"P.S. I had almost forgotten to recur to the famous lists. The one

containing my name appeared at last in the _Revue rétrospective_. 'M.

Sainte-Beuve, 100 francs,'--this was what was to be read there. The

fabulous ciphers had vanished. On seeing this entry a ray of light

dawned upon my memory. I recollected my smoky chimney of 1847, the

repair of which was to have cost about that sum. But for this incident,

I should never have been led to deliver the course now submitted to the

reader, and the one circumstance has occasioned my mention of the

other."

It must be confessed that the chimney that drove M. Sainte-Beuve into

temporary exile, and led to the production of a work in which his views

on many important topics were enunciated with a clearness and force he

had hitherto held in reserve, had smoked to some purpose. We may be

permitted to believe that his integrity had never been seriously

questioned; that the pretext for a brief abandonment of his beloved

Paris while she was in a state of excitement and dishabille had not been

altogether unwelcome. Though no admirer of the government of Louis

Philippe, he had, as he still acknowledges, appreciated "the mildness of

that _régime_, its humanity, and the facilities it afforded for

intellectual culture and the development of pacific interests of every

kind." The sudden overthrow, the turmoil, the vagaries that ensued, were

little to his taste. He was content to stand aside, availing himself of

the general dislocation to look around and choose for himself a new

field, a more independent position.

Here then begins the third, and, as we must suppose, the final stage of

his career. In September, 1849, he returned to Paris, feeling "a great

need of activity," as if his mind had been "refreshed by a year of study

and solitude." What was he to undertake? No sooner did the question

arise, than an answer presented itself in the form of an offer from one

whose coadjutor he had become on a previous and similar occasion. M. le

docteur Véron, now the proprietor of the _Constitutionnel_, and as

sagacious as ever in catering for the public taste, proposed to him to

furnish every Monday an article on some literary topic. The notion of

writing for the masses, of adapting his style to the requirements of a

newspaper, gave him a momentary shock. Hitherto he had addressed only

the most select audiences. But, after all, he was conscious of an almost

boundless versatility, and no plan could better satisfy the desire which

he had long felt of becoming "a critic in the full sense of the word,

with the advantages of ripeness and perhaps of boldness." Such a change

would be suited also to the new aspect of society. In literature it was

no longer the time for training, tending, and watering, but the season

of gathering the fruit, selecting the good and rejecting the unsound.

Romanticism as a school had done its work and was now extinct. Every one

went his separate way. Questions of form were no longer mooted; the

public tolerated everything. Whoever had an idea on any subject wrote

about it, and whoever chose to write was a _littérateur_. "With such a

noise in the streets it was necessary to raise one's voice in order to

be heard. Accordingly," says M. Sainte-Beuve, "I set to work for the

first time on that kind of criticism, frank and outspoken, which belongs

to the open country and the broad day."

With the old manner he laid aside the old title. The term _Portraits_,

which in its literary signification recalled the times of the

Rochefoucaulds and the Sévignés, was exchanged for the more modern one

of Conversations,--_Causeries de Lundis_. Begun in the _Constitutionnel_

on the 1st of October, 1849, they were continued three years later in

the _Moniteur_, and in 1861 again resumed, under the title of _Nouveaux

Lundis_, in the first-named journal, where they are still in progress.

More than once the author has intimated his intention to bring them to a

close. But neither his own powers nor the appetite of his readers having

suffered any abatement, one series has followed upon another, until, in

their reprinted form, they now fill nineteen volumes, while more are

eagerly expected.

The transformation of style which was visible at the very outset is one

of the miracles of literary art. Simplicity, swiftness, precision, all

the qualities which were conspicuously absent, we will not say wanting,

in the _Portraits_,--these are the characteristics, and that in a

surpassing degree, of the _Causeries_. The whole arrangement, too, is

different. There is no preluding, there are no intricate harmonies: the

key-note is struck in the opening chord, and the theme is kept

conspicuously in view throughout all the modulations. The papers at once

acquired a popularity which of course had never attended the earlier

ones. "He has not the time to make them bad," was the praise accorded by

some of their admirers, and smilingly accepted by the author. But is

this indeed the explanation? Had he merely taken to "dashing off" his

thoughts, after the general manner of newspaper writers? Had he deserted

"art," and fallen back upon the crudities misnamed "nature"? If such had

been the case, there would have been no occasion for the present notice.

His fame would long since have been buried under the rubbish he had

himself piled up. The fact is very different. "Natural fluency"--that is

to say, the inborn capacity of the writer--he undoubtedly possessed; but

"acquired difficulty,"--this was the school in which he had practised,

this was the discipline which enabled him, when the need arose, to carry

on a campaign of forced marches, brilliant and incessant skirmishes,

without severing his lines or suffering a mishap. It was in wielding the

lance that he had acquired the vigor and agility to handle the javelin

with consummate address. Contrasted as are his earlier and later styles,

they have some essential qualities in common;--an exquisite fitness of

expression; a total exemption from harshness, vulgarity, and all the

vices that have grown so common; a method, a sequence, which is at once

the closest and the least obtrusive to be found in any prose of the

present day.

We pass from the style to the substance. The criticism, as we have seen,

was to be "frank and outspoken." It became so at a single bound. The

subject of the second number of the _Causeries_ was the _Confidences_ of

M. de Lamartine, and the article opens with these words: "And why, then,

should I not speak of it? I know the difficulty of speaking of it with

propriety; the time of illusions and of complaisances has passed; it is

absolutely necessary to speak truths; and this may seem cruel, so well

chosen is the moment. Yet when such a man as M. de Lamartine has deemed

it becoming not to close the year 1848 without giving to the public the

confessions of his youth and crowning his political career with idyls,

shall criticism hesitate to follow him and to say what it thinks of his

book? shall it exhibit a discretion and a shamefacedness for which no

one, the author least of all, would care?" And what follows? An

outpouring of ridicule, of severity, such as the same book received from

so many quarters? Nothing of the sort; nothing more than a thoroughly

candid and discriminating judgment, never over-stepping the bounds of

courtesy, never exaggerating a defect or concealing a beauty. A talk

might be raised about the inconsistency with a former tone; but if the

fact was made apparent that the later effusions of a tender and

melodious, but shallow Muse, were but dilutions, ever more watery and

insipid, of the first sweet and abundant flow, was the critic or the

poet at fault?

And so it has been in all the subsequent articles of M. Sainte-Beuve. It

matters not who or what is the subject,--let it be a long-established

reputation, like that of M. Guizot; a youthful aspirant, such as M.

Hyppolite Rigault and many others; a brother critic, like M.

Prevost-Paradol; a fanatical controversialist, like M. Veuillot; a

personal friend, like M. Flaubert; or a bitter and unscrupulous

assailant, like M. de Pontmartin,--the treatment is ever the same,

sincere, impartial, unaffected. "To say nothing of writers, even of

those who are the most opposed to us, but what their judicious friends

already think and would be forced to admit,--this is the height of my

ambition." Such was his proclamation, such has been his practice. No one

has ever been bold enough to gainsay it. An equity so great, so

unvarying, has almost staggered his brethren of the craft. "It is grand,

it is royal," says M. Scherer,--who has himself approached near enough

to the same summit to appreciate its height,--"only in him it cannot be

called a virtue: it belongs to the intellect, which in him is blended

with the character."

"But he professes neutrality! He has no doctrines, no belief, no

emotions! He discusses everything, not with any regard to the eternal

considerations of right and wrong, truth and falsehood, but solely in

the view of literature and art!" So cry certain voices, loudest among

them that of M. de Pontmartin. It is certainly somewhat surprising that

a man without opinions, without emotions, should be made the object of

violent attacks, that according to M. de Pontmartin himself, whose

authority, however, upon this point we may take the liberty of

rejecting, there should be "few men more generally hated." Mere jealousy

can have nothing to do with it. "There is not," remarks M. Scherer, "the

trace of a literary rivalry to be found in his whole career." The truth

is, that M. Sainte-Beuve has, on all the subjects he has examined,

convictions which are strong, decided, earnestly and powerfully

maintained. But he differs from the rest of us in this, that he not only

professes, but enforces, a perfect freedom of opinion, a perfect

equality in discussion. In religion he attaches more importance to the

sentiment than to the creed. In morals he sets up a higher standard than

conventionalism. In politics, as we shall presently see, he has even

given in his adhesion to a system; but, treating politics, like

medicine, as an experimental science, he refuses to see in any system an

article of faith to be adopted and proclaimed irrespective of its

results. In questions of literature and art he declines to apply any

test but the principles of art, the literary taste "pure and simple." In

all matters he prefers to look at the practical rather than the dogmatic

side, to study living forces rather than dead forms. Hence the charge of

indifference. He would better please those who differ from him, were he

one-sided, narrow, rancorous. It is because his armor is without a flaw

that they detest him.[D]

We have spoken frequently of M. de Pontmartin. It is time to speak of

him a little more definitely. As M. Sainte-Beuve has remarked, "the

subject is not a difficult one." He belongs to the old aristocracy, and

takes care that his readers shall not forget the fact. In religion and

politics--with him, as with so many others, the two words have much the

same meaning--he adheres consistently and chivalrously to causes once

great and resplendent, now only fit subjects for elegies. As a writer,

he is a master of the _critique spirituelle_,--that species which is so

brilliant in display, so unsubstantial in results. He sparkles and

glows; but his light only directs the brown nightingale where to find

its repast. Armed cap-à-pie, glittering with epigram, rhetoric, and

irony, he entered the lists against M. Sainte-Beuve, ostensibly to

defend the reputation of Chateaubriand, provoked in reality by the

causes already noticed. We have no space for the controversy that

ensued. It is worthy of remark that the assault was directed, not

against the censures which had been passed upon Chateaubriand,--M. de

Pontmartin took good care not to aim at his adversary's shield,--but

against the motives which had led to their suppression while the object

was alive, and to their publication after he was dead. Now there are in

the book on Chateaubriand some disclosures which might better have been

spared. But in determining motives we shall go utterly astray if we

leave character out of sight; and the whole career of M. Sainte-Beuve

rises up against the implication that he was prompted in this instance

by any other impulse than that spirit of investigation, that desire to

penetrate to the heart of his subject, to unveil truth and dissipate

illusions, which has grown stronger and more imperative at every step of

his advance. We pass over his immediate replies. When, in the regular

course of his avocation, he found an opportunity for expressing his

opinion of M. de Pontmartin, he did it in a characteristic manner. There

is not a particle of temper, not the slightest assumption of

superiority, in the article. It is not "scathing" or "crushing,"--as we

have seen it described. It has all the keenness, merely because it has

all the simplicity, of truth. The playful but searching satire which the

author has ever at command just touches the declamation of his opponent,

and it falls like a house of cards. He sums up with a judgment as fair

and as calm as if he had been speaking of a writer of some distant

period. Astonished at the sleight of hand which had disarmed, and at the

generosity which had spared him, M. de Pontmartin, in the first moment

of his defeat,--before he had had time to recover his (bad) temper, to

arm himself for more fiery assaults to be followed by fresh

overthrows,--declared that, in spite of the susceptibility of his

friends, he himself was well satisfied with a criticism which "assigned

to him nearly all the merit to which he could pretend," and in which,

"for the first time in his literary life, he had seen himself discussed,

appreciated, and valued without either the indulgences of friendship or

the violence of hatred."

One point still remains to be touched upon. M. Sainte-Beuve has been

from the first a steady supporter of the present Empire. This of course

accounts for a portion of the enmity with which he has been "honored."

In 1852 he received the appointment of Professor of Latin in the Collége

de France; but his opening lecture was interrupted by the clamors of the

students, and the course was never resumed. From 1857 to 1861 he held a

position in connection with the superintendence of the École Normale. In

April, 1865, he was raised to the dignity of a Senator. No one, so far

as we know, in France,--no one out of France, so far as we know, but a

Saturday Reviewer,[E]--has ever been foolish enough to insinuate that he

had purchased his elevation by a sacrifice of principle. It seems to us

that the grounds on which such a man defends a system still on its

probation before the world are worth examining. He has stated them more

than once with his usual clearness and frankness. We extract some

passages, with only the slight verbal alterations indispensable for

condensation.

"Liberty! the name is so beautiful, so responsive to our noblest

aspirations, that we hesitate to analyze it. But politics are, after

all, not a mere matter of enthusiasm. I ask, therefore, of what liberty

we are disputing? The word conveys many different ideas. Have we to do

with an article of faith, some divine dogma not to be touched without

sacrilege? Modern liberty, which keeps altogether in view the security

of the individual, the free exercise of his faculties, is a very complex

thing. If under a bad government, though it be in form republican, I

cannot walk the streets with safety at night, then my liberty is

curtailed. On the other hand, every advantage, every improvement, which

science, civilization, a good police, or a watchful and philanthropic

government furnishes to the masses and to individuals, is a liberty

acquired, a liberty not the less practical, positive, and fruitful for

being unwritten, unestablished by any charter. These, I shall be told,

are 'little liberties.' I do not call them such. But we have a greater

and more essential one,--the right of the representatives of the nation

to discuss and vote on the budget; and this supposes others,--it brings

with it publicity, and the liberty of touching upon such questions in

the press. Here the difference of opinion is one of degree; some demand

an unqualified freedom of discussion, others stop at a point more or

less advanced.

"In human society, liberty, like everything else, is relative, and

dependent on a multitude of circumstances. A sober, orderly, laborious,

educated people can support a larger dose than one less richly gifted in

these respects. Liberty is, thank God! a progressive conquest; that

portion of it which is denied us to-day we can always hope to acquire

to-morrow. Let us develop, as far as it lies with us, intelligence,

morality, habits of industry, in all the classes of society; that done,

we may die tranquilly; France will be free, not with that absolute

freedom which is not of this world, but with the relative freedom which

corresponds with the imperfect, but perfectible, conditions of our

nature.

"This, however, will not satisfy those who are faithful to the primary

idea of liberty as absolute and indivisible. After every concession,

there must still remain two distinct classes of minds, divided by a

broad line of demarcation.

"One embraces those who hold firmly to that generous inspiration which,

under all diversities of time and circumstances, has had the same moral

source; who contend that such champions of liberty as Brutus, William of

Orange, De Witt, Chatham, however haughty and aristocratic the ideas of

some of them, were yet of the same political faith, filled with ideas of

human nobleness and dignity, conceding much, if not to the masses, at

least to the advanced and enlightened classes which in their eyes

represented humanity. Thinkers of this kind are not far to seek; witness

Scherer, Rémusat, Tocqueville,--the last of whom was so imbued and

penetrated with the idea that all his language vibrated with it; and,

most striking example of all, that great minister too early removed,

Cavour, who, confident in the patriotic sentiment of his countrymen,

adopted it as a principle and a point of honor not to govern or reform

without letting the air of liberty blow and even bluster around him.

"It will not be said that I undervalue this class. I will come boldly to

the other, composed of those who are neither servile not absolutists,--I

repel this name, in my turn, with all the pride to which every sincere

conviction has a right,--but who believe that humanity has in all times

owed much to the mind and character of particular individuals; that

there have always been, and always will be, what were formerly called

heroes, what under one name or another are to be recognized as

directors, guides, superior men,--men who, whether born or raised to

power, cause their countrymen, their contemporaries, to take some of

those decisive steps which would otherwise have been retarded or

indefinitely adjourned. I picture to myself the first progress of

society as having taken place in this way: tribes or collections of men

stop short at a stage of civilization which indolence or ignorance leads

them to be content with; in order that they shall pass beyond it, it is

necessary that a superior and far-seeing mind, the civilizer, should

assist them, should draw them to himself, raise them a degree by sheer

force, as in the 'Deluge' of Poussin, those on the upper terraces

stretch their hands to those below, clutch and lift them up. But

humanity, I shall be told, is at last emancipated; it has no longer any

deluge to fear; it has attained its majority; it finds within itself all

the motives and stimulants to action; light circulates; every one has

the right to speak and to be heard; the sum total of all opinions, the

net result of discussion, may be accepted as the voice of truth itself!

I do not deny that in certain questions of general interest and utility,

on which every one may be tolerably well informed, the voice of all has,

in our mild and instructed ages, its share of reason, and even of

wisdom; ideas ripen by the mere conjunction of forces and the course of

the seasons. And yet has routine altogether ceased? Is prejudice, that

monster with a thousand forms which has the quality of never recognizing

its own visage, as far removed as we flatter ourselves? Is progress,

true progress, as entirely the order of the day as it is believed to be?

How many steps are there still to take,--steps which I am persuaded

never will be taken save by the impulsion and at the signal of a firm

and vigorous head, which shall take the direction upon itself!

"Some years since there was a question about finishing the Louvre. Could

it of could it not be done? A great Assembly, when consulted, declared

it to be impracticable. It was in fact impracticable under the

conditions which then existed. Yet within the short period that has

since elapsed, the Louvre has been finished. This instance is for me

only a symbol. How many moral Louvres remain to be completed!

"There are governments which have for their principle resistance and

obstruction; but there are also governments of initiation. Governments

founded on pure liberty are not necessarily the most active. Free

assemblies are better suited to put the drag upon the wheels, to check

them when they go too fast, than to accelerate them. Like criticism,

which is in fact their province and their strength, they excel in

warning and in hindering rather than in undertaking. The eternal problem

is to reconcile, to balance, authority and liberty, using sometimes the

one, sometimes the other. In this double play theory may be at fault,

but practical ability will always triumph.

"Some nations, it was lately said by a liberal, have tried to dispense

with great men, and have succeeded. There is a perspective to

contemplate! Let us not, however, in France, try too often to dispense

with them. The greatest of our moralists, he who knew us best, has said

of man in general, what is true of the French nature in particular, that

we have more force than will. Let us hope that this latter quality may

not fail us too long or in too many cases; and, that it may be

efficacious, there is nothing like a man, a determined and sovereign

will, at the head of the nation.

"I appreciate human dignity as much as others. Woe to him who would seek

to diminish the force of this moral spring; he would cripple at a blow

all the virtues. I do not, however, place this noblest of sentiments on

the somewhat isolated height where it is put by the exclusive adorers of

liberty. Let us not confound dignity with mere loftiness. Moreover, by

the side of dignity let us never forget that other inspiring sentiment,

which is at least its equal in value, humanity; that is to say, the

remembrance, the care, of that great number who are condemned to a life

of poverty and suffering, and whose precarious condition will not endure

those obstacles, retardments, and delays that belong to every plan of

amelioration founded on agitation and a conflict of systems and ideas. I

am far from imputing to the worshippers of liberty a disregard of this

humane and generous feeling. But with them the means is more sacred than

the end. They would rather take but one step in the path of true

progress, than be projected two by an adverse principle. Their political

religion is stronger than mine. Mine is not proof against experience.

"If a question were put to us in a general way, Which is the better for

a people, self-government, full discussion, decisions in accordance with

good sense, and submitted to by all--or government by one, however

able?--it would be only too easy to decide. But the practical question

is, Given such a nation, with such a character, with such a history, in

such a position,--does it, can it, wish to govern itself by itself?

would not the end be anarchy? We talk of principles; let us not leave

out of sight France, which is for us the first and most sacred of

principles. Some have their idol in Rome and the Vatican; others in

Westminster and the English Parliament; meanwhile, what becomes of poor

France, which is neither Roman nor English, and which does not wish to

be either?

"No, without doubt, all is not perfect. Let us accept it on the

condition of correcting and improving it. Examine the character,

original and altogether modern, of this new Empire, which sincerely has

no desire to repress liberty, which has acquired glory, and in which the

august chain of tradition is already renewed. What a _rôle_ does it

offer to young and intelligent minds, to generous minds, which, putting

apart secondary questions and disengaging themselves from formulas,

should be willing to seize and comprehend their entire epoch, accepting

all that it contains! What a problem in politics, in public economy, in

popular utility, that of seeking and aiding to prepare the way for such

a future as is possible for France, as is now grandly opening before

her, with a chief who has in his hand the power of Louis XIV., and in

his heart the democratic principles of the Revolution,--for he has them,

and his race is bound to have them!"

This, it will be perceived, is an application of the ideas of Mr.

Carlyle, modified by the special views and characteristics of the

writer, and adapted to the circumstances and necessities of the

particular case. It has far less similarity with the doctrines so

pompously announced, so vaguely applied, in the _Vie de Jules César_. It

does not lie open to the criticism which that clumsy and feeble apology

seemed intended to provoke, and which it had received at the competent

hands of M. Scherer. We have here no mysterious revelations of the

designs of Providence, no intimations that the world was created as a

theatre for the exaltation of certain godlike individuals. The question,

as presented by M. Sainte-Beuve, is a practical one, and as such we

accept it. We believe with him in the necessity for great men, in the

guidance of heroes. We believe with M. Scherer in the animating forces

of liberty, in its activity and power as an essential principle of

progress and civilization. That the combination may exist is attested by

such examples as William of Orange, Count Cavour, Abraham Lincoln.

It all comes, therefore, to this single inquiry: Is the present ruler of

France a great man, a hero? Is he the enlightened leader whom a nation

may and confidently follow? Has he the genius and the will to solve the

problem before him, to reconcile liberty with authority? Posterity alone

will be able to pronounce with unanimity. For ourselves, we must answer

in the negative. We do not denounce him, we believe it absurd to

denounce him, as a conspirator or a usurper. If he was a conspirator,

France was his accomplice. There cannot be a doubt that the nation not

only was ready to accept him, but sought him; not indeed for his

personal qualities, not as recognizing its appointed guide, but from the

recollections and the hopes of which his name was the symbol. We

acknowledge, too, his obvious abilities; we acknowledge the material and

economical improvements which his government has inaugurated. But we

fail to see the "moral Louvres" which he has opened; we fail to see in

his character any evidences of the moral power which can alone inspire

such improvements; we fail to see in his reign any principle of

"initiation," save that which the Ruler of the universe has implanted in

every system and in every government. Yet we concede the right of others

to think differently on these points, without being suspected of moral

obtuseness or obliquity. Especially can we comprehend how a patriotic

Frenchman should choose to accept all the conditions of his epoch, and

embrace every opportunity of aiding in the task of correction and

amelioration.

* * * * *

We are unwilling to emerge from our subject at its least agreeable

angle. Our strain, however feeble, shall not close with a discord. And

indeed, in looking back, we are pained to perceive how slight is the

justice we have been able to render to the rare combination of powers

exhibited in the works we have enumerated. We have left unnoticed the

wonderful extent and accuracy of the learning, the compass and

profundity of the thought, the inexhaustible spirit, ever preserving the

happy mean between mental languor and nervous excitement. In these

twenty-seven volumes of criticism, scarcely an error has been detected,

scarcely a single repetition is met with; there is scarcely a page which

a reader, unpressed for time, would be inclined to skip. Where you least

agree with the author, there you will perhaps have the most reason to

thank him for his hints and elucidations. Is it not then with reason

that M. Sainte-Beuve has been styled "the prince of contemporaneous

criticism"? His decisions have been accepted by the public, and he has

founded a school which does honor to France.

How is it that our own language offers no such example? How is it that

the English literature of the present century, superior to that of

France in so many departments, richer therefore in the material of

criticism, has nothing to show in this way, we will not say equal,

but--taking quantity as well as quality into the account--in any degree

similar? How is it that nothing has been written on the highest minds

and chief productions of the day--on Tennyson, on Thackeray, on

Carlyle--which is worth preserving or remembering? Is it that criticism

has been almost abandoned to a class of writers who have no sense of

their responsibilities, no enlightened interest in their art, no

liberality of views,--who make their position and the influence attached

to it subservient either to their interests or to their vanity? Descend,

gentlemen reviewers, from the heights on which you have perched

yourselves; lay aside your airs and your tricks, your pretences and

affectations! Have the honesty not to misrepresent your author, the

decency not to abuse him, the patience to read, and if possible to

understand him! Point out his blemishes, correct his blunders, castigate

his faults; it is your duty,--he himself will have reason to thank you.

But do not approach him with arrogance or a supercilious coldness; do

not, if your knowledge be less than his, seek to mask your ignorance

with the deformity of conceit; do not treat him as a criminal or as a

dunce, unless he happens really to be one. Above all, do not, by dint of

_judging_, vitiate your faculty of _tasting_. Recognize the importance,

the inestimable virtues, of that quality which you have piqued

yourselves on despising,--that _sympathy_ which is the sum of

experience, the condition of insight, the root of tolerance, the seal of

culture!

FOOTNOTES:

[C] At the moment when we are sending this sketch to press a specimen of

the sort of criticism to which we have alluded comes to us in the form

of an article in the Quarterly Review for January,--the subject, M.

Sainte-Beuve himself. One wonders how it is that the writer, who, if

really familiar with the productions he criticises, must have been

indebted to them for many hours of enjoyment, much curious information,

and a multitude of suggestions and stimulants to reflection, should have

had no feeling of kindliness or gratitude for the author. But then the

question comes up, Was he in reality familiar with the works? Several of

his statements might provoke a doubt upon this point. We cite a single

example. Speaking of M. Sainte-Beuve's temporary connection with the

Saint-Simonians, he says: "For a brief season he appears to have felt

some of the zeal of a neophyte, _speaking_ the _speech_ and _talking_

the vague nonsense of his new friends. But soon his native good-sense

seems to have perceived that the whole thing was only a fevered dream of

a diseased age." Now the reviewer, if he knows anything of the doctrines

in question, is entitled to express his opinion of them, even if he does

it in tautological and slipshod English. But he has no right to

attribute his own opinions to M. Sainte-Beuve, who is so far from

holding them that, in articles written so lately as in 1861 (_Nouveaux

Lundis_, I.), he has not only traced the _enduring_ influence of

Saint-Simonianism upon some of the ablest minds in France, but has

contended that what were once considered the wildest dreams of that

system have since been substantially realized. Perhaps the reviewer

thinks that, as M. Sainte-Beuve is "a chameleon," with scarcely one

single fixed opinion on any problem, literary, philosophical, political,

or religious, there can be no harm in fathering upon him any notion from

whatever source. But on one point at least--the duty of being accurate

in the statement of other persons' opinions--M. Sainte-Beuve has shown

an unwavering consistency.

[D] Here is, quite _apropos_, a frank admission to that effect from the

Quarterly Reviewer before mentioned: "We confess we should be glad to

meet with some passages in the writings of M. Sainte-Beuve which would

prove him capable of downright scorn or anger." Yes, but if they had

been there, how stern would have been the rebuke!

[E] A Quarterly Reviewer must now be added.

DE SPIRIDIONE EPISCOPO.

This is the story of Spiridion,

Bishop of Cyprus by the grace of God,

Told by Ruffinus in his history.

A fair and stately lady was Irené,

Spiridion's daughter, and in all the isle

Was none so proud; if that indeed be pride,

The haughty conscience of great truthfulness,

Which makes the spirit faithful unto death,

And martyrdom itself a little thing.

There came a stranger to Spiridion,

A wealthy merchant from the Syrian land,

Who, greeting, said: "Good father, I have here

A golden casket filled with Roman coin

And Eastern gems of cost uncountable.

Great are the dangers of the rocky road,

False as a serpent is the purple sea,

And he who carries wealth in foreign lands

Carries his death, too often, near his heart,

And finds life's poison where he hoped to find

Against its pains a pleasant antidote.

I pray you, keep for me these gems in trust,

And give them to me when I come again."

Spiridion listened with a friendly smile,

And answered thus the dark-browed Syrian:

"Here is a better guardian of gold,--

My daughter, sir. The people of the coast

Are wont to say that, if she broke her faith,

Silver and gold themselves would lose their shine.

She is our island's trusty treasurer."

"Then," said the Syrian, "she shall be mine

As well as theirs,"--and saying this he gave

The casket with the jewels to her hand.

Right earnestly the lady answered him,

As one who slowly turns some curious thought:

"Sir, you have called this treasure _life and death_,

Which in your Eastern lore, as I have read,

Is the symbolic phrase of Deity,

And the most potent phrase to sway the world.

With life to death I'll guard the gems for you,

And dead or living give them back again."

Now while the merchant went to distant Rome

The fair Irené died a sudden death,

And all the land went mourning for the maid,

And on the roads and in the palaces

Was one long wail for her by night and day.

While thus they grieved, the Syrian came again,

And, after fit delay, in proper time

Went to the father, to Spiridion,

Condoling with him on his daughter's death

In many a sad and gentle Eastern phrase,

Deep tinctured with a strange philosophy.

Now when they had awhile consumed their grief

Outspoke the Bishop: "Syrian, it is well

If this sad death be not more sad for us,

And most especially more sad for thee,

Than thou hast dreamed of." Here he checked his speech,

And then, as if in utter agony,

Burst forth with--"She is gone! and all thy store,

It too is gone: she only upon earth

Knew where 't was hidden,--and she trusted none.

O God, be merciful! What shall I do?"

Then on him gravely looked the Syrian

With grand, calm mien, as almost pitying,

And said: "O father, can this be thy _faith_?

Man of the West, how little didst thou know

The wondrous nature of that girl now dead.

Hast thou ne'er heard that they who once become

Faithful to death are masters over death?

And here and there on earth a woman lives

Whose eyes proclaim the mighty victory won.

Give me thy hand and lead me to the bier:

Thou know'st it is not all of death to die."

He took his hand and led him to the bier,

And they beheld the Beautiful in Death,

The perfect loveliness of Grecian form

Inspired by Egypt's solemn mystery.

A single pause in the eternity,

The Present, Past, and Future all in one.

Awhile they stood and gazed upon the Dead,

And then Spiridion spoke, as one inspired:

"O God! thou wert our witness,--make it known!"

He paused in solemn awe, for at the word

There came an awful sign. The dead white hand

Was lifted, and Irené's eyes unclosed,

Beaming with light as only angels' beam,

And from the cold white lips there came a voice:

"_The gems lie hidden in the garden wall._

_God bless thee, father, for thy constant love!_

_God bless thee, Syrian, for thy faith in me!_"

This is the story of Spiridion,

And of his daughter, faithful unto death.

A STRUGGLE FOR SHELTER.

Having, in "A Letter to a Young Housekeeper," held counsel with her

whose home is made by a noble husband, it is no less pleasant to recall

the claims of her whose home is made by herself; who, instead of keeping

house for two, keeps house for but one, and whose stars have not yet led

her on either to matrimony or to Washington Territory.

Mrs. Stowe, in a late number of the Atlantic, has discoursed admirably

on the woman question of how to get occupation; a point to be equally

anxious upon is that of how to get a shelter. It is often easier to get

a husband than either. Perhaps every one knows the exceeding difficulty

with which, in our large cities, the single woman obtains even a room

wherein to lodge; but only the victims can know the real distresses it

involves. In the capital, where noble women are chiefly needed, to begin

homeless is a positive peril; and to stand on the surest integrity is

only to fall at last. If one apply at the boarding-houses it is either

to be instantly rebuffed by learning that no rooms are let to ladies, or

more delicately parried by being told that the terms are forty dollars a

week! If one have attractions and friends, it is equivocal; if one have

them not, it is equally desperate. Should Minerva herself alight there

with a purse that would not compass Willard's, one cannot imagine what

would become of her. She would probably be seen wandering at late night,

with bedimmed stars and bedraggled gauze, until some vigorous officer

should lead her to the station-house for vagrancy. Thus when fascination

and forlornness are at equal discount, when powers and penuries go down

together, and common and uncommon sense fail alike, to what natural

feeling shall one hope to appeal? There is no sound spot of humanity

left to rest upon. It is a dilemma that is nothing but horns.

Possibly it is a trifle better in New England; but here, as elsewhere,

the chief enemy of woman is woman. It is women who keep our houses for

boarding and lodging, and, with a few radiant exceptions, it is they who

never take ladies. If by any chance a foothold be obtained there, the

only safety is in keeping it with stern self-denial of all outside

pleasures or excursions. Surrender for a week, and you return to that

door only to hear that two gentlemen have taken your room, and that they

will pay more. You ask for an attic. Just now there are two gentlemen

there. Will there be a place under the eaves? Possibly, next week. But

before then the two gentlemen are on hand again, have unpacked their

vials of unctuous hair-oil, and are happily snuggled under the eaves.

Indeed, they seem to make long journeys expressly to head one off, and

to be where they should not be. They are on time always, and in at the

winning. Some day one will pathetically die of two gentlemen on the

brain; and the doctor will only call it congestion. O for a new Knight

of a Sorrowful Figure, to demolish all such ubiquitous persons! I have

sometimes had as many as three of my engaged rooms at a time occupied by

these perpetual individuals,--myself waiting a-tremble on the portico.

Then it struck me that, if there were really any more gentlemen in

Washington Territory than here, women had better not go there.

Out of this exigency has arisen a grand vision of mine to build a flat

of five or six rooms; a single landing of dining- and drawing-rooms,

boudoir, bedroom, and kitchen with its apartment for a domestic. And,

either by lounge-bedstead or famous Plympton, there should be the

possibility of sleeping in every apartment but the kitchen. This would

be such sweet revenge for one whom the Fates had driven about for five

years to hunt lodgings. I would gormandize on bedrooms,--like Cromwell

resting in a different one every night,--and the empty ones filling with

forlornest of females, provided one need not do the honors at their

table in the morning and hear how they have slept. There should be

alcoves too, with statues; and unexpected niches of rooms crimson with

drapery, "fit to soothe the imagination with privacy"; and oh! perhaps

somewhere a bit of a conservatory and a fountain,--did not Mrs. Stowe

tell us of these too? Here one could dwell snugly as in the petals of a

rose, or expansively as in a banyan-tree, undisturbed alike from

gentlemen in black or women in white, liable only to the elements and to

mortality.

If only this castle were as attainable as that of Thoreau!--which was to

consist of but one room, with one door to enter it, and where "some

should live in the fireplace, some in the recess of a window, and some

on settles,--some at one end of the hall, some at another, and some

aloft on rafters with the spiders if they chose."

But on the _terra firma_ of realities one's trouble is somewhat

mitigated by the fact that, when all is said and done, the

boarding-houses are usually so poor, that, having entered them, one's

effort to get admitted is rather exceeded by one's desire to depart. The

meats are all cooked together with one universal gravy;--beef is pork,

and lamb is pork, each passing round the swinal sin; the vegetables

often seem to know but one common kettle, for turnip is onion, and

squash is onion; while the corn-cake has soda for sugar, and the bread

is sour and drab-colored, much resembling slices of Kossuth hat.

From these facts grew the experiment of becoming housekeeper

extraordinary to myself,--a strait to which many a one is likely to be

driven, unless we are to have something better than can be offered by

the present system of boarding-houses. For since one's castle was not

yet builded outside of the brain, it only took a little Quixotism of

imagination to consider as castles all these four-story brick houses

with placards affixed of "Rooms to be let," and to secure the most

eligible corner in one of these at moderate rent.

This of course is not so easy to do; but at last a _petite_ room seemed

to be struck out from the white heat of luck,--so _petite_!--six feet by

thirteen feet, two carpet-breadths wide and four masculine strides long;

one flight up, and just large enough to sheathe one's self in;

high-walled and corniced, with on the one hand a charming bay-window

looking three ways, and cheerily catching the sunlight early and late;

on the other, an open grate fire, fit to illuminate the gray Boston

mornings,--though, when the brilliant sun came round full at noon, there

seemed no fire till that was gone. I strove to forget that it might have

been a doctor's consulting office, and three days after there blossomed

out of it seven several apartments; the inevitable curtain across the

corner giving a wardrobe and bath; the short side of the room, with

desk, a library; the long side, with sofa, a bedchamber; the upper end,

with table, a dining-hall; the cupboard and region about the hearth, a

kitchen; while the remainder, with a lively camp-stool chair that

balanced about anywhere and doubled into nothing when desired, was

drawing-room,--that is, it was drawing-room wherever the chair was

drawn. In this apartment everything was handy. One could sit in the

centre thereof, and, by a little dexterous tacking to north or south,

reach every article in it. But when a lad whose occasional infirmity was

fainting was proposed to build the fire, it became necessary to decline,

on the ground that there really was not room enough, unless he were so

kind as to faint up chimney. A genuine bower it was, but not a Boffin's

Bower, where the wedded occupants suited their contrary tastes by having

part sanded-floor for Mr. Boffin, and part high-colored carpet for Mrs.

Boffin,--"comfort on one side and fashion on the other." In this the

walls were hung with pictures, and the windows with lace, while the

corner curtain was a gorgeous piano cover. Mr. Boffin not being here, it

was both comfort and fashion all round.

In this minute way of living, the first visiting messages could only

include the announcement of dainty regards, and of readiness to receive

friends one by one; and dining messages could only entreat "the best one

to come to the _petite_ one on Thursday, for sake of a suggestion of

pigeons' wings." Assuredly none would have voted any exquisite thing out

of place, from a dish of lampreys, that favorite viand of kings, to the

common delicacy of Rome, a stew of nightingales' tongues. And so compact

were all the arrangements, that a brilliant friend was fain to declare

that the hostess should certainly live on condensed milk.

Indeed, it was the grand concentration of having wardrobe and bath

together that caused a very singular mishap. One morning, being in

clumsy-fingered haste to get to a train, I summarily dropped my bonnet

into the wash-bowl. This was not a very dry joke, but having mopped up

the article as well as possible, I put it on and departed with usual

hilarity,--still remembering what it was to have the kindest fortune in

the world, and that one should not expect so rare a life as mine without

an occasional disaster.

But none need undertake a plan of this sort on the theology of Widow

Bedott's hymn, "K. K., Kant Kalkerlate"; for in this song of life on six

feet by thirteen, calculation is the sole rhyme for salvation. We have

heard of dying by inches: this is living by inches. If there be not

floor-room, then perhaps there is wall-room, and every possible article

must be made to hang, from the boot-bag and umbrella behind the curtain

to the pretty market-basket, so toy-like, in the corner. Indeed, it is

the chief charm of a camp-stool chair that this too, when off duty, may

be hung upon the wall, like a hunter's saddle when the chase is ended.

Only see that all the screws are in stoutly, so that in some

entertaining hour various items of your wardrobe or adornments do not

bring their owner to sudden grief.

As might be anticipated, it was rather a struggle to get condensed; and

afterward, too, there were fleeting phases of feeling about it all. For

at times it is not pleasant to connect the day of the week chiefly with

its being the day to clean one's cupboard or lamp-chimney. Often, too,

during a very nice breakfast, one is ready to vow that she will never do

otherwise than board herself; and while despatching the work after,

equally ready to vow that she will take flight from this as soon as

possible. Sometimes, also, one gets a little too much of herself, and an

overdose in this direction is about as bad as most insufferable things.

But then there must be seasons of discouragement in everything. They

inhere to all human enterprises, just as measles and whooping-cough to

childhood. It is well to remember as they pass how rarely it is that

they prove fatal.

And wherefore discouraged, indeed? Is it not the charm of life that

nothing is final,--not even death itself? In this strange existence,

with its great and rapid transitions, happy events are always imminent.

One may be performing her own menialities to-day, and to-morrow, in an

ambassador's carriage, be folded in a fur robe with couchant lions upon

it; to-day be quartered in a single attic, to-morrow be treading the

tapestries of her own drawing-rooms. Thus the golden Fate turns and

keeps turning; it is only when, through frigidness or fear, we refuse to

revolve with it, that there ensues the discord of despair.

But instead of going to a Walden and camping on the shady edges of the

world, to see what could be done without civilization, I preferred to

camp down in the heart of civilization, and see what could be done with

it;--not to fly the world, but to face it, and give it a new emphasis,

if so it should be; to conjure it a little, and strike out new

combinations of good cheer and good fellowship. In fact, it seems to me

ever that the wild heart of romance and adventure abides no more with

rough, uncouth nature than with humanity and art. To sit under the pines

and watch the squirrels run, or down in the bush-tangles of the

Penobscot and see the Indians row, is to me no more than when Gottschalk

wheels his piano out upon the broad, lone piazza of his house on the

crater's edge, and rolls forth music to the mountains and stars. Here

too are mystery, poesy, and a perpetual horizon.

This for romance; but true adventure abides most where most the forces

of humanity are. So I camped down in the heart of things, surely; for in

the next room were a child, kitten, and canary; in the basement was a

sewing-machine; while across the entry were a piano, flute, and

music-box. But Providence, that ever takes care of its own, did ever

prevent all these from performing at once, or the grand seraglio of

Satan would have been nothing to it.

But if in getting a room one is haunted by the two gentlemen, in getting

furniture and provisions one is afterward haunted by the "family"

relation. It is a result of the youthfulness of our civilization, that

as yet it is cumbrous and unwieldy. We do not yet master it, but are

mastered by it; and nowhere in America will one find the charming

arrangements for single living which have filled the Old World with

delightful haunts for the students of every land. As yet we provide for

people, not persons; and the needs of the single woman are no more

considered in business than in boarding. Forever she is reminded of the

Scripture, "He setteth the solitary in families"; and forever it seems

that all must be set there but herself. For nice crockery is sold by the

set, knives and forks by the half-dozen, the best coal by the half-ton;

the tin-pans are immense, and suggest a family Thanksgiving; pokers

gigantic, fit only to be wielded by the father of a family; and at

market the game is found with feet tied together in clever family

bunches, while one is equally troubled to get a chop or a steak, because

it will spoil the family roast,--and as to a bit of venison for

breakfast, it may be had by taking two haunches and a saddle. In

desperation she exclaims with O'Grady of Arrah na Pogue, "O father Adam,

why had you not died with all your ribs left in your body!" For since

there is neither place nor provision for her in the world, why indeed

should she have come?

Having once, on a fruitless tour through Faneuil Hall Market for a

single slice of beef, come to the last stall, and here finding nothing

less than a sirloin of six pounds, which was not to be cut, I could

only answer imploringly, "But pray, what is one person to do with a

sirloin of six pounds?" A relenting smile swept over the stern butcher's

face. "I _will_ cut it!" he said, brandishing the knife at once. "Thank

you," I cried, with a gush of emotion; for he seemed a really religious

man. He comprehended that there was at least one solitary whom the Lord

had not set in a family. I took the number of his stall.

Nor is it yet too late to be grateful to him who proposed breaking a

bundle of cutlery in my behalf. He too realized the situation, and saw

that by no possibility could one person gracefully get on with six

knives and forks at once.

Indeed, since one's single wants are not regularly met by this system of

things, the only way at present to get them answered is by favor. So

that the first item in setting up an establishment is not only to bring

one's resources about one, but to find the people of the trade who will

assist in the gladdest way. One wants the right stripe in the morning

and evening papers, but none the less happy are just the right merchant

and just the right menial. Since all of life may be rounded into rhythm,

shall we not even consult the harmonies in a grocer or an upholsterer?

Personal power can be carried into every department. It is well to find

where one's word has weight, then always say the word there. This is a

part of the quest which makes life a perpetual adventure; and there is

nothing more piquant than to go on an exploring tour for one's

affinities among the trades. It is perhaps rather more of the

sensational than the sentimental, and might be marked in the private

note-book with famous headings, like those of the New York papers on a

balloon marriage, as, The last affinity item! A raid among the

magnetisms! or, Hifalutin among prunes! However, in some subtile way,

one soon divines on entering a store whether she is to be well served

there, and must follow with tact the undercurrent in the shop as well as

in the _salon_. If it be not the right encounter, ask for something

there is not, and pass on to the next. Thus, "my grocer" apologizes for

keeping honey, because I do not eat sweets, and proposes to open the

butter trade because it is so annoying to go about for butter; "my

stoveman" descends from the stilts of the firm, looking after these

chimney affairs himself; "my carpenter" says, "Shure, an' ye don't owe

_me_ onything; I'd work for ye grat-tis if I could"; "my cabinet-dealer"

sends tables and wardrobes at midnight if desired, and takes them back

and sells them over the next day; even the washerwoman is an affinity,

exclaiming, "Shure, an' ye naid n't think I'll be chargin' ye with all

the collars an' ruffles ye put in,--shure, an' I'll not."

Perhaps it sounds a little egotistic to say "my grocer," &c., but is not

this the way that heads of families talk, and am I not head and family

too? At least the solitary may soothe themselves with the family sounds.

Indeed, it soon appears that all these faithful servers are like to

become so radical a part of the my and mine of existence, as to make it

really alarming. When one's comfort is thus bound up in fire-boy and

washerwoman, alas! what will become of the grand philosophy of

Epictetus?

To begin housekeeping proper, one will need at least a bread-knife and

tumbler, a gridiron and individual salt,--cost eighty-four cents. My

list also includes for kitchen and table use:--

Tin saucepan .40

" baking-pan .23

" oyster pail .25

2 breakfast plates .20

4 tea plates .32

Cup (and cover to mimic sugar-bowl) .15

Mixing spoon .15

Pint bowl .20

Butter jar .35

2 knives and forks .45

2 saucers .14

2 minute platters .18

1 " vegetable-dish .10

3 individual butter-plates .18

----

$3.30

The aforementioned gridiron, &c. .84

----

Sum total $4.14

To this should be added a small iron frying-pan for gravied meats. The

quart pail usually did duty for vegetables, the saucepan for soup, while

prime chops and steaks appeared from the gridiron. Tea-spoons are not

included, nor any tea things whatever. These excepted, it will be seen

that less than five dollars gives a full housekeeping apparatus, with

pretty white crockery enough to invite a dinner guest.

The provisions for one week were:--

Bread and rolls .59

4 pears and 1/2 lb. grapes .28

1 lb. butter .55

" granulated sugar .22

" corn starch .16

" salt .05

1/4 lb. pepper .15

1/2 lb. halibut .25

3/4 lb. steak .30

1 quail .40

1 pint cranberries .08

Celery .05

1 peck potatoes and turnips .40

Pickles, 1 pint bottle .37

----

$3.85

At the end of the week there was stock unused to the amount of $1.00,

making $2.85 for actual board, (I did not dine out once,) and this

included the most expensive meats, which one might not always care to

get; for it is not parsimony that often prefers a sirloin steak at

thirty cents to a tenderloin at forty cents. But this note may be added.

Don't buy quails, they are all gizzard and feathers; and don't buy

halibut, till you have inquired the price. It will also be perceived

that beverages are not mentioned. None of that seven million pounds of

tea shipped from China last September ever came to my shores. If this

article were added, there would come in large complications of furniture

and food, beside the obligation of being on the stairs at early hours in

fearful dishabille, watching for the milkman, as I have seen my

sister-lodgers.

The pecuniary result is, that, for less than three dollars per week and

the work, one may have the best food in the market; for three dollars

and no work, one may have the very worst in the world.

For any ordinary amount of cooking, an open grate is admirable, though

it do not furnish that convenient stove-pipe whereon lady boarders can

smooth out their ribbons, &c.; but it is accessible, and draws the

culinary odors speedily out of the room. At least it is admirable from

fall to the middle of December, when you find that it draws the heat, as

well as the odors, up chimney; then you will get a "Fairy" stove of the

smallest size, with a portable oven, and fairly go into winter quarters.

But by the grate one may boil, broil, and toast, if not roast; for I

used with delight to cook apples on the cool corners, giving them a turn

between sentences as I read or wrote. They seemed to have a higher

flavor, being seasoned with thoughts; but it was not equally sure if the

thoughts were better for being seasoned with apple. However, one must

not count herself so _recherché_ as Schiller, who could only write when

his desk was full of rotten apples.

Still the grate has no oven, and the chief difficulty is in bread. One

starts bravely on the baker's article, but such is the excess of yeast

that the bitterness becomes intolerable. Then one begins to perambulate

the city, and thinks she has a prize in this or that brand,--is enamored

of Brigham's Graham biscuits, hot twice a week, or of Parker's

rolls,--but soon eats through novelty to the core, and that is always

hops. Thus one goes from baker to baker, but it is only a hopping from

hops to hops. I see with malicious joy that the exportation tariff is to

be removed from hops.

As to crackers, they are of course no more available than pine splints,

though the Graham variety is the best. Aerated bread is probably the

most healthful, but this is pitiable to live on; it tastes like salted

flannel.

Finally, let me confess to the use of a friendly oven near by, and from

this came every week the indispensable Graham cakes, which are the

despair of all the cooks. Of course, on this point it is impossible,

without seeing their experiment, to say why it failed; but all the

given conditions being met, if the cakes were tough, there was probably

too much meal; if soggy, too little. Also the latest improvement is not

to cut them in diamonds, but to roll them into various forms. After

scalding, the dough is just too soft to be handled easily; it is then to

be dropped into meal upon the board, separating it in small quantities

with a spoon or knife, and rolling lightly in the meal into small

biscuits, rolls, or any form desired. But do not work in any of the

meal. Possibly some of the failures come from disregard of this; for the

meal which is added after, being unscalded, is not light, and would only

clog the cakes. And, in eating, the biscuits should be broken, never

sliced. They are in their prime when hot, quite as much as Ward

Beecher's famous apple-pie; but, unlike that, may be freshened afterward

by dipping in cold water and heating in a quick oven just before wanted.

In other words, they may be regenerated by immersion.

As to the system of this minute household,--if any should be curious to

know,--it was to have breakfast-dishes despatched, with the dinner

vegetables pared, at half past nine, A. M.; dinner out of hand by two,

P. M.; bread and butter and Cochituate precisely at six, P. M.

In one of Mr. and Mrs. Hall's "Memories of Authors," mention is made of

a little Miss Spence, who, with rather limited arrangements in two

rooms, used to give literary tea-parties, and was shrewdly suspected of

keeping her butter in a wash-bowl. I did not follow any such underhanded

proceeding. I kept my butter on the balcony. All-out-doors was my

refrigerator; and if one will look abroad some cool, glittering night,

he may yet see my oyster-pail hung by a star, or swinging on the horns

of a new moon.

Perhaps it is fair to mention, however, that on one glittering night the

mercury fell below zero, and the windows all froze hard down, and there

was the butter locked on the outer side! And oh! it is such a trying

calamity to be frozen in from one's butter! But after this experience

the housekeeper shrewdly watches for these episodes of weather, and

takes the jar in of a night. So it is that eternal vigilance is the

price even of butter.

Still it seemed that, with careful and economizing mind, on six feet by

thirteen it was not only possible to live, but to take table-boarders.

Certainly nothing could be gayer, unless to ramble delightfully forever

in one of those orange-colored ambrotype-saloons, drawn by milk-white

oxen; or to quarter like Gavroche of _Les Miserables_ among the ribs of

the plaster elephant in the Bastile; or more pensively to abide in the

crannied boat-cabin of the Peggotys, watching the tide sweep out and in.

This must be the weird, barbaric side of the before-named brick and

mortar flat of five rooms.

Pope, the tragedian, said that he knew of but one crime a man could

commit,--peppering a rump steak. It is an argument for boarding one's

self that all these comfortable crimes thus become feasible. One may

even butter her bread on three sides with impunity; or eat tamarinds at

every meal, running the risk of her own grimaces; or take her stewed

cherries with curious, undivided interest as to whether a sweet or sour

one will come next (dried cherries are a great consolation); and, being

allowed to help herself, can the better bring all the edibles to an end

at once upon her plate,--an indication of Providence that the proper

feast is finished. Wonderfully independent all this! Life with the

genuine bachelor flavor. As L. remarked, even the small broom in the

corner had a sturdy little way of standing alone.

Perhaps there is nothing finer than the throng of fancies that comes in

a solitary breakfast. Then one reaches hands of greeting to all the lone

artists taking their morning _acquavite_ in Rome; to the young students

of Germany at their early coffee and eggs; even remembering the lively

_grisette_ of Paris, as, with a parting fillip to her canary, she flits

forth from her upper room; and finally drinks to the memory of our own

Irving at his bachelor breakfast among the fountains and flowers in the

Court of Lions at the Alhambra.

And very sweet, too, it is, in the fall of the day, to sit by the rich,

ruby coals, and think of those who are far, until they come near; and of

that which is hoped for, until it seems that which is; to sit and dream,

till

"The breath of the great Lord God divine

Stirs the little red rose of a room."

This it is to keep house with a bread-knife and tumbler, a gridiron and

an individual salt. This it is to vitally understand the _multum in

parvo_ of existence. This it is to have used and mastered civilization.

But the total pecuniary result is, that the rent of the very smallest

room in central location--at the hub of the hub--will not be less than

three dollars per week, without light, heat, or furniture. Fire, and a

boy to make it, will be two dollars per week; light seventy-five cents

if gas, twenty-five cents if kerosene; this, with board at three

dollars, washing at one dollar per dozen, and the constant Tribune,

etc., brings one up to the pretty little sum of ten dollars per week,

without a single item of luxury, unless daily papers can be called

luxurious. Or, should one go out to breakfasts and dinners, nothing

tolerable can be had under five dollars per week; and this gives a total

of twelve dollars. Then, to complete one's life, there must be clothing,

literature, perhaps travel and hospitality, making nearly as much more;

and to crown it, there must be the single woman's favorite lecturer or

_prima donna_; for ah! we too, in some form, must have our cigars and

champagne. A round thousand a year for ever so small a package of

humanity!

And of course, as goods are higher in small quantities, so in living by

this individual way it will be discovered that prices are prodigious,

but that weights and measures are not. After opening the small purse

regularly at half-hour intervals for several weeks, one at length finds

herself opening it when there is nothing to be bought, from mere

muscular habit. Altogether it is easy to spend as much as a second-rate

Congressman, without any of his accommodations. This is wherein one does

not master civilization.

Mr. McCulloch, in his Report on the Treasury, suggested an increase of

salary for certain subordinates in his department, declaring that they

could not support their families in due rank on four, five, or even six

thousand dollars a year. It is easy to believe it. It is easy to believe

anything that may be stated with regard to money, except that one will

ever be able to get enough of it to cover these terrible charges. The

entire fabric of things rests on money; and our prices would drive a

respectable Frenchman into suicide. O poor Robin Ruff! alas for your

grand visions that you sang so glowingly to dear Gaffer Green! In this

age of the world, O what could you do, or where could you go, e'en on a

thousand pounds a year, poor Robin Ruff?

And so long as each must keep her separate establishment, it will not be

found possible to reduce living much below the present figures. But

London has more wisely met the pressure of the times in those

magnificent clubhouses, which have made Pall Mall almost a solid square

of palaces hardly inferior to the homes of the nobility themselves. Each

of these houses has its hundreds of members, who really fare

sumptuously, having all the luxuries of wealth on the prices that one

pays here for poverty. The food is furnished by the best purveyors, and

charged to the consumers at cost; all other expenses of the

establishment being met by the members' initiation fees, ranging from

£32 entrance fee and £11 annual subscription, to £9 and £6 for entrance

and subscription. Being admirably officered and planned throughout,

these gigantic households are systematized to the beautiful smoothness

of small ones; their phrase of "fare-well" is one of epicurean

invitation, not of dismissal; while such are the combined luxuriousness

and economy that, says one authority, "the modern London club is a

realization of a Utopian coenobium,--a sort of lay convent, rivalling

the celebrated Abbey of Thelemé, with the agreeable motto of _Fais ce

que voudras_, instead of monastic discipline."

Of course, New York also has followed suit, and there, too, clubs are

trumps; but, according to "The Nation," with this remarkable exception,

that "at these houses the leading idea seems to be, not to furnish the

members at cost price, but to increase the finances with a view to some

future expenditure." The writer reasonably observes, that "what a man

wants is his breakfast or dinner cheaper than he can get it at the

hotel, and not to pay thirty or sixty dollars annually in order that ten

years hence the club may have a new building farther up town." And

Boston has followed New York, with its trio of well-known clubs,

differing also from those of London in having poorer appointments and

the highest conceivable charges.

But most of these clubs do not include lodgings, and none of them

include ladies. It remains for America to give us the club complete in

both. There is every reason why women should secure elegant and

economical homes in this way. Indeed, in the present state of things,

there seems no other way to secure them. There is no remedy but in a

system of judicious clubbing. Since this phase of the world seems made

up for the family relation, then ladies must make themselves into a sort

of family to face it. Where is the coming man who shall communicate this

art of clubbing, which has not yet even been admitted into the feminine

dialect? Mr. Mercer is doing for the women who wish to go out in the

world that which womanly gratitude can but lightly repay.[F] Where is

the kindly, honest-hearted Mr. Mercer who shall further a like

enterprise here,--a provision of quarters for those who can pay

reasonably and who do not wish to go away? This would be a genuine

Stay-at-home Club, a Can't-get-away Club of the very happiest sort. And

this alone can put life in our noble cities, where active-brained women

love to be, on something like possible terms.

In Miss Howitt's "Art Student at Munich,"--a charming sketch, by the

way, of women living _en bachelier_ abroad,--we find one young

enthusiast idealizing upon this very need of feminine life, which she

christens an Associated Home. In her artistic mind it takes the form of

an outer and inner sisterhood,--the inner devoted to culture, the outer

attending to the useful, ready alike to broil a steak or toe a stocking

for the more ethereal ones of the household. This is all quite amiably

intended, but no queen-bee and common-bee scheme of the sort seems to be

either generous or practicable. It involves at once too much caste and

too much contact. We do not wish to find servants or scrubs in our

sisters, nor do we wish at all times even to see our sisters. There must

be elbow-room for mood and temperament, as well as high walls of

defence. The social element is too shy and elusive, and will not, like a

monkey, perform on demand; therefore our plan abjures all these poetic

organizations, which have a great deal of cant and very little good

companionship; it has no sentimentalism to offer, proposing an

association of purses rather than of persons,--a household on the base

of protection rather than of society,--a mere combining for privileges

and against prices. It is resolved into a simple matter of business; and

the only help women need is that of an organizing brain to put

themselves into this associate form, whereby they can meet the existing

state of things with somewhat of human comfort.

Are we never to obtain even this, until the golden doors of the

Millennium swing open? Ah, then indeed one must melt a little, looking

regretfully back to Brook Farm, undismayed by the fearful Zenobia;

looking leniently toward Wallingford, Lebanon, and Haryard. Anything

for wholesome diet, free life, and a quiet refuge.

But whether to live alone or together, the first want is of

houses,--which is another hitch in the social system. In the city a

building-lot is an incipient fortune; and the large sum paid for it is

the beginning of reasons for the large rent of the building that is put

upon it. But then if ground is costly, air is cheap,--land is high, but

sky is low; and one need have but very little earth to a great deal of

house. A writer, describing the London of thirty years ago, speaks of

the huge, narrow dwellings, full five stories high, and says that the

agility with which the inmates "ran up and down, and perched on the

different stories, gave the idea of a cage with its birds and sticks";

and the like figure seems to have occurred to the queer Mademoiselle

Marchand of "Denise," who, as she toiled to her eyrie on the topmost

landing, exclaimed, "One would think these houses were built by a winged

race, who only used stairs when they were moulting!" But these same

lofty houses are the very thing we must have to-day, all but the running

up and down. Build us houses up, and up, as high as they will stand;

give us plenty of sky-parlors, but also plenty of steam-elevators to go

to and from "my lady's chamber." It is not a wise economy to devote

one's precious power to this enormous amount of stair-work. It is not a

kind of exercise that is sanitive. The Evans House and Hotel Pelham, for

instance, are very pretty Bostonianisms, but all their rooms within

range of ordinary means are beyond the range of ordinary strength. The

achievement of twenty flights a day, back and forth, would leave but

small surplus of vigor. While the steam power is there for heating

purposes, why not use some of it to propel the passengers up and down

that wilderness of rosy boudoirs? Is there any reason why this

labor-saving machine, the steam-elevator, which we now associate with

Fifth Avenue luxury, should not be the common possession of all our

large tenanted buildings? And is there any reason, indeed, in our houses

being no better appointed than the English houses of thirty years ago?

Ruskin has been honorably named for renting a few cottages with an eye

to his tenants as well as himself; but the men who in our crowded cities

shall erect these mammoth rental establishments, with steam access to

every story, will build their own best monuments for posterity. We

commend it to capitalists as a chance to invest in a generous fame.

Until this is done, we shall even disapprove of bestowing any more

mansions upon our beloved General Grant. It is not gallant. Until then,

too, how shall one ever pass that venerable Park Street Church of

Boston, without the irreverent sigh of "What capital lodgings it would

make!" Those three little windows in the curve, looking up and down the

street, and into the ever-fascinating Atlantic establishment; the lucky

tower, into which one might retreat, pen in hand, if not wishing to be

at home to callers nor abroad to himself,--Carlyle-like, making the

library at the top of the house; and all within glance of the dominating

State-House, whither one might steal up for an occasional lunch of

oratory or a digest of laws. We also hear of a new hotel being builded

on Tremont Street, and wonder if there will be any rooms fit for ladies,

and whether one of those in the loft will rent for as much as a charming

villa should command.

But while we ask now for immediate relief by clubs and rental

establishments, the great practical and artistic problem of America

still remains in learning to manage its civilization; in acquiring a

forecaste, a system, that meets individual wants; in adjusting resource

to requirement. Then we shall not be driven into association. It is

jocosely said, that in the West, whose rivers are shallow and uncertain,

the steamers are built to run on a heavy dew. Allowing for the joke,

this is not more nice than wise. To be dexterous, fine-fingered, facile!

How perfect is the response in all the petty personalities of politics!

In this America, where all men aspire, and more men get office than one

would think there were offices to get, what miracles of adroitness! It

is one perpetual, Turn, turn again, Lord Mayor! If but half the genius

were diverted from office-getting to house-building, what towering

results! But since it is the misery of a republic that politics is

supreme, and that a people who govern themselves can have little leisure

for anything else, I have sometimes feared that the only way to get

these woman questions through is by tacking them on to politics. If,

then, any of our masculine friends now go to Congress on an amelioration

of labor, Heaven speed the day when they can only go on an amelioration

of lodgings.

But on this side of the question we as yet hold close to the leeward.

For to make it political, women must have political power, the power of

the ballot; and this claim she chooses to defer to the more oppressed

race,--chooses first to secure justice to all men, before entering the

long campaign of justice to women.

Meanwhile, we young housekeepers, who are neither capitalists to build

what we need, nor politicians to procure it builded, can only live on

these real-unreal lives as we may. But sometimes, when the city lamps

are agleam in the early evening, we go out for a walk of romance upon

the brilliant avenue near by, gazing eagerly into those superb

drawing-rooms where the curtains are kindly lifted a little, and tempted

to ring at the door on a false errand where they are not,--simply to get

a peep at the captivating comfort inside. And thus we too possess houses

and homes; with all these to enjoy and none of them to care for, why may

not one easily remain the wealthiest person in the universe? Ah, no one

knows what riches we have in our thoughts, and how little bliss there is

in the world that we have not!

FOOTNOTES:

[F] Since the above was written, there have been serious charges against

Mr. Mercer, but our praise must remain until the case shall be more

fairly made up.

DOCTOR JOHNS.

LIII.

Reuben, meantime, is leading a dashing life in the city. The Brindlock

family have taken him to their arms again as freely and heartily as if

he had never entered the fold over which the good Doctor exercised

pastoral care, and as if he had never strayed from it again.

"I told you 't would be all right, Mabel," said Mr. Brindlock to his

wife; and neither of them ever rallied him upon his bootless experience

in that direction.

But the kindly aunt had not forborne (how could she?) certain pertinent

inquiries in regard to the pretty Miss Maverick, under which Reuben had

shown considerable disposition to flinch; although he vainly fancied

that he stood the interrogation with a high hand. Mrs. Brindlock drew

her own conclusions, but was not greatly disturbed by them. Why should

she be, indeed? Reuben, with his present most promising establishment in

business, and with a face and air that insured him a cordial welcome in

that circle of wealthy acquaintances which Mrs. Brindlock especially

cultivated, was counted a _bon parti_, independent of his position as

presumptive heir to a large share of the Brindlock estate.

Once or twice since his leave of Ashfield he has astonished the good

people there by a dashing visit. Perhaps he has enjoyed (such things are

sometimes enjoyed) setting forth before the quiet parishioners of his

father his new consequence as a man of the world and of large moneyed

prospects. It is even possible that he may have entertained agreeably

the fancy of dazing the eyes of both Rose and Adèle with the glitter of

his city distinctions. But their admiration, if they felt any, was not

flatteringly expressed. Adèle, indeed, was always graciously kind, and,

seeing his confirmed godlessness, tortured herself secretly with the

thought that, but for her rebuff, he might have made a better fight

against the bedevilments of the world, and lived a truer and purer life.

All that, however, was irrevocably past. As for Rose, if there crept

into her little prayers a touch of sentiment as she pleaded for the

backslidden son of the minister, her prayers were none the worse for it.

Such trace of sentimental color--like the blush upon her fair

cheek--gave a completed beauty to her appeals.

Reuben saw that Phil was terribly in earnest in his love, and he

fancied, with some twinges, that he saw indications on the part of Adèle

of its being not wholly unacceptable. Rose, too, seemed not disinclined

to receive the assiduous attentions of the young minister, who had

become a frequent visitor in the Elderkin household, and who preached

with an unction and an earnestness that touched her heart, and that made

her sigh despondingly over the outcast son of the old pastor. Watching

these things with a look studiedly careless and indifferent, Reuben felt

himself cut off more than ever from such charms or virtues as might

possibly have belonged to continued association with the companions of

his boyhood, and nerved himself for a new and firmer grip upon those

pleasures of the outer world which had not yet proved an illusion. There

were moments--mostly drifting over him in silent night-hours, within his

old chamber at the parsonage--when it seemed to him that he had made a

losing game of it. The sparkling eyes of Adèle, suffused with tears,--as

in that memorable interview of the garden,--beam upon him, promising, as

then, other guidance; they gain new brilliance, and wear stronger

entreaty, as they shine lovingly upon him from the distance--growing

greater and greater--which now lies between them. Her beauty, her grace,

her tenderness, now that they are utterly beyond reach, are tenfold

enticing; and in that other sphere to which, in his night revery, they

seem translated, the joyous face of Rose, like that of an attendant

angel, looks down regretfully, full of a capacity for love to which he

must be a stranger.

He is wakened by the bells next morning,--a Sunday morning, may be.

There they go,--he sees them from the window,--the two comely damsels,

picking their way through the light, fresh-fallen snow of March. Going

possibly to teach the catechism; he sneers at this thought, for he is

awake now. Has the world no richer gift in store for him? That Sophie

Bowrigg is a great fortune, a superb dancer, a gorgeous armful of a

woman. What if they were to join their fortunes and come back some day

to dazzle these quiet townsfolk with the splendor of their life? His

visits in Ashfield grow shorter and more rare. There is nothing

particularly alluring. We shall not meet him there again until we meet

him for the last time.

Mr. Catesby is an "acceptable preacher." He unfolds the orthodox

doctrines with more grace than had belonged to the manner of the Doctor,

and illustrates them from time to time with a certain youthful glow, and

touches of passionate exhortation, which for many years the Ashfield

pulpit had not known. The old ladies befriend him and pet him in their

kindly way; and if at times his speculative humor (which he is not

wholly without) leads him beyond the bounds of the accepted doctrines,

he compounds the matter by strong assertion of those sturdy generalities

which lie at the bottom of the orthodox creed.

But his self-control is not so apparent in his social intercourse; and

before he has been three months in Ashfield, he has given tongue to

gossip, and all the old ladies comment upon his enslavement to the

pretty Rose Elderkin. And they talk by the book; he is desperately

enamored. Young clergymen have this way of falling, at sight, into the

toils, which is vastly refreshing to middle-aged observers. But we have

no occasion to detail his experience. An incident only of his recreative

pursuits in this direction belongs to our narrative.

Upon one of the botanical excursions of later spring which he had

inaugurated, and to which the maidenly modesty of Rose had suggested

that Adèle should make a party, the young Catesby (who was a native of

Eastern Massachusetts) had asked in his _naïve_ manner after her family

connections. An uncle of his had known a Mr. Maverick, who had long been

a resident of Europe.

"It may possibly be some relation of yours, Miss Maverick," said the

young minister.

"Do you recall the first name?" said Rose.

Mr. Catesby hesitated in that interesting way in which lovers are wont

to hesitate. No, he did not remember; but he was a jovial,

generous-hearted man, (he had heard his uncle often describe him,) who

must be now some fifty or sixty years old.--"Frank Maverick, to be sure;

I have the name."

"Why, it is my father," said Adèle with a swift, happy rush of color to

her face.

"O no, Miss Maverick," said the young Catesby with a smile, "that is

quite impossible. The gentleman of whom I speak, and my uncle visited

him only three years ago, is a confirmed bachelor, and he had rallied

him, I remember, upon never having married."

The color left the cheeks of Adèle.

"Frank, did you say?" persisted Rose.

"Frank was the name," said the innocent young clergyman; "and he was a

merchant, if I remember rightly, somewhere upon the Mediterranean."

"It's very strange," said Rose, turning to Adèle.

And Adèle, all her color gone, had the fortitude to pat Rose lovingly

upon the shoulder, and to say, with a forced smile, "Life is very

strange, Rose."

But from this time till they reached home,--fortunately not far

away,--Adèle said nothing more. Rose remarked an unwonted pallor in her

cheeks.

"You are tired, Adèle," said she; "you are so pale!"

"Child," said Adèle, tapping her again, in a womanly way that was

strange to her companion, "you have color for us both."

At this, her reserve of dignity and fortitude being now wellnigh spent,

she rushed away to her chamber. What wonder if she sought the little

crucifix, sole memento of the unknown mother, and glued it to her lips,

as she fell upon her knees by the bedside, and uttered such a prayer for

help and strength as had never uttered before?

"It is true! it is true! I see it now. The child of shame! The child of

shame! O my father, my father! what wrong have you done me!" And again

she prays for help and strength.

There is not a doubt in her mind where the truth lies. In a moment her

thought has flashed over the whole chain of evidence. The father's

studied silence; her alienation from any home of her own; the mysterious

hints of the Doctor; and the strange communication of Reuben,--all come

up in stately array and confound her with the bitter truth. There is a

little miniature of her father which she has kept among her choicest

treasures. She seeks it now. Is it to throw it away in scorn? No, no,

no. Our affections are after all not submissible to strict moral

regimen. It is with set teeth and a hard look in her eye that she

regards it at first; then her eyes suffuse with tears while she looks,

and she kisses it passionately again and again.

"Can there be some horrible mistake in all this?" she asks herself. At

the thought she slips on hat and shawl and glides noiselessly down the

stairs, (not for the world would she have been interrupted!) and walks

swiftly away to her old home at the parsonage.

Dame Tourtelot meets her and says, "Good evening, Miss Adeel."

And Adèle, in a voice so firm that it does not seem her own, says, "Good

evening, Miss Tourtelot." She wonders greatly at her own calmness.

LIV.

The Doctor is alone in his study when Adèle comes in upon him, and she

has reached his chair and dropped upon her knees beside him before he

has time to rise.

"New Papa, you have been so kind to me! I know the truth now,--the

mystery, the shame";--and she dropped her head upon his knees.

"Adaly, Adaly, my dear child!" said the old man with a great tremor in

his voice, "what does this mean?"

She was sobbing, sobbing.

"Adaly, my child, what can I do for you?"

"Pray for me, New Papa!" and she lifted her eyes upon him with a tender,

appealing look.

"Always, always, Adaly!"

"Tell me, New Papa,--tell me honestly,--is it not true that I can call

no one mother,--that I never could?"

The Doctor trembled: he would have given ten years of his life to have

been able to challenge her story, to disabuse her mind of the belief

which he saw was fastened past all recall. "Adaly," said he, "Christ

befriended the Magdalen,--how much more you, then, if so be you are the

unoffending child of----"

"I knew it! I knew it!" and she fell to sobbing again upon the knee of

the old gentleman, in a wild, passionate way.

In such supreme moments the mind reaches its decisions with electrical

rapidity. Even as she leaned there, her thought flashed upon that poor

Madame Arles who had so befriended her,--against whom they had cautioned

her, who had shown such intense emotion at their first meeting, who had

summoned her at the last, and who had died with that wailing cry, "_Ma

fille!_" upon her lip. Yes, yes, her mother indeed, who died in her

arms! (she can never forget that death-clasp.)

She hints as much to the Doctor, who, in view of his recent

communication from Maverick, will not gainsay her.

When she moved away at last, as if for a leave-taking, silent and

humiliated, the old man said to her, "My child, are you not still my

Adaly? God is no respecter of persons; his ministers should be like

him."

Whereupon Adèle came and kissed him with a warmth that reminded him of

days long past.

She rejoiced in not having encountered the gray, keen eyes of the

spinster. She knew they would read unfailingly the whole extent of the

revelation that had dawned upon her. That the spinster herself knew the

truth, and had long known it, she was sure; and she recalled with a

shudder the look of those uncanny eyes upon the evening of their little

frolic at the Elderkins. She dreaded the thought of ever meeting them

again, and still more the thought of listening to the stiff, cold words

of consolation which she knew she would count it her duty to administer.

It was dusk when she left the Doctor's door; he would have attended, but

she begged to be alone. It was an April evening, the chilliness of the

earth just yielding to the coming summer; the frogs clamorous in all the

near pools, and filling the air with the harsh uproar of their voices;

the delicate grass-blades were just thrusting their tips through the

brown web of the old year's growth, and in sunny, close-trodden spots

showing a mat of green, while the fleecy brown blossoms of the elm were

tufting all the spray of the embowering trees. Here and there a village

loiterer greeted her kindly. They all knew Miss Adèle. "They will all

know it to-morrow," she thought, "and then--then--"

With a swift but unsteady step she makes her way to the little

graveyard; she had gone there often, and there were those who said

wantonly that she went to say her prayers before the little cross upon

the tombstone she had placed over the grave of Madame Arles. Now she

threw herself prone upon the little hillock, with a low, sharp cry of

distress, like that of a wounded bird,--"My mother! my mother!"

Every word, every look of tenderness which the dead woman had lavished,

she recalls now with a terrible distinctness. Those loud, vague appeals

of her delirium come to her recollection with a meaning in them that is

only too plain; and then the tight, passionate clasp, when, strained to

her bosom, relief came at last. Adèle lies there unconscious of the

time, until the night dews warn her away; she staggers through the gate.

Where next? She fancies they must know it all at the Elderkins',--that

she has no right there. Is she not an estray upon the world? Shall she

not--as well first as last--wander forth, homeless as she is, into the

night? And true to these despairing thoughts, she hurries away farther

and farther from the town. The frogs croak monotonously in all the

marshes, as if in mockery of her grief. On some near tree an owl is

hooting, with a voice that is strangely and pitifully human. Presently

an outlying farm-house shows its cheery, hospitable light through the

window-panes, and she is tempted to shorten her steps and steal a look

into the room where the family sits grouped around the firelight. No

such sanctuary for her ever was or ever can be. Even the lowing of a cow

in the yard, and the answering bleat of a calf within the barn, seem to

mock the outcast.

On she passes, scarce knowing whither her hurrying steps are bearing

her, until at last she spies a low building in the fields away upon her

right, which she knows. It is the home of that outlawed woman where

Madame Arles had died. Here at least she will be met with sympathy, even

if the truth were wholly known; and yet perhaps last of all places would

she have it known there. She taps at the door; she has wandered out of

her way, and asks for a moment's rest. The little boy of the house, when

he has made out the visitor by a few furtive peeps from behind the

mother's chair, comes to her fawningly and familiarly; and as Adèle

looks into his bright, fearless eyes, a new courage seems to possess

her. God's children, all of us; and He careth even for the sparrows. She

will conquer her despairing weakness; she will accept her cross and bear

it resolutely. By slow degrees she is won over by the frolicsome humor

of the curly-pated boy, who never once quits her side, into cheerful

prattle with him. And when at last, fairly rested, she would set off on

her return, the lone woman says she will see her safely as far as the

village street; the boy, too, insists doggedly upon attending them; and

so, with her hand tightly clasped in the hand of the lad, Adèle makes

her way back into the town. Along the street she passes, even under the

windows of the parsonage, with her hand still locked in that of the

outlawed boy; and she wonders if in broad day the same courage would be

meted to her? They only part when within sight of the broad glow of

light from the Elderkin windows; and here Adèle, taking out her purse,

counts out the half of her money and places it in the hands of the boy.

"We will share and share alike, Willie," said she, "But never tell who

gave you this."

"But, Miss Maverick, it's too much," said the woman.

"No, it's not," said the boy, clutching it eagerly.

With a parting good-night, Adèle darted within the gate, and opened

softly the door, determined to meet courageously whatever rebuffs might

be in store for her.

LV.

Rose has detailed the story of the occurrence, with the innocent

curiosity of girlhood, to the Squire and Mrs. Elderkin (Phil being just

now away). The Squire, as he hears it, has passed a significant look

across to Mrs. Elderkin.

"It's very queer, isn't it?" asked Rose.

"Very," said the Squire, who had for some time cherished suspicions of

certain awkward relations existing between Maverick and the mother of

Adèle, but never so decided as this story would seem to warrant. "And

what said Adèle?" continued he.

"It disturbed her, I think, papa; she didn't seem at all herself."

"Rose, my dear," said the kindly old gentleman, "there is some unlucky

family difference between Mr. and Mrs. Maverick, and I dare say the talk

was unpleasant to Adèle; if I were you, I wouldn't allude to it again;

don't mention it, please, Rose."

If it could be possible, good Mrs. Elderkin greeted Adèle as she came in

more warmly than ever. "You must be careful, my dear, of these first

spring days of ours; you are late to-night."

"Yes," says Adèle, "I was gone longer than I thought. I rambled off to

the churchyard, and I have been at the Doctor's."

Again the old people exchanged glances.

Why does she find herself watching their looks so curiously? Yet there

is nothing but kindness in them. She is glad Phil is not there.

The next morning the Squire stepped over at an early hour to the

parsonage, and by an adroit question or two, which the good Doctor had

neither the art nor the disposition to evade, unriddled the whole truth

with respect to the parentage of Adèle. The Doctor also advised him of

the delusion of the poor girl with respect to Madame Arles, and how he

had considered it unwise to attempt any explanation until he should hear

further from Mr. Maverick, whose recent letter he counted it his duty to

lay before Mr. Elderkin.

"It's a sad business," said he.

And the Doctor, "_The way of the wicked is as darkness; they know not at

what they stumble._"

The Squire walks home in a brown study. Like all the rest, he has been

charmed with the liveliness and grace of Adèle; over and over he has

said to his boy, "How fares it, Phil? Why, at your age, my boy, I should

have had her in the toils long ago."

Since her domestication under his own roof, the old gentleman's liking

for her had grown tenfold strong; he had familiarized himself with the

idea of counting her one of his own flock. But, the child of a

French----

"Well, well, we will see what the old lady may say," reflected he. And

he took the first private occasion to lay the matter before Mrs.

Elderkin.

"Well, mother, the suspicions of last night are all true,--true as a

book."

"God help the poor child, then!" said Madam, holding up her hands.

"Of course He'll do that, wife. But what say you to Phil's marriage now?

Does it look as tempting as it did?"

The old lady reflected a moment, lifting her hand to smooth the hair

upon her temple, as if in aid of her thought, then said,--"Giles, you

know the world better than I; you know best what may be well for the

boy. I love Adèle very much; I do not believe that I should love her any

less if she were the wife of Phil. But you know best, Giles; you must

decide."

"There's a good woman!" said the Squire; and he stayed his pace up and

down the room to lay his hand approvingly upon the head of the old lady,

touching as tenderly those gray locks as ever he had done in earlier

years the ripples of golden brown.

In a few days Phil returns,--blithe, hopeful, winsome as ever. He is

puzzled, however, by the grave manner of the Squire, when he takes him

aside, after the first hearty greetings, and says, "Phil, my lad, how

fares it with the love matter? Have things come to a crisis, eh?"

"What do you mean, father?" and Phil blushes like a boy of ten.

"I mean to ask, Philip," said the old gentleman, measuredly, "if you

have made any positive declaration to Miss Maverick."

"Not yet," said Phil, with a modest frankness.

"Very good, my son, very good. And now, Phil, I would wait a

little,--take time for reflection; don't do anything rashly. It's an

important step to take."

"But, father," says Phil, puzzled by the old gentleman's manner, "what

does this mean?"

"Philip," said the Squire, with a seriousness that seemed almost comical

by its excess, "would you really marry Adèle?"

"To-morrow, if I could," said Phil.

"Tut, tut, Phil! It's the old hot blood in him!" (He says this, as if to

himself.) "Philip, I wouldn't do so, my boy."

And thereupon he gives him in his way a story of the revelations of the

last few days.

At the first, Phil is disposed to an indignant denial, as if by no

possibility any indignity could attach to the name or associations of

Adèle. But in the whirl of his feeling he remembered that interview with

Reuben, and his boast that Phil could not affront the conventionalities

of the world. It confirmed the truth to him in a moment. Reuben then had

known the whole, and had been disinterestedly generous. Should he be any

less so?

"Well, father," said Phil, after a minute or two of silence, "I don't

think the story changes my mind one whit. I would marry her to-morrow,

if I could," and he looked the Squire fairly and squarely in the face.

"Gad, boy," said the old gentleman, "you must love her as I loved your

mother!"

"I hope I do," said Phil,--"that is if I win her. I don't think she's to

be had for the asking."

"Aha! the pinch lies there, eh?" said the Squire, and he said it in

better humor than he would have said it ten days before. "What's the

trouble, Philip?"

"Well, sir, I think she always had a tenderness for Reuben; I think she

loves him now in her heart."

"So, so! The wind lies there, eh? Well, let it bide, my boy; let it bide

awhile. We shall know something more of the matter soon."

And there the discourse of the Squire ended.

Meantime, however, Rose and Adèle are having a little private interview

above stairs, which in its subject-matter is not wholly unrelated to the

same theme.

"Rose," Adèle had said, as she fondled her in her winning way, "your

brother Phil has been very kind to me."

"He always meant to be," said Rose, with a charming glow upon her face.

"He always _has_ been," said Adèle; "but, dear Rose, I know I can talk

as plainly to you as to another self almost."

"You can,--you can, Ady," said she.

"I have thought," continued Adèle, "though I know it is very unmaidenly

in me to say it, that Phil was disposed sometimes to talk even more

warmly than he has ever talked, and to ask me to be a nearer friend to

him even than you, dear Rose. May be it is only my own vanity that leads

me sometimes to suspect this."

"O, I hope it may be true!" burst forth Rose.

"I hope _not_," said Adèle, with a voice so gravely earnest that Rose

shuddered.

"O Ady, you don't mean it! you who are so good, so kind! Phil's heart

will break."

"I don't think that," said Adèle, with a faint hard smile, in which her

womanly vanity struggled with her resolution. "And whatever might have

been, that which I have hinted at _must_ not be now, dear Rose. You will

know some day why--why it would be ungrateful in me to determine

otherwise. Promise me, darling, that you will discourage any inclination

toward it, wherever you can best do so. Promise me, dear Rose!"

"Do you really, truly mean it?" said the other, with a disappointment

she but poorly concealed.

"With all my heart, I do," said Adèle.

And Rose promised, while she threw herself upon the neck of Adèle and

said, "I am so sorry! It will be such a blow to poor Phil!"

After this, things went on very much in their old way. To the great

relief of Adèle there was no explosive village demonstration of the news

which had come home so cruelly to herself. The Doctor had given an

admonition to the young minister, and the old Squire had told him, in a

pointed and confidential way, that he had heard of his inquiries and

assertions with respect to Mr. Maverick, and begged to hint that the

relations between the father and the mother of Adèle were not of the

happiest, and it was quite possible that Mr. Maverick had assumed

latterly the name of a bachelor; it was not, however, a very profitable

subject of the speculation or of gossip, and if he valued the favor of

the young ladies he would forbear all allusion to it. A suggestion which

Mr. Catesby was not slow to accept religiously, and scrupulously to bear

in mind.

Phil was as hot a lover as ever, though for a time a little more

distant: and the poor fellow remarked a new timidity and reserve about

Adèle, which, so far from abating, only fed the flame; and there is no

knowing to what reach it might have blazed out, if a trifling little

circumstance had not paralyzed his zeal.

From time to time, Phil had been used to bring home a rare flower or two

as a gift for Adèle, which Rose had always lovingly arranged in some

coquettish fashion, either upon the bosom or in the hair of Adèle; but a

new and late gift of this kind--a little tuft of the trailing arbutus

which he has clambered over miles of woodland to secure--is not worn by

Adèle, but by Rose, who glances into the astounded face of Phil with a

pretty, demure look of penitence.

"I say, Rose," says he, seizing his chance for a private word,--"that's

not for you."

"I know it, Phil; Adèle gave it to me."

"And that's her favorite flower."

"Yes, Phil," and there is a shake in her voice now. "I think she's grown

tired of such gifts, Phil";--whereat she glances keenly and pitifully at

him.

"_Truly_, Rose?" says Phil, with the color on a sudden quitting his

cheeks.

"Truly,--truly, Phil,"--and in spite of herself the pretty hazel eyes

are brimming full, and, under pretence of some household duty, she

dashes away. For a moment Phil stands confounded. Then, through his set

teeth, he growls, "I was a fool not to have known it!"

But Phil was not a fool, but a sturdy, brave-hearted fellow, who bore

whatever blows fortune gave him, or seemed to give, with a courage that

had a fine elastic temper in it. He may have made his business

engagements at the river or in the city a little more frequent and

prolonged after this; but always there was the same deferential show of

tender feeling toward his father's guest, whenever he happened in

Ashfield. Indeed, he felt immensely comforted by a little report which

Rose made to him in her most despairing manner. Adèle had told her that

she "would never, never marry."

There are a great many mothers of fine families who have made such a

speech at twenty or thereabout; and Phil knew it.

LVI.

We by no means intend to represent our friend Adèle as altogether a

saint. Such creatures are very rare, and not always the most lovable,

according to our poor human ways of thinking; but she may possibly grow

into saintship, in view of a certain sturdy religious sense of duty that

belongs to her, and a faith that is always glowing. At present she is a

high-spirited, sensitive girl,--not without her pride and her lesser

vanities, not without an immense capacity for loving and being loved,

but just now trembling under that shock to her sensibilities which we

have detailed,--but never fainting, never despairing. Not even

relinquishing her pride, but guarding it with triple defences, by her

reserve in respect to Phil, as well as by a certain new dignity of

manner which has grown out of her conflict with the opprobrium that

seems to threaten, for no fault of her own.

Adèle sees clearly now the full burden of Reuben's proposal to cherish

and guard her against whatever indignities might threaten; she sees more

clearly than ever the rich, impulsive generosity of his nature

reflected, and it disturbs her grievously to think that she had met it

only with reproach. The thought of the mad, wild, godless career upon

which he may have entered, and of which the village gossips are full, is

hardly more afflictive to her than her recollection of that frank,

self-sacrificing generosity, so ignobly requited. She longs in her heart

to clear the debt,--to tell him what grateful sense she has of his

intended kindness. But how? Should she,--being what she is,--even by a

word, seem to invite a return of that devotion which may be was but the

passion of an hour, and which it were fatal to renew? Her pride revolts

at this. And yet--and yet--so brave a generosity shall not be wholly

unacknowledged. She writes:--

"Reuben, I know now the full weight of the favor of what you promised to

bestow upon me when I so blindly reproached you with intrusion upon my

private griefs. Forgive me, Reuben! I thank you now, late as it is, with

my whole heart. It is needless to tell you how I came to know what,

perhaps, I had better never have known, but which must always have

overhung me as a dark cloud charged with a blasting fate. This

knowledge, dear Reuben, which separates us so surely and so widely,

relieves me of the embarrassment which I might otherwise have felt in

telling you of my lasting gratitude, and (if as a sister I may say it)

my love. If your kind heart could so overflow with pity then, you will

surely pity me the more now; yet not _too much_, Reuben, for my pride as

a woman is as strong as ever. The world was made for me, as much as it

was made for others; and if I bear its blight, I will find some flowers

yet to cherish. I do not count it altogether so grim and odious a

world,--even under the broken light which shines upon it for me,--as in

your last visits you seemed disposed to reckon it.

"And this reminds me, Reuben, that I have told you frankly how the cloud

which overhung me has opened with a terrible surety. How is it with the

cloud that lay upon you? Is there any light? Ah, Reuben, when I recall

those days in which long ago your faith in something better beyond this

world than lies in it seemed to be so much stronger and firmer than

mine, and when your trust was so confident as to make mine stronger, it

seems like a strange dream to me,--all the more when now you, who should

reason more justly than I, believe in 'nothing,' (was not that your last

word?)--and yet, dear Reuben, I cling,--I cling. Do you remember the old

hymn I sung in those days:--

'Ingemisco tanquam reus,

Culpa rubet vultus meus;

Supplicanti parce, Deus.'

Even the old Doctor, who was so troubled by the Romish hymns, said it

must have been written by a good man."

Much more she writes in this vein, but returns ever and again to that

noble generosity of his,--her delicacy struggling throughout with her

tender gratitude,--yet she fails not to show a deep, earnest

undercurrent of affection, which surely might develop under sympathy

into a very fever of love. Will it not touch the heart of Reuben? Will

it not divert him from the trail where he wanders blindly? If we have

read his character rightly, surely this letter, in which a delicate

sensibility hardly veils a great passionate wealth of feeling, will stir

him to a new and more hopeful venture.

God send that the letter may reach him safely!

For a long time Adèle has not written to Reuben, and it occurs to her,

as she strolls away toward the village post, that to mail it herself may

possibly provoke new town gossip. In this perplexity she presently

encounters her boy friend, Arthur, who for a handful of pennies, and

under injunction of secrecy, cheerfully undertakes the duty. To the

house of the lad's mother, far away as it was, Adèle had wandered

frequently of late, and had borne away from time to time some trifling

memento of the dead one whose memory so endeared the spot. It happens

that she continues her stroll thither on this occasion; and the poor

woman, toward whom Adèle's charities have flowed with a profusion that

has astounded the Doctor, repays some new gift by placing in her hands a

little embroidered kerchief, "too fine for such as she," which had

belonged to Madame Arles. A flimsy bit of muslin daintily embroidered;

but there is a name stitched upon its corner, for which Adèle treasures

it past all reckoning,--the name of _Julie Chalet_.

It was as if the dead one had suddenly come back and whispered it in her

ear,--Julie Chalet. The spring birds sung the name in chorus as she

walked home; and on the grave-stone, under the cross, she seemed to see

it cut upon the marble,--Julie Chalet.

Adèle has written to her father, of course, in those days when the first

shock of the new revelation had passed. How could she do otherwise? If

she has poured out the bitterness of her grief and of her isolation, she

has mercifully spared him any reproach!

"I think I now understand," she writes, "the reason of your long absence

from me. Whatever other griefs I bear, I will not believe that it has

been from lack of affection for me. I recall that day, dear papa, when,

with my head lying on your bosom, you said to me, 'She is unworthy; I

will love you for both.' You must! But was she, papa, so utterly

unworthy? I think I have known her; nay, I feel almost sure,--sure that

these arms held her in the moment when she breathed adieu to the world.

If ever bad, I am sure that she must have grown into goodness. I cannot,

I will not, think otherwise. I can tell you so many of her kind deeds as

will take away your condemnation. In this hope I live, dear papa.

"I have found her true name too, at last,--Julie Chalet,--is it not so?

I wonder with what feeling you will read it; will it be with a wakened

fondness? will it be with loathing? I tremble while I ask. You shall go

with me (will you not?) _to her grave_; and there a kind Heaven will put

in our hearts what memories are best.

"I know now the secret of your caution in respect to Reuben; you have

been unwilling that _your child_ should bring any possible shame to the

household of a friend! Trust to me,--trust to _me_, papa, your

sensitiveness cannot possibly be keener, if it be more generous, than my

own. Yet I have never told you--what I have since learned--of the

unselfish devotion of Reuben, which declared itself when he knew

all,--all. Would I not be almost tempted to thank him with--myself? Yet,

trust me, if I have written him with an almost unmaidenly warmth, I have

called to his mind the great gulf that _must_ lie between us.

"Is the old godmother, of whom you used to speak, still alive? It seems

that I should love to hang about her neck in memory of days gone; it

seems that I should love the warm sky under which I was born,--I am sure

I should love the olive orchards, and the vines, and the light upon the

sea. I feel as if I were living in chains now. When, when will you come

to break them, and set me free?"