

came to Boston to learn music: she is also learning life. She perceives,

moreover, that in her musical progress the aesthetic part of her nature

has not been permitted to keep in advance of technique. Heretofore she

was ever gratifying herself and her friends by undertaking new and more

elaborate pieces, not one of which ever became other than a mere

superficial possession. Now her taste is inexorably commanded to wait

for her muscles: the discipline has been useful to her. After a few more

such winters she will return to Woodville a teacher, herself become a

quickening influence to others. Musical thought will be truer, will find

a more adequate expression, in her vicinity. She will act as a

reflector, sending forth rays of light into dark corners farther than

she can follow them.

And this is the motive, the mission, of the conservatory system in this

country, inasmuch as organized is more potent than individual effort to

elevate our national taste, to prepare the way for the future artist,

that he may be born under the right conditions, his divine gift fostered

and directed to become worthy of its exalted destiny. Already centuries

old in Europe, the conservatory is a young thing of comparatively

limited experience on our soil. It was introduced here twenty-five years

ago by Eben Tourjee. He had longed and vainly sought for the advantages

to perfect his own talent, and resolved while a mere boy that those of

like tastes who came after him should not have to contend with the

obstacles he had fought--that instruction should be brought within the

reach of all by a college of music similar to those in Europe, embracing

the best elements, attaining the most satisfactory results at the least

possible cost to the student. This project, for a youth without capital,

dependent upon his abilities for his personal support, was regarded even

by sympathetic friends as visionary. But nothing progressive is accepted

as a mere optimistic vision by the predestined reformer. Remote Huguenot

and immediate Yankee ancestry is perhaps a good combination for pioneer

material. However this may be, his efforts were crystallized, shaped,

sooner than most schemes of such magnitude. Continuing his classes in

piano, organ and voice for a year or two with successful energy, Mr.

Tourjee found in 1859 the desired opportunity for his experiment. The

principal of a seminary in East Greenwich, Rhode Island, accorded him

the use of his building, and more students presented themselves

ultimately than could be accommodated on the grounds of the institution.

After a visit to Europe for the purpose of examining the celebrated

German, French and Italian schools, Mr. Tourjee returned, and, fired

with new zeal, started in 1864 a chartered conservatory at Providence.

This proved eminently successful. But Boston was the ideal site: talent

gravitates toward large cities, and Boston's acknowledged "love of the

first rate" would be the best surety for a lofty standard and

approximate fulfilment. In 1867, under a charter from the State, he

finally transplanted his school to this metropolis under the name of the

New England Conservatory of Music, which it retains to the present date.

It has, with characteristic American rapidity, become the largest

music-school in the world, having within fifteen years instructed over

twenty thousand pupils: in a single term it frequently numbers between

eight and nine hundred. It has a connection with Boston University, the

only one in the country where music is placed on the same basis with

other intellectual pursuits, and the faculty numbers some of the most

renowned artists and composers in the land. Eben Tourjee was appointed

dean of the College of Music in the University, with the title of Mus.

Doctor.

The New England Conservatory deserves this special mention as the parent

school in America, and it has been promptly and ably followed by the

establishment of others in most of our large cities.

F. D.

CONDITION OF THE PEOPLE IN THE WEST OF IRELAND.

[The following extract from a private letter just received from Ireland

gives a glimpse of the state of affairs in that country which may

interest our readers, as indicating, better than any mere partisan

statements or newspaper reports, the solid grounds that exist for

apprehension in regard to impending disturbances:]

"I have just returned from a tour in the west of Ireland, and I

wish I could describe the horrors I have seen--such abject

misery and such demoralization as you, no doubt, never came in

contact with in your life. The scenery of Connemara beats

Killarney in beauty and the Rhine in extent and magnificence,

but no tourist could face the hotels: the dirt, the

incompetence, the abominableness of every kind are awful. As

these people were two hundred years ago, so they are

now--ignorant, squalid savages, half naked, living on potatoes

such as a Yankee pig would scorn, speaking only their barbarous

native tongue, lying and thieving through terror and want, with

their children growing up in hopeless squalor. Very few savages

lead such lives, while few people are so oppressed and harassed

by the pains and penalties of civilization. For they are

chin-deep in debt. I saw promissory notes five and six times

renewed, with the landlord, away on the Continent, threatening

eviction. The selfishness of the landlords is too revolting.

They live in England or on the Continent, and confine their

duties in life to giving receipts for their rent. Imagine the

whole product of the land, in a country destitute of

manufactures and commerce, remitted to England, and the utmost

farthing of rent exacted from these wretches, no matter what

the season is, a valuation of fifty shillings, for example,

paying a rent of seven pounds--three hundred per cent.! Some

great catastrophe is imminent. Not a gun is left in the

gunsmiths' shops in Dublin, and I am told that shiploads are

brought in from America weekly. The people are perfectly right

in resisting eviction, but Parliament ought to interpose. We

must get rid of the landlords, and we must establish compulsory

education. Then the priests will go like smoke before the wind.

Free trade is another cause of the troubles. That is one of the

most specious humbugs extant, and has ruined the Irish farmers.

It may be all right in principle, but now and here it is simply

mischievous. Professor ----, who is a member of the new Land

Commission, went round with me in Connemara, and implored me to

write up the state of the district; but before anything can be

published and reach the English ear the autumn rent-day will

have come, and the gale will be at its height."

HIGH JINKS ON THE UPPER MISSISSIPPI.

_To the Editor of Lippincott's Magazine:_

It is a remarkable historical fact that the latest visitor to the Upper

Mississippi has always felt it his duty to assail the good faith of

every previous traveller. Beltrami (1823) attacked Pike (1806);

Schoolcraft (1832) fleshed his pen in Beltrami; Allen, who accompanied

Schoolcraft, afterward became his enemy and branded him as a

geographical quack; Nicollet (1836) arraigned both Schoolcraft and Allen

for incompetency; and so on. And now, at this late day, in a mild way

tradition repeats itself. Your great original geographer, Mr. Siegfried,

concluded his two essays on the "High Mississippi" by saying, "Beyond

reasonable doubt our party is the only one that ever pushed its way by

boat up the entire course of the farthermost Mississippi. Beyond any

question ours were the first wooden boats that ever traversed these

waters." Then, after a slap at poor Schoolcraft, he declares that

although I claimed the entire trip in my canoe five years ago, my guide

and others told him that my Dolly Varden never was above Brainerd, and

_that my portages above were frequent_. Except that, by implication, he

questions my veracity, I would not have taken any notice of the feat on

which he prides himself. To the general reader the word "Brainerd"

conveys no idea further than the one which the author adroitly tries to

convey (without saying so), that I did not travel the entire Upper

Mississippi: his use of the word "High" is another trick to cover a very

small job, as I shall hereafter show. But the fact is, that Mr.

Siegfried has discovered a mare's nest. By stating one fact which has

never been disguised, and repeating an allegation which is absolutely

false, he would dispose utterly of the very trip that made his journey

so easy of accomplishment.

I laid out for myself just one task and no more: I started in May, 1872,

for the sources of the Mississippi, thence to descend the entire river.

After days of inquiry and two trips over the Northern Pacific Railroad,

I decided upon a route to Itasca Lake which no white man had ever

traversed. I made an entirely successful journey, marking out the White

Earth route so clearly that any child could follow it thereafter. What

feat is there to go over ground which I described so explicitly as

follows?--First stage, to White Earth; second stage, to the Twin Lakes;

third stage, across the prairie to the Wild Rice River; fourth stage, up

that stream to the Lake of the Spirit Isle; and fifth stage, of half a

day, by the Ah-she-wa-wa-see-ta-gen portage, to the Mississippi, at a

point twenty-six miles north of Itasca. The same afternoon and the

following day, energetically employed, will suffice to put anybody at

the sources of "the Father of Rivers." Anybody could take a tissue-paper

boat to Itasca after 1872. Had I had a predecessor over this route to

Itasca, as Mr. Siegfried had, and could I have travelled as he did with

a roll of newspaper letters telling me where to stop and when, how to go

and where, I should have been the first to acknowledge my indebtedness

to the man who showed me the way. Why did not Mr. S. take Nicollet's or

Schoolcraft's route, or seek a new one? Simply for the reason that my

itinerary was so clearly laid down that the journey became merely a

Cook's excursion. I had built and took with me to Minnesota a paper boat

for the descent of the river, but I have never made any secret of the

fact that I bought another one (a twin in name and fitted with the

appliances of the New York craft) for the tramp of seventy miles through

the wilderness from the railroad to the sources. In this I merely

followed the example frequently set by Mr. MacGregor, who is the father

of canoeing, and the advice of George A. Morrison, government

storekeeper at White Earth, the Hon. Dr. Day, United States Indian

commissioner, and other gentlemen of equal prominence. Neither of these

gentlemen had been over the ground, but they represented the country as

awful in the extreme. I acquainted everybody who asked with my

decision, and, were it desirable to involve others in this matter, could

name fifty persons to whom every detail of this initial stage of my trip

has been explained. Not a particle of accurate information regarding the

road, the number of days required or the distance could be obtained. It

was not possible _then_ to contract for forty-one dollars to be landed

on the Mississippi! Mr. Siegfried might have seen at every

camping-ground and meal-station along the route the blazed trees bearing

the deeply-cut Greek "delta," which seven years' precedence cannot have

effaced. His descriptions and mine are identical throughout: therefore,

he has either not been over the course at all (which I do not insinuate)

or he only proves the accuracy of my reports. He disposes of my fourteen

hundred and seventy-one miles of canoeing on the Mississippi because,

forsooth! I did not make a small part of it in a craft to suit his

liking. He claims that his was the first wooden boat that ever pushed up

to Itasca. This is something that I don't know anything about: several

parties have been there since 1832. What will he do with the claimant of

the first sheet-iron boat?

Mr. Siegfried's allegation that I made frequent portages is grossly and

maliciously false. That honor belongs to him, as a few facts will show.

In giving the guide as his authority he is most illogical, for in his

first article (on three separate pages) he wholly discredits this same

man. Again, some information: there are five portages above Aitkin, as

follows: first, into the western gulf of Lake Cass, saving six miles;

second, Little Winnipeg Lake into a stream leading to the Ball Club Lake

(missing the great tributary Leech Lake River); third, at White Oak

Point, below the Eagle's Nest Savannah; fourth, Pokegama Falls, a carry

of two hundred yards on the left bank (a necessity); and fifth, a

cut-off above Swan River, saving six miles. This last was the only

portage (except the falls) made by my party, and was availed of to reach

good camping-ground before dark. Indeed, as to portaging I must yield

the palm to my vainglorious successor. Behold his record! He jumped

twenty-six miles in the Ball Club Lake portage, and was still unhappy

because he could not ride from the landing below Pokegama to Aitkin (one

hundred and fifty miles; see p. 288) on the small steamboat that

sometimes runs to the lumber-camp. Reaching Muddy River (now Aitkin), in

the language of a free pass, he boarded "the splendid railway"

for--Minneapolis!--thus again skipping two hundred and forty-four miles

of the river at one bound, and escaping the French Rapids, Little Falls,

Pike, Wautab and Sauk Rapids, while I was foolish enough to paddle down

to Anoka (as near as I cared to go to St. Anthony's Falls). Thence I

portaged to Minnehaha Creek, as he did--another strange

coincidence--whence, by daily stages, I descended to Alton, seven

hundred and seventy-five miles, where I took steamer for St. Louis, New

Orleans, and, finally, New York. Mr. Siegfried, on the contrary, in a

distance of six hundred and ninety-six miles from the sources to St.

Anthony (Nicollet's official measurement; see _U. S. Senate Doc. 237_,

Twenty-sixth Congress, 2d Session, Appendix), jumped exactly two hundred

and sixty miles, or about two-fifths of his whole journey! Some of that

water, too, which he so conveniently escaped is very unpleasant, even

dangerous, especially Pike Rapids, into which I was drawn unawares, and

had to run through at considerable risk to my boat.

I am, sir, yours,

J. CHAMBERS,

_The Crew of the Dolly Varden._

PHILADELPHIA, August 21, 1880.

FATE OF AN OLD COMPANION OF NAPOLEON III.

_L'Independant_, published at Boulogne, gives some interesting details

about a personage that played an important role in the history of the

last emperor of the French, and has not had much cause to be proud of

the gratitude of his patron. This personage was the famous tame eagle

that accompanied Prince Louis in his ridiculous expedition to Boulogne,

and which was taught to swoop down upon the head of the pretender--a

glorious omen to those who did not know that the attraction was a piece

of salted pork! This unfortunate eagle was captured at the same time as

his master, but while the latter was shut up at Ham, the eagle was sent

to the slaughter-house at Boulogne, where he lived many years--an

improvement in his fate, says _L'Independant_, since his diet of salt

pork was replaced by one of fresh meat. In 1855, Napoleon III. went to

Boulogne to review the troops destined for the Crimea and to receive the

queen of England. While there some one in his suite spoke to him of this

bird, telling him that it was alive and where it was to be found. But

the emperor refused to see his old companion, or even grant him a

life-pension in the Paris Jardin des Plantes. The old eagle ended his

days in the slaughter-house, and to-day he figures, artistically

_taxidermatized_, in one of the glass cases of the museum of

Boulogne--immortal as his master, despite the reverses of fortune.

A NATURAL BAROMETER.

Everybody has admired the delicate and ingenious work of the spider,

everybody has watched her movements as she spins her wonderful web, but

all do not know that she is the most reliable weather-prophet in the

world. Before a wind-storm she shortens the threads that suspend her

web, and leaves them in this state as long as the weather remains

unsettled. When she lengthens these threads count on fine weather, and

in proportion to their length will be its duration. When a spider rests

inactive it is a sign of rain: if she works during a rain, be sure it

will soon clear up and remain clear for some time. The spider, it is

said, changes her web every twenty-four hours, and the part of the day

she chooses to do this is always significant. If it occurs a little

before sunset, the night will be fine and clear. Hence the old French

proverb: "Araignee du soir, espoir."

M. H.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

L'Art: revue hebdomadaire illustree. Sixieme annee, Tome II.

New York: J. W. Bouton.

Nowhere but in Paris could the resources, the technical knowledge and

perfect command of all the appliances of bookmaking be found to sustain

such a publication as _L'Art_. In six years it has not abated by one

tittle the perfection with which it first burst upon the world. Its

standard is as high, its subjects are as inexhaustible, as ever. We hear

now and then of a decline in French art: the great artists who carried

it to the high-water mark of modern times have all, or nearly all,

passed away, but there is certainly no sign of a vacuum. The activity of

production is as great as ever, the interest in art as vital. _L'Art_

draws its material from past as well as present; the work of older

artists is kept alive in its pages by the most perfect reproductions;

and in its special department of black and white there is advancement

rather than decline. The importance of such a publication to the

interests of art throughout the world is incalculable. It absorbs the

best thought and production of the day. Its high standard and breadth of

scope render it impossible for any particular clique to predominate in

its pages, while its independent tone and encouragement of individual

talent make it a powerful counteracting influence to the conventionalism

which forms the chief danger to art in a country where technical rules

have become official laws. In fact, _L'Art_ has constituted itself a

government of the opposition. It has its Prix de Florence for the

education in Italy of promising young sculptors--its galleries in the

Avenue de l'Opera, which are used for the purpose of "independent"

exhibitions or for the display of work by one or another artist. It

examines and reports the progress of art all over the world, rousing the

latent Parisian curiosity as to the achievements of foreign artists,

and, what is of more importance (to us at least), it shows the world

what is being done and said and thought in the art-circles of Paris. The

perusal of its comprehensive index alone will give the reader a clear

outline of the state of art in Russia, Japan, Persia and Algeria, as

well as in the better-known countries. Such a work is not for the

delight of one people alone: it comes home to art-lovers everywhere.

The principal art-event of last spring was the Demidoff sale. About half

the etchings in the volume before us are reproductions of pictures in

that collection. M. Flameng has forgotten all the perplexities and

intricacies of the nineteenth century to render the placid graciousness

of a beauty whose portrait was painted in the eighteenth by Drouais. M.

Trimolet has etched in a Dutch manner a landscape of Hobbema in the

Louvre, but M. Gaucherel translates a Ruysdael from the Demidoff

collection into an exquisite delicacy and airiness of line which is the

language of etching in its most modern expression. A Demidoff Rembrandt,

a Lucrezia, reproduced by the needle of M. Koepping, is an example of

the naivete of an art which gave itself no thought for archaeology.

Lucrezia is a simple Dutch maiden in the full-sleeved, straight-bodied

Flemish costume. Her innocent, childish face tells of real grief, but

not of a tragic history. It is interesting to compare the type with that

of Raphael's Lucrezia, with its clinging classic drapery and countenance

moulded on that of a tragic mask.

The most striking etching in this volume is that of M. Edm. Ramus, after

a portrait in this year's Salon. The name of the painter, Van der Bos,

is Flemish, but if his picture had any qualities not distinctively

French the genius of the etcher has swept them away. The conception, the

character, the pose would all pass for a work of the most advanced

French school. Its qualities belong to Paris and to-day. A young woman

of a somewhat hard, positive type, neither beautiful nor intellectual,

but _chic_ to her finger-tips, jauntily dressed--hat with curling

feathers, elbow sleeves, long gloves--standing in an erect and

completely unaffected attitude,--that is the subject. The execution is

simply superb. Every line is strong and effective: the modelling, the

poise of the figure and the breadth of the shadows in dry point, are

masterly. The Salon articles, five in number, are from the pen of M. Ph.

Burty, the most radical, incisive and original writer on the

staff--champion of the Impressionists, bitter enemy of the Academics and

warm admirer of any fresh, sincere and individual talent. In his short

review of the work of American artists in the Salon his sympathies are

frankly with those who have ranged themselves under unofficial

leadership in their adopted city. He has warm eulogy both for Mr.

Sargent and Mr. Picknell, refusing to believe that the excellence of the

latter is due in any way to his instruction at the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.

M. Burty concludes the notice of American pictures with a "Hurrah pour

la jeune ecole Americaine! hurrah!" which will be gratefully responded

to by those of us who are proud of our growing school.

The "Silhouettes d'Artistes contemporains" are continued in two papers

on De Nittis, accompanied by some exquisite reproductions of etchings by

that artist; and there are a couple of articles of great interest by M.

Veron on Ribot, illustrated by fac-similes of the powerful work of one

whom M. Veron unhesitatingly ranks among the greatest names in modern

French art. There is both literary and artistic interest in the

engravings after pen-and-ink sketches made by Victor Hugo, showing that

the poet is able to throw his personality and wonderful imagination into

an art which he did not practise till pretty late in life, and then

simply as a recreation and without attempting to master its technique.

Victor Hugo is stamped as plainly upon these drawings--made, not by line

and rule, but by following up the ideas suggested by the direction of a

blot of ink--as on the pages of his most deliberate works. In offering

homage to the poet _L'Art_ does not depart from its line, which embraces

art in its manifold forms. The newest products of the stage are

discussed as well as those of the studios, and contemporary literature

is reflected in more ways than one in its pages.

Mrs. Beauchamp Brown. (Second No-Name Series.) Boston: Roberts

Brothers.

Were this story as good as its name or half as good as some of the

undeniably clever things it contains, it might be accepted as a very

fair book of its kind. It was written with the evident intention of

saying brilliant and witty things; but this brilliance and wit sometimes

miss their effect, as, for instance, on the very first page, where Dick

Steele's famous compliment is bestowed upon Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

instead of the Lady Elizabeth Hastings. We might mention other thwarted

attempts, which give much the same jar to our sensibilities as when some

one thinks to afford us pleasure by singing a favorite air out of tune.

The facility with which the characters are transported from the ends of

the earth to meet at a place called Plum Island surpasses any trick in

legerdemain. Unless we had read it here we should never have believed

that life on the coast of Maine could be so exciting, so cosmopolitan in

its scope, so thrilling in its incidents. There is a jumble of

notabilities--leaders of Boston and Washington society, a Jesuit Father,

an English peer, a brilliant diplomatist on the point of setting out on

a foreign mission, a Circe the magic of whose voice and eyes is

responsible for most of the mischief which goes on, Anglican priests, a

college professor, collegiates, at least one raving maniac, beautiful

young girls and representative Yankee men and women. From this company,

most of whom conduct themselves in manner which fails to prepossess us,

Mrs. Beauchamp Brown alone emerges with a distinct identity. Her zealous

adherence to herself, her unconsciousness of weakness or defect even in

the most rashly-chosen part, are good points. The writer allows her to

express herself without too elaborate canvassing of her character and

motives. When the Fifth Avenue Hotel is burning the great lady is amazed

at such behavior, and shrieks peremptory orders to have the fire put out

_immediately_. When she reaches Plum Island, and is transferred from the

steamboat to the skiff which is to carry her ashore, she is "angrily

scared at the seething waters and the grinning rocks."

"'Man! this thing is full of water: my feet are almost in it!' shrieked

Mrs. Beauchamp Brown as the gundalow lurched and heaved shoreward.

"The White man looked over his shoulder, and slowly wrinkled his

leathern cheeks into an encouraging smile. 'Like ter near killed a

woggin,' replied he sententiously. 'Will be ashore in a brace of

shakes.'"

The Yankees are all capitally done, and the "local color" is excellent.

There is not much to be said for the other characters in the book.

Margaret, who is supposed to be irresistible, raises surprise if not

disgust. Her conversation is crude and infelicitous, her conduct

excessively ill-bred. Indeed, for a company of so-called elegant people,

the talk and doings are singularly bald and crude. Even the Jesuit

Father seems to have a dull perception about nice points of good

behavior, and we have a doubt which amounts to an active suspicion as to

the reality of the writer's experience of Jesuitical casuistry and

social wiles. Certainly, Father Williams fails to make us understand how

his order could have ever been considered dangerous. It seems a pity

that the author should have tried such a wide survey of human nature.

Her talent does not carry her into melodrama, to say nothing of tragedy,

but there are many evidences in her book of very fair powers in the way

of light comedy.

Studies in German Literature. By Bayard Taylor. With an

Introduction by George H. Boker.--Critical Essays and Literary

Notes. By Bayard Taylor. New York: G. P. Putnam's Sons.

It would be impossible to name a better representative of American men

of letters, if there be such a class, than the late Bayard Taylor. We

have a few writers, easily counted, who are distinctively poets,

novelists or essayists; but the common ambition is to unite these titles

and add a few others--to enjoy, in fact, a free range over the whole

field of literature, exclusive only of the most arid or least attractive

portions. Taylor's versatility exceeded that of all his competitors: he

attempted a greater variety of tasks than any of them, and he failed in

none. And his writings, while so diverse, have a distinct and pervading

flavor. Though he travelled so extensively, imbibed so deeply of foreign

literature, and wrote so much on foreign themes, his tone of thought and

sentiment not only remained thoroughly American, but was always

suggestive of his early life and surroundings, his quiet Pennsylvania

home and its sober influences. His pictures of these are not the least

noteworthy portion of what he has given to the world, but in all his

productions the same spirit is visible--not flashing and impulsive, but

habituated to just conceptions and exact performance; not to be startled

or dazed by novelties, but capable of measuring and assimilating

whatever best suited it. On the whole, his nature, while retaining its

individuality and poise, was rather a highly receptive than a strongly

original one. Its growth was a steady accretion of knowledge, ideas,

experiences and aptitudes, without the exhibition of that power

which in minds of a rarer order reacts upon impressions with

a transforming influence. There is more appearance of freedom, of

spontaneousness--paradoxical as this may seem--in his translation of

_Faust_ than in any of his other performances, while deliberate,

conscientious workmanship is a leading characteristic of all, not

excepting the short notices of books reprinted from the New York

_Tribune_ in one of the volumes now before us. The matter of both these

volumes is chiefly critical, and the characterizations of men as well as

of books are always discriminating, generally just, often happily

expressed, but seldom vivid. The articles on Rueckert, Thackeray and

Weimar, which deal chiefly with personal reminiscences, are especially

pleasant reading; but the lectures on Goethe, however well they may have

served their immediate purpose, contain little that called for

preservation, being neither profound nor stimulating. While, however,

these volumes may add nothing to their author's reputation, they are no

unworthy memorials of a laborious, well-spent and happy life, of a

nature as kindly as it was earnest and sincere, and of talents that had

neither been buried nor misapplied. We find in a short paper on Lord

Houghton the remark that "there is an important difference between the

impression which a man makes who has avowedly done the utmost of which

he is capable, and that which springs from the exercise of genuine gifts

not so stimulated to their highest development." It cannot be doubted

that the former description is that which would apply to Taylor himself,

and probably with more force than to almost any of his contemporaries.

The American Art Review, Nos. 8 and 9. Boston: Estes & Lauriat.

These two numbers of the _Art Review_ contain some critical writing of a

really high order in a couple of papers by Mrs. M. G. Van Rensselaer,

entitled "Artist and Amateur." They present an earnest plea for the

pursuit of culture for its own sake in this country. Taking "culture" in

the true sense of the word, as the opening and development of all the

faculties, a positive and electric not a negative and apathetic force,

Mrs. Van Rensselaer points out that it is not the natural birthright of

a select few, but is to be won by none without hard endeavor. The

endeavor, the intelligence and, to a certain extent, the desire for

culture, already exist here, but are constantly misapplied, and this, as

Mrs. Van Rensselaer aims to prove, through a misconception of the

relative positions of artist and amateur. All instruction is directed

toward execution, which is the artist's province, instead of

understanding and appreciation, which are the gifts of culture. The

effort to make the execution keep pace with the teaching confines the

latter, for the majority of learners, to the lowest mechanical rules,

leaving intellectual cultivation altogether to artists. Mrs. Van

Rensselaer argues that the time and money spent by young ladies of

slender talent in learning to paint pottery would, if given to study of

the principles of technique and of the history and aims of art, leave

them with more trained perceptions, an intelligent delight in works of

art and a wider intellectual range. She does not confine the application

of her ideas to painting, but extends it to other arts, making the aim

in music the substitution of appreciative listeners for mediocre

performers. Another interesting article, which the two numbers before us

divide between them, is one on Elihu Vedder by Mr. W. H. Bishop. It does

not force any very definite conclusions upon the reader, but it gives

him some idea of the career of this much talked-of painter, and is

finely illustrated with an etching of _The Sea-Serpent_ by Mr. Shoff, an

unusually strong full-page engraving of _The Sleeping Girl_ by Mr.

Linton, and a very tender and beautiful little cut by Mr. Kruell of _The

Venetian Model_.

_Books Received._

The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. By Edward

Gibbon. With Notes by Dean Milman, M. Guizot and Dr. William Smith. 6

vols. New York: Harper & Brothers.

Health and Healthy Homes. By George Wilson, M. A., M. D. With Notes and

Additions by J. G. Richardson, M. D. Philadelphia: Presley Blakiston.

A Model Superintendent: A Sketch of the Life, Character and Methods of

Work of Henry P. Haven. By H. Clay Trumbull. New York: Harper &

Brothers.

Monsieur Lecoq. From the French of Emile Gaboriau. Boston: Estes &

Lauriat.