A FRIENDLY CAUTION 
 
 This Book, if borrowed by a friend, 
 Righ welcome shall he be 
 
 To read, to study, not to lend 
 But to RETURN TO ME. 
 
 Not that imparting knowledge doth 
 Diminish learning's store; 
 
 But books, I find, if often lent, 
 Return to me no more. 
 
 Read slowly -pause frequently 
 Think seriously -RETURN DULY; 
 With corners of the leaves 
 NOT TURNED DOWN 
 
 ARCHIE w. PATTILLOS 
 
 920 
 
 Classification 
 
 Vol. No. . 
 

 ARCHIE W. PATTILLOS 
 
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Little Journeys to the 
 Homes of Famous People 
 
 By Elbert Hubbard 
 
 Good Men and Great 
 American Authors 
 
 Famous Women 
 American Statesmen 
 
 Eminent Painters 
 
 Great Musicians 
 
ARCHIE W. PATTILLOS 
 
%ittle 
 
 to tbe 
 
 Ibomes of jfamous people 
 
 Elbert Ewbbarfc 
 
 
 /IDen an^ <3reat 
 
 
 
 tllustrated 
 
 (5. p. JputnanTs Sons 
 
 flew X?orh anb Ionian 
 Ube Rnfcfecrbocfeer prcsa 
 
Copyright, 1895 
 
 by 
 G. P. Putnam's Sons 
 
 First printed in 1895 
 
 Reprinted 26 times 
 
 This edition printed in 1922 
 
 Made in the United States of America 
 
ARCHIE W. PATTILLOS 
 
 FOREWORD. 
 
 LITTLE JOURNEYS does not claim to be 
 a " Guide " to the places described, nor a 
 biography of the characters mentioned. 
 The volume, at best, presents merely out- 
 line sketches : the background being 
 washed in with impressions of the scenes 
 and surroundings made sacred by the 
 lives of certain " Good Men and Great." 
 
 Stray bits of information, " the feathers 
 of lost birds," are here set down ; various 
 personal incidents are lightly detailed 
 and some facts stated which have been 
 told before. 
 
 If these random records of beautiful 
 days spent in little journeys may brighten 
 the pleasant recollections of a few of those 
 who have already visited the places de- 
 scribed, or add to the desire for further 
 knowledge on the part of those who have 
 not, the publication will have fully ac- 
 complished its mission. 
 
920 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAOE 
 
 1 GEORGE ELIOT liX 
 
 2 THOMAS CARLYLE .... 29 vX 
 
 3 JOHN RUSKIN 57 X 
 
 4 WM. E. GLADSTONE ... 81 
 
 5 J. M. W. TURNER .... 109 
 
 6 JONATHAN SWIFT .... 139 
 
 7 VICTOR HUGO 167 \/ 
 
 8 WM. WORDSWORTH ... 205 
 
 9 W. M. THACKERAY . . . . 231 / 
 
 10 CHARLES DICKENS . . . . 259 * 
 
 11 OLIVER GOLDSMITH ... 299 
 
 12 SHAKESPEARE 339 >/ 
 
PORTRAITS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 W. M- THACKERAY . . . Frontispiece. 
 Etching by Ferris. 
 
 GEORGE ELIOT i 
 
 From an etching taken from life, 
 
 THOMAS CARLYLE 3c 
 
 From an engraving by A. W. Smith. Based 
 on an original likeness in the possession of 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson. 
 
 WM. E. GLADSTONE 82 
 
 From an original photograph. 
 
 J. M.W.TURNER no 
 
 From a painting by Kramer. 
 
 JONATHAN SWIFT 14- 
 
 From an engraving by Holl, of the Painting 
 in the Bodleian Library, Oxford. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO 168 
 
 From an original photograph. 
 
 WM. WORDSWORTH 206 
 
 From Cochran's engraving of the Painting 
 by Boxall. 
 
 CHARLES DICKENS 260 
 
 Based on a sketch by Lawrence drawn in 
 1838. 
 
 OLIVER GOLDSMITH 300 
 
 Based on the Painting by Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds. 
 
 SHAKESPEARE ...... 340 
 
 From Scriven's engraving of the picture 31 
 the possession of the Duke of Buckingham. 
 
LITTLE JOURNEYS 
 
 TO THE 
 
 HOMES OF FAMOUS PEOPLE 
 
GEORGE ELIOT 
 
" May I reach 
 
 That purest heaven, be to other souls 
 The cup of strength in some great agony 
 Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, 
 Beget the smiles that have no cruelty- 
 Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, 
 And in diffusion ever more intense. 
 So shall I join the choir invisible 
 Whose music is the gladness of the world. 
 
 The Choir Invisible. 
 
GEORGE ELIOT. 
 
 WARWICKSHIRE supplied to 
 the world Shakespeare. It 
 also gave George Eliot. No 
 one will question but that Shakespeare's 
 is the greatest name in English literature ; 
 and among writers living or dead, in Eng- 
 land or out of it, no woman has ever 
 shown us power equal to that of George 
 Eliot in the subtle clairvoyance which di- 
 vines the inmost play of passions, the 
 experience that shows the human ca- 
 pacity for contradiction, and the indul- 
 gence that is merciful because it under- 
 stands. 
 
 Shakespeare lived three hundred years 
 ago. According to the records his father, 
 in 1563, owned a certain house in Henley 
 5 
 
3be tbauurs of 
 
 street, Stratford-on-Avon. Hence we infer 
 that William Shakespeare was born there. 
 And in all our knowledge of Shake- 
 speare's early life (or later) we prefix the 
 words, " Hence we infer." 
 
 That the man knew all sciences of his 
 day, and had enough knowledge of each 
 of the learned professions so that all have 
 claimed him as their own, we know. 
 
 He evidently was acquainted with five 
 different languages and the range of his 
 intellect was world-wide, but where did he 
 get this vast erudition ? We do not know, 
 and we excuse ourselves by saying that 
 be lived three hundred years ago. 
 
 George Kliot lived yesterday, and we 
 know no more about her youthful days 
 than we do of that other child of War- 
 wickshire. 
 
 One biographer tells us that she was 
 born in 1819, another in 1820, and neither 
 state the day ; whereas a recent writer in 
 the Pall Mall Budget graciously bestows 
 on us the useful information that " Wil- 
 liam Shakespeare was born on the 2isr 
 6 
 
<3eorge Eliot 
 
 day of April, 1563, at fifteen minutes of 
 two on a stormy morning." 
 
 Concise statements of facts are always 
 valuable, but we have none such concern- 
 ing the early life of George Eliot. There 
 is even a shadow over her parentage, for 
 no less an authority than the American 
 Cyclopedia Annual for 1880, boldly pro- 
 claims that she was not a foundling and, 
 moreover, that she was not adopted by a 
 rich retired clergyman who gave her a 
 splendid schooling. Then the writer 
 dives into obscurity but presently reap- 
 pears and adds that he does not know 
 where she got her education. For all of 
 which we are very grateful. 
 
 Shakespeare left five signatures, eacj 
 written in a different way, and now there 
 is a goodly crew who spell it " Bacon." 
 
 And likewise we do not know whether 
 it is Mary Ann Evans, Mary Anne Evans, 
 or Marian Evans, for she herself is said to 
 have used each form at various times. 
 
 William Winter gentle critic, poet, 
 scholar tells us that the Sonnets show a 
 7 
 
Ebe Ibaunts ot 
 
 dark spot in Shakespeare's moral record. 
 And if I remember rightly similar things 
 have been hinted at in sewing circles con- 
 cerning George Kliot. Then they each 
 found the dew and sunshine in L,ondon 
 that caused the flowers of genius to blos- 
 som. The early productions of both were 
 published anonymously, and lastly they 
 both knew how to transmute thought 
 into gold, for they died rich. 
 
 I/ady Godiva rode through the streets 
 of Coventry, but I walked walked all 
 the way from Stratford, by way of War- 
 wick (call it Warrick, please) and Kenil- 
 worth Castle. 
 
 I stopped over night at that quaint and 
 curious little inn just across from the 
 castle entrance. The good landlady gave 
 me the same apartment that was occupied 
 by Sir Walter Scott when he came here 
 and wrote the first chapter of Kenil- 
 worth. 
 
 The little room had pretty, white chintz 
 curtains tied with blue ribbon, and simi- 
 lar stuff draped the mirror. The bed was 
 3 
 
George Bltot 
 
 a big canopy affair I had to stand on 
 a chair in order to dive off into its 
 feathery depths everything was very 
 neat and clean, and the dainty linen had 
 a sweet smell of lavender. I took one 
 parting look out through the open win- 
 dow at the ivy mantled towers of the 
 old castle, which were all sprinkled with 
 silver by the rising moon, and then I fell 
 into gentlest sleep. 
 
 I dreamed of playing " I-spy " through 
 Ketiilworth Castle with Shakespeare, 
 Walter Scott, Mary Ann Evans, and a 
 youth I used to know in boyhood by the 
 name of Bill Hursey. We chased each 
 other across the drawbridge, through the 
 portcullis, down the slippery stones into 
 the donjon keep, around the moat, and 
 up the stone steps to the topmost turret 
 of the towers. Finally Shakespeare was 
 "it," but he got mad and refused to play. 
 Walter Scott said it was "no fair," and 
 Bill Hursey thrust out the knuckle of one 
 middle finger in a very threatening way 
 and offered to " do " the boy from Strat- 
 9 
 
Cbe taunts or 
 
 ford. Then Mary Ann rushed in to still 
 the tempest. There 's no telling what 
 would have happened had not the land- 
 lady just then rapped at my door and 
 asked if I called. I awoke with a start 
 and with the guilty feeling that I had 
 been shouting in my sleep. I saw it was 
 morning. "No that is, yes; my shav- 
 ing water, please." 
 
 After breakfast the landlady's boy of- 
 fered to take me in his donkey cart to the 
 birthplace of George Eliot for five shil- 
 lings. He explained that the house was 
 just seven miles north ; but Balaam's ex- 
 press is always slow, so I concluded to 
 walk. At Coventry a cab owner pro- 
 posed to show me the house, which he 
 declared was near Kenilworth, for twelve 
 shillings. The advantages of seeing Ken- 
 ilworth at the same time were dwelt upon 
 at great length by cabby, but I harkened 
 not to the voice of the siren. I got a 
 good lunch at the hotel, and asked the 
 innkeeper if he could tell me where 
 George Eliot was born. He did not 
 xo 
 
<5eorge BUot 
 
 know, but said he could show me a house 
 around the corner where a family of Eliots 
 lived. 
 
 Then I walked on to Nuneaton. A 
 charming walk it was; past quaint old 
 houses, some with strawthatched roofs, 
 others tiled roses clambering over the 
 doors and flowering hedge-rows white 
 with hawthorn flowers. Occasionally I 
 met a fanner's cart drawn by one of those 
 great, fat, gentle shire horses that George 
 Eliot has described so well. All spoke of 
 peace and plenty, quiet and rest. The 
 green fields and the flowers, the lark-song 
 and the sunshine, the dipping willows by 
 the stream and the arch of the old stone 
 bridge as I approached the village all 
 these I had seen and known and felt be- 
 fore from Mill on the Floss. 
 
 I found the house where they say the 
 novelist was born. A plain, whitewashed 
 stone structure, built two hundred years 
 ago ; two stories, the upper chambers 
 low, with gable windows ; a little garden 
 at the side bright with flowers, where sweet 
 n 
 
Cbe Ibaunte of 
 
 marjoram vied with onions and beets ; all 
 spoke of humble thrift and homely cares. 
 In front was a great chestnut tree, and in 
 the roadway near were two ancient elms 
 where saucy crows were building a nest. 
 Here, after her mother died, Mary Ann 
 Evans was housekeeper. Little more 
 than a child tall, timid, and far from 
 strong she cooked and scrubbed and 
 washed, and was herself the mother to 
 brothers and sisters. Her father was a 
 carpenter by trade and agent for a rich 
 land owner. He was a stern man or- 
 derly, earnest, industrious, studious. On 
 rides about the country he would take 
 the tall hollow-eyed girl with him, and 
 at such times he would talk to her of the 
 great outside world where wondrous 
 things were done. The child toiled hard 
 but found time to read and question, and 
 there is always time to think. Soon she 
 had outgrown some of her good father's 
 beliefs, and this grieved him greatly ; so 
 much, indeed, that her extra loving 
 attention to his needs, in a hope to neu- 
 12 
 
<5eorge Bliot 
 
 tralize his displeasure, only irritated him 
 the more. And if there is soft subdued 
 sadness in much of George Eliot's writing 
 we can guess the reason. The onward 
 and upward march ever means sad sepa- 
 ration. 
 
 When Mary Ann was blossoming into 
 womanhood her father moved over near 
 Coventry, and here the ambitious girl 
 first found companionship in her in- 
 tellectual desires. Here she met men 
 and women, older than herself, who were 
 animated, earnest thinkers. They read 
 and then they discussed, and then they 
 spoke the things that they felt were true. 
 Those eight years at Coventry trans- 
 formed the awkward country girl into a 
 woman of intellect and purpose. She 
 knew somewhat of all sciences, all phi- 
 losophies, and she had become a proficient 
 scholar in German and French. How 
 did she acquire this knowledge ? How is 
 any education acquired if not through 
 effort prompted by desire ? 
 
 She had already translated Strauss's 
 13 
 
Cbe tmunts of 
 
 Life of Jesus in a manner that was accept- 
 able to the author, when Ralph Waldo 
 Emerson came to Coventry to lecture. 
 He was entertained at the same house 
 where Miss Bvans was stopping. Her 
 brilliant conversation pleased him, and 
 when she questioned the wisdom of a 
 certain passage in one of his essays the 
 gentle philosopher turned, smiled, and 
 said that he had not seen it in that light 
 before ; perhaps she was right. 
 
 " What is your favorite book ? " asked 
 Emerson. 
 
 "Rousseau's Confessions," answered 
 Mary instantly. 
 
 It was Emerson's favorite, too ; but 
 such honesty from a young woman ! It 
 was queer. 
 
 Mr. Emerson never forgot Miss Evans 
 of Coventry, and ten years after, when 
 a zealous reviewer proclaimed her the 
 greatest novelist in England, the sage of 
 Concord said something that sounded 
 like "I told you so." 
 
 Miss Evans had made visits to fxmdon 
 
(Beorge Bllot 
 
 from time to time with her Coventry 
 friends. When twenty-eight years old, 
 after one such visit to London, she came 
 back to the country tired and weary, and 
 wrote this most womanly wish : " My only 
 ardent desire is to find some feminine task 
 to discharge ; some possibility of devot- 
 ing myself to some one and making 
 that one purely and calmly happy." 
 
 But now her father was dead and her 
 income was very scanty. She did trans- 
 lating, and tried the magazines with 
 articles that generally came back respect- 
 fully declined. 
 
 Then an offer came as sub-editor of the 
 Westminster Review. It was steady 
 work and plenty of it, and this was what 
 she desired. She went to London and 
 lived in the household of her employer, 
 Mr. Chapman. Here she had the oppor- 
 tunity of meeting many brilliant people : 
 Carlyle, and his "Jeannie Welsh," the 
 Martineaus, Grote, Mr. and Mrs. Mill, 
 Huxley, Mazzini, Louis Blanc. Besides 
 these were two young men who must 
 '5 
 
Gbe Ibaunts of 
 
 not be left out when we sum up the 
 influences that evolved this woman's 
 genius. 
 
 She was attracted to Herbert Spencer at 
 once. He was about her age and their 
 admiration for each other was mutual. 
 Miss Evans, writing to a friend in 1852, 
 says : " Spencer is kind, he is delightful, 
 and I always feel better after being with 
 him, and we have agreed together that 
 there is no reason why we should not see 
 each other as often as we wish." And 
 then later she again writes : "The bright 
 side of my life, after the affection for my 
 old friends, is the new and delightful 
 friendship which I have found in Herbert 
 Spencer. We see each other every day and 
 in everything we enjoy a delightful com- 
 radeship. If it were not for him my life 
 would be singularly arid." 
 
 But about this time another man ap- 
 peared on the scene, and were it not for 
 this other man, who was introduced to 
 Miss Evans by Spencer, the author of 
 Synthetic Philosophy might not now be 
 16 
 
Bltot 
 
 spoken of in the biographical dictionaries 
 as being "wedded to science." 
 
 It was not love at first sight, for George 
 Henry Lewes made a decidedly unfavora- 
 ble impression on Miss Evans at their 
 first meeting. He was small, his features 
 were insignificant, he had whiskers like 
 an anarchist and a mouthful of crooked 
 teeth ; his personal habits were far from 
 pleasant. It was this sort of thing, Dick- 
 ens said, that caused his first wife to 
 desert him and finally drove her into 
 insanity. 
 
 But Lewes had a brilliant mind. He 
 was a linguist, a scientist, a novelist, a 
 poet, and a wit He had written biogra- 
 phy, philosophy, and a play. He had 
 been a journalist, a lecturer, and even an 
 actor. Thackeray declared that if he 
 should see Lewes perched on a white ele- 
 phant in Piccadilly he should not be in 
 the least surprised. 
 
 After having met Miss Evans several 
 times Mr. Lewes saw the calm depths 
 of her mind and he asked her to correct 
 17 
 
Cbe fjaunta of 
 
 proofs for him. She did so and discov- 
 ered that there was merit in his work. 
 She corrected more proofs, and when a 
 woman begins to assist a man the danger 
 line is being approached. Close observ- 
 ers noted that a change was coming over 
 the bohemian Lewes. He had his whisk- 
 ers trimmed, his hair was combed, and 
 the bright yellow necktie had been dis- 
 carded for a clean one of modest brown, 
 and, sometimes, his boots were blacked. 
 In July, 1854, Mr. Chapman received a let- 
 ter from his sub-editor resigning her posi- 
 tion, and Miss Evans notified some of her 
 closest friends that hereafter she wished 
 to be considered the wife of Mr. Lewes. 
 She was then in her thirty-sixth year. 
 
 The couple disappeared, having gone to 
 Germany. 
 
 Many people were shocked. Some said 
 "we knew it all the time," and when 
 Herbert Spencer was informed of the fact 
 he exclaimed " Goodness me ! " and said 
 nothing. 
 
 After six months spent in Weimar and 
 18 
 
other literary centres, Mr. and Mrs. Lewes 
 returned to England and began house- 
 keeping at Richmond. Any one who 
 views their old quarters there will see 
 how very plainly and economically they 
 were forced to live. But they worked 
 hard, and at this time the future novel- 
 ist's desire seemed only to assist her hus- 
 band. That she developed the manly 
 side of his nature none can deny. They 
 were very happy, these two, as they 
 wrote, and copied, and studied, and 
 toiled. 
 
 Three years passed, and Mrs. Lewes 
 wrote to a friend : "I am very happy; 
 happy with the greatest happiness that 
 life can give the complete sympathy 
 and affection of a man whose mind stimu- 
 lates mine and keeps up in me a whole- 
 some activity." 
 
 Mr. Lewes knew the greatness of his 
 helpmeet. She herself did not. He 
 urged her to write a story ; she hesitated, 
 and at last attempted it. They read the 
 first chapter together and cried over it. 
 19 
 
fbaunts ot 
 
 Then she wrote more and always read 
 her husband the chapters as they were 
 turned off. He corrected, encouraged, 
 and found a publisher. But why should 
 I tell about it here? It's all in the 
 Britannica how the gentle beauty and 
 sympathetic insight of her work touched 
 the hearts of great and lowly alike, and 
 of how riches began flowing in upon her. 
 For one book she received $40,000, and 
 her income after fortune smiled upon her 
 was never less than $10,000 a year. 
 
 Lewes was her secretary, her protector, 
 her slave, and her inspiration. He ket>t 
 at bay the public that would steal her 
 time, and put out of her reach, at her 
 request, all reviews, good or bad, and 
 shielded her from the interviewer, the 
 curiosity seeker, and the greedy finan- 
 cier. 
 
 The reason why she at first wrote un 
 der a nom de plume is plain. To the 
 great wallowing world she was neither 
 Miss Evans nor Mrs. Lewes, so she 
 dropped both names as far as title page*; 
 20 
 
;eifot 
 
 were concerned and used a man's name 
 instead hoping better to elude the pack. 
 
 When Adam Bede came out a resident 
 of Nuneaton purchased a copy and at 
 once discovered local ear-marks. The 
 scenes described, the flowers, the stone 
 walls, the bridges, the barns, the people 
 all was Nuneaton. Who wrote it ? No 
 one knew, but it was surely some one in 
 Nuneaton. So they picked out a Mr. 
 Liggins, a solemn-faced preacher, who 
 was always about to do something great, 
 and they said " Liggins." Soon all Lon- 
 don said "Liggins." As for Liggins, 
 he looked wise and smiled knowingly. 
 Then articles began to appear in the 
 periodicals purporting to have been 
 written by the author of Adam Bede. 
 A book came out called Adam Bede,Jr.> 
 and to protect her publisher, the public, 
 and herself, George Eliot had to reveal 
 her id entity. 
 
 Many men have written good books 
 and never tasted fame ; but few, like Lig- 
 gin* of Nuneaton, have become famous 
 21 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 by doing nothing. It only proves that 
 some things can be done as well as 
 others. This breed of men has long 
 dwelt in Warwickshire ; Shakespeare 
 had them in mind when he wrote : 
 " There be men who do a wilful stillness 
 entertain with purpose to be dressed in 
 an opinion of wisdom, gravity, and pro- 
 found conceit ..." 
 
 Lord Acton in an able article in the 
 Nineteenth Century makes this state- 
 ment : 
 
 " George Eliot paid high for happiness 
 with Lewes. She forfeited freedom of 
 speech, the first place among English 
 women, and a tomb in Westminster 
 Abbey." 
 
 The original dedication in Adam 
 Bede reads thus: "To my dear hus- 
 band, George Henry Lewes, I give the 
 manuscript of a work which would never 
 have been written but for the happiness 
 which his love has conferred on my life." 
 
 Lord Acton of course assumes that this 
 book would have been written, dedication 
 
 22 
 
(Beorge Bliot 
 
 and all, just the same had Miss Evans 
 never met Mr. Lewes. 
 
 Once there was a child called Romola. 
 She said to her father one day, as she sat 
 on his knee : " Papa, who would take care 
 of me give me my bath and put me to 
 bed nights if you had never happened to 
 meet Mamma ? " 
 
 The days I spent in Warwickshire were 
 very pleasant. The serene beauty of the 
 country and the kindly courtesy of the 
 people impressed me greatly. Having 
 seen the scenes of George Eliot's child- 
 hood I desired to view the place where 
 her last days were spent. It was a fine 
 May- day when I took the little steamer 
 from Ix>ndon Bridge for Chelsea. 
 
 A bird call from the dingy brick build- 
 ing where Turner died and two blocks 
 from the old home of Carlyle is Cheyne 
 Walk a broad avenue facing the river. 
 The houses are old, but they have a look 
 of gracious gentility that speak of ease 
 and plenty. High iron fences are in 
 23 
 
Gbe Ibaunts of 
 
 front, but they do not shut off from view 
 the climbing clematis and clusters of 
 roses that gather over the windows and 
 doors. 
 
 I stood at the gate of No. 4 Cheyne 
 Walk and admired the pretty flowers, 
 planted in such artistic carelessness as to 
 beds and rows, then I rang the bell ; an 
 old pull-out affair with polished knob. 
 
 Presently a butler opened the door a 
 pompous, tall and awful butler, in serious 
 black and side whiskers. He approached ; 
 came down the walk swinging a bunch of 
 keys, looking me over as he came to see 
 what sort of wares I had to sell. 
 
 "Did George Eliot live here ? " I asked 
 through the bars. 
 
 "Mrs. Cross lived 'ere and died 'ere, 
 sir," came the solemn and rebuking an- 
 swer. 
 
 " I mean Mrs. Cross," I added meekly , 
 " I only wished to see the little garden 
 where she worked." 
 
 Jeemes was softened. As he unlocked 
 the gate he said : " We 'ave many wisi> 
 
<5eor0e 
 
 ers, sir ; a great bother, sir ; still, I always 
 knows a gentleman when I sees one. 
 P'r'aps you would like to see the 'ouse, 
 too, sir. The missus does not like it 
 much but I will take 'er your card, sir." 
 
 I gave him the card and slipped a shil- 
 ling into his hand as he gave me a seat in 
 the hallway. 
 
 He disappeared upstairs and soon re- 
 turned with the pleasing information 
 that I was to be shown the whole house 
 and garden. So I pardoned him the myth 
 about the missus, happening to know 
 that at that particular moment she was at 
 Brighton, sixty miles away. 
 
 A goodly, comfortable house it is, four 
 stories, well kept, and much fine old 
 carved oak in the dining-room and hall- 
 ways ; fantastic ancient balusters, and a 
 peculiar bay-window in the second-story 
 rear that looked out over the little gar- 
 den. Off to the north could be seen the 
 green of Kensington Gardens and wavy 
 suggestions of Hyde Park. This was 
 George Eliot's workshop. There was a 
 25 
 
tbaunts of 
 
 table in the centre of the room and three 
 low book-cases with pretty ornaments 
 above. In the bay-window was the most 
 conspicuous object in the room a fine 
 marble bust of Gee the. This, I was as- 
 sured, had been the property of Mrs. 
 Cross, as well as all the books and furni- 
 ture in the room. In one corner was a 
 revolving case containing a set of The 
 Century Dictionary, which Jeemes as- 
 sured me had been purchased by Mr. 
 Cross as a present for his wife a short 
 time before she died. This caused my 
 faith to waver a trifle and put to flight 
 a fine bit of literary frenzy that might 
 have found form soon in a sonnet. 
 
 In the front parlor I saw a portrait of 
 the former occupant that showed " the 
 face that looked like ahorse." But that 
 is better than to have the face of any 
 other animal of which I know. Surely 
 one would not. want to look like a dog ! 
 Shakespeare hated dogs, but spoke forty- 
 eight times in his plays in terms of re- 
 spect and affection for a horse. Who 
 26 
 
<3eorae BUot 
 
 would not resent the imputation that 
 one's face was like that of a sheep or a 
 goat or an ox, and much gore has been 
 shed because men have referred to other 
 men as asses, but a horse ! God bless 
 you, yes. 
 
 No one has ever accused George Eliot 
 of being handsome, but this portrait tells 
 of a woman of fifty : calm, gentle, and 
 the strong features speak of a soul in 
 which to confide. 
 
 At Highgate, by the side of the grave 
 of Lewes, rests the dust of this great and 
 loving woman. As the pilgrim enters 
 that famous old cemetery the first impos- 
 ing monument seen is a pyramid of rare, 
 costly porphyry. As you draw near, you 
 read this inscription : 
 
 To the memory of 
 
 ANN JEWSON CRISP, 
 
 Who departed this life 
 
 Deeply lamented Jan. 20, 1889. 
 
 Also, 
 Her dog, Emperor. 
 
 Beneath these tender lines is a bas- 
 27 
 
<3eorge Bliot 
 
 relief of as vicious a looking cur as ever 
 evaded the dog tax. 
 
 Continuing up the avenue, past this 
 monument just noted, the kind old gar- 
 dener will show you another that stands 
 amid others much more pretentious. A 
 small gray granite column, and on it, 
 carved in small letters, you read : 
 
 -*Of those immortal dead who live again in 
 
 minds made better by their presence." 
 
 Here rests the body of 
 
 " GEORGE EWOT," 
 
 (MARY ANN CROSS), 
 
 Born 22 November, 1819. 
 Died 22 December, 1880. 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE 
 
One comfort is that great men taken up in any 
 way are profitable company. We cannot look, 
 however imperfectly, upon a great man without 
 gaining something by it. He is the living foun- 
 tain of life, which it is pleasant to be near. On 
 any terms whatsoever you will not grudge to 
 wander in his neighborhood fora while. 
 
 Heroes and Hero- Worship. 
 

 . 
 
THOMAS CARLYLE. 
 
 ON my way to Dumfries I stopped 
 over night at Gretna Green, 
 which, as all fair maidens know, 
 is in Scotland just over the border from 
 England. 
 
 To my delight I found that the com- 
 ing of runaway couples to Gretna Green 
 was not entirely a matter of the past, 
 for the very evening I arrived a blushing 
 pair came to the inn and inquired for a 
 1 ' meen ister. ' ' The ladye faire was a little 
 stout and the worthy swain several years 
 older than my fancy might have wished, 
 but still I did not complain. The land- 
 lord's boy was despatched to the rectory 
 around the corner and soon returned with 
 31 
 
f>aunts of 
 
 the reverend gentleman. I was an unin- 
 vited guest in the little parlor, but no one 
 observed that my wedding garment was 
 only a cycling costume, and I was not 
 challenged. 
 
 After the ceremony, the several other 
 witnesses filed past the happy couple, 
 congratulating them and kissing the bride. 
 I did likewise, and was greeted with a re- 
 sounding smack which surprised me a bit, 
 but I managed to ask : " Did you run 
 away ? " 
 
 " Noo, " said the groom, " noo,her was 
 a widdie we just coom over fram Eccle- 
 fechan" then lowering his voice to a 
 confidential whisper" We'r goin' baack 
 on the morrow. It 's cheaper thaan to 
 ha* a big, spread weddin V 
 
 This answer banished all tender senti- 
 ment from me and made useless my plans 
 for a dainty love story, but I seized upon 
 the name of the place from whence they 
 came : 
 
 " Ecclefechan ! Ecclefechan ! why 
 that 'S where Carlyle was born ! " 
 32 
 
Carl$Ie 
 
 " Aye, sir, and he 's buried there a 
 great mon he was but an infideel." 
 
 Ten miles beyond Gretna Green is 
 Ecclefechan. A little village of stucco 
 houses all stretched out on one street. 
 Plain, homely, rocky, and unromantic is 
 the country round about, and plain, 
 homely, and unromantic is the little 
 house where Carlyle was born. The 
 place is shown the visitor by a good old 
 dame who takes one from room to room, 
 giving a little lecture meanwhile in a 
 mixture of Gaelic and English which was 
 quite beyond my ken. Several relics of 
 interest are shown, and although the 
 house is almost, precisely like all others 
 in the vicinity, imagination th-ows round 
 it all a roseate wreath of fancies. 
 
 It has been left on record that up to the 
 year when Carlyle was married, his " most 
 pleasurable times were those when he en- 
 joyed a quiet pipe with his mother." 
 
 To few men indeed is this felicity 
 vouchsafed. But for those who have 
 eaten oatmeal porridge in the wayside cot- 
 33 
 
Gbe tbaunta ot 
 
 tages of bonny Scotland, or who love to 
 linger over The Cotter's Saturday Night, 
 there is a touch of tender pathos in the 
 picture. The stone floor, the bare white- 
 washed walls, the peat smouldering on the 
 hearth, sending out long fitful streaks, 
 that dance among the rafters overhead, 
 and the mother and son sitting there 
 watching the coals silent. The woman 
 takes a small twig from a bundle of sticks, 
 reaches ever, lights it, applies it to her 
 pipe, takes a few whiffs and passes the 
 light to her son. Then they talk in low 
 earnest tones of man's duty to man and 
 man's duty to God. 
 
 And it was this mother who first ap- 
 plied the spark that fired Carlyle's ambi- 
 tion ; it was from her that he got the germ 
 of those talents which have made his 
 name illustrious. 
 
 Yet this woman could barely read and 
 did not learn to write until her first-born 
 had gone away from the home nest. 
 Then it was that she sharpened a gray 
 goose quill and labored long and pa- 
 34 
 
ZTbomas Garlgle 
 
 tiently practicing with this instrument, 
 (said to be mightier than the sword,) and 
 with ink she herself had mixed all that 
 she might write a letter to her boy ; and 
 how sweetly, tenderly homely and lov- 
 ing are these letters as we read them to- 
 day ! 
 
 James Carlyle with his own hands built, 
 in 1790, this house at Ecclefechan. The 
 same year he married an excellent wom- 
 an, a second cousin, by name Janet Car- 
 lyle. She lived but a year. The poor 
 husband was heartbroken and declared, 
 as many men under like conditions had 
 done before and have done since, that his 
 sorrow was inconsolable. And he vowed 
 that he would walk through life and 
 down to his death alone. 
 
 But it is a matter for congratulation 
 that he broke his vow. In two years he 
 married Margaret Aitken a serving wom- 
 an. She bore nine children. Thomas was 
 the eldest and the only one who proved 
 recreant to the religious faith of his 
 fathers. 
 
 35 
 
flaunts of 
 
 One of the brothers moved to Shia- 
 wassee County, Michigan, where I had the 
 pleasure of calling on him, some years 
 ago. A hard-headed man, he was : sensi- 
 ble, earnest, honest, with a stubby beard 
 and a rich brogue. He held the office of 
 school trustee, also that of pound master, 
 and I was told that he served his town- 
 ship loyally and well. 
 
 This worthy man looked with small 
 favor on the literary pretensions of his 
 brother Tammas, and twice wrote him 
 long letters expostulating with him on 
 his religious vagaries. " I knew no good 
 could come of it," sorrowfully said he, 
 and so I left him. 
 
 But I inquired of several of the neigh- 
 bors what they thought of Thomas Car- 
 lyle, and I found that they did not think 
 of Thomas Carlyle at all. And I mounted 
 my beast and rode away. 
 
 Thomas Carlyle was educated for the 
 
 Kirk and it was a cause of much sorrow 
 
 to his parents that he could not accept 
 
 its beliefs. He has been spoken of as 
 
 36 
 
Gbomas Carole 
 
 England's chief philosopher, yet he sub- 
 scribed to no creed, nor did he formulate 
 one. However, in Latter Day Pamphlets 
 he partially prepares a catechism for a part 
 of the brute creation. He supposes that 
 all swine of superior logical powers have 
 a "belief," and as they are unable to ex- 
 press it he essays the task for them. The 
 following are a few of the postulates in 
 this creed of The Brotherhood of Latter- 
 Day Swine : 
 
 "Question. Who made the Pig ? 
 
 " Answer. The Pork-Butcher. 
 
 " Question. What is the Whole Duty 
 of Pigs ? 
 
 "Answer. It is the mission of Univer- 
 sal Pighood ; and the duty of all Pigs, at 
 all times, is to diminish the quantity of at- 
 tainable swill and increase the unattaina- 
 ble. This is the Whole Duty of Pigs. 
 
 " Question. What is Pig Poetry ? 
 
 " Answer. It is the universal recogni- 
 tion of Pig's wash and ground barley, and 
 the felicity of Pigs whose trough has been 
 set in order and who have enough. 
 37 
 
ttbe 1>aunts or 
 
 "Question. What is justice in Pig- 
 dom ? 
 
 "Answer. It is the sentiment in Pig 
 nature sometimes called revenge, indig- 
 nation, etc., which if one Pig provoke 
 another conies out in more or less de- 
 structive manner ; hence laws are neces- 
 sary amazing quantities of laws defin- 
 ing what Pigs shall not do. 
 
 " Question. What do you mean by 
 equity ? 
 
 "Answer. Equity consists in getting 
 your share from the Universal Swine- 
 Trough, and part of another's. 
 
 "Question. What is meant by 'your 
 share ' ? 
 
 "Answer. My share is getting what- 
 ever I can contrive to seize without being 
 made up into Side-meat." 
 
 I have slightly abridged this little ex- 
 tract and inserted it here to show the 
 sympathy which Mr. Carlyle had for the 
 dumb brute. 
 
 One of America's great men, in a 
 speech delivered not long since, said 
 38 
 
Cbomag Carole 
 
 " From Scotch manners, Scotch religion, 
 and Scotch whiskey, good Lord deliver 
 us." 
 
 My experience with these three articles 
 has been somewhat limited ; but Scotch 
 manners remind me of chestnut burrs 
 not handsome without, but good within. 
 For when you have gotten beyond the 
 rough exterior of Sandy you generally 
 find a heart warm, tender, and generous. 
 
 Scotch religion is only another chest- 
 nut burr, but then you need not eat the 
 shuck if you fear it will not agree with 
 your inward state. Nevertheless, if the 
 example of royalty is of value, the fact 
 can be stated that Victoria, Queen of Great 
 Britain and Empress of India, is a Pres- 
 byterian. That is, she is a Presbyterian 
 about one half the time when she is in 
 Scotland, for she is the head of the Scot- 
 tish Kirk. When in England of course 
 she is an Episcopalian. We have often 
 been told that religion is largely a matter 
 of geography, and here is a bit of some- 
 thing that looks like proof. 
 39 
 
Gbe f>aunts of 
 
 Of Scotch whiskey I am not compe- 
 tent to speak, so that subject must be left 
 to the experts. But a Kentucky colonel 
 at my elbow declares that it cannot be 
 compared with the Blue Grass article ; 
 though I trust that no one will be preju- 
 diced against it on that account. 
 
 Scotch intellect, however, is worthy of 
 our serious consideration. It is a bold, 
 rocky headland, standing out into the 
 tossing sea of the Unknown. Assertive? 
 Yes. Stubborn ? Most surely. Proud ? 
 By all means. Twice as many pilgrims 
 visit the grave of Burns as that of Shakes- 
 peare. Buckle declares " Adam Smith's 
 Wealth of Nations has had a greater in- 
 fluence on civilization than any book 
 ever writ save none " ; and the average 
 Scotchman knows his Carlyle a deal bet- 
 ter than the average American does his 
 Emerson : in fact four times as many of 
 Carlyle's books have been printed. 
 
 When Carlyle took time to bring the 
 ponderous machinery of his intellect to 
 bear on a theme, he saw it through and 
 40 
 
Gbomas Carlglc 
 
 through. The vividness of his imagina- 
 tion gives us a true insight into times 
 long since gone by ; it shows virtue her 
 own feature, vice her own image, and 
 the very age and body of the time his 
 form and pressure. In history he goes 
 beyond the political and conventional 
 showing us the thought, the hope, the 
 fear, the passion of the soul. 
 
 His was the masculine mind. The 
 divination and subtle intuitions which are 
 to be found scattered through his pages, 
 like violets growing among the rank swale 
 of the prairies, all these sweet odorous 
 chings came from his wife. She gave him 
 her best thought and he greedily absorbed 
 and unconsciously wrote it down as his 
 own. 
 
 There are those who blame and berate : 
 volumes have been written to show the 
 inconsiderateness of this man toward the 
 gentle lady who was his intellectual com- 
 rade. But they know not life who do 
 this thing. 
 
 It is a fact that Carlyle never rushed to 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 pick up Jeannie's handkerchief. I admit 
 that he could not bow gracefully ; that 
 he could not sing tenor, nor waltz, nor 
 tell funny stories, nor play the mando- 
 lin ; and if I had been his neighbor I 
 would not have attempted to teach him 
 any of these accomplishments. 
 
 Once he took his wife to the theatre ; 
 and after the performance he accidentally 
 became separated from her in the crowd 
 and trudged off home alone and went to 
 bed forgetting all about her, but even for 
 this I do not indict him. Mrs. Carlyle 
 never upbraided him for this forgetful- 
 ness, neither did she relate the incident to 
 anyone, and for these things I to her 
 now reverently lift my hat. 
 
 Jeannie Welsh Carlyle had capacity for 
 pain, as it seems all great souls have. 
 She suffered but then suffering is not all 
 suffering and pain is not all pain. 
 
 Life is often dark, but then there are 
 
 rifts in the clouds when we behold the 
 
 glorious deep blue of the sky. Not a 
 
 day passes but that the birds sing in the 
 
 42 
 
Gbomas Carlgle 
 
 branches, and the tree tops poise back- 
 ward and forward in restful, rhythmic har- 
 mony, and never an hour goes by but 
 that hope bears us up on her wings as the 
 eagle does her young. And ever just be- 
 fore the year dies and ths frost comes, the 
 leaves take on a gorgeous' hue and the 
 color of the flowers then puts to shame 
 for brilliancy all the plainer petals of 
 spring time. 
 
 And I know Mr. and Mrs. Carlyle were 
 happy, so happy, at times, that they 
 laughed and cried for joy. Jeannie gave 
 all and she saw her best thought used 
 carried further, written out and given 
 to the world as that of another, but she 
 uttered no protest. 
 
 Xantippe lives in history only because 
 she sought to worry a great philosopher , 
 we remember the daughter of Herodias 
 because she demanded the head (not 
 the heart) of a good man ; Goneril and 
 Regan because they trod upon the with- 
 ered soul of their sire ; Lady Macbeth 
 because she lured her liege to murder : 
 43 
 
Gbe Ibaunts of 
 
 Charlotte Corday for her dagger thrust , 
 Lucretia Borgia for her poison ; Sapphira 
 for her untruth ; Jael because she pierced 
 the brain of Sisera with a rusty nail, (in- 
 stead of an idea) ; Delilah for the reason 
 that she deprived Samson of his source 
 of strength ; and in the Westminster Re- 
 view for May, 1894, Ouida makes the flat 
 statement that for every man of genius 
 who has been helped by a woman ten 
 have been dragged down. But Jeannie 
 Welsh Carlyle lives in the hearts of all 
 who reverence the sweet, the gentle, the 
 patient, the earnest, the loving spirit of 
 the womanly woman : lives because she 
 ministered to the needs of a great man. 
 
 She was ever a frail body. Several 
 long illnesses kept her to her bed for 
 weeks, but she recovered from these, 
 even in spite of the doctors who thor- 
 oughly impressed both herself and her 
 husband with the thought of her frailty. 
 
 On April twenty-first, 1866, she called 
 her carriage, as was her custom, and di- 
 rected the driver to go through the park. 
 44 
 
Gbomas Carlgle 
 
 She carried a book in her hands, and 
 smiled a greeting to a friend as the 
 brougham moved away from the little 
 street where they lived. The driver drove 
 slowly drove for an hour two. He 
 got down from his box to receive the 
 orders of his mistress, touched his hat 
 as he opened the carriage door, but no 
 kindly eyes looked into his. She sat back 
 in the corner as if resting ; the shapely 
 head a little thrown forward, the book 
 held gently in the delicate hands, but 
 the fingers were cold and stiff Jeannie 
 Welsh was dead and Thomas Carlyle 
 was alone. 
 
 45 
 
IT. 
 
 ALONG the Thames, at Chelsea, op 
 posite the rows of quiet and well- 
 kept houses of Cheyne Walk, is 
 the "Embankment." A parkway it is 
 of narrow green with gravelled walks, 
 bushes, and trees, that here and there 
 grow lush and lusty as if to hide the un- 
 sightly river from the good people who 
 live across the street. 
 
 Following this pleasant bit of breathing 
 space, with its walks that wind in and out 
 among the bushes, one conies unexpect- 
 edly upon a bronze statue. You need 
 not read the inscription : a glance at that 
 shaggy head, the grave, sober, earnest 
 look, and you exclaim under your breath, 
 " Carlyle ! " 
 
 In this statue the artist has caught with 
 rare skill the look of reverie and repose. 
 One can imagine that on a certain night, 
 46 
 
Gbomas Carlglc 
 
 as the mists and shadows of evening 
 were gathering along the dark river, that 
 the gaunt form, wrapped in its accus- 
 tomed cloak, came stalking down the 
 little street to the park, just as he did 
 thousands of times, and taking his seat 
 in the big chair fell asleep. In the 
 morning the children that came to play 
 along the river found the form in cold, 
 enduring bronze. 
 
 At the play we have seen the marble 
 transformed by love into beauteous life. 
 How much easier the reverse here where 
 souls stay only a day ! 
 
 Cheyne Row is a little alley-like street, 
 running only a block, with fifteen houses 
 on one side, and twelve on the other. 
 These houses are all brick and built 
 right up to the sidewalk. On the north 
 side they are all in one block, and one at 
 first sees no touch of individuality in any 
 of them. 
 
 They are old, and solid, and plain 
 built for revenue only. On closer view I 
 thought one or two had been painted, and 
 47 
 
f>aimts 01 
 
 on one there was a cornice that set it off 
 from the rest. As I stood on the opposite 
 side and looked at this row of houses, I 
 observed that Number Five was the din- 
 giest and plainest of them all. For there 
 were dark shutters instead of blinds, and 
 these shutters were closed, all save one 
 rebel that swung and creaked in the 
 breeze. Over the doorway, sparrows 
 had made their nests and were fighting 
 and scolding. Swallows hovered above 
 the chimney ; dust, cobwebs, neglect 
 were all about. And as I looked there 
 came to me the words of Ursa Thomas : 
 
 " Brief, brawling day, with its noisy 
 phantoms, its paper crowns, tinsel gilt, is 
 gone ; and divine, everlasting night, with 
 her star diadems, with her silences and 
 her verities, is come." 
 
 Here walked Thomas and Jeannie one 
 fair May morning in 1834. Thomas was 
 thirty-nine, tall and swarthy, strong ; 
 with set mouth and three wrinkles on his 
 forehead that told of care and dyspepsia. 
 Jeannie was younger ; her face winsome, 
 48 
 
Gbomas Carlgle 
 
 just a trifle anxious, with luminous, gen- 
 tle eyes, suggestive of patience, truth, 
 and loyalty. They looked like country 
 folks, did these two. They examined the 
 surroundings, consulted together the 
 sixty pounds rent a year seemed very 
 high ! But they took the house, and 
 T. Carlyle, son of James Carlyle, stone- 
 mason, paid rent for it every month for 
 half a century, lacking three years. 
 
 I walked across the street and read the 
 inscription on the marble tablet inserted 
 in front of the house above the lower 
 windows. It informs the stranger that 
 Thomas- Carlyle lived here from 1834 to 
 1881, and that the tablet was erected by 
 the Carlyle Society of London. 
 
 I ascended the stone steps and scraped 
 my boots on the well-worn scraper, made 
 long, long ago by a blacksmith who is 
 now dust, and who must have been a very 
 awkward mechanic, for I saw where he 
 made a misstroke with his hammer, proba- 
 bly as he discussed theology with a caller. 
 Then I rang the bell and plied the 
 49 
 
Gbe t>aunts of 
 
 knocker and waited there on the steps 
 for Jeannie Welsh to come bid me wel- 
 come, just as she did Emerson when he, 
 too, used the scraper and plied the 
 knocker and stood where I did then. 
 
 And my knock was answered an- 
 swered by a very sour and peevish wo- 
 man next door, who thrust her head out 
 of the window, and exclaimed in a shrill 
 voice : 
 
 "Look 'ere, "sir, you might as well go 
 rap on the curbstone, don't you know ; 
 there 's nobody livin' there, sir, don't you 
 know." 
 
 " Yes, madam, that is why I knocked !" 
 
 "Beggin' your pardon, sir, if you use 
 your heyes you '11 see there 's nobody 
 livin' there, don't you know ! " 
 
 " I knocked lest offence be given. 
 How can I get in ? " 
 
 "You might go in through the key- 
 hole, sir, or down the chimney. You 
 seem to be a little daft, sir, don't you 
 know. But if you must get in perhaps 
 it would be as well to go over to Mrs. 
 50 
 
Gbomas Carlgle 
 
 Brown's and brang the key," and she 
 slammed down the window. 
 
 Across the street Mrs. Brown's sign 
 smiled at me. 
 
 Mrs. Brown keeps a little grocery and 
 bake shop and was very willing to show 
 me the house. She fumbled in a black 
 bag for the keys, all the time telling me 
 of three Americans who came last week 
 to see Carlyle's house, and "as how" 
 they each gave her a shilling. I took the 
 hint. 
 
 " Only Americans care now for Mr. 
 Carlyle," plaintively added the old lady 
 as she fished out the keys, " soon we will 
 all be forgot." 
 
 We walked across the street and after 
 several ineffectual attempts the rusty lock 
 was made to turn. I entered. Cold, bare 
 and bleak was the sight of those empty 
 rooms. The old lady had a touch of 
 rheumatism, so she waited for me on the 
 door step as I climbed the stairs to the 
 third floor. The noise-proof back room 
 where The French Revolution was writ, 
 
Gbe flaunts of 
 
 twice over, was so dark that I had to 
 grope my way across to the window. The 
 sash stuck and seemed to have a will of 
 its own, like him who so often had raised 
 it. But at last it gave way and I flung 
 wide the shutter and looked down at the 
 little arbor where Teufelsdrockh sat so 
 often and v/ooed wisdom with the weed 
 brought from Virginia. 
 
 Then I stood before the fire-place, 
 where he of the Eternities had so often 
 sat and watched the flickering embers. 
 Here he lived in his loneliness and cursed 
 curses that were prayers, and here for near 
 five decades he read and thought and 
 dreamed and wrote. Here the spirits of 
 Cromwell and Frederick hovered; here 
 that pitiful and pitiable long line of 
 ghostly partakers in the Revolution an- 
 swered to his roll call. 
 
 The wind whistled down the chimney 
 grewsomely as my footfalls echoed 
 through the silent chambers, and I 
 thought I heard a sepulchral voice say : 
 
 " Thy future life ! Thy fate is it, in- 
 52 
 
Sbomas Carlgle 
 
 deed ! Whilst thou makest that thy 
 chief question thy life to me and to thy- 
 self and to thy God is worthless. What 
 is incredible to thee thou shalt not, at 
 thy soul's peril, pretend to believe. Else- 
 whither for a refuge ! Away ! Go to 
 perdition if thou wilt, but not with a lie 
 in thy mouth, by the Eternal Maker, 
 No ! ! " 
 
 I was startled at first, but stood still 
 listening ; then I thought I saw a faint 
 blue cloud of mist curling up in the fire- 
 place. Watching this smoke and sitting 
 before it in gloomy abstraction was the 
 form cf an old man. I swept my hand 
 through the apparition but still it stayed. 
 My lips moved in spite of myself and I 
 said: 
 
 "Hail ! hardheaded man of granite-out- 
 crop and heather, of fen and crag, of moor 
 and mountain, and of bleak east wind, 
 hail ! Eighty-six years didst thou live. 
 One hundred years lacking fourteen didst 
 thou suffer, enjoy, weep, dream, groan, 
 pray, and strike thy rugged breast ! And 
 53 
 
fjaunta of 
 
 yet methinks that in those years there 
 was much quiet peace and sweet content ; 
 for constant pain benumbs, and worry de- 
 stroys, and vain unrest summons the grim 
 messenger of death. But thou didst live 
 and work and love ; howbeit, thy touch 
 was not always gentle, nor thy voice low ; 
 but on thy lips there was no lie, and in 
 thy thought no concealment, and in thy 
 heart no pollution. 
 
 " But mark ! thou didst come out of 
 poverty and obscurity: on thy battered 
 shield there was no crest and thou didst 
 leave all to follow truth. And verily she 
 did lead thee a merry chase ! 
 
 " Thou hadst no Past but thou hast a 
 Future. Thou didst say : ' Bury me in 
 Westminster, never ! where the mob 
 surges, cursed with idle curiosity to see 
 the graves of kings and nobodies ? No ! 
 Take me back to rugged Scotland and 
 lay my tired form to rest by the side of 
 an honest man my father.' 
 
 "Thou didst refuse the Knighthood 
 offered thee by royalty, saying ' I am not 
 54 
 
Cbomas Carlgle 
 
 the founder of the house of Carlyle and 
 I have no sons to be pauperized by a title.' 
 
 " True, thou didst leave no sons after 
 the flesh to mourn thy loss, nor fair 
 daughters to bedeck thy grave with gar- 
 lands, but .hou didst reproduce thyself 
 in though'., and on the minds of men thou 
 didst leave thy impress. And thy ten 
 thousand sons will keep thy memory 
 green so long as men shall work, and 
 toil, and strive, and hope." 
 
 The wind still howled. I looked out 
 and saw watery clouds scudding athwart 
 the face of the murky sky. The shutters 
 banged, and shut me in the dark. I made 
 haste to find the door, reached the stair- 
 way slid down the banisters to where 
 Mrs. Brown was waiting for me at the 
 threshold. 
 
 We locked the door. She went across 
 to her little bake shop and I stopped a 
 passing policeman to ask the way to 
 Westminster. He told me. 
 
 "Did you visit Carlyle's 'ouse?" he 
 asked. 
 
 55 
 
Ebomas Carole 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "With old Mrs. Brown?" 
 
 " Yes, she waited for me in the door- 
 way she had the rheumatism so could 
 not climb the stairs." 
 
 "The rheumatism Huh! I see you 
 couldn't 'ire 'er to go inside. Why, 
 don't you know ? they say the 'ouse is 
 'aunted ! " 
 
 LONDON, A ugusi^ '94. 
 
JOHN RUSKIN 
 
Put roses in their hair, put precious stones ot 
 their breasts ; see that they are clothed in purple 
 and scarlet, with other delights ; that they also 
 learn to read the gilded heraldry of the sky ; and 
 upon the earth be taught not only the labors of 
 it but the loveliness. 
 
 DEUCALION, 
 
JOHN RUSKIN. 
 
 AT Win derm ere a good friend told 
 me that I must abandon all hope 
 of seeing Mr. Ruskin ; for I had 
 no special business with him, no letters of 
 introduction, and then the fact that I am 
 an American made it final. Americans 
 in England are supposed to pick flowers 
 in private gardens, cut their names on 
 trees, laugh boisterously at trifles, and 
 make invidious comparisons. Very prop- 
 erly Mr. Ruskin does not admire these 
 things. 
 
 Then Mr. Ruskin is a very busy man. 
 Occasionally he issues a printed mani- 
 festo to his friends requesting them to 
 give him peace. A copy of one such cir- 
 cular was shown to me. It runs, " Mr. J. 
 5Q 
 
1>aunt0 of 
 
 Ruskin is about to begin a work of great 
 importance and therefore begs that in 
 reference to calls and correspondence 
 you will consider him dead for the next 
 two months." A similar notice is repro- 
 duced in Arrows of the Chace, and this 
 one thing, I think, illustrates as forcibly 
 as anything in Mr. Ruskin's work the 
 self-contained characteristics of the man 
 himself. 
 
 Surely if a man is pleased to be con- 
 sidered "dead" occasionally, even to 
 his kinsmen and friends, he should not 
 be expected to receive an enemy with 
 open arms to steal away his time. This 
 is assuming, of course, that all individ- 
 uals who pick flowers in other folks' 
 gardens, cut their names on trees, and 
 laugh boisterously at trifles, are enemies. 
 I therefore decided that I would simply 
 walk over to Brantwood, view it from a 
 distance, tramp over its hills, row across 
 the lake, and at nightfall take a swim in 
 its waters. Then I would rest at the Inn 
 for a space and go my way. 
 60 
 
3obn IRusfcfn 
 
 * 
 
 Lake Coniston is ten miles from Gras- 
 mere, and even alone the walk is not 
 long. If, however, you are delightfully 
 attended by King*s Daughters with whom 
 you sit and commune now and then on 
 the bankside, the distance will seem to 
 be much less. Then there is a pleasant 
 little break in the journey at Hawkshead. 
 Here one may see the quaint old school- 
 house where Wordsworth when a boy 
 Jangled his feet from a bench and proved 
 his humanity by carving his initials on 
 the seat. 
 
 The Inn at the head of Coniston Water 
 appeared very inviting and restful when 
 I saw it that afternoon. Built in sections 
 from generation to generation, half cov- 
 ered with ivy and embowered in climbing 
 roses, it is an institution entirely differ- 
 ent from the "Grand Palace Hotel" at 
 Oshkosh. In America we have gongs 
 that are fiercely beaten at stated times by 
 gentlemen of color, just as they are sup- 
 posed to do in their native Congo jungles. 
 This din proclaims to the "guests" and 
 61 
 
Gbe f>aunt0 ot 
 
 the public at large that it is time to come 
 in and be fed. But this refinement of 
 civilization is not yet in Coniston and the 
 Inn is quiet and homelike. You may go 
 to bed when you are tired, get up when 
 you choose, and eat when you are hungry. 
 
 There were no visitors about when I 
 arrived and I thought I would have the 
 coffee room all to myself at luncheon 
 time; but presently there came in a 
 pleasant-faced old gentleman in knicker- 
 bockers. He bowed to me and then took 
 a place at the table. He said that it was 
 a fine day and I agreed with him, adding 
 that the mountains were very beautiful. 
 He assented, putting in a codicil to the 
 effect that the lake was very pretty. 
 
 Then the waiter came for our orders. 
 
 "Together, I s'pose," remarked Thomas, 
 inquiringly, as he halted at the door and 
 balanced the tray on his finger tips. 
 
 "Yes, serve lunch for us together," 
 said the ruddy old gentleman as he looked 
 at me and smiled, " to eat alone is bad for 
 the digestion." 
 
 62 
 
3obn 
 
 I nodded assent. 
 
 "Can you tell me how far it is to 
 Brantwood ? " I asked. 
 
 " Oh, not far, just across the lake." 
 
 He arose and flung the shutter open so 
 I could see the old yellow house about a 
 mile across the water, nestling in its 
 wealth of green on the hillside. Soon 
 the waiter brought our lunch, and while 
 we discussed the chops and new potatoes 
 we talked Ruskiniana. 
 
 The old gentleman knew a deal more 
 of Stones of Venice and Modern Painters 
 than I ; but I told him how Thoreau 
 introduced Ruskin to America and how 
 Concord was the first place in the New 
 World to recognize this star in the East. 
 And upon my saying this, the old gentle- 
 man brought his knife-handle down on 
 the table, declaring that Thoreau and 
 Whitman were the only two men of ge- 
 nius that America had produced. I begged 
 him to make it three and include Emer- 
 son, which he finally consented to do. 
 
 By and by the waiter cleared the table 
 63 
 
Cbe t>aunts of 
 
 preparatory to bringing in the coffee. The 
 old gentleman pushed his chair back, 
 took the napkin from under his double 
 chin, brushed the crumbs from his goodly 
 front, and remarked : 
 
 "I'm going over to Brantwood this 
 afternoon to call on Mr. Ruskin just to 
 pay my respects to him, as I always do 
 when I come here. Can't you go with 
 me?" 
 
 I think this was about the most pleas- 
 ing question I ever had asked me. I was 
 going to request him to "come again" 
 just for the joy of hearing the words, but 
 I pulled my dignity together, straight- 
 ened up, swallowed my coffee red hot, 
 pushed my chair back, flourished my 
 napkin, and said: "I shall be much 
 pleased to go." 
 
 So we went. We two : he in his knick- 
 erbockers and I in my checks and outing 
 shirt. I congratulated myself on look- 
 ing no worse than he, and as for him, 
 he never seemed to think our costumes 
 were not exactly what they should be ; and 
 64 
 
3obn "Rusfein 
 
 after all it matters little how you dress 
 when you call on one of nature's noble- 
 men they demand no livery. 
 
 We walked around the northern end 
 of Coniston Water, along the eastern 
 edge, past Tent House, where Tennyson 
 once lived (and found it " outrageous 
 quiet "), and a mile farther on we came 
 to Brantwood. 
 
 The road curves in to the back of the 
 house which, by the way, is the front 
 and the driveway is lined with great trees 
 that form a complete archway. There 
 is no lodge-keeper, no flower beds laid 
 out with square and compass, no trees 
 trimmed to appear like elephants, no cast- 
 iron dogs, nor terra cotta deer, and, stran- 
 gest of all, no sign of the lawn-mower. 
 There is nothing, in fact, to give forth 
 a sign that the great Apostle of Beauty 
 lives in this very old-fashioned spot. 
 Big bowlders are to be seen here and 
 there where nature left them, tangles of 
 vines running over old stumps, part of 
 the meadow cut close with a scythe, and 
 65 
 
{Ibe fbaunts of 
 
 part growing up as if the owner knew the 
 price of hay. Then there are flower beds 
 where grow clusters of poppies and holly- 
 hocks, purple, and scarlet, and white; 
 prosaic gooseberry bushes, plain Yankee 
 pieplant (from which the Bnglish make 
 tarts), rue, and sweet marjoram, with 
 patches of fennel, sage, thyme, and cat- 
 nip, all lined off with boxwood, making 
 me think of my grandmother's garden 
 at Roxbury. 
 
 On the hillside above the garden we 
 saw the entrance to the cave that Mr. 
 Ruskin once filled with ice, just to show 
 the world how to keep its head cool at 
 small expense. He even wrote a letter 
 to the papers giving the bright idea to 
 humanity that the way to utilize caves 
 was to fill them with ice. Then he for- 
 got all about the matter. But the follow- 
 ing June when the cook, wishing to make 
 some ice cream as a glad surprise for the 
 Sunday dinner, opened the natural ice- 
 chest, she found only a pool of muddy 
 water, and exclaimed: "Botheration!" 
 66 
 
3obn 
 
 Then they had custard instead of ice 
 cream. 
 
 We walked up the steps, and my friend 
 let the brass knocker drop just once, for 
 only Americans give a rat-a-tat-tat, and 
 the door was opened by a white-whis- 
 kered butler, who took our cards and ush- 
 ered us into the library. My heart beat 
 a trifle fast as I took inventory of the 
 room ; for I never before had called on a 
 man who was believed to have refused 
 the poet laureateship. A dimly lighted 
 room was this library walls painted 
 brown, running up to mellow yellow at 
 the ceiling. High bookshelves, with a 
 step-ladder, and only five pictures on the 
 walls, and of these three were etchings, 
 and two water colors of a very simple 
 sort. Leather covered chairs, a long table 
 in the centre, on which were strewn 
 sundry magazines and papers, also several 
 photographs, and at one end of the 
 room a big fireplace, where a yew log 
 smouldered. Here my inventory was cut 
 Short by a cheery voice behind : 
 67 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 " Ah ! now, gentlemen, I am glad to 
 see you." 
 
 There was no time nor necessity for a 
 formal introduction. The great man took 
 my hand as if he had always known 
 me, as perhaps he thought he had. Then 
 he greeted my friend in the same way, 
 stirred up the fire, for it was a north of 
 England summer day, and took a seat 
 by the table. We were all silent for a 
 space a silence without embarrassment. 
 
 " You were looking at the etching over 
 the fireplace it was sent to me by a young 
 lady in America," said Mr. Ruskin, " and 
 I placed it there to get acquainted with it. 
 I like it more and more. Do you know 
 the scene ? " I knew the scene and ex- 
 plained somewhat about it. 
 
 Mr. Ruskin has the faculty of making 
 his interviewer do most of the talking. 
 He is a rare listener, and leans forward, 
 putting a hand behind his right ear to 
 get each word you say. He was particu- 
 larly interested in the industrial condi- 
 tions of America, and I soon found myself 
 68 
 
5obn "Rusfefn 
 
 "occupying the time," while an occa- 
 sional word of interrogation from Mr. 
 Ruskin gave me no chance to stop. I 
 came to hear him, not to defend our " re- 
 publican experiment," as he was pleased 
 to call the United States of America. 
 Yet Mr. Ruskin was so gentle and 
 respectful in his manner, and so compli- 
 mentary in his attitude of a listener, that 
 my impatience at his want of sympathy 
 for our " experiment" only caused me to 
 feel a little heated. 
 
 "The fact of women being elected to 
 mayoralities in Kansas makes me think 
 of certain African tribes that exalt their 
 women into warriors you want your 
 women to fight your political battles ! " 
 
 " You evidently hold the same opinion 
 on the subject of equal rights that you 
 expressed some years ago," interposed 
 my companion. 
 
 " What did I say really I have for- 
 gotten ? " 
 
 " You replied to a correspondent, say- 
 ing : ' You are certainly right as to my 
 69 
 
f>aimts of 
 
 views respecting the female franchise. Sc 
 far from wishing to give votes to women, 
 I would fain take them away from most 
 men.' " 
 
 "Surely that was a sensible answer. 
 My respect for woman is too great to force 
 on her increased responsibilities. Then 
 as for restricting the franchise with men 
 I am of the firm conviction that no man 
 should be allowed to vote who does not 
 own property, or who cannot do consid- 
 erable more than read and write. The 
 voter makes the laws, and why should 
 the laws regulating the holding of prop- 
 erty be made by a man who has no inter- 
 est in property beyond a covetous desire ; 
 or why should he legislate on education 
 when he possesses none ! Then again 
 women do not bear arms to protect the 
 state." 
 
 " But what do you say to Mrs. Carlock, 
 who answers that inasmuch as men do not 
 bear children they have no right to vote : 
 going to war possibly being necessary 
 and possibly not, but the perpetuity of 
 70 
 
5obn "Kusfcln 
 
 the state demanding that some one bear 
 children." 
 
 "The lady's argument is ingenious but 
 lacks force when we consider that the 
 bearing of arms is a matter relating to 
 statecraft, while the baby question is 
 Dame Nature's own, and is not to be regu- 
 lated even by the sovereign." 
 
 Then Mr. Ruskin talked for nearly fif- 
 teen minutes on the duty of the state to 
 the individual talked very deliberately, 
 but with the clearness and force of a man 
 who believes what he says and says what 
 he believes. 
 
 So my friend by a gentle thrust under 
 the fifth rib of Mr. Ruskin's logic caused 
 him to come to the rescue of his previ- 
 ously expressed opinions, and we had the 
 satisfaction of hearing him discourse ear- 
 nestly and eloquently. 
 
 Maiden ladies usually have an opinion 
 ready on the subject of masculine 
 methods, and, conversely, much of the 
 world's logic on the " woman question " 
 has come from the bachelor brain. 
 71 
 
dbe "fcaunts of 
 
 Mr. Ruskin went quite out of his way 
 on several occasions in times past to 
 attack John Stuart Mill for heresy " in 
 opening up careers for women other 
 than that of wife and mother." When 
 Mill did not answer Mr. Ruskin's news- 
 paper letters, the author of Sesame 
 and Lilies called ,him a " cretinous 
 wretch " and referred to him as " the 
 man of no imagination." Mr. Mill may 
 have been a cretinous wretch (I do not 
 exactly understand the phrase), but the 
 preface to On Liberty, is at once the ten- 
 derest, highest, and most sincere com- 
 pliment paid to a woman, of which I 
 know. 
 
 The life of Mr. and Mrs. John Stuart 
 Mill shows that the perfect mating is pos- 
 sible ; yet Mr. Ruskin has only scorn for 
 the opinions of Mr. Mill on a subject 
 which Mill came as near personally solv- 
 ing in a matrimonial " experiment" as 
 any other public man of modern times, 
 not excepting even Robert Browning. 
 Therefore we might suppose Mr. Mill 
 72 
 
3-obn IRusfcin 
 
 entitled to speak on the woman question 
 and I intimated as much to Mr. Ruskin. 
 
 '' He might know all about one woman, 
 and if he should regard her as a sample 
 of all womankind, would he not make a 
 great mistake ? " 
 
 I was silenced. 
 
 In Fors Clavigera, Letter UX, the au- 
 thor says : " I never wrote n letter in my 
 life which all the world is not welcome 
 to read." From this one might imagine 
 that Mr. Ruskin never loved no pressed 
 flowers in books, no passages of poetry 
 double marked and scored, no bundles 
 of letters faded and yellow, sacred for his 
 own eye, tied with white or dainty blue 
 ribbon ; no little nothings hidden away in 
 the bottom of a trunk. And yt Mr. 
 Ruskin has his ideas on the woman ques- 
 tion and very positive ideas they are too 
 often sweetly sympathetic and wisely 
 helpful. 
 
 I see that one of the encyclopedias 
 mentions Ruskin as a bachelor, which 
 is giving rather an extended meaning 
 73 
 
Cbe Ibaunts of 
 
 to the word, for although Mr. Ruskin 
 married, he was not mated. According 
 to Collingwood's account, this marriage 
 was a quiet arrangement between parents. 
 Anyway the genius is like the profligate 
 in this : when he marries he generally 
 makes a woman miserable. And misery 
 is reactionary as well as infectious. Ruskin 
 is a genius. 
 
 Genius is unique. No satisfactory an- 
 alysis of it has yet been given. We know 
 a few of its indications that 's all. First 
 among these is ability to concentrate. 
 
 No seed can sow genius ; no soil can 
 grow it : its quality is inborn and defies 
 both cultivation and extermination. 
 
 To be surpassed is never pleasant ; to 
 feel your inferiority is to feel a pang. 
 Seldom is there a person great enough to 
 find satisfaction in the success of a friend. 
 The pleasure that excellence gives is oft 
 tainted by resentment ; and so the woman 
 who marries a genius is usually unhappy. 
 
 Genius is excess : it is obstructive to 
 little plans. It is difficult to warm your- 
 74 
 
5obn "Rusfcin 
 
 self at a conflagration ; the tempest ma} 
 blow you away ; the sun dazzles ; light- 
 ning seldom strikes gently ; the Nile 
 overflows. Genius has its times of stray- 
 ing off into the infinite and then what is 
 the good wife to do for companionship ? 
 Does she protest, and find fault ? It could 
 not be otherwise, for genius is dictatorial 
 without knowing it, obstructive without 
 wishing to be, intolerant unawares and 
 unsocial because it cannot help it. 
 
 The wife of a genius sometimes takes 
 his fits of abstraction for stupidity, and 
 having the man's interests at heart she en- 
 deavors to arouse him out of his lethargy 
 by chiding him. Occasionally he arouses 
 enough to chide back ; and so it has be- 
 come an axiom that genius is not domestic. 
 
 A short period of mismated life told 
 the wife of Ruskin their mistake, and 
 she told him. But Mrs. Grundy was at 
 the keyhole, ready to tell the world, and 
 so Mr. and Mrs. Ruskin sought to deceive 
 society by pretending to live together. 
 They kept up this appearance for six sor 
 75 
 
Ibaunts ot 
 
 rowful years, and then the lady simplified 
 the situation by packing her trunks and 
 deliberately leaving her genius to his 
 chimeras ; her soul doubtless softened by 
 the knowledge that she was bestowing a 
 benefit on him by going away. The lady 
 afterwards became the happy wife and 
 helpmeet of a great artist. 
 
 Ruskin 's father was a prosperous im- 
 porter of wines. He left his son a fort- 
 une equal to a little more than one mil- 
 lion dollars. But that vast fortune has 
 gone principal and interest gone in be- 
 quests, gifts, and experiments ; and to-day 
 Mr. Ruskin has no income save that de- 
 rived from the sale of his books. Talk, 
 about " Distribution of Wealth " ! Here 
 we have it. 
 
 The bread-and-butter question has never 
 troubled John Ruskin except in his ever- 
 ardent desire that others should be fed. 
 His days have been given to study and 
 writing from his very boyhood ; he has 
 made money, but he has had no time to 
 save it. 
 
 76 
 
3obn 'Ruefctn 
 
 He has expressed himself on every 
 theme that interests mankind excepting 
 " housemaid's knee." He has written 
 more letters to the newspapers than " Old 
 Subscriber," " Fiat Justitia," "Indignant 
 Reader," and " Veritas " combined. His 
 opinions have carried much weight and 
 directed attention into necessary lines ; 
 but perhaps his success as an inspirer of 
 thought lies in the fact that his sense 
 of humor exists only in a trace, as the 
 chemist might say. Men who perceive 
 the ridiculous would never have voiced 
 many of the things which he has said. 
 
 Surely those Sioux Indians who 
 stretched a hay lariat across the Union 
 Pacific railroad in order to stop the 
 running of trains had small sense of the 
 ridiculous. But it looks as if they were 
 apostles of Ruskin, every one. 
 
 Some one has said that no man can 
 appreciate the beautiful who has not a 
 keen sense of humor. For the beautiful 
 is the harmonious, and the laughable is 
 the absence of fit adjustment. 
 77 
 
ZTbe f>aunts of 
 
 Mr. Ruskin disproves the maxim. 
 
 But let no hasty soul imagine that John 
 Ruskin's opinions on practical themes 
 are not useful. He brings to bear an 
 energy on every subject he touches (and 
 what subject has he not touched ?) that is 
 sure to make the sparks of thought fly. 
 His independent and fearless attitude 
 awakens from slumber a deal of dozing 
 intellect, and out of this strife of opinion 
 comes truth. 
 
 On account of Mr. Ruskin's at times 
 refusing to see visitors, reports have gone 
 abroad that his mind was giving way. 
 Not so, for although he is seventy-four he 
 is as serenely stubborn as he ever was. 
 His opposition to new inventions in ma- 
 chinery has not relaxed a single pulley's 
 turn. You grant his premises and in his 
 conclusions you will find that his belt 
 never slips, and that his logic never 
 jumps a cog. 
 
 His life is as regular and exact as the 
 trains on the Great Western, and his 
 days are more peaceful than ever before. 
 78 
 
3obn TRusfcin 
 
 He has regular hours for writing, study, 
 walking, reading, eating, and working out 
 of doors, superintending the cultivation 
 of his hundred acres. He told me that 
 he had not varied a half hour in two years 
 from a certain time of going to bed or 
 getting up in the morning. Although 
 his form is bowed, this regularity of life 
 has borne fruit in the rich russet of his 
 complexion, the mild, clear eye, and the 
 pleasure in living in spite of occasional 
 pain, which you know the man feels. 
 His hair is thick and nearly -white ; the 
 beard is now worn quite long and gives a 
 patriarchal appearance to the fine face. 
 
 When we arose to take our leave Mr. 
 Ruskin took a white felt hat from the 
 elk antlers in the hallway and a stout 
 stick from the corner, and offered to show 
 us a nearer way back to the village. We 
 walked down a footpath through the tall 
 grass to the lake, where he called our 
 attention to various varieties of ferns 
 that he had transplanted there. 
 
 We shook hands with the old gentle- 
 79 
 
5obn TRusfrtn 
 
 man and thanked him for the pleasure he 
 had given us. He was still examining 
 the ferns when we lifted our hats and 
 bade him good day. He evidently did 
 not hear us, for I heard him mutter : " I 
 verily believe those miserable Cook's 
 tourists that were down here yesterday 
 picked some of my ferns.*' 
 
 LIVERPOOL, Sept., '94 
 
 So 
 
WM. E. GLADSTONE 
 
As the aloe is said to flower only once in a 
 hundred years, so it seems to be but once in a 
 thousand years that nature blossoms into this 
 unrivalled product and produces such a man as 
 we have here. 
 
 GLADSTONE lecture on Homer. 
 
WM. E. GLADSTONE. 
 
 i. 
 
 A MERICAN travellers in England 
 /-X are said to accumulate sometimes 
 large and unique assortments of 
 lisps, drawls, and other very peculiar 
 things. Of the value of these acquire- 
 ments as regards their use and beauty, I 
 have not room here to speak. But there 
 is one adjunct which England has that 
 we positively need, and that is "Boots." 
 It may be that Boots is indigenous to Eng- 
 land's soil and that when transplanted 
 he withers and dies ; perhaps there is a 
 quality in our atmosphere that kills him. 
 Anyway we have no Boots. 
 
 When trouble, adversity, or bewilder- 
 83 
 
Cbe 1>aimt0 of 
 
 ment comes to the homesick traveller in 
 an American hotel, to whom can he turn 
 for consolation ? Alas, the porter is 
 afraid of the " guest," and all guests are 
 afraid of the clerk, and the proprietor 
 is never seen, and the Afri-Americans 
 in the dining-room are stupid, and the 
 chambermaid does not answer the ring, 
 and at last the weary wanderer hies him 
 to the barroom and soon discovers that 
 the worthy "barkeep" has nothing to 
 recommend him but his diamond pin. 
 How different, yes, how different this 
 would all be if Boots were only here I 
 At the quaint old city of Chester I 
 was met at the "sti-shun" by the boots 
 of that excellent though modest hotel 
 which stands only a block away. Boots 
 picked out my baggage without my look- 
 ing for it, took me across to the Inn, and 
 showed me to the daintiest, most home- 
 like little room that I had seen for weeks. 
 On the table was a tastefully decorated 
 "jug," evidently just placed there in an- 
 ticipation of my arrival, and in this jug 
 84 
 
"Cam. ;. Gladstone 
 
 was a large bunch of gorgeous roses, the 
 morning dew still on them. 
 
 When Boots had brought me hot water 
 for shaving he disappeared and did not 
 come back until, by the use of telepathy 
 (for Boots is always psychic) I had sent 
 him a message that he was needed. In 
 the afternoon he went with me to get a 
 draft cashed, then he identified me at the 
 Post Office, and introduced me to a dig- 
 nitary at the cathedral whose courtesy 
 added greatly to my enjoyment of the 
 visit. 
 
 The next morning after breakfast, 
 when I returned to my room, everything 
 was put to rights and a fresh bouquet of 
 cut flowers was on the mantel. A good 
 breakfast adds much to one's inward 
 peace : I sat down before the open win- 
 dow and looked out at the great oaks 
 dotting the green meadows that stretched 
 away to the north, and listened to the 
 drowsy tinkle of sheep bells as the sound 
 came floating in on the perfumed breeze. 
 I was thinking how good it was to be 
 85 
 
ZEbe Ibaunts of 
 
 here, when the step of Boots was heard 
 in the doorway. I turned and saw that 
 mine own familiar friend had lost a little 
 of his calm self-reliance in fact, he was 
 a bit agitated, but he soon recovered his 
 breath : 
 
 " Mr. Gladstone and 'is Lady 'ave just 
 arrived, sir, they will be 'ere for an hour 
 before taking the train for Lunnon, sir. 
 I told 'is clark there was a party of Amer- 
 icans 'ere that were very anxious to meet 
 'im and he will receive you in the parlor 
 in fifteen minutes, sir." 
 
 Then it was my turn to be agitated. 
 But Boots reassured me by explaining 
 that the Grand Old Man was just the 
 plainest, most unpretentious gentleman 
 one could imagine ; that it was not at all 
 necessary that I should change my suit ; 
 that I should pronounce it Gladstun not 
 Glad-stone, and that it was Harden not 
 Ha-war-den. Then he stood me up, looked 
 me over and declared that I was all right. 
 
 On going down-stairs I found that Boots 
 had gotten together five Americans who 
 86 
 
'CQm. IB. Gladstone 
 
 happened to be in the hotel. He intro- 
 duced us to a bright little man who 
 seemed to be the companion or secretary 
 of the Prime Minister ; he, in turn, took 
 us into the parlor where Mr. Gladstone 
 sat reading the morning paper and pre- 
 sented us one by one to the great man. 
 We were each greeted with a pleasant 
 word and a firm grasp of the hand, and 
 then the old gentleman turned and with 
 a courtly flourish said : "Gentlemen, al- 
 low me to present you to Mrs. Glad- 
 stone." 
 
 Mr. Gladstone was wise : he remained 
 standing; this was sure to shorten the 
 interview. A clergyman, with an impres- 
 sive cough and bushy whiskers, in our 
 party acted as spokesman and said several 
 pleasant things, closing his little speech 
 by informing Mr. Gladstone that Ameri- 
 cans held him in great esteem, and that 
 we only regretted that fate had not de- 
 creed that he should have been born in 
 the United States. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone replied, "Fate is often 
 87 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 unkind." Then he asked if we were go- 
 ing to London. On being told that we 
 were, he spoke for five minutes about the 
 things we should see in the Metropolis. 
 His style was not conversational, but 
 after the manner of a man who was much 
 used to speaking in public or receiving 
 delegations. The sentences were stately, 
 the voice rather loud and declamatory. 
 His closing words were : "Yes, gentlemen, 
 the way to see London is from the top of a 
 'bus from the top of a 'bus, gentlemen." 
 Then there was an almost imperceptible 
 wave of the hand and we knew that the 
 interview was ended. In a moment we 
 were outside and the door was closed. 
 
 The five Americans who made up our 
 little company had never met before, but 
 now we were as brothers ; we adjourned 
 to a side room to talk it over and tell of 
 the things we intended to say but didn't. 
 We all talked and talked at once, just as 
 people always do who have recently pre- 
 served an enforced silence. 
 
 " How ill-fitting was that gray suit! " 
 83 
 
TKUm, J6. Gladstone 
 
 '* Yes, the sleeves too long." 
 
 "Did you notice the absence of the 
 forefinger of his left hand shot off in 
 1845 while hunting, they say." 
 
 " But how strong his voice is ! " 
 
 " He looks like a farmer." 
 
 " Eighty-five years of age ! think of it, 
 and how vigorous ! " 
 
 Then the preacher spoke and his voice 
 was sorrowful : 
 
 " Oh, but I made a botch of it was it 
 sarcasm or was it not? " 
 
 " What was sarcasm ? " 
 
 "When Mr. Gladstone said that fate 
 was unkind in not having him born in 
 the United States ! " 
 
 And we were all silent. Then Boots 
 came in and we put the question to Boots, 
 and Boots decided that it was not sarcasm. 
 And the next day, when we went away> 
 we rewarded Boots bountifully. 
 
II. 
 
 GLADSTONE is England's glory. 
 Yet there is no English blood 
 in his veins : his parents were 
 Scotch. Aside from Lord Brougham he 
 is the only Scotchman who has ever taken 
 a prominent part in British statecraft. 
 The name as we first find it is Gled-Stane : 
 " gled " being a hawk literally, a hawk 
 that lives among the stones. Surely the 
 hawk is fully as respectable a bird as the 
 eagle, and a goodly amount of granite in 
 the clay that is used to make a man is no 
 disadvantage. The name fits. 
 
 There are deep-rooted theories in the 
 minds of many men (and still more wo- 
 men) that bad boys make good men, and 
 that a dash of the pirate, even in a prel- 
 ate, does not disqualify. But I wish to 
 come to the defence of the Sunday-school 
 90 
 
TKHm. 16. Gladstone 
 
 story-books and show that their very 
 prominent moral is right after all: it 
 pays to be "good." 
 
 William Ewart Gladstone was sent to 
 Eton when twelve years of age. From 
 the first his conduct was a model of pro- 
 priety. He attended every chapel ser- 
 vice, and said his prayers in the morning 
 and before going to bed at night ; he could 
 repeat the catechism backwards or for- 
 wards, and recite more verses of Scrip- 
 ture than any boy in school. 
 
 He always spoke the truth. He never 
 played " hookey" ; nor, as he grew older, 
 would he tell stories of doubtful flavor, 
 or allow others to relate such in his pres- 
 ence. His influence was for good, and 
 Cardinal Manning has said that there was 
 less wine drunk at Oxford during the 
 forties than would have been the case 
 if Gladstone had not been there in the 
 thirties. 
 
 He graduated from Christchurch with 
 the highest possible honors the college 
 could bestow, and at twenty-two he 
 
ZTbe f>aimts of 
 
 seemed like one who had sprung into 
 life full armed. 
 
 At that time he had magnificent health, 
 a fine form, vast and varied knowledge, 
 and a command of language so great 
 that he was a master of forensics. His 
 speeches were fully equal to his later 
 splendid efforts. In feature he was hand- 
 some ; the face bold and masculine ; eyes 
 of piercing lustre ; and hair, that he 
 tossed when in debate, like a lion's mane. 
 He could speak five languages, sing tenor, 
 dance gracefully, and was on more than 
 speaking terms with many of the best 
 and greatest men in England. Besides 
 all this he was rich in British gold. 
 
 Now here is a combination of good 
 things that would send most young men 
 straight to perdition : not so Gladstone. 
 He took the best care of his health, sys- 
 tematized his time as a miser might, list- 
 ened not to the flatterers, and used his 
 money only for good purposes. His in- 
 tention was to enter the Church, but his 
 father said, "Not yet," and half forced 
 02 
 
"CClm. . <3tafcstone 
 
 him into politics. So at this early age of 
 twenty-two he ran for Parliament, was 
 elected, and practically has never been 
 out of the shadow of Westminster Palace 
 during these sixty-odd years. 
 
 At thirty-three he was a member of the 
 Cabinet. At thirty-six his absolute hon- 
 esty compelled him for conscience' sake 
 to resign from the Ministry. His oppo- 
 nents then said, " Gladstone is an extinct 
 volcano," and they have said this again 
 and again, but somehow the volcano al- 
 ways breaks out in a new place, stronger 
 and brighter than ever. It is difficult to 
 subdue a volcano. 
 
 When twenty-nine he married Cather- 
 ine Glynne, sister and heir of Sir Stephen 
 Glynne, Bart. The marriage was most 
 fortunate in every way. For over fifty 
 years this most excellent woman has 
 been his comrade, counsellor, consola- 
 tion, friend his wife. How can any ad- 
 versity come to him who. hath a wife? 
 said Chaucer. 
 
 If this splendid woman had died, then 
 93 
 
ZTbe fmunts of 
 
 his opponents might truthfully have said, 
 " Gladstone is an extinct volcano " ; but 
 she is still with him, and a short time ago, 
 when he had to undergo an operation for 
 cataract, this woman of eighty was his 
 only nurse. 
 
 The influence of Gladstone has been of 
 untold value to England. His ideals for 
 national action have been high. To the 
 material prosperity of the country he has 
 added millions upon millions ; he has 
 made education popular, and schooling 
 easy ; his policy in the main has been 
 such as to command the admiration of 
 the good and great. But there are spots 
 on the sun. 
 
 On reading Mr. Gladstone's books I 
 find he has vigorously defended certain 
 measures that seem unworthy of his gen- 
 ius. He has palliated human slavery as a 
 "necessary evil"; has maintained the 
 visibility and divine authority of the 
 Church ; has asserted the mathemati- 
 cal certainty of the historic episcopate ; 
 the mystical efficacy of the sacraments; 
 94 
 
. B. (SlaOstone 
 
 and vindicated the Church of Kngland as 
 the God-appointed guardian of truth. 
 
 He has fought bitterly any attempt to 
 improve the divorce laws of England. 
 Much has been done in this line even in 
 spite of his earnest opposition, but we 
 now owe it to Mr. Gladstone that there is 
 on England's law books a statute pro- 
 viding that if a wife leaves her husband 
 he can invoke a magistrate, whose duty it 
 will then be to issue a writ and give it to 
 an officer, who will bring her back. More 
 than this, when the officer has returned 
 the woman, the loving husband has the 
 legal right to " reprove " her. Just what 
 reprove means the courts have not yet 
 determined ; for in a recent decision, when 
 a costermonger admitted having given his 
 lady "a taste of the cat," the prisoner 
 was discharged on the ground that it 
 was only needed reproof. 
 
 I would not complain of this law if it 
 worked both ways ; but no wife can de- 
 mand that the state shall return her 
 " man " willy-nilly. And if she admin- 
 95 
 
TTbe Tbaunts of 
 
 isters reproof to her mate, she does it 
 without the sanction of the Queen. 
 
 However, in justice to Englishmen it 
 should be stated that while this unique 
 law still stands on the statute-books, it is 
 very seldom that a man in recent years 
 has stooped to invoke it. 
 
 On all the questions I have named, 
 from slavery to divorce, Mr. Gladstone 
 hus used the " Bible argument." But as 
 the years have gone by his mind has be- 
 come liberalized, and on many points 
 where he was before zealous he is now 
 silent. 
 
 In 1841, he argued with much skill and 
 ingenuity that Jews were not entitled to 
 full rights of citizenship, but in 1847, 
 acknowledging his error, he took the 
 other side. 
 
 During the War of Secession the sym- 
 pathies of England's Chancellor of the 
 Exchequer were with the South. Speak- 
 ing at Newcastle on October 9, 1862, he 
 said: "Jefferson Davis has undoubtedly 
 founded a new nation." But five years 
 96 
 
11dm. B. (Blafcatone 
 
 passed, and he publicly confessed that he 
 was wrong. 
 
 Here is a man who, if he should err 
 deeply, is yet so great, that, like Cotton 
 Mather, he might not hesitate to stand 
 uncovered on the street corners and ask 
 the forgiveness of mankind. Such men 
 are saved by their enemies. Their own 
 good and the good of humanity require 
 that their balance of power shall not 
 be too great. Had the North gone 
 down, Gladstone might never have seen 
 his mistake. In this instance and in 
 many others he has not been the leader 
 of progress, but its echo : truth has been 
 forced upon him. His passionate ear- 
 nestness, his intense volition, his insensi- 
 bility to moral perspective, his blindness 
 to the sense of proportion might have led 
 him into dangerous excess and frightful 
 fanatical error, if it were not for the fact 
 that such men create an opposition that 
 is their salvation. 
 
 To analyze a character so complex as 
 Mr. Gladstone's requires the grasp of 
 97 
 
tlbe Ibaunts or 
 
 genius. We speak of " the duality of 
 the human mind," but here are half a 
 dozen spirits in one. They rule in turn, 
 and occasionally several of them struggle 
 for the mastery. 
 
 When the Fisk Jubilee Singers visited 
 England, we find Gladstone dropping the 
 affairs of State to hear their music. He 
 invited them to Hawarden, where he sang 
 with them. So impressed was he with 
 the negro melodies that he anticipated 
 that idea which has since been material- 
 ized : the founding of a national school 
 of music that would seek to perfect in a 
 scientific way these soul stirring strains. 
 
 He might have made a poet of no mean 
 order ; for his devotion to spiritual and 
 physical beauty has made him a life-long 
 admirer of Homer and Dante. Those 
 who have met him when the mood was 
 upon him have heard him recite by the 
 hour from the Iliad in the original. And 
 yet the theology of Homer belongs to the 
 realm of natural religion with which Mr, 
 Gladstone has little patience. 
 98 
 
. laDstonc 
 
 A prominent member of the House of 
 Commons once said: "The only two 
 things that the Prime Minister really 
 cares for are religion and finance." The 
 statement comes near truth ; for the chief 
 element in Mr. Gladstone's character is 
 his devotion to religion ; and his signal 
 successes have been in the line of eco- 
 nomics. He believes in Free Trade as the 
 gospel of social salvation. He revels in 
 figures ; he has price, value, consumption, 
 distribution, import, export, fluctuation, 
 all at his tongue's end, ready to hurl at 
 any one who ventures on a hasty general- 
 ization. 
 
 And it is a significant fact that in his 
 strong appeal for the disestablishment of 
 the Irish Church, the stress of his argu- 
 ment was put on the point that the Irish 
 Church was not in the line of the apos- 
 tolic succession. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone is grave, sober, earnest, 
 
 proud, passionate, and at times romantic 
 
 to a rare degree. He rebukes, refutes, 
 
 pontradicts, defies, and has a magnificent 
 
 99 
 
Ibaunts ot 
 
 capacity for indignation. He will roar 
 you like a lion, his eyes will flash, and 
 his clenched fist will shake as he den oun- 
 ces that which he believes to be error. 
 And yet among inferiors he will consult, 
 defer, inquire, and show a humility, a 
 forced suavity that has given the carica- 
 turist excuse. 
 
 In his home he is gentle, amiable, 
 always kind, social, and hospitable. He 
 loves deeply, and his friends revere him 
 to a point that is but little this side of 
 idolatry. And surely their affection is 
 not misplaced. 
 
 Some day a Plutarch, without a Plu- 
 tarch's prejudice will arise, and with 
 malice toward none but charity for all, 
 he will write the life of the statesman, 
 Gladstone. Over against this he will write 
 the life of an American statesman. The 
 name he will choose will be that of one 
 born in a log hut in the forest ; who was 
 rocked by the foot of a mother whose 
 hands meanwhile were busy at her wheel ; 
 who had no schooling, no wise and influ- 
 
 100 
 
Wim. B. (Bla&stone 
 
 ential friends; who had few books and 
 little time to read ; who knew no formal 
 religion ; who never travelled out of his 
 own country ; who had no helpmeet, 
 but who walked solitary alone, a man 
 of sorrows ; down whose homely furrowed 
 face the tears of pity often ran, and yet 
 whose name, strange paradox ! stands in 
 many minds as a symbol of mirth. 
 
 And when the master comes, who has 
 the power to portray with absolute fidelity 
 the greatness of these two men, will it 
 be to the disadvantage of the American ? 
 
 101 
 
III. 
 
 THE village of Hawarden is in Flint 
 shire, North Wales. It is seven 
 miles from Chester. I walked 
 the distance one fine June morning out 
 across the battle-field where Cromwell's 
 army crushed that of Charles ; and on 
 past old stone walls and stately elms. 
 
 There had been a shower the night 
 before but the morning sun came out 
 bright and warm and made the rain drops 
 glisten like beads as they clung to each 
 leaf and flower. Larks sang and soared, 
 and great flocks of crows called and cawed 
 as they flew lazily across the sky. It was 
 a time for silent peace, and quiet joy, 
 and serene thankfulness for life and 
 health. 
 
 I walked leisurely, and in a little over 
 two hours reached Hawarden a cluster 
 of plain vStone houses with climbing vines 
 102 
 
"Cdm. J6. GlaDstone 
 
 and flowers and gardens that told of 
 homely thrift and simple tastes. I went 
 straight to the old stone church, which 
 is always open, and rested for half an 
 hour listening to the organ on which a 
 young girl was practising, instructed by 
 a white-haired old gentleman. 
 
 The church is dingy and stained inside 
 and out by time. The pews are irregular, 
 some curiously carved and all stiff and 
 uncomfortable. I walked around and 
 read the inscriptions on the walls, and all 
 the time the young girl played and the 
 old gentleman beat time and neither 
 noticed my presence. One brass tablet I 
 saw was to a woman "who for long years 
 was a faithful servant at Hawarden Castle. 
 Erected in gratitude by W. E. G." Near 
 this was a memorial to W. H. Gladstone, 
 son of the Premier, who died in 1891. 
 Then there were inscriptions to various 
 Glynnes and several others whose names 
 appear in English history. I stood at 
 the reading-desk where the great man 
 has so often read, and marked the spot 
 103 
 
f>aunt0 of 
 
 where William Bwart Gladstone and 
 Catherine Glynne knelt when they were 
 married here fifty-six years ago. 
 
 A short distance from the church is the 
 entrance to Hawarden Park. This fine 
 property was the inheritance of Mrs. 
 Gladstone ; the park itself seems to be- 
 long to the public. If Mr. Gladstone 
 were a plain citizen, people of course 
 would not come by hundreds and picnic 
 on his preserve, but serving the State he 
 and his possessions belong to the people, 
 and this democratic familiarity is rather 
 pleasing than otherwise. So great has 
 been the throng in times past, that an 
 iron fence had to be placed about the ivy 
 covered ruins of the ancient castle, to 
 protect it from those who threatened to 
 carry it away by the pocketful. A wall 
 has also been put around the present 
 " castle " (more properly house). This 
 was done some years ago, I was told by 
 the butler, after a torchlight procession 
 of a thousand enthusiastic admirers had 
 come down from Liverpool and tramped 
 104 
 
. J. Gladstone 
 
 Mrs. Gladstone's flowers into "smither- 
 eens." 
 
 The park contains many hundred acres, 
 and is as beautiful as an English park 
 can be, and this is praise superlative. 
 Flocks of sheep wander over the soft 
 green turf, and beneath the spreading trees 
 are sleek cows, with big open eyes that 
 seem used to visitors and come up to be 
 petted. 
 
 Occasional signs are seen: "Please 
 spare the trees." Some people suppose 
 that this is an injunction which Mr. 
 Gladstone himself has never observed. 
 But when in his tree-cutting days, no 
 monarch of the forest was ever felled with- 
 out its case being fully tried by the en- 
 tire household. Ruskin, once visiting at 
 Hawarden, sat as judge, and after listen- 
 ing tp the evidence gave sentence against 
 several trees that were rotten at the core 
 or over-shadowing their betters. Then 
 the Prime Minister shouldered his faith- 
 ful "snickersee" and went forth as 
 executioner. 
 
 105 
 
Gbe Ibaunts ot 
 
 I looked in vain for stumps, and on 
 inquiry was told that they were all dug 
 out and the ground levelled so no trace 
 was left of the offender. 
 
 The "lady of the house " at Hawarden 
 is the second daughter of Mr. and Mrs. 
 Gladstone. All accounts agree that she 
 is a most capable and excellent woman. 
 She is her father's " home secretary " 
 and confidante, and in his absence takes 
 full charge of the mail and looks after 
 important business affairs. Her husband, 
 the Rev. Harry Drew, is rector of Hawar- 
 den Church. I had the pleasure of meet- 
 ing Mr. Drew and found him very cordial 
 and perfectly willing to talk about the 
 great man who is grandfather to his baby. 
 We also talked of America and I soon 
 surmised that Mr. Drew's ideas of "The 
 States" were largely derived from a visit 
 to the Wild West Show. So I put the 
 question to him direct : 
 
 " Did you see Buffalo Bill ? " 
 
 "Oh, yes." 
 
 "And did Mr. Gladstone go?" 
 106 
 
XUm. J. Gladstone 
 
 "Not only once but three times, and 
 he cheered as loudly as any boy." 
 
 The Gladstone residence is a great, 
 rambling, stone structure to which addi- 
 tions have been made from one generation 
 to another. The towers and battlements 
 are merely architectural appendiculae, but 
 the effect of the whole, when viewed from 
 a distance, rising out of its wealth of green 
 and backed by the forest, is very impos- 
 ing. 
 
 I entered only the spacious front hall- 
 way and one room the library. Book 
 shelves and books and more books were 
 everywhere ; several desks of different 
 designs (one an American roll-top), as if 
 the owner transacted business at one, 
 translated Homer at another, and wrote 
 social letters from a third. Then there 
 were several large Japanese vases, a tiger 
 skin, beautiful rugs, a few large paintings, 
 and in a rack a full dozen axes and twice 
 as many " sticks." 
 
 The whole place has an air of easy 
 luxury, that speaks of peace and plenty 
 107 
 
"CClm. B. (Blafcstone 
 
 of quiet and rest, of gentle thoughts and 
 calm desires. 
 
 As I walked across toward the village 
 the church bell slowly pealed the hour ; 
 over the distant valley night hovered ; 
 a streak of white mist, trailing like a thin 
 veil, marked the passage of the murmuring 
 brook. I thought of the grand old man 
 over whose domain I was now treading, 
 and my wonder was, not that one should 
 live so long and still be vigorous, but that 
 a man should live in such an idyllic spot, 
 with love and books to keep him com- 
 pany, and yet grow old. 
 
 1 08 
 
J. M. W. TURNER 
 
 log 
 
I believe that these works of Turner's are at 
 their first appearing as perfect as those of 
 Phidias or I/eonardo ; that is to say, incapable of 
 any improvement conceivable by human mind. 
 JOHN RUSKIN, 
 
 no 
 
J. M. W. TURNER. 
 
 THE beauty of the upper Thames 
 with its fairy house-boats and 
 green banks has been sung by 
 poets, but rash is the minstrel who tunes 
 his lyre to sound the praises of this 
 muddy stream in the vicinity of Chelsea. 
 As yellow as the Tiber and thick as the 
 Missouri after a flood, it comes twice a 
 day bearing upon its tossing tide a unique 
 assortment of uncanny sights and sick- 
 ening smells from the swarming city of 
 men below. 
 
 Chelsea was once a country village six 
 miles from London Bridge. Now the 
 far-reaching arms of the metropolis have 
 taken it as her own. 
 
 Chelsea may be likened to some rare 
 in 
 
1)aunt0 of 
 
 spinster, grown old with years and good 
 works, and now having a safe home with 
 a rich and powerful benefactress. Yet 
 Chelsea is not handsome in her old age, 
 and Chelsea was not pretty in youth, nor 
 fair to view in middle life ; but Chelsea 
 has been the foster mother of several of 
 the rarest and fairest souls who have ever 
 made the earth pilgrimage. 
 
 And the greatness of genius still rests 
 upon Chelsea. As we walk slowly 
 through its winding ways, by the edge 
 of its troubled waters, among dark and 
 crooked turns, through curious courts, 
 by old gateways and piles of steepled 
 stone, where flocks of pigeons wheel, 
 and bells chime, and organs peal, and 
 winds sigh, we know that all has been 
 sanctified by their presence. And their 
 spirits abide with us, and the splendid 
 beauty of their visions is about us. For 
 the stones beneath our feet have been 
 hallowed by their tread, and the walls 
 have borne their shadows ; so all mean 
 things are transfigured and over all these 
 112 
 
5 d&. "Cd. (Turner 
 
 plain and narrow streets their glory 
 gleams. 
 
 And it is the great men and they alone 
 that can render a place sacred. Chelsea 
 is now to the lovers of the Beautiful a 
 sacred name, a sacred soil ; a place of pil- 
 grimage where certain gods of Art once 
 lived, and loved, and worked, and died. 
 
 Sir Thomas More lived here and had 
 for a frequent guest Krasmus. Hans 
 Sloane began in Chelsea the collection of 
 curiosities which has now developed into 
 the British Museum. Bishop Atterbury, 
 (who claimed that Dryden was a greater 
 poet than Shakespeare), Dean Swift, and 
 Dr. Arbuthnot, all lived in Church St.; 
 Richard Steele just around the corner and 
 I^eigh Hunt in Cheyne Row ; but it was 
 from another name that the little street 
 was to be immortalized. 
 
 If France constantly has forty Immor- 
 tals in the flesh, surely it is a modest 
 claim to say that Chelsea has three for 
 all time : Thomas Carlyle, George Eliot, 
 and Joseph Mallord William Turner. 
 
Gbe flaunts of 
 
 Turner's father was a barber. His 
 youth was passed in poverty, and his ad- 
 vantages for education were very slight. 
 And all this in the crowded city of Lon- 
 don where merit may knock long and 
 still not be heard, and in a country where 
 wealth and title count for much. 
 
 When a boy, barefoot and ragged, he 
 would wander away alone on the banks 
 of the river and dream dreams about 
 wonderful palaces and beautiful scenes ; 
 and then he would trace with a stick in 
 the sands, endeavoring, with mud, to 
 make plain to the eye the things that his 
 soul saw. 
 
 His mother was quite sure that no good 
 could come from this vagabondish nature, 
 and she did not spare the rod, for she feared 
 that the desire to scrawl and daub would 
 spoil the child. But he was a stubborn 
 lad with a pug nose and big, dreamy, won- 
 dering eyes and a heavy jaw ; and when 
 parents see that they have such a son 
 they had better hang up the rod behind 
 the kitchen door and lay aside force and 
 114 
 
5. flfc. TML turner 
 
 cease scolding. For love is better than 
 a cat-o'-nine-tails and sympathy saves 
 more souls than threats. 
 
 The elder Turner considered that the 
 proper use of a brush was to lather 
 chins. But the boy thought differently, 
 and once surreptitiously took one of his 
 father's brushes to paint a picture ; the 
 brush on being returned to its cup was 
 used the next day upon a worthy haber- 
 dasher, whose cheeks were shortly col- 
 ored a vermilion that matched his nose. 
 This lost the barber a customer and se- 
 cured the boy a thrashing. 
 
 Young Turner did not always wash his 
 father's shop windows well, nor sweep off 
 the sidewalk properly. Like all boys he 
 would rather work for some one else than 
 " his folks." 
 
 He used to run errands for an engraver 
 by the name of Smith John Raphael 
 Smith. Once when Smith sent the bar- 
 ber's boy with a letter to a certain art gal- 
 lery with orders to " get the answer and 
 hurry back, mind you ! " the boy forgot 
 "5 
 
l>aunts of 
 
 to get the answer and to hurry back. 
 Then another boy was despatched after 
 the first, and boy Number Two found boy 
 Number One sitting, with staring eyes 
 and open mouth, in the art gallery before 
 a painting of Claude Lorraine's. When 
 boy Number One was at last half forcibly 
 dragged away and reached the shop of 
 his master he got his ears well cuffed for 
 his forgetfulness. But from that day 
 forth he was not the same being that he 
 had been before his eyes fell on that 
 Claude Lorraine. 
 
 He was transformed, as much so as was 
 Lazarus after he was called from beyond 
 the portals of death and had come back 
 to earth, bearing in his heart the secrets 
 of the grave. 
 
 From that time he thought of Claude 
 Lorraine during the day and dreamed of 
 him at night, and he stole his way into 
 every exhibition where a Claude was to 
 be seen. And now I wish that Claude 
 Lorraine was the subject of this sketch, 
 as well as Turner, for his life is a picture 
 116 
 
5. fl&. THB. turner 
 
 full of sweetest poetry, framed in a world 
 of dullest prose. 
 
 The eyes of this boy whom they had 
 thought dreamy, dull, and listless, now 
 shone with a different light. He thirsted 
 to achieve, to do, to become yes, to be- 
 come a greater painter than Claude Lor- 
 raine. His employer saw the change and 
 smiled at it, but he allowed the lad to put 
 in back-grounds and add the skies to 
 cheap prints, just because the youngster 
 teased to do it. 
 
 Then one day a certain patron of the 
 shop came, and looked over the shoulder 
 of the Turner boy and he said, " He has 
 skill perhaps talent." 
 
 And I think that the recording angel 
 should give this man a separate page on 
 the Book of Remembrance and write 
 his name in illumined colors, for he gave 
 young Turner access to his own col- 
 lection and to his library, and he never 
 cuffed him nor kicked him nor called him 
 dunce ; whereat the boy was much sur- 
 prised. But he encouraged the youth to 
 117 
 
ttbe "fcaunts of 
 
 sketch a picture in water colors and then 
 he bought the picture and paid him ten 
 shillings for it ; and the name of this man 
 was Doctor Munro. 
 
 The next year, when young Turner was 
 fourteen, Dr. Munro had him admitted to 
 the Royal Academy as a student, and in 
 1790 he exhibited a water color of the 
 Archbishop's palace at I^ambeth. 
 
 The picture took no prize, and, doubt- 
 less was not worthy of one but from 
 now on Joseph M. W.Turner was an artist, 
 and other hands had to sweep the barber 
 shop. 
 
 But he sold few pictures they were 
 not popular. Other artists scorned him, 
 possibly intuitively fearing him, for me- 
 diocrity always fears when the ghost of 
 genius does not down at its bidding. 
 
 Then Turner was accounted unsociable : 
 besides he was ragged, uncouth, indepen- 
 dent, and did not conform to the ways of 
 society ; so the select circle cast him out, 
 more properly speaking did not let him 
 in. 
 
 118 
 
. dfc. "OBI. ZTurner 
 
 Still he worked and exhibited at every 
 Academy Exhibition, yet he was often 
 hungry, and the London fog crept cold 
 and damp through his threadbare clothes. 
 But he toiled on, for Claude Lorraine was 
 ever before him. 
 
 In 1802, when twenty-seven years of 
 age, he visited France and made a tour 
 through Switzerland, tramping over many 
 long miles with his painting kit on his 
 back, and he brought back rich treasures 
 in way of sketches and quickened imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 In the years following he took many 
 such trips, and came to know Venice, 
 Rome, Florence, and Paris as perfectly as 
 his own London. 
 
 When thirty-three years of age he was 
 still worshipping at the shrine of Claude 
 Lorraine. His pictures painted at this 
 time are evidence of his ideal, and his 
 book Liber Studiorum, issued in 1808, is 
 modelled after the Liber Veritatis. But 
 the book surpasses Claude's, and Turner 
 knew it, and this may have led him to 
 119 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 burst his shackles and cast loose from his 
 idol. For in 1815 we find him working 
 according to his own ideas, showing an 
 originality and audacity in conception 
 and execution that made him the butt of 
 the critics, and caused consternation to 
 rage through the studios of competitors. 
 
 Gradually it dawned upon a few scat- 
 tered collectors that things so strongly 
 condemned must have merit, for why 
 should the pack bay so loudly if there 
 were no quarry ! So to have a Turner 
 was at least something for your friends 
 to discuss. 
 
 Then carriages began to stop before the 
 dingy building at 47 Queen Anne St., 
 and broadcloth and satin mounted the 
 creaking stairs to the studio. It hap- 
 pened about this time that Turner's prices 
 began to increase. Like the sibyl of old, 
 if a customer said "I do not want it," 
 the painter put an extra ten pounds 
 on the price. For Dido building Car- 
 thage Turner's original price was five 
 hundred pounds. People came to see the 
 120 
 
3. flfc. "GDI. (Turner 
 
 picture and they said, "The price is 
 too high." Next day Turner's price for 
 the Carthage was one thousand pounds. 
 Finally Sir Robert Peel offered the 
 painter five thousand pounds for the 
 picture, but Turner said he had decided 
 to keep it for himself, and he did. 
 
 In the forepart of his career he sold 
 few pictures ; for the simple reason that 
 no one wanted them. And he sold few 
 pictures during the latter years of his 
 life, for the reason that his prices were so 
 high that none but the very rich could 
 buy. First the public scorned Turner. 
 Next Turner scorned the public. In the 
 beginning it would not buy his pictures, 
 and later it could not. 
 
 A frivolous public and shallow press 
 from his first exhibition, when fifteen 
 years of age, to his last, when seventy, 
 made sport of his originalities. But for 
 merit there is a recompense in sneers, 
 and a benefit in sarcasms, and a compen- 
 sation in hate : for when these things 
 get too pronounced a champion appears. 
 121 
 
tmunts of 
 
 And so it was with Turner. Next to 
 having a Boswell write one's life what is 
 better than a Rusk in to uphold one's 
 cause ! 
 
 Success came slowly ; his wants were 
 few, but his ambition never slackened, 
 and finally the dreams of his youth be- 
 came the realities of his manhood. 
 
 At twenty Turner loved a beautiful 
 girl they became engaged. He went 
 away on a tramp sketching tour and 
 wrote his lady-love just one short 
 letter each month. He believed that 
 "absence only makes the heart grow 
 fonder," not knowing that this statement 
 is only the vagary of a poet. When he 
 returned the lady was betrothed to an- 
 other. He gave the pair his blessing 
 and remained a bachelor a very con- 
 firmed bachelor. 
 
 Perhaps, however, the reason \i\sjiance 
 proved untrue was not through lack 
 of the epistles he wrote her, but on ac- 
 count of them. In the British Museum 
 I examined several letters written by 
 122 
 
3. A. Ira. turner 
 
 Turner. They appeared very much like 
 copy for a Josh Billings Almanac. Such 
 originality in spelling, punctuation, and 
 use of capitals ! It was admirable in 
 its uniqueness. Turner did not think in 
 words he could only think in paint. 
 But the young lady did not know this, 
 and when a letter came from her homely 
 little lover she was shocked, then she 
 laughed, then she showed these letters to 
 a nice young man who was clerk to a 
 fishmonger and he laughed, then they 
 both laughed. Then this nice young 
 man and this beautiful young lady be- 
 came engaged, and they were married at 
 St. Andrew's on a lovely May morning. 
 And they lived happily ever afterward. 
 
 Turner was small, and in appearance 
 plain. Yet he was big enough to paint 
 a big picture, and he was not so homely 
 as to frighten away all beautiful women. 
 But Philip Gilbert Hamerton tells us: 
 "Fortunate in many things, Turner was 
 lamentably unfortunate in this : that 
 throughout his whole life he never came 
 123 
 
Ibaunts ot 
 
 under the ennobling and refining influ- 
 ence of a good woman." 
 
 Like Plato, Michael Angelo, Sir Isaac 
 Newton, and his own Claude Lorraine, he 
 was wedded to his art. But at sixty-five 
 his genius suddenly burst forth afresh, 
 and his work, Mr. Ruskin says, at that 
 time exceeded in daring brilliancy and 
 in the rich flowering of imagination any- 
 thing that he had previously done. Mr. 
 Ruskin could give no reason, but rumor 
 says: "A woman." 
 
 The one weakness of our hero, that 
 hung to him for life, was the idea that he 
 could write poetry. The tragedian al- 
 ways thinks he can succeed in comedy, 
 the comedian spends hours in his garret 
 rehearsing tragedy ; most preachers have 
 an idea that they could have made a 
 quick fortune in business, and many busi- 
 ness men are very sure that if they had 
 taken to the pulpit there would now be 
 fewer empty pews. So the greatest land- 
 scape painter of recent times imagined 
 himself a poet. Hamerton says that 
 124 
 
. TRtt. turner 
 
 Turner's verse would serve well for re- 
 markable specimens of grammar, spell- 
 ing, and construction to be given to little 
 boys to correct. 
 
 One spot in Turner's life over which I 
 like to linger is his friendship with Sir 
 Walter Scott. They collaborated in the 
 production of Provincial Antiquities 
 and spent many happy hours together 
 tramping over Scottish moors and moun- 
 tains. Sir Walter lived out his days in 
 happy ignorance concerning the art of 
 painting, and although he liked the so- 
 ciety of Turner, he confessed that it was 
 quite beyond his ken why people bought 
 his pictures. "And as for your books," 
 said Turner, "the covers of some are 
 certainly very pretty." 
 
 Yet these men took a satisfaction in 
 each other's society, such as brothers 
 might enjoy, but without either appreci- 
 ating the greatness of the other. 
 
 Turner's temperament was audacious, 
 self-centred, self-reliant, eager for suc- 
 cess and fame, yet at the same time scorn- 
 125 
 
$be Ibaunts of 
 
 ing public opinion a paradox often found 
 in the artistic mind of the first class ; 
 silent always with a bitter silence, dis- 
 daining to tell his meaning when the 
 critics could not perceive it. 
 
 He was above all things always the 
 artist, never the realist. The realist 
 pictures the things he sees ; the artist 
 expresses that which he feels. Children, 
 and all simple folk who use pen, pencil, 
 or brush describe the things they behold. 
 As 'intellect develops and goes more in 
 partnership with hand, imagination soars 
 and things are outlined that no man can 
 see except he be able to perceive the 
 invisible. To appreciate a work of art 
 you must feel as the artist felt. 
 
 Now it is very plain that the vast ma- 
 jority of people are not capable of this 
 high sense of sublimity which the crea- 
 tive artist feels ; and therefore they do 
 not understand, and not understanding 
 they wax merry, or cynical, or sarcastic, 
 or wrathful, or envious ; or they pass by 
 unmoved. And I maintain that those 
 126 
 
5. d&. "001. turner 
 
 who pass by unmoved are more righteous 
 lhan they who scoff. 
 
 If I should attempt to explain to my 
 little girl the awe I feel when I contem- 
 plate the miracle of maternity, she would 
 probably change the subject by prattling 
 to me about a kitten that she saw lapping 
 milk from a blue saucer. If I should 
 attempt to explain to some men what I 
 feel when I contemplate the miracle of 
 maternity, they would smile and turn it 
 all into an unspeakable jest. Is not the 
 child nearer to God than the man ? 
 
 We thus see why Browning is only a 
 joke to many, Whitman an eccentric, 
 Dante insane, and Turner a pretender. 
 These have all sought to express things 
 which the many cannot feel, and conse- 
 quently they have been, and are, the butt 
 of jokes and jibes innumerable. " Bx- 
 cept ye become as little children," etc. 
 And yet the scoffers are often people of 
 worth. Nothing shows the limitation of 
 humanity as this : genius often doe 
 not appreciate genius. The inspired, 
 127 
 
Gbe "fcaunts of 
 
 strangely enough, are like the fools, 
 they do not recognize inspiration. 
 
 An Bnglishman called on Voltaire and 
 found him in bed reading Shakespeare. 
 
 "What are you reading?" asked the 
 visitor. 
 
 " Your Shakespeare ! " said the philos- 
 opher : and as he answered he flung the 
 book across the room. 
 
 "He's not my Shakespeare," said the 
 Englishman. 
 
 Greene, Rymer, Dryden, Warburton, 
 and Dr. Johnson used collectively or in- 
 dividually the following expressions in 
 describing the work of the author of 
 Hamlet : conceit, overreach, word-play, 
 extravagance, overdone, absurdity, obscu- 
 rity, puerility, bombast, idiocy, untruth, 
 improbability, drivel. 
 
 Byron wrote from Florence to Murray : 
 "I know nothing of painting, and I ab- 
 hor and spit upon all saints and so-called 
 spiritual subjects that I see portrayed in 
 these churches." 
 
 But the past is so crowded with vitu 
 128 
 
. Gurnet 
 
 peration that it is difficult to select- - 
 besides that we do not wish to ; but let 
 us take a sample of arrogance from yes- 
 terday to prove our point and then drop 
 the theme for something pleasanter. 
 
 Pew and pulpit have fallen over each 
 other for the privilege of hitting Dar- 
 win ; a Bishop warns his congregation 
 that Emerson is " dangerous " ; Spurgeon 
 calls Shelley a sensualist; Dr. Buckley 
 speaks of Susan B. Anthony as the leader 
 of "the short-haired"; Talmage cracks 
 jokes about evolution, referring feelingly 
 to " monkey ancestry " ; and a promi- 
 nent divine of England writes the recent 
 World's Congress of Religions down as 
 " pious wax-works." These things being 
 true, and all the sentiments quoted com- 
 ing from "good" but blindly zealous 
 men, is it a wonder that the Artist is not 
 understood ? 
 
 A brilliant picture called Cologne 
 
 Evening, attracted much attention at 
 
 the Academy Exhibition of 1826. One 
 
 day the people who so often collected 
 
 129 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 around Turner's work were shocked to 
 see that the beautiful canvas had lost its 
 brilliancy, and evidently had been tam- 
 pered with by some miscreant. A friend 
 ran to inform Turner of the bad news : 
 "Don't say anything. I only smirched 
 it with lampblack. It was spoiling the 
 effect of Laurence's picture that hung 
 next to it. The black will all wash off 
 after the exhibition." 
 
 And his tender treatment of his aged 
 father shows the gentle side of his nature. 
 The old barber, whose trembling hand 
 could no longer hold a razor, wished to 
 remain under his son's roof in guise of 
 a servant, but the son said : " No, we 
 fought the world together, and now that 
 it seeks to do me honor you shall share 
 all the benefits. ' And Turner never 
 smiled when the little wizened old man 
 would whisper to some visitor : " Yes, 
 yes, Joseph is the greatest artist in Eng- 
 land, and I am his father." 
 
 Turner had a way of sending ten-pound 
 notes in blank envelopes to artists in dis- 
 130 
 
burner 
 
 tress, and he did this so frequently that 
 the news got out finally, but never through 
 Turner's telling, and then he had to adopt 
 other methods of doing good by stealth. 
 
 I do not contend that Turner's charac- 
 ter was immaculate, but still it is very 
 probable that worldlings do not appre- 
 ciate what a small part of this great 
 genius touched the mire. 
 
 To prove the sordidness of the man one 
 critic tells, with visage awfully solemn, 
 how Turner once gave an engraving to a 
 friend and then after a year sent demand- 
 ing it back. But to a person with a 
 groat's worth of wit the matter is plain : 
 the dreamy, abstracted artist who bumped 
 into his next door neighbors on the street 
 and never knew them, forgot he had given 
 the picture and believed he had only 
 loaned it. This is made still more appar- 
 ent by the fact, that when he sent for the 
 engraving in question, he administered a 
 rebuke to the man for keeping it so long. 
 The poor dullard who received the note 
 flew into a rage returned the picture 
 131 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 sent his compliments and begged the 
 great artist to " take your picture and go 
 to the devil." 
 
 Then certain scribblers who through 
 mental disease had lost the capacity for 
 mirth, dipped their pen in aqua fortis 
 and wrote of the "innate meanness," 
 the " malice prepense," and the " Old 
 Adam" which dwelt in the heart of 
 Turner. No one laughed except a few 
 Irishmen, and an American or two, who 
 chanced to hear of the story. 
 
 Of Turner's many pictures I will men- 
 tion in detail but two, both of which are 
 to be seen on the walls of the National 
 Gallery. First The Old Temeraire. 
 This warship had been sold out of ser- 
 vice and was being towed away to be 
 broken up. The scene was photographed 
 on Turner's brain, and he immortalized 
 it on canvas. We cannot do better than 
 to borrow the words of Mr. Ruskiii : 
 
 " Of all pictures not visibly involving 
 human pain this is the most pathetic 
 ever painted. 
 
 132 
 
5. dfc, M. Curner 
 
 " The utmost pensiveness which can 
 ordinarily be given to a landscape de- 
 pends on adjuncts of ruin, but no ruin 
 was ever so affecting as the gliding of 
 this ship to her grave. This particular 
 ship, crowned in the Trafalgar hour of 
 trial with chief victory surely, if ever 
 anything without a soul deserved honor 
 or affection we owe them here. Surely 
 some sacred care might have been left in 
 our thoughts for her; some quiet space 
 amid the lapse of English waters ! Nay, 
 not so. We have stern keepers to trust 
 her glory to the fire and the worm. Nev- 
 ermore shall sunset lay golden robe upon 
 her, nor starlight tremble on the waves 
 that part at her gliding. Perhaps where 
 the low n^ate opens to some cottage gar- 
 den, the tired traveller may ask, idly, 
 why the moss grows so green on the rug- 
 ged wood ; and even the sailor's child 
 may not know that the night dew lies 
 deep in the war rents of the old Teme- 
 raire." 
 
 The Burial of Sir David Wilkie at 
 133 
 
Daunts of 
 
 Sea has brought tears to many eyes. Yet 
 there is no burial. The ship is far away 
 in the gloom of the offing ; you cannot 
 distinguish a single figure on her decks ; 
 but you behold her great sails standing 
 out against the leaden blackness of the 
 night and you feel that out there a certain 
 scene is being enacted. And if you lis- 
 ten closely you can hear the solemn voice 
 of the captain as he reads the burial ser- 
 vice. Then there is a pause a swift slid- 
 ing sound a splash and all is over. 
 
 Turner left to the British Nation by 
 his will nineteen thousand pencil and 
 water color sketches and one hundred 
 large canvases. These pictures are now 
 to be seen in the National Gallery in 
 rooms set apart and sacred to Turner's 
 work. For fear that it may be thought 
 that the number of sketches mentioned 
 above is a misprint, let us say that if he 
 had produced one picture a day for fifty 
 years, it would not equal the number of 
 pieces bestowed by his will on the nation. 
 
 This of course takes no account of the 
 134 
 
3. d&. M. burner 
 
 pictures sold during his lifetime, and, as 
 he left a fortune of one hundred and forty- 
 four thousand pounds ($720,000.00), we 
 may infer that not all of his pictures were 
 given away. 
 
 At Chelsea I stood in the little room 
 where he breathed his last, that bleak day 
 in 1851. The unlettered but motherly 
 old woman who took care of him in those 
 last days never guessed his greatness ; 
 none in the house or neighborhood knew. 
 
 To them he was only Mr. Booth, an 
 eccentric old man of moderate means who 
 liked to muse, read, and play with chil- 
 dren. He had no callers, no friends ; he 
 went to the city every day and came back 
 at night. He talked but little, he was 
 absent-minded, he smoked and thought 
 and smiled and muttered to himself. He 
 never went to church ; but once one of 
 the lodgers asked him what he thought 
 of God. 
 
 "God, God what do I know of God, 
 what does any one ! He is our life He 
 is the All, but we need not fef r Him 
 135 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 all we can do is to speak the truth and do 
 our work. To-morrow we go where ? I 
 know not, but I am not afraid." 
 
 Of art, to these strangers he would 
 never speak. Once they urged him to 
 go with them to an exhibition at Kensing- 
 ton, but he smiled feebly as he lit his 
 pipe and said, "An Art Kxhibition ? no, 
 no, a man can show on a canvas so little of 
 what he feels, it is not worth the while." 
 
 At last he died passed peacefully away, 
 and his attorney came and took charge 
 of his remains. 
 
 Many are the hard words that have 
 been flung off by heedless tongues about 
 Turner's taking an assumed name and 
 living in obscurity, but "what you call 
 fault I call accent." Surely if a great 
 man and world famous, desires to escape 
 the flatterers and the silken mesh of so- 
 called society and live the life of simplicity 
 he has a right to do so. Again, Turner 
 was a very rich man in his old age ; he did 
 much for struggling artists and assisted 
 aspiring merit in many ways. So it came 
 136 
 
3. fl&. HH. turner 
 
 about that his mail was burdened with 
 begging letters, and his life made miser- 
 able by appeals from impecunious per- 
 sons, good and bad, and from churches, 
 societies, and associations without number. 
 He decided to flee them all ; and he did. 
 
 The Carthage mentioned on a former 
 page is one of his finest works, and he 
 esteemed it so highly that he requested 
 that when death came his body should be 
 buried, wrapped in its magnificent folds. 
 But the wish was disregarded. 
 
 His remains rest in the crypt of St. 
 Paul's, beside the dust of Reynolds. 
 His statue, in marble, adorns a niche in 
 the great cathedral, and his name is 
 secure high on the roll of honor. 
 
 And if for no other reason the name 
 and fame of Chelsea should be deathless 
 as the home of Turner. 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT 
 
 139 
 
They are but few and meanspirited that live in 
 peace with all men. 
 
 Tale of a Tub. 
 
 140 
 
JONATHAN SWIFT. 
 
 I. 
 
 " /~\^ writing books about Dean 
 I I Swift there is no end," quoth 
 Mr. Birrell. The reason is 
 plain : of no other prominent writer who 
 has lived during the past two hundred 
 years do we know so much. His life 
 lies open to us in many books. Boswell 
 did not write his biography, but Johnson 
 did. Then followed whole schools of lit- 
 tle fishes, some of whom wrote like 
 whales. But among the works of genu- 
 ine worth and merit with Swift for a sub- 
 ject, we have Sir Walter Scott's nineteen 
 volumes, and lives by Craik, Mitford, 
 Forster, Collins, and Leslie Stephen. 
 
 The positive elements in Swift's char- 
 acter make him a most interesting subject 
 141 
 
Cbe Ibaunts of 
 
 to men and women who are yet on earth, 
 for he was essentially of the earth, earthy. 
 And until we are shown that the earth is 
 wholly bad, we shall find much to amuse, 
 much to instruct, much to admire, aye, 
 much to pity in the life of Jonathan 
 Swift. 
 
 His father married when twenty. Hi? 
 income matched his years it was just 
 twenty pounds per annum. His wife was a 
 young girl, bright, animated, intelligent. 
 
 In a few short months this girl carried 
 in her arms a baby. This baby was 
 wrapped in a tattered shawl and cried 
 piteously from hunger, for the mother 
 had not enough to eat. She was cold, 
 and sick, and in disgrace. Her husband, 
 too, was ill and sorely in debt. It was 
 midwinter. 
 
 When spring came, and the flowers 
 blossomed, and the birds mated, and 
 warm breezes came whispering softly 
 from the south and all the earth was 
 glad, the husband of this child-wife was 
 in his grave, and she was alone. Alone ? 
 142 
 
5<matban Swift 
 
 No; she carried in her tired arms the 
 hungry babe and beneath her heart she 
 felt the faint flutter of another life. 
 
 But to be in trouble and in Ireland is 
 not so bad after all, for the Irish people 
 have great and tender hearts and even if 
 they have not much to bestow in a ma- 
 terial way they can give sympathy, and 
 they do. 
 
 So the girl was cared for by kind kin- 
 dred and on Nov. 3oth, 1667, at No. 7, 
 Hoey's Court, Dublin, the second baby 
 was born. 
 
 Only a little way from Hoey's Court 
 is St. Patrick's Cathedral. On that No- 
 vember day, as the tones from the clang- 
 ing chimes fell on the weary senses of 
 the young mother there in her darkened 
 room, little did she think that the puny 
 bantling which she held to her breast 
 would yet be the Dean of the great church 
 whose bells she heard ; and how could 
 she anticipate a whisper coming to her 
 from the far off future: "Of writing 
 books about your babe there is no end " ! 
 143 
 
II. 
 
 THB man-child was given to an old 
 woman to care for, and he had the 
 ability, even then, it seems, to win 
 affection. The foster mother loved him 
 and she stole him away, carrying him off 
 to BU gland. 
 
 Charity ministered to his needs ; charity 
 gave him his education. 
 
 When Swift was twenty-one years old 
 he went to see his mother. Her means 
 were scanty to the point of hardship, but 
 so buoyant was her mind that she used to 
 declare that she was both rich and happy 
 and being happy she was certainly rich. 
 She was a rare woman. Her spirit was 
 independent, her mind cultivated, her 
 manner gentle and refined, and she was 
 endowed with a keen sense of humor. 
 
 From her the son derived those quali- 
 144 
 
Sonatban Swift 
 
 ties that have made him famous. No 
 man is greater than his mother : but the 
 sons of brave women do not always make 
 brave men. In one quality Swift was 
 lamentably inferior to his mother he did 
 not have her capacity for happiness. He 
 had wit ; she had humor. 
 
 We have seen how Swift's father sick- 
 ened and died. The world was too severe 
 for him, its buffets too abrupt, its burde.n 
 too heavy, and he gave up the fight be- 
 fore the battle had really begun. This 
 lack of courage and extreme sensitiveness 
 are seen in the son. But so peculiar, 
 complex, and wonderful is this web of 
 life, that our very blunders, weaknesses, 
 and mistakes are woven in and make the 
 fabric stronger. If Swift had possessed 
 only his mother's merits without his 
 father's faults, he would never have 
 shaken the world with laughter, and we 
 should never have heard of him. 
 
 In her lowliness and simplicity the 
 mother of Swift was content She did 
 her work in her own little way. She 
 145 
 
ibaunts ot 
 
 smiled at folly, and each day she thanked 
 Heaven that her lot was no worse : not 
 so her son. He brooded in sullen silence ; 
 he cursed fate for making him a depend- 
 ent, and even in his youth he scorned 
 those who benefited him. This was a 
 very human proceeding. 
 
 Many hate, but few have a fine capacity 
 for scorn. Their hate is so vehement 
 that when hurled it falls short. Swift's 
 scorn was a beautifully winged arrow, 
 with a poisoned tip. Some who were 
 struck did not at the time know it. 
 
 His misanthropy defeated his purpose, 
 thwarted his ambition, ruined his aims, 
 and made his name illustrious. 
 
 Swift wished for churchly preferment, 
 but he had not the patience to wait. He 
 imagined that others were standing in 
 his way and of course they were ; for un- 
 der the calm exterior of things ecclesiastic 
 there is often a strife, a jealousy, and a 
 competition more rabid than in com- 
 merce. To succeed in winning a bishop- 
 ric requires a sagacity as keen as that 
 146 
 
5onatban Switt 
 
 required to become a Senator of Massa- 
 chusetts or Governor of New York. The 
 man bides his time, makes himself popu- 
 lar, secures advocates, lubricates the way, 
 pulls the wires, and slides noiselessly into 
 place. 
 
 Swift lacked diplomacy. When mat- 
 ters did not seem to progress he grew 
 wrathful, seized his pen and stabbed with 
 it. But as he wrote, the ludicrousness of 
 the whole situation came over him and 
 instead of cursing plain curses, he held 
 his adversary up to ridicule ! ' And this 
 ridicule is so active, the scorn so mixed 
 with wit, the shafts so finely feathered 
 with truth, that it is the admiration of 
 mankind. Vitriol mixed with ink is vol- 
 atile. Then what ? We just run Swift 
 through a coarse sieve to take out the 
 lumps of seventeenth century refuse and 
 then we give him to children to make 
 them laugh. Surely no better use can 
 be made of pessimists. 
 
 Verily, the author of Gulliver wrote for 
 one purpose, we use his work for another. 
 147 
 
ZTbe f>aunts of 
 
 He wished for office, he got contempt ; lie 
 tried to subdue his enemies, they sub- 
 dued him ; he worked for the present, and 
 he won immortality. 
 
 Said Heinrich Heine, prone on his bed 
 in Paris : " The wittiest sarcasms of mor- 
 tals are only an attempt at jesting when 
 compared with those of the great Author 
 of the Universe the Aristophanes of 
 Heaven ! " 
 
 Wise men over and over have wasted 
 good ink and paper in bewailing Swift's 
 malice and' coarseness. But without these 
 very elements which the wise men be- 
 moan, Swift would be for us a cipher. 
 Yet love is life and hate is death, so how 
 can spite benefit ? The answer is that in 
 certain forms of germination, frost is as 
 necessary as sunshine : so some men have 
 qualities that lie dormant until the cold- 
 ness of hate bursts the coarse husk of in- 
 difference. 
 
 But while hate may animate, only love 
 inspires. Swift might have stood at the 
 head of the Church of England, but even 
 148 
 
5onatban Swift 
 
 if so he would be only a unit in a long 
 list of names, and as it is, there is only one 
 Swift. Mr. Talmage has recently told 
 us that not ten men in America knew 
 the name of the present Archbishop of 
 Canterbury until his son wrote a certain 
 book entitled Dodo. In putting out this 
 volume, young Mr. Benson has not only 
 given us the strongest possible argument 
 favoring the celibacy of the clergy, but 
 at the same time, if Brooklyn's noted 
 preacher is right, he has made known his 
 father's name. 
 
 In all of Swift's work save The Journal 
 to Stella the animating motive seems to 
 have been to confound his enemies ; and 
 according to the well known line in that 
 hymn sung wherever the Union Jack 
 flies, we must believe this to be a per- 
 fectly justifiable ambition. But occasion- 
 ally on his pages we find gentle words of 
 wisdom that were meant evidently for 
 love's eyes alone. There is much that is 
 pure boyish frolic, and again and again 
 there are clever strokes directed at folly 
 149 
 
tbaimts ot 
 
 He has shot certain superstitions through 
 with doubt, and in his manner of dealing 
 with error he has proved to us a thing 
 which it were well not to forget : that 
 pleasantry is more efficacious than vehe- 
 mence. 
 
 Let me name one incident by way of 
 proof the well known one of Partridge, 
 the almanac maker. This worthy cobbler 
 was an astrologer of no mean repute. 
 He foretold events with much discretion. 
 The ignorant bought his almanacs and 
 many believed in them as a bible, in 
 fact astrology was enjoying a " boom." 
 
 Swift came to London and found that 
 the predictions of Partridge was the 
 theme at the coffee-houses. He saw men 
 argue and wax wroth, grow red in the 
 face as they talked loud and long about 
 nothing just nothing. The whole thing 
 struck Swift as being very funny ; and he 
 wrote an announcement of his intention 
 to publish a rival almanac. He explained 
 that he, too, was an astrologer, but an 
 honest one, while Partridge was an im- 
 150 
 
^onatban Swtft 
 
 poster and a cheat ; in fact, Partridge 
 foretold only things which every one 
 knew would come true. As for himself, 
 he could discern the future with absolute 
 certainty, and to prove to the world his 
 power he would now make a prophecy. 
 In substance it was as follows : " My first 
 prediction is but a trifle, it relates to Par- 
 tridge, the almanac maker. I have con- 
 sulted the star of his nativity and find 
 that he will die on the 29th day of March, 
 next." This was signed, " Isaac Bicker- 
 staff " and duly issued in pamphlet form. 
 It had such an air of sincerity that both 
 the believers and the scoffers read it with 
 interest. 
 
 The 3oth of March came and another 
 pamphlet from "Isaac Bickerstaff" ap- 
 peared announcing the fulfillment of the 
 prophecy. It related how toward the end 
 of March Partridge began to languish ; 
 how he grew ill and at last took to his bed, 
 and, his conscience then smiting him, he 
 confessed to the world that he was a 
 fraud and a rogue, that all of his prophe- 
 
Cbe 1)aunt0 ot 
 
 cies were impositions : he then passed 
 away. 
 
 Partridge was wild with rage and im- 
 mediately replied in a manifesto declaring 
 that he was alive and well and moreover 
 was alive on March 29th. 
 
 To this " Bickerstaff" replied in a pam- 
 phlet more seriously humorous than ever, 
 reaffirming that Partridge was dead, and 
 closing with the statement that, "if an 
 uninformed carcass still walks about 
 calling itself Partridge, I do not in any 
 way consider myself responsible for 
 that." 
 
 The joke set all I^ondon on a grin. 
 Wherever Partridge went he was met 
 with smiles and jeers, and astrology be- 
 came only a jest to a vast number of 
 people who had formerly believed in it 
 seriously. 
 
 When Benjamin Franklin started his 
 Poor Richard's Almanac, twenty-five 
 years later, in the first issue he prophe- 
 sied the death of one Dart who set the 
 pace at that time as almanac maker in 
 152 
 
^onatban Swift 
 
 America. The man was to expire Oct. 
 17, 1733, at 3.2 9 P.M. 
 
 Dart, being somewhat of a joker himself 
 came out with an announcement that he 
 too had consulted the oracle and found 
 he would live until Oct. 26th and possibly 
 longer. 
 
 On Oct. i8th Franklin announced 
 Dart's death and explained that it oc- 
 curred promptly on time all as prophe- 
 sied. 
 
 Yet Dart lived to publish many al- 
 manacs, but Poor Richard got his adver- 
 tisement, and many staid broad-brimmed 
 Philadelphians smiled who had never 
 smiled before not only smiled but sub- 
 scribed. 
 
 Benjamin Franklin was a great and 
 good man, as any man must be who fath- 
 ers another's jokes, introducing these or- 
 phaned children to the world as his own. 
 
 Perhaps no one who has written of 
 Swift knew him so well as Delany. 
 And this writer, who seems to have pos- 
 sessed a judicial quality far beyond most 
 153 
 
Cbe "fcaunts of 
 
 men, has told us that Swift was moral in 
 conduct to the point of asceticism. His 
 deportment was grave and dignified, and 
 his duties as a priest were always per- 
 formed with exemplary diligence. He 
 visited the sick, regularly administered 
 the sacraments, and was never known to 
 absent himself from morning prayers. 
 
 When Harley was Lord Treasurer, Swift 
 seems to have been on the topmost crest 
 of the wave of popularity. Invitations 
 from nobility flowed in upon him, beauti- 
 ful women deigned to go in search of his 
 society, royalty recognized him. And 
 yet all this time he was only a country 
 priest with a liking for literature. 
 
 Collins tells us that the reason of his 
 popularity is plain : " Swift was one of 
 the kings of the earth. Like Pope In- 
 nocent III., like Chatham, he was one to 
 whom the world involuntarily pays trib- 
 ute." 
 
 His will was a will of adamant ; his in- 
 tellect so keen that it impressed every one 
 who approached him ; his temper singu- 
 154 
 
Sonatban Swift 
 
 larly stern, dauntless, and haughty. But 
 his wit was never filled with gayety : he 
 was never known to laugh. Amid the 
 wildest uproar that his sallies caused he 
 would sit with face austere unmoved. 
 
 Personally, Swift was a gentleman. 
 When he was scurrilous, abusive, ribald, 
 malicious, it was anonymously. Is this to 
 his credit ? I should not say so, but if 
 a man is indecent and he hides behind a 
 nom de plume it is at least presumptive 
 proof that he is not dead to shame. 
 
 Leslie Stephen tells us that Swift was a 
 Churchman to the backbone. No man 
 who is a " Churchman to the backbone " is 
 ever very pious : the spirit maketh alive 
 but the letter killeth. One looks in vain 
 for traces of spirituality in the Dean. 
 His sermons are models of churchly com- 
 monplace and full of the stock phrases 
 of a formal religion. He never bursts 
 into flame. Yet he most thoroughly and 
 sincerely believed in religion. " I believe 
 in religion it keeps the masses in check. 
 And then I uphold Christianity because 
 155 
 
Ibaunts ot 
 
 if it is abolished the stability of the 
 Church might be endangered," he said. 
 
 Philip asked the eunuch a needless ques- 
 tion when he inquired: " Understandest 
 thou what thou readest?" No one so 
 poorly sexed as Swift can comprehend 
 spiritual truth : spirituality and sexuality 
 are elements that are never separated. 
 vSwift was as incapable of spirituality as 
 he was of the " grand passion." 
 
 The Dean had affection ; he was a warm 
 friend; he was capable even of a degree 
 of love, but his sexual and spiritual na- 
 ture was so cold and calculating that he 
 did not hesitate to sacrifice love to 
 churchly ambition. 
 
 He argued that the celibacy of the 
 Catholic clergy is a wise expediency. 
 The bachelor physician and the unmar 
 ried priest have an influence among gen 
 tie womankind, young or old, married 
 or single, that a benedict can never hope 
 for. Why this is so might be difficult to 
 explain, but discerning men know the 
 fact. In truth, when a priest marries he 
 156 
 
Sonatban Switt 
 
 should at once take a new charge, for if he 
 remains with his old flock a goodly num- 
 ber of his "lady parishioners," in ages 
 varying from seventeen to seventy, will 
 with fierce indignation rend his reputa- 
 tion. 
 
 Swift was as wise as a serpent, but not 
 always harmless as a dove. He was mak- 
 ing every effort to secure his mitre and 
 crosier : he had many women friends in 
 London and elsewhere who had influence. 
 Rather than to run the risk of losing this 
 influence he never acknowledged Stella 
 as his wife. Choosing fame rather than 
 love he withered at the heart, then died 
 at the top. 
 
 The life of every man is a seamless 
 garment its woof his thoughts, its warp 
 his deeds. When for him the roaring 
 loom of time stops and the thread is 
 broken, foolish people sometimes point 
 to certain spots in the robe and say : " O 
 why did he not leave that out ! " not 
 knowing that every action of man is a 
 sequence from off fate's spindle. 
 157 
 
$onalban Swift 
 
 Let us accept the work of genius as we 
 find it : not bemoaning because it is not 
 better, but giving thanks because it is so 
 good. 
 
 158 
 
m. 
 
 FATHER O'Toole of Dublin is a well- 
 fed, rollicking priest with a big 
 round face, a double chin, and a 
 brogue that you can cut with a knife. 
 
 My letter of introduction from Mon- 
 seigneur Satolli caused him at once to 
 bring in a large, suspicious black bottle 
 and two glasses. Then we talked talked 
 of Ireland's wrongs and woman's rights 
 and of all the Irishmen in America, whom 
 I was supposed to know. We spoke of 
 the illustrious Irishmen who had passed 
 on, and I mentioned a name that caused 
 the holy father to spring from his chair 
 in indignation. 
 
 "Shwift is it! Shwift ; no, me lad, 
 
 don't go near him. He was the divil's 
 
 own, the very worsht that ever followed 
 
 the swish of a petticoat. No, no, if ye go 
 
 159 
 
Gbe "fcaunts of 
 
 to his grave it 'ull bring ye bad luck for a 
 year. It 's Tom Moore ye want, Tom was 
 the bie. Arrah ! now and it 's meself 
 phat 'u '11 go wid ye." 
 
 And so the reverend father put on a 
 long black coat and his St. Patrick's Day 
 hat, and we started. We were met at the 
 gate by a delegation of " shpalpeens " 
 that had located me on the inside of the 
 house and were lying in wait. 
 
 All American travellers in Ireland are 
 supposed to be millionaires, and this may 
 possibly explain the lavish attention that 
 is often tendered them. At any rate, vari- 
 ous members of the delegation wished 
 "long life to the iligant 'merican gintle- 
 man " and hinted in unmistakable terms 
 that pence would be acceptable. The holy 
 father applied his cane vigorously to the 
 ragged rears of the more presumptuous 
 and bade them begone, but still they fol- 
 lowed and pressed close about. 
 
 " Here, I'll show you how to get rid of 
 the dirty gang, ' ' said his holiness. ' ' Have 
 ye a penny, I don't know? " 
 160 
 
5onatban Swift 
 
 I produced a handful of small change, 
 which the father immediately took and 
 tossed into the street. Instantly there 
 was a heterogeneous mass of young Hi- 
 bernians piled up in the dirt in a grand 
 struggle for spoils. It reminded me of 
 football incidents I had seen at fair Har- 
 vard. In the meantime we escaped down 
 a convenient alley and crossed the River 
 I/iffey to Old Dublin ; inside the walls 
 of the old city, through crooked lanes and 
 winding streets that showed here and 
 there signs of departed gentility but now 
 told only of squalor, want, and vice, until 
 we came to No. 12 Angier Street, a quaint, 
 three-story brick building now used as a 
 "public." In the wall above the door 
 is a marble slab with this inscription : 
 "Here was born Thomas Moore, on the 
 28th day of May, 1778." Above this in 
 a niche is a bust of the poet. 
 
 Tom's father was a worthy greengrocer 
 
 who, according to the author of Lalla 
 
 Rookh, always gave good measure and 
 
 fall count. It was ever a cause of regret 
 
 161 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 to the elder Moore that his son did not 
 ^xiow sufficient capacity to be safely 
 trusted with the business. 
 
 The upper rooms of the house were 
 shown to us by an obliging landlady. 
 Father O'Toole had been here before and 
 led the way to a snug little chamber and 
 explained : In this room the future poet 
 of Ireland was found- under one of his 
 father's cabbage leaves. 
 
 We descended to the neat little barroom 
 with its sanded floor and polished glass- 
 ware and shining brass. The holy father 
 ordered 'arf and 'arf at my expense and 
 recited one of Moore's ballads. The 
 landlady then gave us Byron's "Here's 
 a health to thee, Tom Moore." A 
 neighbor came in. Then we had more 
 ballads, more 'arf and 'arf, a selection 
 from Lalla Rookh and various tales of 
 the poet's early life, which possibly would 
 be hard to verify. 
 
 And as the tumult raged the smoke 
 of battle gave me opportunity to slip 
 away. I crossed the street, turned down 
 162 
 
Jonathan Swift 
 
 one block, and entered St. Patrick's 
 Cathedral. 
 
 Great, roomy, gloomy, solemn temple, 
 where the rumble of city traffic is dead- 
 ened to a faint hum : 
 
 " Without, the world's unceasing noises rise, 
 Turmoil, disquietude, and busy fears ; 
 Within , there are the sounds of other years, 
 Thoughts full of prayer and solemn harmonies 
 Which imitate on earth the peaceful skies." 
 
 Other worshippers were there. Stand- 
 ing beside a great stone pillar I could 
 make them out kneeling on the tiled 
 floor. Gradually my eyes became accus- 
 tomed to the subdued light, and right at 
 my feet I saw a large brass plate set in 
 the floor and on it only this : 
 
 Swift 
 Died Oct. 19, 1745 
 
 Aged 78 
 
 On the wall near is a bronze tablet, the 
 inscription of which, in Latin, was dic- 
 tated by Swift himself : 
 
 " Here lies the body of Jonathan Swift j 
 Dean of this Cathedral, where fierce in- 
 163 
 
"fcaunts of 
 
 dignation can no longer rend his heart. 
 Go ! wayfarer, and imitate, if thou canst, 
 one who, as far as in him lay, was an 
 earnest champion of liberty " 
 
 Above this is a fine bust of the Dean 
 and to the right is another tablet : 
 
 "Underneath lie interred the mortal 
 remains of Mrs. Hester Johnson, better 
 known to the world as 'Stella,' under 
 which she is celebrated in the writings 
 of Dr. Jonathan Swift, Dean of this Ca- 
 thedral. She was a person of extraor- 
 dinary endowments and accomplishments, 
 in body, mind, and behavior ; justly ad- 
 mired and respected by all who knew her 
 on account of her eminent virtues as well 
 as for her great natural and acquired per- 
 fections." 
 
 These were suffering souls and great. 
 Would they have been so great had they 
 not suffered ? Who can tell ? Were the 
 waters troubled in order that they might 
 heal the people ? 
 
 Did Swift misuse this excellent woman, 
 164 
 
5onatban Swftt 
 
 is a question that has been asked and 
 answered again and again. 
 
 A great author has written : 
 
 "A woman, a tender, noble, excellent 
 woman, has a dog's heart. She licks the 
 hand that strikes her. And wrong nor 
 cruelty nor injustice nor disloyalty can 
 cause her to turn." 
 
 Death in pity took Stella first; took 
 her in the loyalty of love and the fulness 
 of faith from a world which for love has 
 little recompense, and for faith small ful- 
 fillment. 
 
 Stella was buried by torchlight, at mid- 
 night, on the 30th day of January, 1728. 
 Swift was sick at the time, and wrote in 
 his journal: "This is the night of her 
 funeral and I am removed to another 
 apartment that I may not see the light in 
 the church which is just over against my 
 window." But in his imagination he saw 
 the gleaming torches as their dull light 
 shone through the colored windows and 
 he said: "They will soon do as much 
 forme." 
 
 165 
 
5onafban Swift 
 
 But seventeen years came crawling by 
 before the torches flared, smoked, and 
 gleamed as the mourners chanted a re- 
 quiem, and the clods fell on the coffin, 
 and their echoes intermingled with the 
 solemn voice of the priest as he said, 
 " Dust to dust, ashes to ashes." 
 
 In 1835 the graves were opened and 
 casts taken of the skulls. The top of 
 Swift's skull had been sawed off at the 
 autopsy, and a bottle in which was a 
 parchment setting forth the facts was in- 
 serted in the head that had conceived 
 Gulliver's Travels. 
 
 I examined the casts. The woman's 
 head is square and shapely. Swift's head 
 is a refutation of phrenology, being small, 
 sloping, and ordinary. 
 
 The bones of Swift and Stella were 
 placed in one coffin and now rest under 
 three feet of concrete, beneath the floor 
 of St. Patrick's. 
 
 So sleep the lovers joined in death. 
 
 1 66 
 
VICTOR HUGO 
 
 167 
 
Man is neither master of his life nor of his fate. 
 He can but offer to his fellow-men his efforts to 
 diminish human suffering ; he can but offer to 
 God his indomitable faith in the growth of 
 liberty. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 168 
 
VICTOR HUGO. 
 
 i. 
 
 VICTOR HUGO was the third of 
 three sons. His father was a 
 general in the army of Napoleon, 
 his mother a woman of rare grace and 
 brave good sense. Six weeks before the 
 birth of her youngest son she wrote to 
 a very dear friend of her husband, this 
 letter: 
 
 " To General Victor Lahorie, 
 
 " Citizen-General : 
 
 " Soon to become the mother of a third 
 child, it would be very agreeable to me 
 if you would act as its godfather. Its 
 name shall be yours one which you have 
 not belied and one which you have so well 
 169 
 
Cbe Ibaunts of 
 
 honored : Victor or Victorine. Your con 
 sent will be a testimonial of your friend- 
 ship for us. 
 
 " Please accept, Citizen-General, the as- 
 surance of our sincere attachment. 
 
 "FEMME HUGO." 
 
 Victorine was expected, Victor came. 
 General I/ahorie acted as sponsor to the 
 infant. 
 
 A soldier's family lives here or there, 
 everywhere or anywhere. In 1808 Gen- 
 eral Hugo was with Joseph Bonaparte in 
 Spain. Victor was then six years old. 
 His mother had taken as a residence a 
 quaint house in the Impasse of the Feul- 
 lantines, Paris. It was one of those pecu- 
 liar old places occasionally seen in 
 France. The environs of London have a 
 few ; America none of which I know. 
 This house, roomy, comfortable and anti- 
 quated, was surrounded with trees and a 
 tangle of shrubbery, vines, and flowers ; 
 about it all was a high stone wall and in 
 front a picketed iron gate. It was a mo- 
 170 
 
Victor f)UQO 
 
 sale a sample of the sixteenth century 
 inlaid in this ; solitary as the woods ; quiet 
 as a convent ; sacred as a forest ; a place 
 for dreams, and reverie, and rest. At the 
 back of the house was a dilapidated little 
 chapel. Here an aged priest counted his 
 beads, said daily mass, and endeavored to 
 keep moth, rust, and ruin from the house 
 of prayer. This priest was a scholar, a 
 man of learning : he taught the children 
 of Madame Hugo. 
 
 Another man lived in this chapel. He 
 never went outside the gate and used to 
 take exercise at night. He had a cot bed 
 in the shelter of the altar ; beneath his 
 pillow were a pair of pistols and a copy 
 of Tacitus. This man lived there sum- 
 mer and winter, although there was no 
 warmth save the scanty sunshine that 
 stole in through the shattered windows. 
 He too taught the children and gave them 
 little lectures on history. He loved the 
 youngest boy and would carry him on his 
 shoulder and tell him stories of deeds of 
 valor. 
 
 171 
 
1>aunt0 of 
 
 One day a file of soldiers came. They 
 took this man and manacled him. The 
 mother sought to keep her children inside 
 the house so that they should not witness 
 the scene, but she did not succeed. The 
 boys fought their mother and the servants 
 in a mad frenzy trying to rescue the 
 old man. The soldiers formed in col- 
 umns of four and marched their prisoner 
 away. 
 
 Not long after, Madame Hugo was pass- 
 ing the church of St. Jacques du Haul 
 Pas her youngest boy's hand was in 
 hers. She saw a large placard posted in 
 front of the church. She paused and 
 pointing to it said, "Victor, read that ! " 
 The boy read. It was a notice that Gen- 
 eral Lahorie had been shot that day on 
 the plains of Grenville by order of a court 
 marshal. 
 
 General Lahorie was a gentleman of 
 Brittany. He was a Republican, and five 
 years before had grievously offended the 
 Kmperor. A charge of conspiracy being 
 proved against him, a price was placed 
 172 
 
\Dictoc 
 
 upon his head, and he found a temporary 
 refuge with the mother of his godson. 
 
 That tragic incident of the arrest, and 
 the placard announcing General I^ahorie's 
 death, burned deep into the soul of the 
 manling, and who shall say to what ex- 
 tent it colored his future life ! 
 
 When Napoleon met his downfall, it 
 was also a Waterloo for General Hugo. 
 His property was confiscated, and penury 
 took the place of plenty. 
 
 When Victor was nineteen, his mother 
 having died, the family life was broken 
 up. In Les Miserables the early strug- 
 gles of Marius are described ; and this, 
 the author has told us, may be considered 
 autobiography. He has related how the 
 young man lived in a garret; how he 
 would sweep this barren room ; how he 
 would buy a pennyworth of cheese, wait- 
 ing until dusk to get a loaf of bread and 
 slink home as furtively as if he had stolen 
 it ; how carrying his book under his arm 
 he would enter the butcher's shop and 
 after being elbowed by jeering servants 
 173 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 till he felt the cold sweat standing out on 
 his forehead, he would take off his hat to 
 the astonished butcher and ask for a sin- 
 gle mutton chop. This he would carry 
 to his garret and cooking it himself, it 
 would be made to last for three days. 
 
 In this way he managed to live on less 
 than two hundred dollars a year, derived 
 from the proceeds of poems, pamphlets, 
 and essays. At this time he was already 
 an " Academy Laureate," having received 
 an honorable mention for a poem sub- 
 mitted in a competition. 
 
 In his twentieth year fortune came to 
 him in triple form : he brought out a 
 book of poems that netted him seven 
 hundred francs; soon after the publica- 
 tion of this book, Louis XVIII., who knew 
 the value of having friends who were 
 ready writers, bestowed on him a pension 
 of one thousand francs a year ; then these 
 two pieces of good fortune made possible 
 a third his marriage. 
 
 Barly marriages are like late ones, they 
 may be wise and they may not. Victor 
 174 
 
IDictor 
 
 Hugo's marriage with Adele Foucher was 
 a most happy event. 
 
 A man with a mind as independent as 
 Victor Hugo's is sure to make enemies. 
 The " Classics " were positive that he 
 was defiling the well of classic French, 
 and they sought to write him down. 
 But by writing a man up you cannot 
 write him down ; the only thing that can 
 smother a literary aspirant is silence. 
 
 Victor Hugo coined the word when he 
 could not find it, transposed phrases, in- 
 verted sentences, and never called a spade 
 an agricultural implement. Not con- 
 tent with this, he put the spade on exhi- 
 bition and this often at unnecessary times, 
 and occasionally prefaced the word with 
 an adjective. Had he been let alone he 
 would not have done this. 
 
 The censors told him he must not use 
 the name of Deity, nor should he refer so 
 often to kings. At once he doubled his 
 Topseys and put on his stage three Uncle 
 Toms when one might have answered. 
 Like Shakespeare, he used idioms and 
 175 
 
f>aunts of 
 
 slang with profusion anything to ex- 
 press the idea. Will this convey the 
 thought ? If so, it was written down and 
 once written, Beelzebub and all his hosts 
 could not make him change it. But in 
 the interest of truth let me note one ex- 
 ception : 
 
 "I do not like that word," said Mad- 
 emoiselle Mars to M. Victor Hugo at a 
 rehearsal of Hernani ; " can I not change 
 it?" 
 
 " I wrote it so and it must stand," was 
 the answer. 
 
 Mile. Mars used another expression 
 instead of the author's, and he promptly 
 asked her to resign her part. She wept, 
 and upon agreeing to adhere to the text 
 was reinstated in favor. 
 
 Rehearsal after rehearsal occurred and 
 the words were repeated as written. The 
 night of the performance came. Superb 
 was the stage setting, splendid the audi- 
 ence. The play went forward amid loud 
 applause. The scene was reached where 
 came the objectionable word. Did Mlle e 
 176 
 
Dictor 
 
 Mars use it ? Of course not ; she used 
 the word she chose (she was a woman). 
 Fifty-three times she played the part and 
 she did not once use the author's pet 
 phrase : and he was wise enough not to 
 note the fact. The moral of this is that 
 even a strong man cannot cope with a 
 small woman who weeps at the right 
 time. 
 
 The censorship forbade the placing of 
 Marion Delorme on the stage until a cer- 
 tain historical episode in it had been 
 changed. Would the author be so kind 
 as to change it ? Not he. 
 
 " Then it shall not be played," said M. 
 de Martignac. The author hastened to 
 interview the minister in person. He got 
 a north pole reception. In fact, M. de 
 Martignac said that it was his busy day, 
 and that play-writing was foolish business 
 anyway, but if a man were bound to write, 
 he should write to amuse, not to instruct. 
 And young Hugo was bowed out. 
 
 When he found himself well outside 
 the door he was furious. He would see 
 177 
 
ZTbe f>aunt0 of 
 
 the King himself. And he did see the 
 King. His Majesty was gracious and 
 very patient. He listened to the young 
 author's plea, talked book lore, recited 
 poetry, showed that he knew Hugo's 
 verses, asked after the author's wife, then 
 the baby, and said that the play could 
 not go on. Hugo turned to go. Charles 
 X. called him back, and said that he was 
 glad the author had called, in fact, he 
 was about to send for him. His pension 
 thereafter should be six thousand francs 
 a year. 
 
 Victor Hugo declined to receive it. Of 
 course the papers were full of the subject. 
 All cafe*dom took sides : Paris had a 
 topic for gesticulation and Paris improved 
 the opportunity. 
 
 Conservatism having stopped this play, 
 there was only one thing to do write 
 another; for a play of Victor Hugo's 
 must be put upon the stage. All his 
 friends said so ; his honor was at stake. 
 
 In three weeks another play was ready. 
 The censors read it and gave their report. 
 178 
 
IPictor tbugo 
 
 They said that Hernani was whimsical 
 in conception, defective in execution ; a 
 tissue of extravagancies, generally trivial 
 and often coarse. But they advised that 
 it be put upon the stage just to show the 
 public to what extent of folly an au- 
 thor could go. In order to preserve the 
 dignity of their office they drew up a list 
 of six places where the text should be 
 changed. 
 
 Both sides were afraid, so each was 
 willing to give in a point. The text was 
 changed, and the important day for the 
 presentation was drawing nigh. The 
 Romanticists of course were anxious that 
 the play should be a great success ; the 
 Classics were quite willing that it should 
 be otherwise, in fact they had bought 
 up the claque and were making arrange- 
 ments to hiss it down. But the author's 
 friends were numerous ; they were young 
 and lusty ; they held meetings behind 
 locked doors and swore terrible oaths 
 that the play should go. 
 
 On the day of the initial performance, 
 179 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 five hours before the curtain rose, they 
 were on hand, having taken the best seats 
 in the house. They also took the worst, 
 wherever a hisser might hide. These 
 advocates of liberal art wore coats of 
 green or red or blue, costumes like bull 
 fighters, trousers and hats to match or 
 not to match anything to defy tradition. 
 All during the performance there was an 
 uproar. Theophile Gautier has described 
 the event in most entertaining style, and 
 in L^ Historic de Romanticisme the re- 
 cord of it is found in detail. 
 
 Several American writers have touched 
 on this particular theme, and all who 
 have seen fit to write of it seem to have 
 stood under umbrellas when- God rained 
 humor. One writer calls it " the out- 
 burst of a tremendous revolution in lit- 
 erature." He speaks of " smouldering 
 flames," "the hordes that furiously 
 fought entrenched behind prestige, 
 age, caste, wealth, and tradition," "sup- 
 pression and extermination of heresy," 
 " those who sought to stop the onward 
 1 80 
 
Dictor 1>u0o 
 
 march of civilization," etc., etc. Let us 
 be sensible. A "cane rush" is not a 
 revolution, and " Bloody Monday " at 
 Harvard is not "a decisive battle in the 
 onward and upward march." 
 
 If Hernani had been hissed down, Vic- 
 tor Hugo would have lived just as long 
 and might have written better. Civiliza- 
 tion is not held in place by noisy youths 
 in flaming waistcoats ; and even if every 
 cabbage had hit its mark, and every egg 
 bespattered its target, the morning stars 
 would still sing together. 
 
 The Hunchback of Notre Dame was 
 next turned out written in five months 
 and was a great success. Publishers be- 
 sieged the author for another story, but 
 he preferred poetry. It was thirty years 
 before his next novel, Les Miserables, 
 appeared. But all the time he wrote 
 plays, verses, essays, pamphlets. Every- 
 thing that he penned was widely read. 
 Amid storms of opposition and cries of 
 bravo, continually making friends, he 
 moved steadily forward. 
 181 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 Men like Victor Hugo can be killed or 
 they may be banished, but they cannot 
 be bought ; neither can they be intimi- 
 dated into silence. He resigned his pen- 
 sion and boldly expressed himself in his 
 own way. 
 
 He knew history by heart and toyed 
 with it ; politics was his delight. But it 
 is a mistake to call him a statesman. He 
 was bold to rashness, impulsive, impa- 
 tient, and vehement. Because a man is 
 great is no reason why he should be pro- 
 claimed perfect. Such men as Victor 
 Hugo need no veneer the truth will an- 
 swer : he would explode a keg of pow- 
 der to kill a fly. He was an agitator. 
 But these zealous souls are needed ; not 
 to govern nor to be blindly followed, but 
 to make other men think for themselves. 
 Yet to do this in a monarchy is not safe. 
 The years passed and the time came 
 for either Hugo or Royalty to go ; France 
 was not large enough for both. It proved 
 to be Hugo ; a bounty of twenty-five 
 thousand francs was offered for his body, 
 182 
 
Victor 1)u0o 
 
 dead or alive. Through a woman's devo- 
 tion he escaped to Brussels. He was 
 driven from there to Jersey, then to 
 Guernsey. 
 
 It was nineteen years before he returned 
 to Paris years of banishment, but years 
 of glory. Exiled by fate that he might 
 do his work ! 
 
 183 
 
II. 
 
 T~1ACH day a steamer starts from 
 
 Southampton for Guernsey, Al- 
 
 derney, and Jersey. These are 
 
 names known to countless farmers' boys 
 
 the wide world over. 
 
 You cannot mistake the Channel Island 
 boats they smell like a county fair, and 
 though you be blind and deaf it is impos- 
 sible to board the wrong craft. Every 
 time one of these staunch little steamers 
 lands in Bngland, crates containing mild- 
 eyed, lusty calves are slid down the gang, 
 plank, marked for Maine, Iowa, California, 
 or some uttermost part of the earth. There 
 his vealship (worth his weight in gold) is 
 going to found a kingdom. 
 
 I stood on the dock watching the bo- 
 vine passengers disembark ; and furtively 
 listened the while to an animated argu- 
 184 
 
Wctor 
 
 ment between two rather rough looking, 
 red faced men, clothed in corduroys and 
 carrying long, stout staffs. Mixed up in 
 their conversation I caught the names of 
 royalty ; then of celebrities great, and 
 artists famous warriors, orators, philan- 
 thropists, and musicians. Could it be 
 possible that these rustics were poets ? 
 It must be so. And there came to me 
 thoughts of Thoreau, Walt Whitman, 
 Joaquin Miller, and all that sublime com- 
 pany of singers in shirt-sleeves. 
 
 Suddenly the wind veered and the veil 
 fell : all of the sacred names so freely 
 bandied about were those of " families " 
 with mighty milk records. 
 
 When we went on board and the good 
 ship was slipping down The Solent, I 
 made the acquaintance of these men and 
 was regaled with more cow talk than I 
 had heard since I left Texas. 
 
 We saw the island of Portsea, where 
 
 Dickens was born, and got a glimpse of 
 
 the spires of Portsmouth as we passed ; 
 
 then came the Isle of Wight and the quaint 
 
 185 
 
Cbc founts of 
 
 town of Cowes. I made a bright joke on 
 the latter place as it was pointed out to 
 me by my Jersey friend, but it went for 
 naught. 
 
 A pleasant sail of eight hours and the 
 towering cliffs of Guernsey came in sight. 
 Foam dashed and spray covered they rise 
 right out of the sea at the south, to the 
 height of two hundred and seventy feet. 
 About them great flocks of sea-fowl hover, 
 swirl, and soar. Wild, rugged, and. ro- 
 mantic is the scene. 
 
 The Isle of Guernsey is nine miles 
 long and six wide. Its principal town 
 is St. Peter Port, a place of about six- 
 teen thousand inhabitants, where a full 
 dozen hotel porters meet the incoming 
 steamer and struggle for your baggage. 
 
 Hotels and boarding houses here are 
 numerous and good. Guernsey is a fav- 
 orite resort for invalids and those who 
 desire to flee the busy world for a space. 
 In fact, the author of Les Miserables has 
 made exile popular. 
 
 Emerging from my hotel at St. Peter 
 186 
 
Hctor f>ugo 
 
 Port I was accosted by a small edition of 
 Gavroche, all in tatters, who proposed 
 showing me the way to Hauteville House 
 for a penny. I already knew the route, but 
 accepted the offer on Gavroche 's promise 
 to reveal to me a secret about the place. 
 The secret is this : The house is haunted 
 and when the wind is east, and the setting 
 moon shows only a narrow rim above the 
 rocks, ghosts come and dance a solemn 
 minuet on the glass roof above the study. 
 
 Had Gavroche ever seen them? No, 
 but he knew a boy who had. Years and 
 years ever so many years ago before 
 there were any steamboats, and when 
 only a schooner came to Guernsey once 
 a week a woman was murdered in Haute- 
 ville House. Her ghost came back with 
 other ghosts and drove the folks away. 
 So the big house remained vacant, save 
 for the spooks who paid no rent. 
 
 Then after a great long time Victor 
 
 Hugo came and lived in the house. The 
 
 ghosts did not bother him. Faith ! they 
 
 had been keeping the place just a' pur- 
 
 187 
 
*fcaunt0 of 
 
 pose for him. He rented the house first 
 and liked it so well that he bought it : got 
 it at half price on account of the ghosts. 
 Here every Christmas Victor Hugo gave 
 a big dinner in the great oak hall to all 
 the children in Guernsey : hundreds of 
 them all the way from babies that could 
 barely creep, to " boys " with whiskers. 
 They were all fed on turkey, tarts, 
 apples, oranges, and figs ; and when they 
 went away each was given a bag of candy 
 to take home. 
 
 Climbing a narrow, crooked street we 
 came to the great, dark, gloomy edifice 
 situated at the top of a cliff. The house 
 was painted black by some strange whim 
 of a former occupant. 
 
 " We will leave it so," said Victor Hugo, 
 " I/iberty is dead and we are in mourning 
 for her." 
 
 But the gloom of Hauteville House is 
 only on the outside. Within all is warm 
 and homelike. The furnishings are al- 
 most as the poet left them, and the marks 
 of his individuality are on every side. 
 188 
 
IPictor 1)1100 
 
 In the outer hall stands an elegant col- 
 umn of carved oak, its panels showing 
 scenes from The Hunchback. In the din- 
 ing room there is fantastic wainscoting 
 with placques and porcelain tiles inlaid 
 here and there. Many of these orna- 
 ments were presents, sent by unknown 
 admirers in all parts of the world. 
 
 In Lcs Miserables there is a chance 
 line revealing the author's love for the 
 beautiful as shown in the grain of woods. 
 The result was an influx of polished 
 panels, slabs, chips, hewings, carvings, 
 and in one instance a log sent " collect." 
 Samples of redwood, ebony, calamander, 
 hamalille, sura, tamarind, satin wood, 
 mahogany, walnut, maples of many kinds 
 and oaks without limit all are there. A 
 mammoth ax helve I noticed on the wall 
 was labelled, "Shag-bark hickory from 
 Missouri." 
 
 These specimens of wood were some- 
 times made up into hat-racks, chairs, 
 canes, panels for doors and are seen in 
 odd corners of these rambling rooms. 
 189 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 Charles Hugo once facetiously wrote to a 
 friend : " We have bought no kindling 
 for three years." At another time he 
 writes : " Father still is sure he can 
 sketch and positive he can carve. He 
 has several jack-knives, and whittles 
 names, dates, and emblems on sticks and 
 furniture we tremble for the piano." 
 
 In the dining-room I noticed a huge 
 oaken chair fastened to the wall by a 
 chain. On the mantel was a statuette of 
 the Virgin ; on the pedestal Victor Hugo 
 had engraved lines speaking of her as 
 " Freedom's Goddess." 
 
 This dining-room affords a sunny view 
 out into the garden ; on this floor are 
 also a reception-room, library, and a 
 smoking-room. 
 
 On the next floor are various sleeping 
 apartments, and two cozy parlors, known 
 respectively as the red room, and the 
 blue. Both are rich in curious draperies, 
 a little more pronounced in color than 
 some folks admire. 
 
 The next floor contains the " Oak Gal- 
 190 
 
IDictor t)ugo 
 
 lary " : a ball room we should call it 
 Five large windows furnish a flood of 
 light. In the centre of this fine room 
 is an enormous candelabrum with many 
 branches, at the top a statue of wood, 
 the whole carved by Victor Hugo's own 
 hands. 
 
 The Oak Gallery is a regular museum 
 of curiosities of every sort books, paint- 
 ings, carvings, busts, firearms, musical 
 instruments. A long glass case con- 
 tains a large number of autograph letters 
 from the world's celebrities written to 
 Hugo in exile. 
 
 At the top of the house and built on 
 its flat roof is the most interesting apart- 
 ment of Hauteville House : the study 
 and workroom of Victor Hugo. Three 
 of its sides and the roof are of glass. The 
 floor, too, is one immense slab of sea- 
 green glass. Sliding ctirtains worked 
 by pulleys cut off the light as desired. 
 " More light, more light," said the great 
 man again and again. He gloried and 
 revelled in the sunshine. 
 191 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 Here, in the winter, with no warmth 
 but the sun's rays, his eyes shaded by his 
 felt hat, he wrote ; and always standing 
 at a shelf fixed in the wall. On this 
 shelf was written all of The Toilers, The 
 Man who Laughs, Shakespeare^ and 
 much of Les Miserables. The leaves of 
 manuscript were numbered and fell on 
 the floor to remain perhaps for days be- 
 fore being gathered up. 
 
 When Victor Hugo went to Guernsey 
 he went to liberty, not to banishment. 
 He arrived at Hauteville House poor in 
 purse and broken in health. Here the 
 fire of his youth came back and his pen 
 retrieved the fortune that royalty had con- 
 fiscated. The forenoons were given to 
 earnest work. The daughter composed 
 music ; the sons translated Shakespeare 
 and acted as their father's faithful help- 
 ers ; Madame Hugo collected the notes of 
 her husband's life and cheerfully looked 
 after her household affairs. 
 
 Several hours of each afternoon were 
 given to romp and play ; the evenings 
 192 
 
Wctor. 
 
 were sacred to music, reading, and con- 
 versation. 
 
 Horace Greeley was once a prisoner in 
 Paris. From his cell he wrote : " The 
 Saint Peter who holds the keys of this 
 place has kindly locked the world out ; 
 and for once, thank Heaven, I am free 
 from intrusion." 
 
 Lovers of truth must thank exile for 
 some of our richest and ripest literature. 
 Exile is not all exile. Imagination can- 
 not be imprisoned. Amid the winding 
 bastions of the brain thought roams free 
 and untrammelled. 
 
 Liberty is only a comparative term, and 
 Victor Hugo at Guernsey enjoyed a thou- 
 sand times more freedom than ever ruling 
 monarch knew. 
 
 Standing at the shelf-desk where this 
 " Gentleman of France " stood for so 
 many happy hours, I inscribed my name 
 in the " visitors' book." 
 
 I thanked the good woman who had 
 shown me the place, and told me so 
 much of interest thanked her in words 
 193 
 
IDictor 
 
 that seemed but a feeble echo of all that 
 my heart would say. 
 
 I went down the stairs out at the 
 great carved doorway and descended the 
 well-worn steps. 
 
 Perched on a crag waiting for me was 
 little Gavroche, his rags fluttering in the 
 breeze. He offered to show me the great 
 stone chair where Gilliatt sat when the 
 tide came up and carried him away. And 
 did I want to buy a bull calf? Gavroche 
 knew where there was a fine one that 
 could be bought cheap. Gavroche would 
 show me both the calf and the stone chair 
 for three pence. 
 
 I accepted the offer, and we went down 
 the stony street toward the sea, hand in 
 hand. 
 
 194 
 
III. 
 
 N the 28th day of June, 1894, 1 took 
 I I my place iii the long line and 
 passed slowly through the Pan- 
 theon at Paris and viewed the body of 
 President Carnot. 
 
 The same look of proud dignity that I 
 had seen in life was there, calm, com- 
 posed, serene. The inanimate clay was 
 clothed in the simple black of a citizen 
 of the Republic ; the only mark of office 
 being the red silken sash that covered the 
 spot in the breast where the stiletto stroke 
 of hate had gone home. 
 
 Amid bursts of applause, surrounded by 
 loving friends and loyal adherents, he 
 was stricken down and passed out into 
 the Unknown. Happy fate ! to die before 
 the fickle populace had taken up a new 
 idol ; to step in an instant beyond the 
 195 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 reach of malice to leave behind the self- 
 seekers that pursue, the hungry horde 
 that follows, the zealots who defame ; to 
 escape the dagger thrust of calumny and 
 receive only the glittering steel that at 
 the same time wrote his name indelibly 
 on the roll of honor. 
 
 Carnot, thrice happy thou ! Thy name 
 is secure on history's page, and thy dust 
 now resting beneath the dome of the 
 Pantheon is bedewed with the tears of thy 
 countrymen. 
 
 St. Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris, 
 died in 512. She was buried on a hilltop, 
 the highest point in Paris, on the left bank 
 of the Seine. Over the grave was erected 
 a chapel which for many years was a 
 shrine for the faithful. This chapel with 
 its additions remained until 1750, when a 
 church was designed which in beauty of 
 style and solidity of structure has rarely 
 been equalled. The object of the archi- 
 tect was to make the most enduring 
 edifice possible, and still not sacrifice 
 proportion. 
 
 196 
 
Dictor 
 
 Louis XV. laid the corner-stone of this 
 church in 1764, and in 1790 the edifice was 
 dedicated by the Roman Catholics with 
 great pomp. But the spirit of revolution 
 was at work, and in one year after a 
 mob sacked this beautiful building, 
 burned its pews, destroyed its altar, and 
 wrought havoc with its ecclesiastical fur- 
 niture. 
 
 The Convention converted the structure 
 into a memorial temple, inscribing on its 
 front the words " Aux grands Homines 
 lapatrie reconnaisante" and they named 
 the building the Pantheon. 
 
 In 1806 the Catholics had gotten such 
 influence with the government that the 
 building was restored to them. After the 
 revolution of 1830 the church of Saint 
 Genevieve was again taken from the 
 priests. It was held until 1851, when the 
 Romanists in the Assembly succeeded in 
 having it again re-consecrated. In the 
 meautime, many of the great men of 
 France had been buried there. 
 
 The first interment in the Pantheon 
 197 
 
Gbe 1baunt0 of 
 
 was Mirabeau. Next came Marat 
 stabbed while in the bath by Charlotte 
 Cofday. Both bodies were removed by 
 order of the Convention when the church 
 was given back to Rome. 
 
 In the Pantheon the visitor now sees 
 the elaborate tombs of Voltaire and Rous- 
 seau. In the dim twilight he reads the 
 glowing inscriptions, and from the tomb 
 of Rousseau he sees the hand thrust forth 
 bearing a torch, but the bones of these 
 men are not here. 
 
 While robed priests chanted the litany, 
 as the great organ pealed, and swinging 
 censers gave off their perfume, visitors 
 came, bringing children, and they stopped 
 at the arches where Rousseau and Voltaire 
 slept side by side, and they said : " It is 
 here." And so the dust of infidel great- 
 ness seemed to interfere with the rites. 
 A change must be made. L,et Victor 
 Hugo tell : 
 
 " One night in May, 1814, about two 
 o'clock in the morning, a cab stopped 
 near the city gate of La Gare at an open- 
 
 XQ8 
 
Dictor 
 
 ing in a board fence. This fence sur- 
 rounded a large vacant piece of ground 
 belonging to the city of Paris. The cab 
 had come from the Pantheon, and the 
 coachman had been ordered to take the 
 most deserted streets. Three men alighted 
 from the cab and crawled into the enclos- 
 ure. Two carried a sack between them. 
 Other men, some in cassocks, awaited 
 them. They proceeded towards a hole 
 dug in the middle of the field. At the 
 bottom of the hole was quicklime. These 
 men said nothing, they had no lanterns. 
 The wan daybreak gave a ghastly light ; 
 the sack was opened. It was full of bones. 
 These were the bones of Jean Jacques and 
 Voltaire, which had been withdrawn from 
 the Pantheon. 
 
 " The mouth of the sack was brought 
 close to the hole, and the bones rattled 
 down into that black pit. The two skulls 
 struck against each other ; a spark, not 
 likely to be seen by those standing near, 
 was doubtless exchanged between the 
 head that made The Philosophical Dic- 
 199 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 tionary and the head that made The So- 
 cial Contract. 
 
 " When that was done, when the sack 
 was shaken, when Voltaire and Rousseau 
 had been emptied into that hole, a digger 
 seized a spade, threw into the opening 
 the heap of earth, and filled up the grave. 
 The others stamped with their feet upon 
 the ground, so as to remove from it the 
 appearance of having been freshly dis- 
 turbed. One of the assistants took for 
 his trouble the sack as the hangman 
 takes the clothing of his victim they 
 left the enclosure, got into the cab with- 
 out saying a word, and hastily, before the 
 sun had risen, these men got away." 
 
 The ashes of the man who wrote these 
 vivid words now rest next to the empty 
 tombs of Voltaire and Rousseau. But a 
 step away is the grave of Sadi-Carnot. 
 
 When the visitor is conducted to the 
 crypt of the Pantheon he is taken first to 
 the tomb of Victor Hugo. The sarcoph- 
 agus on either side is draped with the 
 red, white, and blue of France and the 
 200 
 
IDtctor 
 
 stars and stripes of America. With un- 
 covered heads, we behold the mass of 
 flowers and wreaths, and our minds go 
 back to 1885, when the body of the chief 
 citizen of Paris lay in state at the Pan- 
 theon and five hundred thousand people 
 passed by and laid the tribute of silence 
 or tears on his bier. 
 
 The Pantheon is now given over as a 
 memorial to the men of France who have 
 enriched the world with their lives. Over 
 the portals of this beautiful temple are 
 the words," Liberte, Ijgalite*, Fraternite". " 
 Across its floors of rarest mosaic echo only 
 the feet of pilgrims and those of the 
 courteous and kindly old soldiers who 
 have the place in charge. On the walls 
 color revels in beautiful paintings, and in 
 the niches afid on the pedestals is marble 
 that speaks of greatness which lives in 
 lives made better. 
 
 The history of the Pantheon is one of 
 strife. As late as 1870 the Commune 
 made it a stronghold, and the streets on 
 every side were called upon to contribute 
 
 201 
 
Cbe I)aunt0 of 
 
 their paving stones for a barricade. Yet 
 it seems meet that Victor Hugo's dust 
 should lie here amid the scenes he loved 
 and knew, and where he struggled, 
 worked, toiled, achieved ; from whence 
 he was banished, and to which he 
 returned in triumph, to receive at last 
 the complete approbation so long with- 
 held. 
 
 Certainly not in the quiet of a mossy 
 graveyard, nor in a church where priests 
 mumble unmeaning words at fixed times, 
 nor yet alone on the mountain side : for 
 he chafed at solitude, but he should have 
 been buried at sea. In the midst of storm 
 and driving sleet, at midnight the sails 
 should have been lowered, the great en- 
 gines stopped, and with no requiem but 
 the sobbing of the night wind and the 
 sighing of the breeze through the shrouds, 
 and the moaning of the waves as they 
 surged about the great black ship, the 
 plank should have been run out and the 
 body wrapped in the red, white, and blue 
 of the Republic: the sea, the infinite 
 202 
 
Victor f>uao 
 
 mother of all, the sea, beloved and sung 
 by him, should have taken his tired form 
 to her arms, and there he would rest. 
 If not this, then the Pantheon. 
 
 203 
 
WORDSWORTH 
 
Bven such a shell the universe itself 
 Is to the ear of Faith ; and there are times, 
 I doubt not, when to you it doth impart 
 Authentic tidings of invisible things ; 
 Of ebb and flow and ever-during power ; 
 And central peace subsisting at the heart 
 Of endless agitation. Here you stand, 
 Adore and worship, when you know it not ; 
 Pious beyond the intention of your thought ; 
 Devout above the meaning of your will. 
 
 The Excursion. 
 
 206 
 
WORDSWORTH. 
 
 A MAN has told us that heaven is 
 not a place, and it is possible that 
 he is right. 
 
 But if heaven is a place, surely it is not 
 unlike Grasmere. Such loveliness of 
 landscape such sylvan stretches of crys- 
 tal water such peace and quiet and rest ! 
 Great, green hills lift their heads to the 
 skies and all the old stone walls and 
 hedgerows are covered with trailing vines 
 and blooming flowers. The air is rich with 
 song of birds, sweet with perfume, and 
 the blossoms gaily shower their petals on 
 the passer-by. Overhead white, billowy 
 clouds float lazily over their back-ground 
 of ethereal blue. Cool June breezes fan 
 207 
 
Gbe Ibaunts of 
 
 the cheek. Distant knolls are dotted with 
 flocks of sheep whose bells tinkle dream- 
 ily ; and drowsy hum of beetle makes the 
 bass, while lark song forms the air of the 
 sweet symphony that nature plays. Such 
 was Grasmere as I first saw it. 
 
 To love the plain, homely, common, 
 simple things of earth, of these to sing ; 
 to make the familiar beautiful and the 
 commonplace enchanting ; to cause each 
 bush to burn with the actual presence of 
 the living God, this is the poet's office. 
 And if the poet lives near Grasmere, his 
 task does not seem difficult. 
 
 From 1799 to 1808 Wordsworth lived at 
 Dove Cottage. Thanks to a few earnest 
 souls, the place is now secured to the 
 people of England and the lovers of 
 poetry wherever they may be. A good 
 old woman has charge of the cottage and 
 for a slight fee shows you the house and 
 garden and little orchard and objects of 
 interest, all the while talking : and you 
 are glad, for although unlettered, she is 
 reverent and honest. She was born here, 
 208 
 
IRflorDswortb 
 
 and all she knows is Wordsworth and the 
 people and things he loved. Is not this 
 enough ? 
 
 Here Wordsworth lived before anything 
 he wrote was published in book form : 
 here his best work was done, and here 
 Dorothy, splendid, sympathetic Dorothy 
 was inspiration, critic, friend. But who 
 inspired Dorothy? Coleridge perhaps 
 more than all others, and we know some- 
 what of their relationship as told in Dor- 
 othy's diary. There is a little Words- 
 worth Library in Dove Cottage and I sat 
 at the window of " De Quincey's room " 
 and read for an hour. Says Dorothy: 
 "Sat until four o'clock reading dear 
 Coleridge's letters.*' "We paced the 
 garden until moonrise at one o'clock, 
 we three, brother, Coleridge, and I." "I 
 read Spenser to him aloud and then we 
 had a midnight tea." 
 
 Here in this little, terraced garden, be- 
 hind the stone cottage with its low ceil- 
 ings and wide window seats and little 
 diamond panes, she in her misery wrote : 
 209 
 
"fcaunts ot 
 
 " Oh, the pity of it all ! Yet there is 
 recompense ; every sight reminds me of 
 Coleridge, dear, dear fellow ; of our walks 
 and talks by day and night, of all the 
 bright and witty and sad sweet things of 
 which we spoke and read. I was melan- 
 choly and could not talk, and at last I 
 eased my heart by weeping." 
 
 Alas, too often there is competition be- 
 tween brother and sister ; then follow 
 misunderstandings, but here the brotherly 
 and sisterly love stands out clear and 
 strong after these hundred years have 
 passed, and we contemplate it with de- 
 light. Was ever woman more honestly 
 and better praised than Dorothy ? 
 
 1 The blessings of my later years 
 
 Were with me when I was a boy. 
 She gave me eyes, she gave me ears, 
 And humble cares and gentle fears, 
 A heart ! the fountain of sweet tears, 
 
 And love and thought and joy. 
 And she hath smiles to earth unknown, 
 Smiles that with motion of their own 
 
 Do spread and sink and rise ; 
 That come and go with endless play, 
 And ever as they pass away 
 
 Are hidden in her eyes." 
 
 210 
 
'Gdortewocrb 
 
 And so in a dozen or more poems, we 
 see Dorothy reflected. She was the steel 
 on which he tried his flint. Everything 
 he wrote was read to her, then she read it 
 alone, balancing the sentences in the del- 
 icate scales of her womanly judgment. 
 "Heart of my heart, is this well done?" 
 When she said, "This will do," it was no 
 matter who said otherwise. 
 
 Back of the house on the rising hillside 
 is the little garden. Hewn out of the solid 
 rock is " Dorothy's seat. " There I rested 
 while Mrs. Dixon discoursed of poet lore, 
 and told me of how, many times, Cole- 
 ridge and Dorothy had sat in the same 
 seat and watched the stars. 
 
 Then I drank from " the well," which 
 is more properly a spring ; the stones 
 that curb it were placed in their present 
 position by the hand that wrote The 
 F^elude. Above the garden is the orchard 
 where the green linnet still sings; for 
 the birds never grow old. 
 
 There too are the circling swallows ; 
 and in a snug little alcove of the cottage 
 
 211 
 
Gbe 1>aunt0 of 
 
 you can read The Butterfly from a first 
 edition ; and then you can go sit in the 
 orchard, white with blossoms, and see the 
 butterflies that suggested the poem. And 
 if your eye is good you can discover down 
 by the lakeside the daffodils and listen 
 the while to the cuckoo call. 
 
 Then in the orchard you can see not 
 only "the daisy " but many of them, and, 
 if you wish, Mrs. Dixon will let you dig a 
 bunch of the daisies to take back to Amer- 
 ica : and if you do, I hope that yours will 
 prosper as have mine and that Words- 
 worth's flowers, like Wordsworth's verse, 
 will gladden your heart when the blue sky 
 of your life threatens to be o'ercast with 
 gray. 
 
 Here Southey came : and Thalaber was 
 read aloud in this little garden. Here 
 too came Clarkson, the man with a fine 
 feminine carelessness, as Dorothy said. 
 Charles Lloyd sat here and discoursed 
 with Wm. Calvert. Sir George Beau- 
 mont forgot his title and rapped often at 
 the quaint hinged door. An artist was 
 212 
 
QdorOawortb 
 
 Beaumont, but his best picture they say 
 is not equal to the lines that Words- 
 worth wrote about it. Sir George was not 
 only a gentleman according to law, but 
 one in heart, for he was a friend, kind, 
 gentle and generous. With such a friend 
 Wordsworth was rich indeed. But per- 
 haps the friends we have are only our 
 other selves and we get what we deserve. 
 
 We must not forget the kindly face of 
 Humphry Davy, whose gracious playful- 
 ness was ever a charm to the Words- 
 worths. The safety lamp was then only 
 an unspoken word, and perhaps few fore- 
 saw the sweetness and light that these two 
 men would yet give to earth. 
 
 Walter Scott and his wife came to Dove 
 Cottage in 1805. He did not bring his title, 
 for it, like Humphry Davy's, was as yet 
 unpacked down in I/ondon town. They 
 slept in the little cubby-hole of a room in 
 the upper southwest corner. One can 
 imagine Dorothy taking Sir Walter's 
 shaving water up to him in the morning : 
 and the savory smell of breakfast as Mis- 
 213 
 
tlbc "toaunts of 
 
 tress Mary poured the tea, while Eng- 
 land's future laureate served the toast 
 and eggs : Mr. Scott eating everything 
 in sight and talking a torrent the while 
 about art and philosophy as he passed his 
 cup back, to the consternation of the 
 hostess whose frugal ways were not used 
 to such ravages of appetite. Of course 
 she did not know that a combined novel- 
 ist and rhymster ate twice as much as a 
 simple poet. 
 
 Afterwards Mrs. Scott tucked up her 
 dress, putting on one of Dorothy's aprons, 
 and helped do the dishes. Then Cole- 
 ridge came over and they all climbed to 
 the summit of Helm Crag. 
 
 Shy little De Quincey had read some of 
 Wordsworth's poems, and knew from 
 their flavor that the man who penned 
 them was a noble soul. He came to Gras- 
 mere to call on him : he walked past 
 Dove Cottage twice, but his heart failed 
 him and he went away unannounced. 
 Later he returned and found the occu- 
 pants as simple folks as himself. Happi- 
 214 
 
"Cdor&ewortb 
 
 ness was there and good society; few 
 books but fine culture ; plain living and 
 high thinking. 
 
 Wordsworth lived at Rydal Mount for 
 thirty-three years, yet the sweetest flowers 
 of his life blossomed at Dove Cottage. 
 For difficulty, toil, struggle, obscurity, 
 poverty mixed with aspiration and ambi- 
 tion, all these were here. Success came 
 later but this is naught, for the achieve- 
 ment is more than the public acknowl- 
 edgment of the deed. 
 
 After Wordsworth moved away, De 
 Quincey rented Dove Cottage and lived 
 in it for twenty-seven years. He ac- 
 quired a library of over five thousand 
 volumes, making book shelves on four 
 side of the little rooms from floor to ceil- 
 ing. Some of these shelves still remain. 
 Here he turned night into day and 
 dreamed the dreams of "The Opium 
 Eater." 
 
 And all these arc some of the things 
 that Mrs. Dixon told me on that bright 
 summer day. What if I had heard them 
 215 
 
TKlortewortb 
 
 before! no difference. Dear old lady, I 
 salute you and at your feet I lay my grati- 
 tude for a day of rare and quiet joy. 
 
 " Farewell, thou little nook of mountain ground, 
 Thou rocky corner in the lowest stair 
 Of that magnificent temple which does bound 
 One side of our whole vale with gardens rare, 
 Sweet garden-orchard, eminently fair, 
 The loveliest spot that man has ever found, 
 Farewell 1 We leave thee to Heaven's peaceful 
 
 care, 
 
 Thee, and the Cottage which thou dost sur 
 round." 
 
 216 
 
II. 
 
 IN the far West at places of pleasure 
 and entertainment are often found 
 functionaries known as "bouncers." 
 It is the duty of the bouncer to give 
 hints to objectionable visitors that their 
 presence is not desired. And inasmuch 
 as there are many men who can never 
 take a hint without a kick, the bouncer 
 is a person selected on account of his 
 peculiar fitness psychic and otherwise 
 for the place. We all have special talents, 
 and these faculties should be used in a 
 manner that will help our fellow-men on 
 their way. 
 
 My acquaintanceship with the bouncer 
 
 has been only general, not particular. 
 
 Yet I have admired him from a distance, 
 
 and the skill and eclat that he sometimes 
 
 217 
 
ttbe l)aunte of 
 
 shows in a professional way has often ex- 
 cited my admiration. 
 
 In social usages America borrows con- 
 stantly from the mother country. But 
 like all borrowing it seems to be one- 
 sided, for seldom, very, very seldom in 
 point of etiquette and manners does Eng- 
 land borrow from us. Yet there are ex- 
 ceptions. 
 
 It is a beautiful highway that skirts 
 Lake Windermere and follows up through 
 Ambleside. We get a glimpse of the old 
 home of Harriet Martineau, and " Fox 
 Howe," the home of Matthew Arnold. 
 Just before Rydal Water is reached comes 
 Rydal Road, running straight up the 
 hillside, off from the turnpike. Rydal 
 Mount is the third house up on the left- 
 hand side. I knew the location, for I had 
 read of it many times, and in my pocket- 
 book I carried a picture taken from an 
 old Frank Leslie's, showing the house. 
 
 My heart beat fast as I climbed the hill. 
 To visit the old home of one who was Poet 
 Laureate of England is no small event in 
 218 
 
"CdorDawortb 
 
 the life of a book lover. I was full of 
 poetry and murmured lines from the 
 Excursion as I walked. Soon rare old 
 Rydal Mount came in sight among the 
 wealth of green. I stopped and sighed. 
 Yes, yes, Wordsworth lived here for 
 thirty-three years, and here he died ; the 
 spot whereon I then stood had been 
 pressed many times by his feet. I walked 
 slowly, with uncovered head and ap- 
 proached the gate. It was locked. I 
 fumbled at the latch and just as there 
 came a prospect of its opening a loud 
 deep, guttural voice dashed over me like 
 a wave : 
 
 " There you ! now wot you want?" 
 The owner of this voice was not ten feet 
 away, but he was standing up close to the 
 wall and I had not seen him. I was some- 
 what startled at first. The man did not 
 move. I stepped to one side to get a bet- 
 ter view of my interlocutor, and saw him 
 to be a large, red man of perhaps fifty. 
 A handkerchief was knotted around his 
 thick neck and he held a heavy hoe in 
 219 
 
f>aunt0 of 
 
 his hand. A genuine beefeater he was, 
 only he ate too much beef and the ale 
 he drank was evidently extra XXX. 
 
 His scowl was so needlessly severe and 
 his manner so belligerent that I thrice 
 armed, knowing my cause was just could 
 not restrain a smile. I touched my hat 
 and said, " Ah, excuse me, Mr. Falstaff, 
 you are the bouncer? " 
 
 "Never mind wot I am, sir, 'oo are 
 you?" 
 
 "I am a great admirer of Words- 
 worth " 
 
 "That's the way they all begins. 
 Cawn't ye hadmire 'im on that side of the 
 wall as well as this ? " 
 
 There is no use of wasting argument 
 with a man of this stamp ; besides that, 
 his question was to the point. But 
 there are several ways of overcoming 
 one 's adversary : I began feeling in my 
 pocket for pence. My enemy ceased 
 glaring, stepped up to the locked gate as 
 though he half wished to be friendly, and 
 there was sorrow in his voice : 
 
 220 
 
"QQorDswortb 
 
 "Don't tempt me, sir, don't do ut 
 The Missus is peekin' out of the shutters 
 at us now." 
 
 " And do you never admit visitors, even 
 to the grounds?" 
 
 " No, sir, never, God 'elp me ! and 
 there 's many an honest bob I could turn 
 by ut, and no one 'urt. But I 've lost my 
 place twic't by ut. They took me back 
 though. The Guv'ner 'ud never forgive 
 me again. ' It 's three times and out, 
 Mister 'Opkins,' says 'ee, only last Whit- 
 suntide." 
 
 " But visitors do come ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, but they never gets in 
 Mostly 'mer'cans, they don't know no 
 better, sir. They picks all the ivy orf the 
 outside of the wall, and you sees yourself 
 there 's no leaves on the lower branches 
 of that tree. Then they carries away so 
 many pebbles from out there that I 'ave 
 to dump in a fresh weel-barrel full o' 
 gravel every week, sir, don't you know." 
 He thrust a pudgy, freckled hand 
 through the bars of the gate to show that 
 221 
 
TKHortewortb 
 
 he bore me no ill will, and also, I suppose, 
 to mollify my disappointment. For al- 
 though I had come too late to see the great 
 poet himself and had even failed to see the 
 inside of his house, yet I had at least been 
 greeted at the gate by his proxy. I 
 pressed the hand firml)', pocketed a hand- 
 ful of gravel as a memento, then turned 
 and went my way. 
 
 And all there is to tell about my visit to 
 Rydal Mount is this interview with the 
 bouncer. 
 
 222 
 
III. 
 
 WORDSWORTH lived eighty 
 years. His habitation, except- 
 ing for short periods, was 
 never more than a few miles from his 
 birthplace. 
 
 His education was not extensive, his 
 learning not profound. He lacked humor 
 and passion ; in his character there was 
 little personal magnetism and in his work 
 there is small dramatic power. 
 
 He travelled more or less and knew hu- 
 manity but he did not know man. His 
 experience in so-called practical things 
 was slight, his judgment not accurate. 
 So he lived quietly, modestly, dreamily. 
 His dust rests in a country churchyard, 
 the grave marked by a simple slab. A 
 gnarled old yew tree stands guard above 
 223 
 
ZTbe founts of 
 
 the grass-grown mound. The nearest rail- 
 road is fifteen miles away. 
 
 As a poet Wordsworth stands in the 
 front rank of the second class. Shelley, 
 Browning, Mrs. Browning, Tennyson, far 
 surpassing him ; and the sweet singer of 
 Michigan, even in uninspired moments, 
 never " threw off" anything worse than 
 this: 
 
 " And he is lean and he is sick : 
 
 His body dwindled and awry, 
 Rests upon ankles swollen and thick ; 
 
 His legs are thin and dry. 
 One prop he has, and only one, 
 
 His wife, an aged woman, 
 lyives with him near the waterfall, 
 
 Upon the village common." 
 
 Jove may nod but when he makes a 
 move it counts. 
 
 Yet the influence of Wordsworth upon 
 the thought and feeling of the world has 
 been very great. He himself said : " The 
 young will read my poems and be better 
 for their truth." Many of his lines pass 
 as current coin. " The child is father of 
 the man," "The light that never was 
 224 
 
"GDlorDswortb 
 
 on land nor sea," "Not too bright and 
 good for human nature's daily food," 
 " Thoughts that do lie too deep for tears," 
 "The mighty stream of tendency," and 
 many others. "Plain living and high 
 thinking" is generally given to Emer- 
 son, but he discovered it in Wordsworth, 
 and recognizing it as his own he took it. 
 In a certain book of quotations, " The 
 still sad music of humanity " is given to 
 Shakespeare, but to equalize matters we 
 sometimes attribute to Wordsworth The 
 Old Oaken Bucket. 
 
 The men who win are those who cor- 
 rect an abuse. Wordsworth's work was 
 a protest mild yet firm against the 
 bombastic and artificial school of the 
 eighteenth century. Before his day the 
 "timber" used by poets Consisted of 
 angels, devils, ghosts, gods ; onslaught, 
 tourneys, jousts, tempests of hate and 
 torrents of wrath, always of course with 
 a very beautiful and very susceptible 
 young lady just around the corner. The 
 vomen in those days were always young 
 225 
 
"fcaunts of 
 
 and ever beautiful, but seldom wise and 
 not often good. The men were saints or 
 else " bad," generally bad. They fought 
 like the cats of Kilkenny, on slight 
 cause. 
 
 Our young man at Hawkshead school 
 saw this ; it pleased him not, and he made 
 a list of the things on which he would 
 write poems. This list includes : sunset, 
 moonrise, starlight, mist, brooks, shells, 
 stones, butterflies, moths, swallows, lin- 
 nets, thrushes, wagoners, babies, bark of 
 trees, leaves, nests, fishes, rushes, leeches, 
 cobwebs, clouds, deer, music, shade, 
 swans, crags, and snow. He kept his vow 
 and " went it one better," for among his 
 verses I find the following titles : 
 
 Lines Left upon a Seat in a Yew-Tree y 
 Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tin- 
 tern Abbey, To a Wounded Butterfly, 
 To Dora's Portrait, To the Cuckoo, On 
 Seeing a Needle-Book made in the Shape 
 of a Harp, etc. 
 
 Wordsworth's service to humanity con- 
 sists in the fact that he has shown us old 
 226 
 
TTClor&swortb 
 
 truth in a new light, and made plain the 
 close relationship that exists between 
 physical nature and the soul of man. Is 
 this much or little ? I think it is much. 
 When we realize that we are a part of all 
 that we see, or hear, or feel, we are not 
 lonely. But to feel a sense of separation 
 is to feel the chill of death. 
 
 Wordsworth taught that the earth is 
 the universal Mother, and that the life of 
 the flower has its source in the same uni- 
 versal life from whence ours is derived. 
 To know this truth is to feel a tenderness, 
 a kindliness, a spirit of fraternalism, to- 
 ward every manifestation of this universal 
 life. No attempt was made to say the 
 last word, only a wish to express the 
 truth that the Spirit of God is manifest 
 on every hand. 
 
 Now this is a very simple philosophy. 
 No far-reaching, syllogistic logic is re- 
 quired to prove it ; no miracle, nor spe- 
 cial dispensation is needed ; you just feel 
 that it is so, that 's all, and it gives you 
 peace. Children, foolish folks, old men, 
 227 
 
I)aunt8 of 
 
 whose sands of life are nearly run, com- 
 prehend it. 
 
 But heaven bless you ! you can't prove 
 any such foolishness. Jeffrey saw the 
 ridiculousness of these assumptions and 
 so he declared, " This will never do," and 
 for twenty years The Edinburgh Review 
 never ceased to fling off fleers and jeers 
 and to criticise and scoff. That a great 
 periodical, rich and influential, in the city 
 which was the very centre of learning, 
 should go so much out of its way to at- 
 tack a quiet countryman living in a four- 
 roomed cottage, away off in the hills of 
 Cumberland, seems a little queer. 
 
 Then, this countryman did not seek to 
 found a kingdom, nor to revolutionize 
 society, nor did he force his patty-pan 
 rhymes about linnets, and larks, and daf- 
 fodils, upon the world. Far from it ; he 
 was very modest, diffident, in fact, and 
 his song was quite in the minor key, but 
 still the chain-shot and bombs of literary 
 warfare were sent hissing in his direction. 
 
 There is a little story about a certain 
 228 
 
general who figured as division-comman- 
 der in the War of Secession : this war- 
 rior had his headquarters, for a time, in 
 a typical southern home in the Tennessee 
 Mountains. The house had a large fire- 
 place and chimney ; in this chimney swal- 
 lows had nests. One day, as the great 
 man was busy at his maps, working out 
 a plan of campaign against the enemy, 
 the swallows made quite an uproar. Per- 
 haps some of the eggs were hatching ; 
 anyway, the birds were needlessly noisy 
 in their domestic affairs and it disturbed 
 the great man he grew nervous. He 
 called his adjutant : " Sir," said the 
 mighty warrior, " dislodge those damn 
 pests in the chimney, without delay." 
 
 Two soldiers were ordered to climb the 
 roof and dislodge the enemy. Yet the 
 swallows were not dislodged, for the 
 soldiers could not reach them. 
 
 So Jeffrey's tirades were unavailing, 
 and Wordsworth was not dislodged. 
 
 " He might as well try to crush Skid- 
 daw," said Southey. 
 229 
 
THACKERAY 
 
 231 
 
TO MR. BROOKFIELD. 
 
 Sept. 16, 1849. 
 
 Have you read Dickens ? Oh, it is charming ! 
 Brave Dickens ! David Copperfield has some of 
 his prettiest touches, and the reading of the book 
 has done another author a great deal of good. 
 
 W. M. T. 
 
 233 
 
THACKERAY. 
 
 IN every community there are certain 
 good old ladies who wear perennial 
 mourning. They attend every fun- 
 eral, carrying black bordered handker- 
 chiefs, and weep gently at the right time. 
 I have made it a point to hunt out these 
 ancient dames at their homes, and, over 
 the teacups, I have discovered that inva- 
 riably they enjoy a sweet peace a happi- 
 ness with contentment that is great gain. 
 They seem to be civilization's rudimen- 
 tary relics of the Irish keeners and paid 
 mourners of the Orient. 
 
 And there is just a little of this ten- 
 dency to mourn with those who mourn 
 in all mankind. It is not difficult to bear 
 235 
 
"fcaunts of 
 
 another's woe and then there is always 
 a grain of mitigation, even in the sorrow 
 of the afflicted, that makes tribulation 
 bearable. 
 
 Burke on the Sublime affirms that all 
 men take a certain satisfaction in the 
 disasters of others. Just as Frenchmen 
 lift their hats when a funeral passes and 
 thank God that they are not in the hearse, 
 so do we in the presence of calamity 
 thank heaven that it is not ours. 
 
 Perhaps this is why I get a strange 
 delight from walking through a grave- 
 yard by night. All about are the white 
 monuments that glisten in the ghostly 
 starlight, the night wind sighs softly 
 among the grassy mounds all else is 
 silent still. This is the city of the dead, 
 and of all the hundreds or thousands who 
 have travelled to this spot over long and 
 weary miles, I, only I, have the powe'r to 
 leave at will. Their ears are stopped, 
 their eyes are closed, their hands are 
 folded but I am alive. 
 
 One of the first places I visited on reach- 
 236 
 
ing London was Kensal Green Cemetery. 
 I quickly made the acquaintance of the 
 First Gravedigger, a rare wit over whose 
 gray head have passed full seventy pleas- 
 ant summers. I presented him a copy of 
 Tlie Shroud, the organ of the American 
 Undertakers' Association, published at 
 Syracuse, N. Y. I subscribe for The 
 Shroud because it has a bright wit and 
 humor column, and also for the sweet 
 satisfaction of knowing that there is still 
 virtue left in Syracuse. 
 
 The First Gravedigger greeted me 
 courteously, and when I explained briefly 
 my posthumous predilections we grasped 
 hands across an open grave (that he had 
 just digged) and were fast friends. 
 
 "Do you believe in cremation, sir?" 
 he asked. 
 
 "No, never, it's pagan.'* 
 
 " Aye, you are a gentleman and about 
 burying folks in churches ? " 
 
 " Never ; a grave should be out under 
 the open sky, where the sun by day and 
 the moon and stars " 
 237 
 
Cbe tbaunts of 
 
 " Right you are. How Shakespeare 
 can ever stand it to have his grave walked 
 over by a boy choir is more than I can 
 understand If I had him here I could 
 look after him right. Come, I '11 show 
 you the company I keep ! " 
 
 Not twenty feet from where we stood 
 was a fine but plain granite block to 
 the memory of the second wife of James 
 Russell Lowell. 
 
 "Just Mr. Lowell and one friend stood 
 by the grave when we lowered the coffin 
 just those two men and no one else but 
 the young clergyman who belongs here 
 Mr. Lowell shook hands with me when 
 he went away. He gave me a guinea 
 and wrote me two letters afterward from 
 America, the last was sent only a week 
 before he died. I '11 show 'em to you 
 when we go to the office. Say, did you 
 know him ?" 
 
 He pointed to a slab, on which I read 
 
 the name of Sidney Smith. Then we went 
 
 to the graves of Mulready the painter, 
 
 Kemble the actor, Sir Charles Bast- 
 
 238 
 
lake the artist. Next came the resting 
 place of Buckle immortal for writing a 
 preface dead at thirty-seven with his 
 history unwrit ; Leigh Hunt sleeps near, 
 and above his dust a column that explains 
 how it was erected by friends. In life 
 he asked for bread, when dead they gave 
 him a costly pile of stone. 
 
 Here are also the graves of Madame 
 Tietjens ; Charles Mathews, the actor ; 
 and Sir John Ross, the Arctic explorer. 
 
 " And just down the hill a ways another 
 big man is buried. I knew him well; he 
 used to come and visit us often. The last 
 time I saw him I said as he was going 
 away, ' Come again, sir, you are always 
 welcome ! ' " 
 
 " 'Thank you, Mr. First Gravedigger, ' 
 says he, ' I will come again before 
 long, and make you an extended visit.' 
 In less than a year the hearse brought 
 him. That 's his grave push that ivy 
 away and you can read the inscription. 
 Did you ever hear of him ? " 
 
 It was a plain heavy slab placed hori* 
 239 
 
fjaunts of 
 
 zontally and the ivy had so run over it 
 that the white of the marble was nearly 
 obscured. But I made out this inscrip- 
 tion : 
 
 WIGWAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY 
 Born July 18, 1811 ; 
 Died Dec. 24, 1863. 
 
 ANNE CARMICHAEI, SMYTH, 
 Died Dec. 18, 1864, aged 72 his mother by her 
 first marriage. 
 
 The unpoetic exactness of that pedi- 
 gree gave me a slight chilh But here 
 they sleep mother and son in one grave. 
 She who gave him his first caress also 
 gave him his last ; and when he was 
 found dead in his bed, his mother who 
 lived under the same roof was the first 
 one called. He was the child of her girl- 
 hood she was scarcely twenty when she 
 bore him. In life they were never sep- 
 arated and in death they are not divided. 
 It is as both desired. 
 
 Thackeray was born in India, and was 
 
 brought to Bngland on the death of his 
 
 father, when he was six years of age. On 
 
 the way from Calcutta the ship touched 
 
 240 
 
at the Island of St. Helena. A servant 
 took the lad ashore and they walked up 
 the rocky heights to Bowood and there, 
 pacing back and forth in a garden, they 
 saw a short, stout man. 
 
 "Lookee, lad, lookee quick that's 
 him, he eats three sheep every day and 
 all the children he can get ! " 
 
 " And that 's all I had to do with the 
 battle of Waterloo," said "OldThack," 
 forty years after. But you will never 
 believe it after reading those masterly 
 touches concerning the battle, in Vanity 
 Fair. 
 
 Young Thackeray was sent to the Char- 
 terhouse school, where he was considered 
 rather a dull boy. He was big and good- 
 natured, and read novels when he should 
 have studied arithmetic. This tendency 
 to "play off" stuck to him at Cam- 
 bridge where he did not remain long 
 enough to get a degree, but to the relief 
 of his tutors went off on a tour through 
 Burope. 
 
 Travel as a means of education is a 
 241 
 
f>aunts of 
 
 very seductive bit of sophistry. Invalids 
 whom the doctors cannot cure and schol- 
 ars whom teachers cannot teach are often 
 advised to take " a change." Still there 
 is reason in it. 
 
 In England Thackeray was intent on 
 law ; at Paris he received a strong bent 
 toward art ; but when he reached Weimar 
 and was introduced at the Court of Let- 
 ters and came into the living presence of 
 Goethe he caught the infection and made 
 a plan for translating Schiller. 
 
 Schiller dead was considered in Ger- 
 many a greater man than Goethe living, 
 as if 't were an offense to live and a vir- 
 tue to die. And young William Make- 
 peace wrote home to his mother that 
 Schiller was the greatest man that ever 
 lived and that he was going to translate 
 his books and give them to England. 
 
 No doubt there are certain people born 
 with a tendency to infectiousness in re- 
 gard to certain diseases, so there are those 
 who catch the literary mania on slight 
 exposure. 
 
 242 
 
"I've got it," said Thackeray, and so 
 he had. 
 
 He went back to England and made 
 groggy efforts at Blackstone, and Some- 
 body's Digest, and What 's-his-name's 
 Compendium, but all the time he scribbled 
 and sketched. 
 
 The young man had come into posses- 
 sion of a goodly fortune from his father's 
 estate enough to yield him an income 
 of over two thousand dollars a year. But 
 bad investments and signing security for 
 friends took the money the way that 
 money usually goes when held by a man 
 who has not earned it. 
 
 " Talk about riches having wings," said 
 Thackeray, "my fortune had pinions like 
 a condor, and flew like a carrier pigeon." 
 
 When Thackeray was thirty he was ek- 
 ing out a meagre income writing poems, 
 reviews, criticisms, and editorials. His 
 wife was a confirmed invalid, a victim of 
 mental darkness, and his sorrows and 
 anxieties were many. 
 
 He was known as a bright writer, yet 
 243 
 
Gbe ttmunts of 
 
 London is full of clever, unsuccessful 
 men. But in Thackeray's thirty-eighth 
 year Vanity Fair came out, and it was a 
 success from the first. 
 
 In Yesterdays with Authors, Mr. Fields 
 says : " I once made a pilgrimage with 
 Thackeray to the various houses where 
 his books had been written ; and I re- 
 member when we came to Young Street, 
 Kensington, he said, with mock gravity, 
 ' Down on your knees, you rogue, for 
 here Vanity Fair was penned ; and I 
 will go down with you for I have a high 
 opinion of that little production my- 
 self.'" 
 
 Young Street is only a block from the 
 Kensington Metropolitan Railway sta- 
 tion. It is a little street running off 
 Kensington Road. At Number 16, (for- 
 merly No. 13,) I saw a card in the 
 window, " Rooms to rent to Single Gen- 
 tlemen." 
 
 I rang the bell, and was shown a room 
 that the landlady offered me for twelve 
 shillings a week if I paid in advance ; or 
 244 
 
if I would take another room one flight 
 up with a "gent who was studying hart " 
 it would be only eight and six. I sug- 
 gested that we go up and see the " gent." 
 We did so, and I found the young man 
 very courteous and polite. 
 
 He told me that he had never heard 
 Thackeray's name in connection with 
 the house. The landlady protested that 
 " no man by the name o' Thack'ry has 
 had rooms here since I rented the place ; 
 leastwise, if he has been here he called 
 hisself by sumpthink else, which was like 
 o'nuff the case, as most ev'ry body is 
 crooked now days but surely no decent 
 person can blame me for that ! " 
 
 I assured her that she was in no wise to 
 blame. 
 
 From this house in Young Street the 
 author of Vanity Fair moved to No. 
 36 Onslow Square, where he wrote The 
 Virginians. On the south side of the 
 square there is a row of three-storied 
 brick houses. Thackeray lived in one 
 of these houses for nine years. They 
 245 
 
were the years when honors and wealth 
 were being heaped upon him ; and he 
 was worldling enough to let his wants 
 keep pace with his ability to gratify 
 them. He was made of the same sort 
 of clay as other men, for his standard of 
 life conformed to his pocketbook and he 
 always felt poor. 
 
 From this fine house on Onslow Square 
 he moved to a veritable palace which he 
 built to suit his own taste, at No. 2 Pal- 
 ace Green, Kensington. But mansions on 
 earth are seldom for long he died here on 
 Christmas Eve, 1863. And Charles Dick- 
 ens, Mark Lemon, Millais, Anthony Trol- 
 lope, Robert Browning, George Cruik- 
 shank, Tom Taylor, Louis Blanc, Charles 
 Mathews, and Shirley Brooks were among 
 the friends who carried him to his rest. 
 
 246 
 
II. 
 
 IT is a great mistake to take one's self 
 too seriously. Complacency is the 
 unpardonable sin, and the man who 
 says, " Now I 'm sure of it," has at that 
 moment lost it. 
 
 Villagers who have lived in one little 
 place until they think themselves great } 
 having lost the sense of proportion 
 through lack of comparison, are gener- 
 ally " in dead earnest." 
 
 Surely they are often intellectually 
 dead, and I do not dispute the fact that 
 they are in earnest. All those excellent 
 gentlemen in the days gone by who could 
 not contemplate a celestial bliss that did 
 not involve the damnation of those who 
 disagreed with them were in dead ear- 
 nest. 
 
 Cotton Mather once saw a black cat 
 perched on the shoulder of an innocent, 
 chattering old gran'ma. The next day a 
 247 
 
Cbe "fcaunts of 
 
 neighbor had a convulsion ; and Cotton 
 Mather went forth and exorcised Tabby 
 with a hymn book, and hanged gran 'ma 
 by the neck, high on Gallows Hill, until 
 she was dead. 
 
 Had the Reverend Mather possessed 
 but a mere modicum of humor he might 
 have exorcised the cat, but I am sure he 
 would never have troubled old gran'ma. 
 But alas, Cotton Mather's conversation 
 was limited to yea, yea, and nay, nay : 
 generally nay, nay ; and he was in dead 
 earnest. 
 
 In the Boston Public Library is a book 
 written in 1685 by Cotton Mather, en- 
 titled Wonders of the Invisible World. 
 This book received the endorsement of 
 the Governor of the Province and also 
 of the president of Harvard College. 
 The author cites many cases of persons 
 who were bewitched ; and also makes the 
 interesting statement that the devil knows 
 Greek, Latin, and Hebrew, but speaks 
 English with an accent. These facts were 
 long used at Harvard as argument in 
 248 
 
favor of the classics. And when Greek 
 was at last made optional the devil was 
 supposed to have filed a protest with the 
 Dean of the Faculty. 
 
 The Rev. Francis Gastrell who razed 
 New Place, and cut down the poet's mul- 
 berry tree to escape the importunities of 
 visitors, was in dead earnest. Attila, and 
 Herod, and John Calvin were in dead 
 earnest. And were it not for the fact 
 that Luther had lucid intervals when he 
 went about with his tongue in his cheek he 
 surely would have worked grievous wrong. 
 
 Recent discoveries in Egyptian archae- 
 ology show that in his lifetime Moses was 
 more esteemed as a wit than a law maker. 
 His jokes were posted upon the walls and 
 explained to the populace, who it seems 
 were a bit slow. 
 
 Job was a humorist of a high order, 
 and when he said to the wise men, "No 
 doubt but ye are the people, and wisdom 
 shall die with you," he struck twelve. 
 When the sons of Jacob went down into 
 Egypt and Joseph put up the price of 
 249 
 
"fcaunts of 
 
 com, took their money, and then secretly 
 replaced the coin in the sacks, he showed 
 his artless love of a quiet joke. 
 
 Shakespeare's fools were the wisest and 
 kindliest men at court. When the mas^ 
 ter decked a character in cap and bells 
 it was as though he had given bonds for 
 the man's humanity. Touchstone fol- 
 lowed his master into exile ; and when all 
 seemed to have forsaken King Lear the 
 fool bared himself to the storm and cov- 
 ered the shaking old man with his own 
 cloak. And if Costard, Trinculo, Touch- 
 stone, Jaques, and Mercutio had lived in 
 Salem in 1692 there would not only have 
 been a flashing of merry jests, but a 
 flashing of rapiers as well, and every gray 
 hair of every old dame's head would have 
 been safe so long as there was a striped 
 leg on which to stand. 
 
 Lincoln, liberator of men, loved the 
 motley ; and if it comes to an issue be- 
 tween Chauncey M. Depew and John 
 Sherman we must make shift to save the 
 state by making the joker president. We 
 250 
 
do not want for chief magistrate one who 
 by his presence in a room, makes the 
 apartment available only for cold storage. 
 Such men be dangerous. For the individ 
 ual who is incapable of viewing the world 
 from a jocular basis is unsafe and can 
 only be trusted when the opposition is 
 strong enough to laugh him into line. 
 
 In the realm of English letters Thack- 
 eray is prince of humorists. He could 
 see right through a brick wall, and 
 never mistook a hawk for a hernshaw. 
 He had a just estimate of values, and the 
 temperament that can laugh at all trivial 
 misfits. And he had too that dread ca- 
 pacity for pain which every true humorist 
 possesses : for the true essence of humor 
 is sensibility. 
 
 In all literature that lives there is min- 
 gled like pollen an indefinable element 
 of the author's personality. In Thacke- 
 ray's Lectures on English Humorists 
 this subtle quality is particularly appar- 
 ent. Blusive, delicate, alluring it is the 
 actinic ray that imparts vitality. 
 251 
 
ZTbc tbaunts of 
 
 When wit plays at skittles with dul- 
 ness, dulness gets revenge by taking wit 
 at his sword. Vast numbers of people 
 taking Thackeray at his word consider 
 him a bitter pessimist. 
 
 He even disconcerted bright little 
 Charlotte Bronte* who went down to Lon- 
 don to see him, and then wrote back to 
 Haworth that "the great man talked 
 steadily with never a smile. I could not 
 tell when to laugh and when to cry for I 
 did not know what was fun and what 
 fact." 
 
 But finally the author of Jane Eyre 
 found the combination, and she saw 
 that beneath the brusque exterior of that 
 bulky form there was a woman's tender 
 sympathy. 
 
 Thackeray has told us what he thought 
 of the author of Jane Eyre, and the au- 
 thor of Jane yrebas told us what she 
 thought of the author of Vanity Fair. 
 One was big and whimsical, the other 
 was little and sincere, but both were 
 alike in this : their hearts were wrung at 
 252 
 
the sight of suffering and both had tears 
 for the erring, the groping, and the op- 
 pressed. 
 
 A Frenchman cannot comprehend a 
 joke that is not accompanied by grimace 
 and gesticulation ; and so M. Taine 
 chases Thackeray through sixty solid 
 pages, berating him for what he is pleased 
 to term " bottled hate." 
 
 Taine is a cynic who charges Thackeray 
 with cynicism, all in the choicest of bit- 
 ing phrase. It is a beautiful example of 
 sinners calling the righteous to repent- 
 ance a thing that is often done, but sel- 
 dom with artistic finish. 
 
 The fun is too deep for Monsieur, or 
 mayhap the brand is not the yellow label 
 to which his palate is accustomed, so he 
 spews it all. Yet Taine's criticism is 
 charming reading, although he is only 
 hot after an anise-seed trail of his own 
 dragging. But the chase is a deal more 
 exciting than most men would lead were 
 there real live game to capture. 
 
 If pushed I might suggest several 
 253 
 
f>aunt0 of 
 
 points in this man's make-up where God 
 could have bettered His work. But ac- 
 cepting Thackeray as we find him, we see 
 a singer whose cage fate had overhung 
 with black until he had caught the tune. 
 The Ballad of Bouillabaisse shows a ten- 
 der side of his spirit that he often sought 
 to conceal. His heart vibrated to all 
 finer thrills of mercy ; and his love for 
 all created things was so delicately strung 
 that he would, in childish shame, some- 
 times issue a growl to drown its rising, 
 tearful tones. 
 
 In the character of Becky Sharp he 
 has marshalled some of his own weak 
 points and then lashed them with scorn. 
 He looked into the mirror and seeing a 
 potential snob he straightway inveighed 
 against snobbery. The punishment does 
 not always fit the crime it is excess. 
 But I still contest that where his ridicule 
 is most severe, it is Thackeray's own 
 back that is bared to the knout. 
 
 The primal recipe for roguery in art is : 
 "Know Thyself." When a writer por- 
 254 
 
Ubacfcerag 
 
 trays a villain and does it well, make 
 no mistake he poses for the character 
 himself. Said gentle Ralph Waldo Em- 
 erson, "I have capacity in me for every 
 crime." 
 
 The man of imagination knows those 
 mystic spores of possibility that lie dor- 
 mant, and like the magicians of the Bast 
 who grow mango trees in an hour, he 
 develops the " inward potential " at will. 
 The mere artisan in letters goes forth 
 and finds a villain and then describes 
 him, but the artist knows a better way : 
 " I am that man." 
 
 One of the very sweetest, gentlest char- 
 acters in literature is Colonel Newcome. 
 The stepfather of Thackeray, Major Car- 
 michael Smyth, was made to stand for 
 the portrait of the lovable Colonel ; and 
 when that all 'round athlete, F. Hop- 
 kinson Smith, gave us that other lovable 
 old Colonel he paid high tribute to The 
 Newcomes. 
 
 Thackeray was a poet, and as such was 
 often caught in the toils of doubt the 
 255 
 
tmunts of 
 
 crux of the inquiring spirit. He aspired 
 for better things and at times his im- 
 perfections stood out before him in mon- 
 strous shape, and he sought to hiss them 
 down. 
 
 In the heart of the artist-poet there is 
 an Inmost-Self that sits over against the 
 acting, breathing man and passes judg- 
 ment on his every deed. To satisfy the 
 world is little, to please the populace 
 is naught ; fame is vapor ; gold is dross ; 
 and every love that has not the sanction 
 of that Inmost-Self is a viper's sting. To 
 satisfy the demands of the God within 
 is the poet's prayer. What doubts beset, 
 what taunting fears surround, what 
 crouching sorrows lie in wait, what dead 
 hopes drag, what hot desires pursue ; and 
 what kindly lights do beckon on ah ! 
 " 't is we musicians know." 
 
 Thackeray came to America to get a 
 pot of money, and was in a fair way 
 of securing it, when he chanced to pick 
 up a paper in which a steamer was an- 
 nounced to sail that evening for England* 
 256 
 
Gbacfeerag 
 
 A wave of "homesickness swept over the 
 big boy he could not stand it. He hast- 
 ily packed up his effects and without say- 
 good bye to any one, and forgetting all 
 of his engagements, he hastened to the 
 dock, leaving this note for the kindest of 
 kind friends : " Good bye Fields, good 
 bye Mrs. Fields God bless everybody. 
 saysW. M. T." 
 
 257 
 
DICKENS 
 
 259 
 
. . . I hope for the enlargement of my mind, 
 and for the improvement of my understanding. 
 If I have done but little good, I trust I have done 
 less harm, and that none of my adventures will 
 be other than a source of amusing and pleasant 
 recollection. God bless you all. 
 
 Pickwick. 
 
 26C 
 

DICKENS. 
 
 THB path of progress in certain prob 
 lems seems barred as by a flaming 
 sword. 
 
 More than a thousand years before 
 Christ an Arab chief asked, "If a man 
 die shall he live again ? " Kvery man who 
 ever lived has asked the same question, 
 but we know no more to-day about the 
 subject than did Job. 
 
 There are one hundred and five boy 
 babies born to every one hundred girls. 
 The law holds in every land where vital 
 statistics have been kept ; and Sairey 
 Gamp knew just as much about the cause 
 why as Brown-Sequard, Pasteur, Agnew, 
 or Austin Flint. 
 
 261 
 
TTbe I>aunt8 of 
 
 There is still a third question that every 
 parent, since Adam and Eve, has sought 
 to solve : " How can I educate this child 
 so that he will attain eminence ? " And 
 ?ven in spite of shelves that groan be- 
 neath tomes on tomes, and advice from 
 a million preachers, the answer is : No- 
 body knows. 
 
 "There is a divinity that shapes our ends, 
 rough hew them how we will." 
 
 Moses was sent adrift, but the tide 
 carried him into power. The brethren of 
 Joseph " deposited him into a cavity," 
 but you cannot dispose of genius that 
 way ! Demosthenes was weighted (or 
 blessed) with every disadvantage ; Shake- 
 speare got into difficulty with a woman 
 eight years his senior, stole deer, ran away, 
 and became the very first among Eng- 
 lish poets ; Erasmus was a foundling. 
 
 Once there was a woman by the name 
 of Nancy Hanks ; she was thin-breasted, 
 gaunt, yellow, and sad. At last, living 
 in poverty, overworked, she was stricken 
 by death. She called her son homely 
 262 
 
Dicfeen* 
 
 as herself and pointing to the lad's 
 sister said, "Be good to her, Abe," and 
 died died, having no expectation for her 
 boy beyond the hope that he might pros- 
 per in worldly affairs so as to care for 
 himself and sister. The boy became a 
 man who wielded wisely a power mightier 
 than ever given to any other American. 
 Seven college-bred men composed his 
 cabinet ; and Proctor Knott once said that 
 "if a teeter were evenly balanced, and 
 the members of the cabinet were all placed 
 on one end, and the President on the 
 other he would send the seven wise men 
 flying into space." 
 
 On the other hand, Marcus Aurelius 
 wrote his Meditations for a son who did 
 npt read them and whose name is a sym- 
 bol for profligacy ; Charles Kinsgley 
 penned Greek Heroes for offspring who 
 have never shown their father's heroism, 
 and Charles Dickens wrote A Child's 
 History of England for his children 
 none of whom has proven his proficiency 
 in historiology. 
 
 26 3 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 Charles Dickens himself received his 
 education at the University of Hard 
 Knocks. Very early in life he was cast 
 upon the rocks and suckled by the she- 
 wolf. Yet he became the most popular 
 author the world has ever known, and up 
 to the present time no writer of books has 
 approached him in point of number of 
 readers and financial returns. These are 
 facts facts so hard and true that they 
 would be the delight of Mr. Gradgrind. 
 
 At twelve years of age Charles Dickens 
 was pasting labels on blacking-boxes ; 
 his father was in prison. At sixteen he 
 was spending odd hours in the reading- 
 room of the British Museum. At nineteen 
 he was Parliamentary reporter ; at twenty- 
 one a writer of sketches ; at twenty-three 
 he was getting a salary of thirty-five dol- 
 lars a week, and the next year his pay 
 was doubled. When twenty-five he wrote 
 a play that ran for seventy nights at the 
 Drury Lane Theatre. About the same 
 time he received seven hundred dollars 
 for a series of sketches written in two 
 264 
 
Dickens 
 
 weeks. At twenty-six, publishers were 
 at his feet. 
 
 When Dickens was at the flood-tide of 
 prosperity, Thackeray, one year his sen- 
 ior, waited on his doorstep with pictures 
 to illustrate Pickwick. 
 
 He worked steadily, and made from 
 eight to twenty-five thousand dollars a 
 year. His fame increased, and the New 
 York Ledger paid him ten thousand dol- 
 lars for one story which he wrote in a fort- 
 night. His collected works fill forty vol- 
 umes. There are more of Dickens' books 
 sold every year now than in any year in 
 which he lived. There were more of 
 Dickens' books sold last year than any 
 previous year. 
 
 " I am glad that the public buy his 
 books," said Macready, " for if they did 
 not he would take to the stage and eclipse 
 us all." 
 
 Not So Bad as We Seem, by Bulwer- 
 
 Lytton, was played at Devonshire House 
 
 in the presence of the Queen, Dickens 
 
 taking the principal part. He gave the- 
 
 265 
 
IDfcfcens 
 
 atrical performances in London, Liver- 
 pool, and Manchester, for the benefit of 
 Leigh Hunt, Sheridan Knowles, and vari- 
 ous other needy authors and actors. He 
 wrote a dozen plays and twice as many 
 more have been constructed from his 
 plots. 
 
 He gave public readings through Eng- 
 land, Scotland, and Ireland, where the 
 people fought for seats. The average 
 receipts for these entertainments were 
 eight hundred dollars per night. 
 
 In 1865 he made a six months' tour of 
 the United States giving a series of read- 
 ings. The prices of admission were placed 
 at extravagant figures, but the box-office 
 was always besieged until the ticket-seller 
 put out his lights and hung out a sign : 
 " The standing room is all taken" 
 
 The gross receipts of these readings 
 were $229,000 ; the expenses $39,000 ; net 
 profit $190,000. 
 
 Charles Dickens died of brain rupture 
 in 1870, aged fifty-eight. His dust rests 
 in Westminster Abbey. 
 266 
 
XL 
 
 MR. JAMES T. FIELDS, who was 
 affectionately referred to by Mr. 
 Charles Dickens as " Massachu- 
 setts Jemmy," once said : " To know the 
 London of Dickens is a liberal education.'* 
 And I am aware of no better way to be- 
 come acquainted with the greatest city in 
 the world than to follow the winding foot- 
 steps of the author of David Copperfield. 
 
 Beginning his London life when ten 
 years of age, he shifted from one lodging 
 to another, zigzag, tacking back and forth 
 from place to place, but all the time mak- 
 ing head, and finally dwelling in palaces 
 of which nobility might be proud. It 
 took him forty-eight years to travel from 
 the squalor of Camden Town to Poets' 
 Corner in Westminster Abbey. 
 
 He lodged first in Bayham Street. " A 
 267 
 
"fcaunts of 
 
 washerwoman lived next door, and a Bow 
 Street officer over the way." It was a 
 shabby district, chosen by the elder 
 Dickens became the rent was low. As 
 he neglected to pay the rent, one won- 
 ders why he did not take quarters in 
 Piccadilly. 
 
 I looked in vain for a sign reading, 
 "Washin dun Heer," but I found a Bow 
 Street orf'cer who told me that Bayham 
 Street had long since disappeared. 
 
 Yet there is always a recompense in 
 prowling about London, because if you 
 do not find the thing you are looking for, 
 you find something else equally interest- 
 ing. My Bow Street friend proved to be 
 a regular magazine of rare and useful in- 
 formation ; historical, archaeological and 
 biographical. 
 
 A Lunnun Bobby has his clothes cut 
 after a pattern a hundred years old, and 
 he always carries his gloves in his hand 
 never wearing them because this was a 
 a habit of William the Conqueror. But 
 never mind, he is intelligent, courteous, 
 268 
 
Btchens 
 
 and obliging, and I am perfectly willing 
 that he should wear skirts like a ballet 
 dancer and a helmet too small if it is his 
 humor. 
 
 My perliceman knew an older orfcer 
 who was acquainted with Mr. Dickens. 
 Mr. Dickens 'ad a full perliceman's suit 
 'imself, issued to 'im on an order from 
 Scotland Yard, and he used to do patrol 
 duty at night carrying 'is bloomin' gloves 
 in 'is 'and and 'is chinstrapin place. This 
 was told me by my new-found friend, who 
 volunteered to show me the way to North 
 Gower Street. 
 
 It 's only Gower Street now and the 
 houses have been renumbered, so Number 
 4 is a matter of conjecture ; but my guide 
 showed me a door where were the marks of 
 a full grown plate that evidently had long 
 since disappeared. Some days afterward 
 I found this identical brass plate at an 
 old bookshop in Cheapside. The plate 
 read : Mrs. Dickens' Establishment. The 
 man who kept the place advertised him- 
 self as a " Bibliopole." He offered to sell 
 269 
 
Gbe Ibaunts 
 
 me the plate for one pun ten, but I did 
 not purchase for I knew where I could 4 
 get its mate with a deal more verdigris, 
 all for six and eight. 
 
 Dickens has recorded that he cannot 
 recollect of any pupils coming to the 
 Establishment. But he remembers when 
 his father was taken, like Mr. Dorrit, to 
 the Debtors' Prison. He was lodged in 
 the top story but one, in the very same 
 room where his son afterwards put the 
 Dorrits. It 's a queer thing to know 
 that a book-writer can imprison folks 
 without a warrant and even kill them 
 and yet go unpunished which thought 
 was suggested to me by my philosophic 
 guide. 
 
 From this house in Gower Street 
 Charles used to go daily to the Marshal- 
 sea to visit Micawber, who not so many 
 years later was to act as the proud aman- 
 uensis of his son. 
 
 The next morning after I first met 
 Bobby he was off duty. I met him by 
 appointment at the Three Jolly Beg- 
 270 
 
Dickens 
 
 gars (a place pernicious snug). He 
 was dressed in a fashionable light-colored 
 suit, the coat a trifle short, and a high 
 silk hat. His large red neck-scarf set 
 off by his bright brick-dust complexion 
 caused me to mistake him at first for a 
 friend of mine who drives a Holborn bus. 
 
 Mr. 'awkins (for it was he) greeted me 
 cordially, pulled gently at his neck 
 whiskers, and when he addressed me 
 as Me Lud, the barmaid served us with 
 much alacrity and things. 
 
 We went first to the church of St 
 George ; then we found Angel Court lead- 
 ing to Berbondsey, also Marshalsea Place. 
 Here is the site of the prison, where the 
 crowded ghosts of misery still hover ; but 
 small trace could we find of the prison 
 itself, neither did we see the ghosts. We, 
 however, saw a very pretty barmaid at 
 the public in Angel Court. I think she 
 is still prettier than the one to whom 
 Bobby introduced me at the Sign of 
 the Meat Axe, which is saying a good 
 deal. Angel Court is rightly named. 
 271 
 
Ibaunts ot 
 
 The blacking warehouse at Old Hun- 
 gerford Stairs, Strand, in which Charles 
 Dickens was shown by Bob Fagin how 
 to tie up the pots of paste, has rotted 
 down and been carted away. The coal 
 barges in the muddy river are still there, 
 just as they were when Charles, Poll 
 Green, and Bob Fagin played on them 
 during the dinner hour. I saw Bob and 
 several other boys, grimy with blacking, 
 chasing each other across the flat boats 
 but Dickens was not there. 
 
 Down the river a ways there is a 
 crazy old warehouse with a rotten wharf 
 of its own, abutting on the water when 
 the tide is in, and on the mud when the 
 tide is out ; the whole place literally 
 overrun with rats that scuffle and squeal 
 on the mouldy stairs. I asked Bobby if 
 it could not be that this was the blacking 
 factory, but he said, no, for this one 
 allus wuz. 
 
 Dickens found lodgings in I^ant Street 
 while his father was awaiting in the 
 Marshalsea for something to turn up. 
 272 
 
Dfcfcens 
 
 Bob Sawyer afterward had the same 
 quarters. When Sawyer invited Mr. 
 Pickwick "and the other chaps " to dine 
 with him, he failed to give his number, 
 so we cannot locate the house. But I 
 found the street and saw a big wooden 
 Pickwick on wheels standing as a sign 
 for a tobacco shop. The old gentleman 
 who runs the place, and runs the sign in 
 every night, assured me that Bob Sawyer's 
 room was the first floor back. I looked 
 in at it but seeing no one there whom I 
 knew I bought tuppence worth of pigtail 
 in lieu of fee, and came away. 
 
 If a man wished to abstract himself 
 from the world, to remove himself from 
 temptation, to place himself beyond the 
 possibility of desire to look out of the 
 window, he should live in L,ant Street, 
 said a great novelist. David Copperfield 
 lodged here when he ordered that glass 
 of Genuine Stunning Ale at the Red L,ion 
 and excited the sympathy of the land- 
 lord, winning a motherly kiss from his 
 wife. 
 
 273 
 
l>aunts of 
 
 The Red Lion still crouches (under an- 
 other name) at the corner of Derby and 
 Parliament Streets, Westminster. I day- 
 dreamed there for an hour one morning, 
 pretending the while to read a newspaper. 
 I cannot, however, recommed their ale as 
 particularly stunning. 
 
 As there are authors of one book, so 
 are there readers of one author more 
 than we wist. Children want the same 
 bear story told over and over, preferring 
 it to a new one ; so " grown-ups " often 
 prefer the dog-eared book to uncut leaves. 
 
 Mr. Hawkins preferred the dog-eared, 
 and at the station house, where many 
 times he had long hours to wait in antic- 
 ipation of a hurry-up call, he whiled 
 away the time by browsing in his Dickens. 
 He knew no other author, neither did he 
 wish to. His epidermis was soaked with 
 Dickensology, and when inspired by gin 
 and bitters he emitted information at 
 every pore. To him all these bodiless 
 beings of Dickens' brain were living 
 creatures. An anachronism was nothing 
 274 
 
Dicfcens 
 
 to Hawkins. Charley Bates was still at 
 large, Quilp was just around the corner 
 and Gaffer Hexam's boat was moored in 
 the muddy river below. 
 
 Dickens used to hiaunt the publics, 
 those curious resting places where all 
 sorts and conditions of thirsty philoso- 
 phers meet to discuss all sorts of themes. 
 My guide took me to many of these inns 
 which the great novelist frequented, and 
 we always had one legend with every 
 drink. After we had called at three or 
 four different snuggeries Hawkins would 
 begin to shake out the facts. 
 
 Now it is not generally known that the 
 so-called stories of Dickens are simply 
 records of historic events, like What-do- 
 you-call-um's plays ! F'r instance, Dom- 
 bey and Son was a well-known firm, who 
 carried over into a joint stock company 
 only a few years ago. The concern is 
 now known as the Dombey Trading Co. ; 
 they occupy the same quarters that were 
 used by their illustrious predecessors. 
 
 I signified a desire to see the couuting- 
 275 
 
"foaunts of 
 
 house so minutely described by Dickens, 
 and Mr. Hawkins agreed to pilot ine 
 thither on our way to Tavistock Square. 
 We twisted down to the first turning, then 
 up three, then straight ahead to the first 
 right-hand turn, where we cut to the left 
 until we came to a stuffed dog, which is 
 the sign of a glover. Just beyond this 
 my guide plucked me by the sleeve ; we 
 halted, and he silently and solemnly 
 pointed across the street. Sure enough ! 
 There it was, the warehouse with a great 
 stretch of dirty windows in front, through 
 which we could see dozens of clerks bend- 
 ing over ledgers, just as though Mr. Dom- 
 bey were momentarily expected. Over 
 the door was a gilt sign : The Bombay 
 Trading Co. 
 
 Bobby explained that it was all the 
 same. 
 
 I did not care to go in, but at my re- 
 quest Hawkins entered and asked for 
 Mister Carker, the Junior ; but no one 
 knew him. 
 
 Then we dropped in at The Silver 
 276 
 
SMcfcens 
 
 Shark, a little inn about the size of a 
 large dust-bin of two compartments and 
 a sifter. Here we rested a bit, as we 
 had walked a long way. 
 
 The barmaid who waited upon us was 
 in curl papers, but she was even then as 
 pretty if not prettier than the barmaid at 
 the public in Angel Court, and that is 
 saying a good deal. She was about as 
 tall as Trilby or Ellen Terry, which is a 
 very nice height, I think. 
 
 As we rested, Mr. Hawkins told the 
 barmaid and me how Rogue Riderhood 
 came to this very public, through that 
 same doorway, just after he had his Al- 
 fred David took down by the Governors 
 Both. He was a slouching dog, was 
 the Rogue. He wore an old sodden fur 
 cap, winter and summer, formless and 
 mangy ; it looked like a drowned cat 
 His hands were always in his pockets up 
 to his elbows, when they were not reach- 
 ing for something, and when he was out 
 after game his walk was a half shuffle 
 and run. 
 
 277 
 
ZEbe Ibaunts of 
 
 Hawkins saw him starting off this way 
 one night and followed him knowing 
 there was mischief on hand followed 
 him for two hours through the fog and 
 rain. It was midnight and the last 
 stroke of the bells that tolled the hour 
 had ceased, and their echo was dying 
 away, when all at once 
 
 But the story is too long to relate here. 
 It is so long that when Mr. Hawkins had 
 finished it was too late to reach Tavistock 
 Square before dark. Mr. Hawkins ex- 
 plained that as bats and owls and rats 
 come out only when the sun has dis- 
 appeared, so there are other things that 
 can be seen best by night. And as he 
 did not go on until the next day at one, 
 he proposed that we should go down to 
 The Cheshire Cheese and get a bite of 
 surnmat and then sally forth. 
 
 So we hailed a bus and climbed to the 
 top. 
 
 "She rolls like a scow in the wake 
 of a liner," said Bobby, as we tumbled 
 into seats. When the bus man came up 
 278 
 
Bicfeens 
 
 the little winding ladder and jingled his 
 punch, Hawkins paid our fares with a 
 heavy wink, and the guard said, "Thank 
 you, sir," and passed on. 
 
 We got off at " The Cheese " and set- 
 tled ourselves comfortably in a corner. 
 
 The same seats are there, running along 
 the wall, where Johnson, " Goldy," and 
 Boswell so often sat and waked the echoes 
 with their laughter. We had chops and 
 tomato sauce in recollection of Jingleand 
 Trotter. The chops were of the delicious 
 kind unknown outside of England. I 
 supplied the legend this time, for my 
 messmate had never heard of Boswell. 
 
 Hawkins introduced me to " the cove 
 in white apron " who waited upon us, and 
 then explained that I was the man who 
 wrote Martin Chuzzlewit. 
 
 He kissed his hand to the elderly 
 woman who presided behind the nickle- 
 plated American cash register. The only 
 thing that rang false about the place was 
 that register, perked up there spick span 
 new. Hawkins insisted that it was a 
 279 
 
Cbe Ibaunts of 
 
 typewriter, and as we passed out he took 
 a handful of matches (thinking them 
 toothpicks) and asked the cashier to play 
 a tune on the thingumabob, but she 
 declined. 
 
 We made our way to London Bridge 
 as the night was settling down. No 
 stars came out, but flickering, flutter- 
 ing gaslights appeared, and around each 
 post was a great, gray, fluffy aureole of 
 mist. Just at the entrance to the bridge 
 we saw Nancy dogged by Noah Clay- 
 pole. They turned down towards Bil- 
 lingsgate Fish Market, and as the fog 
 swallowed them, Hawkins answered my 
 question as to the language used at Bil- 
 lingsgate. 
 
 "It's not so bloomin' bad, you know ; 
 why, I '11 take you to a market in Isling- 
 ton where they talk twice as vile." 
 
 He started to go into technicalities, 
 but I excused him. 
 
 Then he leaned over the parapet and 
 spat down at a row-boat that was passing 
 below. As the boat moved out into the 
 280 
 
Dickens 
 
 glimmering light we made out Lizzie 
 Hexatn at the oars, while Gaffer sat in 
 the stern on the lookout. 
 
 The Marchioness went by as we stood 
 there, a bit of tattered shawl over her 
 frowsy head, one stocking down around 
 her shoetop. She had a penny loaf 
 under her arm, and was breaking off bits, 
 eating as she went. 
 
 Soon came Snagsby, then Mr. Vincent 
 Crummels, Mr. Sleary, the horseback 
 rider, followed by Chops the dwarf, and 
 Pickleson, the giant. Hawkins said there 
 were two Picklesons, but I only saw one. 
 Just below was the Stone pier and there 
 stood Mrs. Gamp, and I heard her ask : 
 
 " And which of all them smoking mon- 
 sters is the Anxworks boat, I wonder ? 
 Goodness me ! " 
 
 "Which boat do you want?" asked 
 Ruth. 
 
 "The Anxworks package I will not 
 deceive you, Sweet, why should I? " 
 
 " Why, that is the Antwerp packet, in 
 the middle," said Ruth 
 281 
 
Tbaunts of 
 
 " And I wish it was iii Jonidge's belly, 
 I do," cried Mrs. Gamp. 
 
 We came down from the bridge, moved 
 over toward Billingsgate, past the Custom 
 House, where curious old sea-captains 
 wait for ships that never come. Captain 
 Cuttle lifted his hook to the brim of his 
 glazed hat as we passed. We returned 
 the salute and moved on toward the 
 Tower. 
 
 "It's a rum place, let's not stop," 
 said Hawkins. Thoughts of the ghosts 
 of Raleigh, Mary Queen of Scots, and 
 Lady Jane Grey seemed to steady his gait 
 and hasten his footsteps. 
 
 In a few moments we saw just ahead 
 of us David Copperfield and Mr. Peggotty 
 following a woman whom we could make 
 out walking excitedly a block ahead. It 
 was Martha intent on suicide. 
 
 " We '11 get to the dock first and 'ead 
 'er orf," said 'awkins. We ran down a side 
 street. But a bright light in a little brick 
 cottage caught our attention men can't 
 run arm in arm anyway. We forgot our 
 282 
 
SHcfcens 
 
 errand of mercy and stood still with open 
 mouths looking in at the window at little 
 Jenny Wren hard at work dressing her 
 dolls and stopping now and then to stab 
 the air with her needle. Bradley Head- 
 stone and Charlie and Lizzie Hexam 
 came in, and we then passed on, not 
 wishing to attract attention. 
 
 There was an old smoke-stained tree 
 on the corner which I felt sorry for, as I 
 do for every city tree. Just beyond was 
 a blacksmith's forge and a timber yard 
 behind, where a dealer in old iron had a 
 shop, in front of which was a rusty boiler 
 and a gigantic fly-wheel half buried in 
 the sand. 
 
 There were no crowds to be seen now, 
 but we walked on and on generally in 
 the middle of the narrow streets, turning 
 up or down or across, through arches 
 where tramps slept, by doorways where 
 children crouched ; passing drunken men, 
 and women with shawls over their heads. 
 
 Now and again the screech of a fiddle 
 could be heard or the lazy music of an 
 283 
 
tbaunts of 
 
 accord eon, coming from some '*' Sailors' 
 Home." Steps of dancing with rattle 
 of iron-shod boot heels clicking over 
 sanded floors, the hoarse shout of the 
 " caller-off, " and now and again angry 
 tones with cracked feminine falsettos 
 broke on the air; and all the time the 
 soft rain fell and the steam seemed to 
 rise from the sewage-laden streets. 
 
 We were in Stepney, that curious par- 
 ish so minutely described by Walter 
 Besant in All Sorts and Conditions of 
 Men the parish where all children born 
 at sea were considered to belong. We 
 saw Brig Place where Walter Gay visited 
 Captain Cuttle. Then we went with Pip 
 in search of Mrs. Wimple's house, at 
 Mill Pond Bank, Chink's Basin, Old 
 Green Copper Rope Walk ; where lived 
 old Bill Barley and his daughter Clara 
 and where Magwitch was hidden. It was 
 the dingiest collection of shabby build- 
 ings ever squeezed together in a dark 
 corner as a club for tomcats. 
 
 Then, Btandmg out in the gloom, we 
 284 
 
Dfcfcene 
 
 saw Limehouse Church, where John 
 Rokesmith prowled about on a 'tective 
 scent ; and where John Harmon waited 
 for the thirdmate Radfoot, intending to 
 murder him. Next we reached Limehouse 
 Hole where Rogue Riderhood took the 
 plunge down the steps of Leaving Shop. 
 
 Hawkins thought he saw the Artful 
 Dodger ahead of us on the dock. He 
 went over and looked up and down and 
 under an old upturned row-boat, then 
 peered over the dock and swore a harm- 
 less oath that if we could catch him we 
 would run him in without a warrant. 
 Yes, we 'd clap the nippers on 'im and 
 march him orf. 
 
 "Not if I can help it," I said. "I 
 like the fellow too well." Fortunately 
 Hawkins failed to find him. 
 
 Here it was that the Uncommercial 
 Traveller did patrol duty on many sleep- 
 less nights. Here it was that Bsther 
 Summerson and Mr. Bucket came. And 
 by the light of a match held under my 
 hat we read a handbill on the brick wall : 
 285 
 
Gbe t>auntg of 
 
 "Found drowned." The heading stood 
 out in big fat letters but the print below 
 was too damp to read, yet there is no 
 doubt it is the same bill that Gaffer Hex- 
 am, Bugene Wrayburn, and Mortimer 
 Ivightwood read, for Mr. Hawkins said so. 
 
 As we stood there we heard the gentle 
 gurgle of the tide running under the pier, 
 then a dip of oars coming from out the 
 murky darkness of the muddy river : a 
 challenge from the shore with orders to 
 row in, a hoarse, defiant answer and a 
 watchman's rattle. 
 
 A policeman passed us running and 
 called back, "I say, Hawkins, is that 
 you ? There 's murder broke loose in 
 Whitechapel again The reserves have 
 been ordered out! " 
 
 Hawkins stopped and seemed to pull 
 himself together his height increased 
 three inches. A moment before I 
 thought he was a candidate for fatty 
 degeneration of the cerebrum, but now 
 his sturdy frame was all a tremble with 
 life. 
 
 286 
 
SHcfeens 
 
 "Another murder! I knew it. Bill 
 Sykes has killed Nancy at last. There 's 
 fifty pun for the man who puts the irons 
 on 'im I must make for the nearest 
 stishun." 
 
 He gave my hand a twist, shot down a 
 narrow courtway and I was left to fight 
 the fog, and mayhap this Bill Sykes 
 and all the wild phantoms of Dickens' 
 brain, alone. 
 
 2*7 
 
III. 
 
 A CERTAIN great general once said 
 that the only good Indian is a 
 dead Indian. Just why the 
 maxim should be limited to aborigines I 
 know not, for when one reads obituaries 
 he is discouraged at the thought of com- 
 peting in virtue with those who have 
 gone Hence. 
 
 Let us extend the remark plagiarize a 
 bitand say that the only perfect men 
 are those whom we find in books. The 
 receipt for making them is simple yet 
 well worth pasting in your scrap-book. 
 Take the virtues of all the best men you 
 ever knew or heard of, leave out the 
 faults, then mix. 
 
 In the hands of "the lady novelist" 
 this composition, well molded, makes a 
 scarecrow in the hair of which the birds 
 288 
 
Dfcfcena 
 
 of the air come and build their nests. 
 But manipulated by an expert a figure 
 may appear that starts and moves and 
 seems to feel the thrill of life. It may 
 even take its place on a pedestal and be 
 exhibited with other waxworks and thus 
 become confounded with the historic. 
 And though these things make the un- 
 skilful laugh, yet the judicious say, 
 "Dickens made it, therefore let it pass 
 for a man." 
 
 Dear old M. Taine, ever glad to score 
 a point against the British, and willing to 
 take Dickens at his word, says, " We have 
 no such men in France as Scrooge and 
 Squeers!" 
 
 But God bless you, M. Taine, England 
 has no such men either. 
 
 The novelist takes the men and women 
 he has known and from life plus imagi- 
 nation he creates. If he sticks too close 
 to nature he describes, not depicts : this 
 is "veritism." If imagination's wing is 
 too strong, it lifts the luckless writer off 
 from earth and carries him to an unknown 
 289 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 land. You may then fall down and wor- 
 ship his characters and there is no viola- 
 tion of the first commandment. 
 
 Nothing can be imagined that has not 
 been seen ; but imagination can assort, 
 omit, sift, select, construct. Given a 
 horse, an eagle, an elephant, and the 
 "creative artist" can make an animal 
 that is neither a horse, an eagle, nor an 
 elephant yet resembles each. This ani- 
 mal may have eight legs (or forty) with 
 hoofs, claws, and toes alternating ; a beak, 
 a trunk, a mane, and the whole can be 
 feathered and given the power of rapid 
 flight and also the ability to run like the 
 east wind. It can neigh, roar, or scream by 
 turn, or can do all in concert with a vibra- 
 tory force multiplied by one thousand. 
 
 The novelist must have lived and the 
 novelist must have imagination. But 
 this is not enough. He most have power 
 to analyze and separate, and then he 
 should have the good taste to select and 
 group, forming his parts into an harmo- 
 nious whole. 
 
 290 
 
Dickens 
 
 Yet he must build large. Life size will 
 not do : the statue must be heroic and 
 the artist's genius must breathe into its 
 nostrils the breath of life. 
 
 The men who live in history are those 
 whose lives have been skilfully written. 
 " Plutarch is the most charming writer of 
 fiction the world has ever known," said 
 Emerson. 
 
 Dickens' characters are personifications 
 of traits, not men and women. Yet they 
 are a deal funnier they are as funny as 
 a box of monkeys, as entertaining as a 
 Punch and Judy show, as interesting as a 
 " fifteen puzzle," and sometimes as pretty 
 as chromos. Quilp munching the eggs, 
 shells and all, to scare his wife, makes one 
 shiver as though a Jack-in-the-box had 
 been popped out at him. Mr. Mould the 
 undertaker and Jaggers the lawyer are as 
 amusing as Humpty Dumpty and Panta- 
 loon : I am sure that no live lawyer ever 
 gave me half the enjoyment that Jaggers 
 has, and Dr. Slammers' talk is better med- 
 icine than the pills of any living M.D. 
 291 
 
3be tbaunts of 
 
 Because the burnt-cork minstrel pleases 
 me more than a real "nigger" is no rea- 
 son why I should find fault ! 
 
 Dickens takes the horse, the eagle, and 
 the elephant and makes an animal of his 
 own. He rubs up the feathers, places the 
 tail at a fierce angle, makes the glass eyes 
 glare, and you are ready to swear that the 
 thing is alive. 
 
 By rummaging over the commercial 
 world you can collect the harshness, 
 greed, avarice, selfishness, and vanity 
 from a thousand men. With these sins 
 you can, if you are very skilful, construct a 
 Ralph Nickleby, a Scrooge, a Jonas Chuz- 
 zlewit, an Alderman Cute, a Mr. Murd- 
 stone, a Bounderby, or Gradgrind at will. 
 A little more pride, a trifle less hypocrisy, 
 a molecule extra of untruth, and flavor 
 with this fault or that aud your man is 
 ready to place up against the fence to dry. 
 
 Then you can make a collection of all 
 
 the ridiculous traits : the whims, silly 
 
 pride, foibles, hopes founded on nothing 
 
 and dreams touched with moonshine, and 
 
 292 
 
Dfcfcens 
 
 you make a Micawber. Put in a dash of 
 assurance and a good thimbleful of hy- 
 pocrisy and Pecksniff is the product. 
 Leave out the assurance, replacing it with 
 cowardice, and the result is Dr. Chillip or 
 Uriah Heap. Muddle the whole with 
 stupidity and Bumble comes forth. 
 
 Then for the good people, collect the 
 virtues and season to suit the taste and 
 we have the Cheeryble Brothers, Paul 
 Dombey, or Little Nell. They have no de- 
 velopment, therefore no history the cir- 
 cumstances under which you meet them 
 vary, that's all. They are people the 
 like of whom are never seen on land 
 or sea. 
 
 1/ittle Nell is good all day long, while 
 live children are good for only five min- 
 utes at a time. The recurrence with 
 which these five-minute periods return 
 determines whether the child is "good" 
 or "bad." In the intervals the restless 
 little feet stray into flower beds ; stand on 
 chairs so that grimy dimpled hands may 
 reach forbidden jam ; run and romp in 
 293 
 
Gbe Ibaunts of 
 
 pure joyous innocence, or kick spitefully 
 at authority. Then the little fellow may 
 go to sleep, smile in his dreams so that 
 mamma says angels are talking to him 
 (nurse says, wind on the stomach) ; when 
 he awakens the five-minute good spell re- 
 turns. 
 
 Men are only grown up-children. They 
 are cheerful after breakfast, cross at night. 
 Houses, lands, barns, railroads, churches, 
 books, race-tracks are the playthings with 
 which they amuse themselves until they 
 grow tired and Death, the kind old nurse, 
 puts them to sleep. 
 
 So a man on earth is good or bad as 
 mood moves him ; in color his acts are 
 seldom pure white, neither are they wholly 
 black, but generally of a steel grey. Ca- 
 price, temper, accident, all act upon him. 
 The north wind of hate, the simoon of 
 jealousy, the cyclone of passion beat and 
 buffet him. Pilots strong and pilots 
 cowardly stand at the helm by turn. But 
 sometimes the south wind softly blows, 
 the sun comes out by day, the stars at 
 294 
 
Dicfcen* 
 
 night : friendship holds the rudder firm 
 and love makes all secure. 
 
 Such is the life of man a voyage on 
 life's unresting sea ; but Dickens knows 
 it not. Esther is always good, Fagin is 
 always bad, Bumble is always pompous, 
 
 and Scrooge is always Scrooge. At 
 
 no Dickens' party do you ever mistake 
 Cheeryble for Carker, yet in real life 
 Carker is Carker one day and Cheeryble 
 the next yes, Carker in the morning 
 and Cheeryble after dinner. 
 
 There is no doubt that a dummy so 
 ridiculous as Pecksniff has reduced the 
 number of hypocrites ; and the domineer- 
 ing and unjust are not quite so popular 
 since Dickens painted their picture with 
 a broom. 
 
 From the yeasty deep of his imagination 
 he conjured forth his strutting spirits ; 
 and the names he gave to each are as 
 fitting and as funny as the absurd small- 
 clothes and fluttering ribbons which they 
 wear. 
 
 Shakespeare has his Gobbo, Touch- 
 295 
 
ZTbe f>aunts of 
 
 stone, Simpcox, Sly, Grumio, Mopsa, 
 Pinch, Nym, Simple, Quickly, Overdone, 
 Elbow, Froth, Dogberry, Puck, Peas- 
 blossom, Taurus, Bottom, Bushy, Hot- 
 spur, Scroop, Wall, Flute, Snout, Starve^ 
 ling, Moonshine, Mouldy, Shallow, Wart, 
 Bullcalf, Feeble, Quince, Snag, Dull, 
 Mustardseed, Fang, Snare, Rumour, 
 Tearsheet, Cobweb, Costard, and Moth, 
 but in names as well as in plot " the father 
 of Pickwick " has distanced the Master. 
 In fact, to give all of the odd and whim- 
 sical names invented by Dickens would 
 be to publish a book, for he compiled an 
 indexed volume of names from which he 
 drew at will. He used, however, but a 
 fraction of his list. The rest are wisely 
 kept from the public else, forsooth, the 
 fledgling writers of penny-shockers would 
 seize upon them for raw-stock. 
 
 Dickens has a watch that starts and 
 stops in a way of its own never mind 
 the sun. He lets you see the wheels go 
 round, but he never tells you why the 
 wheels go round. He knows little of 
 296 
 
Dicfcens 
 
 psychology that curious, unseen thing 
 that stands behind every act. He knows 
 not the highest love, therefore he never 
 depicts the highest joy. Nowhere does 
 he show the gradual awakening in man 
 of God-like passion nowhere does he 
 show the evolution of a soul ; very, very 
 seldom does he touch the sublime. 
 
 But he has given the Athenians a day 
 of pleasure and for this let us all rever- 
 ently give thanks. 
 
 297 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH 
 
JARVIS. A few of our usual cards of compli- 
 mentthat 's all. This bill from your tailor ; this 
 from your mercer ; and this from the little broker 
 in Crooked I^ane. He says he has been at a great 
 deal of trouble to get back the money you bor- 
 rowed. 
 
 HONEYDEW. But I am sure we were at a great 
 deal of trouble in getting him to lend it. 
 
 JAB vis. He has lost all patience. 
 
 HONEYDEW. Then he has lost a good thing. 
 
 JARVIS. There's that ten guineas you were 
 sending to the poor man and his children in the 
 Fleet. I believe that would stop his mouth for a 
 while. 
 
 HONEYDEW. Ay, Jarvis, but what will fill their 
 mouths in the meantime? 
 
 The Good-Natured Man. 
 
 300 
 
OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 
 
 IRELAND has the same number of 
 square miles as the State of Indi- 
 ana ; it also has more kindness to 
 the acre than any other country on earth. 
 Ireland has five million inhabitants ; 
 once it had eight. Three millions have 
 gone away, and when one thinks of land- 
 lordism he wonders why the five million 
 did not go, too. But the Irish are a po- 
 etic people and love the land of their 
 fathers with a childlike love, and their 
 hearts are all bound up in sweet memo- 
 ries, rooted by song and legend into nooks 
 and curious corners, so the tendrils of af- 
 fection hold them fast. 
 
 Ireland is very beautiful. Its pasture 
 301 
 
t)aunt0 of 
 
 lands and meadow lands, blossom-decked 
 and water-fed, crossed and re-crossed by 
 never-ending hedgerows, that stretch 
 away and lose themselves in misty noth- 
 ingness, are fair as a poet's dream. 
 Birds carol in the white hawthorn and 
 yellow furze all day long, and the fragrant 
 summer winds that blow lazily across the 
 fields are laden with the perfume of fair- 
 est flowers. 
 
 It is like crossing the dark river called 
 Death, to many, to think of leaving Ire- 
 land besides that, even if they wanted to 
 go they have n't money to buy a steerage 
 ticket. 
 
 From across the dark river called Death 
 come no remittances ; but from America 
 many dollars are sent back to Ireland. 
 This often supplies the obolus that se- 
 cures the necessary bit of Cunard pass- 
 port. 
 
 Whenever an Irishman embarks at 
 Queenstown, part of the five million in- 
 habitants go down to the water-side to 
 see him off. Not long ago I stood with 
 302 
 
liver Ool&smitb 
 
 the crowd and watched two fine lads go 
 up the gang-plank, each carrying a red 
 handkerchief containing his worldly 
 goods. As the good ship moved away 
 we lifted a wild wail of woe that drowned 
 the sobbing of the waves. Everybody 
 cried I wept too, and as the great black 
 ship became but a speck on the western 
 horizon we embraced each other in fren- 
 zied grief. 
 
 There is beauty in Ireland physical 
 beauty of so rare and radiant a type that 
 it makes the heart of an artist ache to 
 think that it cannot endure. On coun- 
 try roads, at fair time, the traveller will 
 see barefoot girls who are women, and 
 just suspecting it, who have cheeks like 
 ripe pippins ; laughing eyes with long, 
 dark, wicked lashes ; teeth like ivory ; 
 necks of perfect poise ; and waists that, 
 never having known a corset, are pure 
 Greek. 
 
 Of course, these girls are aware that we 
 admire them, how could they help it? 
 They carry big baskets on either shapely 
 303 
 
Gbe fjaunts of 
 
 arm, bundles balanced on their heads, and 
 we, suddenly grown tired, sit on the 
 bank-side as they pass by, and feign in- 
 difference to their charms. Once safely 
 past, we admiringly examine their tracks 
 in the soft mud (for there has been a 
 shower during the night), and we vow 
 that such footprints were never before 
 left upon the sands of time. 
 
 The typical young woman in Ireland is 
 Juno before she was married ; the old 
 woman is Sycorax after Caliban was 
 weaned. Wrinkled, toothless, yellow old 
 hags are seen sitting by the roadside, 
 rocking back and forth, crooning a song 
 that is mate to the chant of the witches 
 in Macbeth when they brew the hell- 
 broth. 
 
 See that wizened, scarred, and cruel 
 old face how it speaks of a seared and 
 bitter heart ! so dull yet so alert, so 
 changeful yet so impassive, so immobile 
 yet so cunning a paradox in wrinkles, 
 where half-stifled desperation has clawed 
 at the soul until it has fled, and only dead 
 304 
 
liver (BolDsmftb 
 
 indifference or greedy expectation are 
 left to tell the tragic tale. 
 
 " In the name of God, charity, kind 
 gentlemen, charity ! " and the old croon 
 stretches forth a long bony claw. Should 
 you pass on she calls down curses on your 
 head. If you are wise, you go back and 
 fling her a copper to stop the cold streaks 
 that are shooting up your spine. And 
 these old women were the most trying 
 sights I saw in Ireland. 
 
 " Pshaw ! " said a friend of mine when 
 I told him this ; " these old creatures are 
 actors, and if you would sit down and talk 
 to them, as I have done, they will laugh 
 and joke, and tell you of sons in Amer- 
 ica who are policemen, and then they 
 will fill black ' dhudeens ' out of your 
 tobacco and ask if you know Mike 
 McGuire who lives in She-ka-gy." 
 
 The last trace of comeliness has long 
 left the faces of these repulsive beggars, 
 but there is a type of feminine beauty 
 that comes with years. It is found only 
 where intellect and affection keep step 
 305 
 
flbe Ibaunts of 
 
 with spiritual desire ; and in Ireland, 
 where it is often a crime to think, where 
 superstition stalks, and avarice rules, and 
 hunger crouches, it is very, very rare. 
 
 But I met one woman in the Emerald 
 Isle whose hair was snow white, and 
 whose face seemed to beam a benedic- 
 tion. It was a countenance refined by 
 sorrow, purified by aspiration, made 
 peaceful by right intellectual employ- 
 ment, strong through self-reliance, and 
 gentle by an earnest faith in things un- 
 seen. It proved the possible. 
 
 When the nations are disarmed Ire- 
 land will take first place, for in fistiana 
 she is supreme. 
 
 James Russell Lowell once said that 
 where the code duello exists, men lift 
 their hats to ladies, and say " excuse me " 
 and "if you please." And if Lowell was 
 so bold as to say a good word for the gen- 
 tlemen who hold themselves "personally 
 responsible," I may venture the remark 
 that men who strike from the shoulder 
 are almost universally polite to strangers. 
 306 
 
liver (Solfcsmitb 
 
 A woman can do Ireland afoot and 
 alone with perfect safety. Everywhere 
 one finds courtesy, kindness, and bub- 
 bling good cheer. 
 
 Nineteen-twentieths of all lawlessness 
 in Ireland during the past two hundred 
 years has been directed against the land- 
 lord's agent. This is a very Irish-like 
 proceeding to punish the agent for the 
 sins of the principal. When the land- 
 lord himself conies over from England 
 he affects a fatherly interest in "his peo- 
 ple." He gives out presents and cheap 
 favors and the people treat him with hum- 
 ble deference. When the landlord's agent 
 goes to America he gets a place as first 
 mate on a Mississippi River steamboat ; 
 and before the war he was in demand in 
 the South as overseer. He it is who has 
 taught the "byes" the villainy that they 
 execute ; and it sometimes goes hard, for 
 they better the instruction. 
 
 But there is one other character that the 
 boys look after occasionally in Ireland, 
 and that is the " Squire." He is a merry 
 307 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 wight in tight breeches, red coat, and a 
 number six hat. He has yellow side- 
 whiskers and 'unts to 'ounds, riding over 
 the wheat fields of honest men. The 
 genuine landlord lives in London, the 
 Squire would like to but cannot afford 
 it. Of course, there are squires and 
 squires, but the kind I have in mind is 
 an Irishman who tries to pass for an Eng- 
 lishman. He is that curious thing a 
 man without a country. 
 
 There is a theory to the effect that the 
 Universal Mother in giving out happiness 
 bestows on each and all an equal portion 
 that the beggar trudging along the 
 stony road is as happy as the king who 
 rides by in his carriage. This is a very 
 old belief, and it has been held by many 
 learned men. From the time I first heard 
 it, it appealed to me as truth. 
 
 Yet recently my faith has been shaken ; 
 for not long ago in New York I climbed 
 the marble steps of a splendid mansion 
 and was admitted by a servant in livery 
 who carried my card on a silver tray to 
 308 
 
liver (Bolfcsmitb 
 
 his master. This master had a son in the 
 'Keely Institute," a daughter in her 
 grave, and a wife who shrank from his 
 presence. His heart was as lonely as a 
 winter night at sea. Fate had sent him a 
 coachman, a butler, a gardener, and a foot- 
 man, but she took his happiness and 
 passed it through a hole in the thatch of 
 a mud-plastered cottage in Ireland, where, 
 each night, six rosy children soundly 
 slept in one straw bed. 
 
 In that cottage I stayed two days. There 
 was a stone floor and bare whitewashed 
 walls ; but there was a rosebush climbing 
 over the door, and within health and 
 sunny temper that made mirth with a 
 meal of herbs, and a tenderness that 
 touched to poetry the prose of daily 
 duties. 
 
 But it is well to bear in mind that an 
 Irishman in America and an Irishman in 
 Ireland are not necessarily the same 
 thing. Often the first effect of a higher 
 civilization is degeneration. Just as the 
 Chinaman quickly learns big swear words, 
 309 
 
Gbe t)aunts of 
 
 and the Indian takes to drink, arid certain 
 young men on first reading Kmerson's 
 essay on Self Reliance <g& about with a chip 
 on their shoulders, so sometimes does the 
 first full breath of freedom's air develop 
 the worst in Paddy instead of the best. 
 
 As one tramps through Ireland and 
 makes the acquaintance of a blue-eyed 
 broth of a "bye," who weighs one hun- 
 dred and ninety, and measures forty-four 
 inches around the chest, he catches 
 glimpses of noble traits and hints of mys- 
 tic possibilities. There are actions that 
 look like rudiments of greatness gone, 
 and you think of the days when Olympian 
 games were played, and finger meanwhile 
 the silver in your pocket and inwardly 
 place it on this twenty year old, pink-faced, 
 six-foot "boy" that stands before you. 
 
 In Ireland there are no forests, but in 
 the peat bogs are found remains of mighty 
 trees that once lifted their outstretched 
 branches to the sun. Are these remains 
 of stately forests symbols of a race of men 
 that have, too, passed away ? 
 310 
 
liver tBolDsmitb 
 
 In any wayside village of Leinster you 
 can pick you a model for an Apollo. He 
 is in rags, is this giant, and cannot read, 
 but he can dance and sing and fight. He 
 has an eye for color, an ear for music, a 
 taste for rhyme, a love of novelty and a 
 thirst for fun. And withal he has blun- 
 dering sympathy and a pity whose tears 
 are near the surface. 
 
 Now, will this fine savage be a victim 
 of arrested development, and sink gradu- 
 ally through the weight of years into 
 mere animal stupidity and sodden super- 
 stition ? The chances are that this is just 
 what he will do, and that at twenty he 
 will be in his intellectual zenith. Sum- 
 mer does not fulfil the promise of spring. 
 
 But as occasionally there is one of those 
 beautiful glowing Irish girls who leaves 
 footsteps that endure (in bettered lives) 
 instead of merely transient tracks in mud, 
 so there has been a Burke, a Wellington, 
 an O'Connell, a Sheridan, a Tcm Moore 
 and an Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 311 
 
II. 
 
 GOI/DSMITK was an Irishman; 
 Swift was an Englishman, who 
 chanced to be born in Dublin. 
 In comparing these men Thackeray says, 
 "I think I would rather have had a cold 
 potato and a friendly word from Gold- 
 smith than to have been beholden to the 
 Dean for a guinea and a dinner. No, the 
 Dean was not an Irishman, for no Irish- 
 man ever gave but with a kind word and 
 a kind heart." 
 
 Charles Goldsmith was a clergyman, 
 pasring rich on forty pounds a year. He 
 had a nice little family of eight children, 
 and what became of the seven who went 
 not astray I do not know. But the small- 
 est and homeliest one of the brood became 
 the best loved man in London. These 
 sickly boys who have been educated only 
 because they were too weak to work 
 what a record their lives make ! 
 312 
 
liver <3olOemitb 
 
 Little Oliver had a pug nose and bandy 
 legs, and fists not big enough to fight, but 
 he had a large head, and because he was 
 absent-minded, lots of folks thought him 
 dull and stupid, and others were sure he 
 was very bad. In fact, let us admit it, he 
 did steal apples and rifle birds' nests, and 
 on "the straggling fence that skirts the 
 way" he drew pictures of Paddy Byrne, 
 the schoolmaster, who amazed the rustics 
 by the amount of knowledge that he car- 
 ried in one small head. But Paddy Byrne 
 did not love art for art's sake, so he applied 
 the ferule vigorously to little Goldsmith's 
 anatomy, with a hope of diverting the 
 lad's inclinations from art to arithmetic. 
 I do not think the plan was very success- 
 ful, for the pock-marked youngster was 
 often adorned with the dunce cap. 
 
 "And, Sir," said Dr. Johnson, many 
 years after, "it must have been very be- 
 coming." 
 
 It seems that Paddy Byrne " boarded 
 round," and part of the time was under 
 the roof of the rectory. Now we all know 
 313 
 
Gbe Ibaunts of 
 
 that schoolmasters are dual creatures, and 
 that once away from the school yard, 
 and having laid aside the robe of office, 
 are often good, honest, simple folks. In 
 his official capacity Paddy Byrne made 
 things very uncomfortable for the pug- 
 nosed little boy, but, like the true Irish- 
 man that he was when he got away from 
 the school-house, he was sorry for it. 
 Whether dignity is the mask we wear to 
 hide our ignorance, I am not sure, yet 
 when Paddy Byrne was the schoolmaster 
 he was a man severe and stern to view ; 
 but when he was plain Paddy Byrne he 
 was a first-rate good fellow. 
 
 Evenings he would hold little Oliver on 
 his knee, and instead of helping him in 
 his lessons would tell him tales of rob- 
 bers, pirates, smugglers, everything and 
 anything in fact that boys like : stories 
 of fairies, goblins, ghosts ; lion hunts and 
 tiger killing in which the redoubtable 
 Paddy was supposed to have taken a chief 
 part. The schoolmaster had been a sol- 
 dier and a sailor. He had been in many 
 
liver <3olDsmftb 
 
 lands and when he related his adventures 
 no doubt he often mistook imagination 
 for memory. But the stories had the 
 effect of choking the desire in Oliver for 
 useful knowledge and gave instead a 
 thirst for wandering and adventure. 
 
 Byrne also had a taste for poetry and 
 taught the lad to scribble rhymes. Very 
 proud was the boy's mother, and very 
 carefully did she preserve these foolish 
 lines. 
 
 All this was in the village of Lissoy, 
 County Westmeath, yet if you look on the 
 map you will look in vain for Lissoy. 
 But six miles northeast from Athlone 
 and three miles from Ballymahon is the 
 village of Auburn. 
 
 When Goldsmith was a boy Lissoy was : 
 
 Sweet Auburn ! loveliest village of the plain, 
 Where health and plenty cheered the laboring 
 
 swain, 
 
 Where smiling spring the earliest visits paid, 
 And parting summer's lingering blooms de- 
 layed 
 
 Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease. 
 Seats of my youth, when every sport could 
 please 
 
 315 
 
tmunts of 
 
 How often have I loitered o'er thy green, 
 
 Where humble happiness endeared each scene ; 
 
 How often have I paused on every charm, 
 
 The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 
 
 The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 
 
 The decent church that topped the neighboring 
 
 hill, 
 
 The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade 
 For talking age and whispering lovers made : 
 How often have I blessed the coming day, 
 When toil remitting lent its turn to play, 
 And all the village train from labor free, 
 I,ed up their sports beneath the spreading tree-- 
 While many a pastime circled in the shade, 
 The young contending as the old surveyed ; 
 And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground, 
 And sleights of art and feats of strength went 
 
 round. 
 
 In America when a "city" is to be 
 started the first thing is to divide up the 
 land into town lots and then sell these 
 lots to whoever will buy. This is a very 
 modern scheme. But in Ireland whole 
 villages belong to one man and every one 
 in the place pays tribute. Then villages 
 are passed down from generation to gene- 
 ration and sometimes sold outright, but 
 there is no wish to dispose of corner lots. 
 For when a man lives in your house and 
 you can put him out at any time, he is 
 316 
 
liver <3oU>smftb 
 
 much more likely to be civil than if he 
 owns the place. 
 
 But it has happened many times that 
 the inhabitants of Irish villages have all 
 packed up and deserted the place, leaving 
 no one but the village squire and that 
 nice man, the landlord's agent. The 
 cottages then are turned into sheep pens 
 or hay barns. They may be pulled down 
 or if they are left standing, the weather 
 looks after that. And these are common 
 sights to the tourist. 
 
 Now the landlord, who owned every 
 rood of the village of Ljssoy, lived in Lon- 
 don. He lived well. He gambled a lit- 
 tle, and as the cards did not run his way 
 he got into debt. So he wrote to his 
 agent in Lissoy to raise the rents. He 
 did so, threatened, applied the screws, 
 and the inhabitants packed up and let 
 the landlord have his village all to him- 
 self. Let Goldsmith tell : 
 
 Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn, 
 Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms with- 
 drawn : 
 
 317 
 
t>aunts of 
 
 Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, 
 And desolation saddens all thy green ; 
 One only master grasps the whole domain, 
 And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 
 No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, 
 But choked with sedges, works its weedy way ; 
 Along thy glades, a solitary guest, 
 The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest ; 
 Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 
 And tires their echoes with unvaried cries. 
 Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, 
 And the long grass overtops the mouldering wall ; 
 And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's 
 
 hand, 
 far, far away thy children leave the land. 
 
 A titled gentleman by the name of Na- 
 pier was the owner of the estate at that 
 time, and as his tenantry had left, he in 
 wrath pulled down their rows of pretty 
 white cottages, demolished the school- 
 house, blew up the mill, and took all the 
 material and built a splendid mansion on 
 the hillside. 
 
 The cards had evidently turned in his 
 direction, but anyway, he owned several 
 other villages, so although he toiled not 
 neither did he spin, yet he was well clothed 
 and always fed. But my lord Napier was 
 not immortal, for he died, and was buried ; 
 
liver <3ott>0mitb 
 
 and over his grave they erected a monu- 
 ment, and on it are these words : " He 
 was the friend of the oppressed." 
 
 The records of literature, so far as I 
 know, show no such moving force in a 
 simple poem as the re- birth of the village 
 of Auburn. No man can live in a village 
 and illuminate it by his genius. His fel- 
 low-townsmen and neighbors are not to 
 be influenced by his eloquence except in 
 a very limited way. His presence creates 
 an opposition, for the " personal touch " 
 repels as well as attracts. Dying, seven 
 cities may contend for the honor of his 
 birthplace, or after his departure, knowl- 
 edge of his fame may travel back across 
 the scenes that he has known, and move 
 to better things. 
 
 The years went by and the Napier 
 estate got into a bad way and was sold. 
 Captain Hogan became the owner of 
 the site of the village of Lissoy. Now 
 Captain Hogan was a poet in feeling, and 
 he set about to replace the village that 
 Goldsmith had loved and immortalized. 
 319 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 He adopted the name that GoldsmitL 
 supplied, and Auburn it is even unto this 
 day. 
 
 In the village green is the original 
 spreading hawthorn tree, all enclosed in 
 in a stone wall to preserve it. And on 
 the wall is a sign requesting you not to 
 break off branches. Around the tree are 
 seats. I sat there one evening with 
 " talking age " and " whispering lovers." 
 The mirth that night was of a quiet sort, 
 and I listened to an old man who recited 
 all of The Deserted Village to the little 
 group that was present. It cost me six 
 pence but was cheap for the money, for 
 the brogue was very choice. I was the 
 only stranger present and quickly guessed 
 that the entertainment was for my sole 
 benefit, as I saw that I was being furtively 
 watched to see how I took my medicine. 
 
 A young fellow sitting near me offered 
 & little Goldsmith information, then a 
 woman on the other side did the same, 
 and the old man who had recited sug- 
 gested that we go over and see the ale 
 330 
 
liver <3olDsmftb 
 
 house " where the justly celebhrated 
 Docther Goldsmith so often played hii 
 harp so feelin'ly." 
 
 So we adjourned to The Three Jollj 
 Pigeons a dozen of us, including thj 
 lovers, whom I personally invited. 
 
 " And did Oliver Goldsmith really plaj 
 his harp in this very room ? " I asked. 
 
 "Aye, indade he did, yer honor, an* ef 
 ye don't belave it, ye kin sit in the sam 
 chair that was his." 
 
 So they led me to the big chair that 
 stood on a little raised platform, and I sat 
 in the great oaken seat which was surely 
 made before Goldsmith was born. Then 
 we all took ale (at my expense). The 
 lovers sat in one corner, drinking from 
 one glass, and very particular to drink 
 from the same side, and giggling to 
 themselves. The old man wanted to 
 again recite The Deserted Village, but 
 was forcibly restrained. And instead, by 
 invitation of himself, the landlord sang a 
 song composed by Goldsmith, but which 
 I have failed to find in Goldsmith's 
 321 
 
Tbaunts ot 
 
 works, entitled When Ireland is Free. 
 There were thirteen stanzas in this song, 
 and a chorus and refrain in which the 
 words of the title are repeated. After 
 each stanza we all came in strong OLI the 
 chorus, keeping time by tapping oui 
 glasses on the tables. 
 
 Then we all drank perdition to English 
 landlords, had our glasses refilled, and I 
 was called on for a speech. I responded 
 in a few words that were loudly cheered, 
 and the health of "the 'Merican Noble- 
 man " was drunk with much fervor. 
 
 The Three Jolly Pigeons is arranged 
 exactly to the letter : 
 
 The whitewashed walls, the nicely sanded floor, 
 The varnished clock that clicked behind the 
 
 door; 
 
 The chest contrived a double debt to pay, 
 A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day ; 
 The pictures placed for ornament and use, 
 The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose. 
 
 And behold there on the wall behind 
 the big oak chair are " the twelve good 
 rules." 
 
 The next morning I saw the modest 
 322 
 
liver <3olfcsmftb 
 
 mansion of the village preacher, "whose 
 house was known to all the vagrant 
 train," then the little stone church, and 
 beyond I came to the blossoming furze, 
 unprofitably gay, where the village 
 master taught his little school. A bright 
 young woman teaches there now, and it 
 is certain that she can write and cipher 
 too, for I saw " sums " on the blackboard, 
 and I also saw where she had written 
 some very pretty mottoes on the wall 
 with colored chalk, a thing I am sure 
 that Paddy Byrne never thought to do. 
 
 Below the school-house is a pretty little 
 stream that dances over pebbles and un- 
 tiringly turns the wheel in the old mill ; 
 and not far away I saw the round top of 
 Knockrue hill, where Goldsmith said he 
 would rather sit with a book in hand than 
 mingle with the throng at the court of 
 royalty. 
 
 Goldsmith's verse is all clean, sweet, 
 
 and wholesome, and I do not wonder that 
 
 he was everywhere a favorite with women. 
 
 This was true in his very babyhood. Fot 
 
 323 
 
3be tbauntd of 
 
 he was the pet of several good old dames, 
 one of whom taught him to count by 
 using cards as obj ect-lessons. He proudly 
 said that when he was three years of age 
 he could pick out the "ten spot." This 
 love of pasteboard was not exactly an 
 advantage, for when he was sixteen he 
 went to Dublin to attend college, and car- 
 ried fifty pounds and a deck of cards in 
 his pocket. The first day in Dublin he 
 met a man who thought he knew more 
 about cards than Oliver did ; and the 
 man did ; in three days Oliver arrived 
 back in Sweet Auburn penniless, but 
 wonderfully glad to get home and every- 
 body glad to see him. " It seemed as if 
 I 'd been away a year," he said. 
 
 But in a few weeks he started out with 
 no baggage but a harp, and he played in 
 the villages and at the inns, and some^ 
 times at the homes of the rich. And his 
 melodies won all hearts. 
 
 The author of Vanity Fair says : " You 
 come hot and tired from the day's battle, 
 and this sweet minstrel sings to you. 
 324 
 
Oliver GolDsmttb 
 
 Who could harm the kind vagrant harper? 
 Whom did he ever hurt ? He carries no 
 weapon only the harp on which he 
 plays to you ; and with which he delights 
 great and humble, young and old, the 
 captains in the tent or the soldiers round 
 the fire, or the women and children in 
 the villages at whose porches he stops 
 and sings his simple songs of love and 
 beauty." 
 
 325 
 
III. 
 
 IN 1756 Goldsmith arrived in London 
 ragged, penniless, friendless, and 
 forlorn. In the country he could 
 make his way, but the city was new and 
 strange. For several days he begged a 
 crust here and there, sleeping in the 
 doorways at night and dreaming of the 
 flowery wealth of gentle I/issoy, where 
 even the poorest had enough to eat and 
 a warm place to huddle when the sun 
 went down. 
 
 He at length found work as clerk or 
 porter in a chemist's shop, where he re- 
 mained until he got money enough to 
 buy a velvet coat and a ruffled shirt, and 
 then he moved to the Baukside and hung 
 out a surgeon's sign. The neighbors 
 thought the little doctor funny, and the 
 women would call to him out of the sec- 
 ond story window that it was a fine day, 
 326 
 
liver <3olfcsmttb 
 
 but when they were ill they sent for 
 some one else to attend them. 
 
 Goldsmith was twenty-eight, and the 
 thought that he could make a living with 
 his pen had never come to him. Yet he 
 loved books and he would loiter aboujt 
 bookshops, pricing first editions, and 
 talking poetry to the patrons. He 
 chanced in this way to meet Samuel 
 Richardson, who, because he wrote the 
 first English romance, has earned the title 
 of Father of Lies. In order to get a very 
 necessary loaf of bread, Dr. Goldsmith 
 asked Richardson to let him read proof. 
 So Richardson gave him employment, 
 and in correcting proof the discovery was 
 made that the Irish doctor could turn a 
 sentence, too, 
 
 He became affected with literary ec- 
 zema, and wrote a tragedy which he read 
 to Richardson and a few assembled 
 friends. They voted it "vile, demnition 
 vile." But one man thought it wasn't 
 so bad as it might be, and this man found 
 a market for some of the little doctor's 
 327 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 book reviews, but the tragedy was fed to 
 the fireplace. With the money for his 
 book reviews the doctor bought goose 
 quills aud ink, and inspiration in bottles. 
 
 Grub Street dropped in, shabby, seedy, 
 empty of pocket but full of hope, and 
 little suppers were given in dingy coffee 
 houses where success to Bnglish letters 
 was drunk. 
 
 Then we find Goldsmith making a bold 
 stand for reform. He hired out to write 
 magazine articles by the day ; going to 
 work in the morning when the bell rang, 
 an hour off at noon, and then at it again 
 until nightfall. Mr. Griffiths, publisher 
 of the Monthly Review, was his employer. 
 And in order to hold his newly captured 
 prize, the publisher boarded the pock- 
 marked Irishman in his own house. 
 Mrs. Griffiths looked after him closely, 
 spurring him on when he lagged, correct- 
 ing his copy, striking out such portions 
 as showed too much genius and inserting 
 a word here and there in order to make a 
 purely neutral decoction, which it seems 
 328 
 
Itver olfcsmttb 
 
 is what magazine readers have always 
 desired. Occasionally these articles were 
 duly fathered by great men, as this gave 
 them the required specific gravity. 
 
 It is said that even in our day there are 
 editors who employ convict labor in this 
 way. But I am sure that this is not so, 
 for we live in an age of competition, and 
 it is just as cheap to hire the great men 
 to supply twaddle direct as to employ 
 foreign paupers to turn it out with the 
 extra expense of elderly women to revise. 
 
 After working in the Griffith literary 
 mill for five months, Goldsmith scaled the 
 barricade one dark night, leaving behind, 
 pasted on the wall, a ballad not only to 
 Mrs. Griffiths' eyebrow, but her wig as 
 well. 
 
 Soon after this, when Goldsmith was 
 thirty years of age, his first book, Enquiry 
 into the Present State of Polite Learning 
 in Europe, was published. It brought 
 him a little money and tuppence worth of 
 fame, so he took better lodgings, in Green 
 Arbor Court, proposing to do great things. 
 329 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 Half a century after the death of 
 Goldsmith, Irving visited Green Arbor 
 Court : 
 
 " At length we came upon Fleet Mar- 
 ket, and traversing it, turned up a narrow 
 street to the bottom of a long, steep 
 flight of stone steps called Breakneck 
 Stairs. These led to Green Arbor Court, 
 and down them Goldsmith many a time 
 risked his neck. When we entered the 
 Court, I could not but smile to think in 
 what out-of-the-way corners Genius pro- 
 duces her bantlings. The Court I found 
 to be a small square surrounded by tall 
 miserable houses with old garments and 
 frippery fluttering from every window. 
 It appeared to be a region of washer- 
 women, and lines were stretched about 
 the square on which clothes were dang- 
 ling to dry. Poor Goldsmith ! What a 
 time he must have had of it, with his quiet 
 disposition and nervous habits, penned 
 up in this den of noise and vulgarity." 
 
 One can imagine Goldsmith running 
 the whole gamut of possible jokes on 
 330 
 
liver (SolDsmitb 
 
 Breakneck Stairs, and Green Arbor Court, 
 which, by the way, was never green and 
 where there was no arbor. 
 
 " I 've been admitted to Court, gentle- 
 men ! " said Goldsmith proudly, one day 
 at The Mitre Tavern. 
 
 4< Ah, yes, Doctor, we know, Green Ar- 
 bor Court ! and any man who has climbed 
 Breakneck Stairs has surely achieved," 
 said Tom Davies. 
 
 In 1760 Goldsmith moved to No. 6 
 Wine Office Court, where he wrote the 
 Vicar of Wakefield. Boswell reports Dr. 
 Johnson's account of visiting him there: 
 
 "I received, one morning, a message 
 from poor Goldsmith that he was in great 
 distress, and as it was not in his power to 
 come to me, begging that I would come 
 to him as soon as possible. I sent him a 
 guinea and promised to come to him 
 directly. I accordingly went to him as 
 soon as I was dressed, and found that his 
 landlady had arrested him for his rent, at 
 which he was in a violent passion. I per- 
 ceived that he had already changed my 
 33i 
 
f>aunts of 
 
 guinea, and had half a bottle of Madeira 
 and a glass before him. I put the cork in 
 the bottle, desired he would be calm and 
 began to talk to him of the means by 
 which he might be extricated. He then 
 told me he had a novel ready for the 
 press, which he produced for me. I 
 looked into it and saw its merits ; told 
 the landlady I would soon return, and hav- 
 ing gone to a bookseller, sold it for sixty 
 pounds. I brought Goldsmith the money 
 and he discharged the rent, not without 
 rating his landlady for having used him 
 so ill." 
 
 For the play of The Good-Natured 
 Man Goldsmith received five hundred 
 pounds. And he immediately expended 
 four hundred in mahogany furniture, easy 
 chairs, lace curtains and Wilton carpets. 
 Then he called in his friends. This was 
 at No. 2 Brick Court, Middle Temple. 
 Blackstone had chambers just below, ancl 
 was working as hard over his Commen* 
 taries as many a lawyer's clerk has done 
 since. He complained of the abominable 
 332 
 
liver Oolfcsmitb 
 
 noise and racket of " those fellows up- 
 stairs," but was asked to come in and 
 listen to wit while he had the chance. 
 
 I believe the bailiffs eventually cap- 
 tured the mahogany furniture, but Gold- 
 smith held the quarters. They are to-day 
 in good repair, and the people who occupy 
 the house are very courteous, and oblig- 
 ingly show the rooms to the curious. No 
 attempt at a museum is made, but there 
 are to be seen various articles which be- 
 longed to Goldsmith and a collection of 
 portraits that are interesting. 
 
 When The Traveller was published 
 Goldsmith's fame was made secure. As 
 long as he wrote plays, reviews, history, 
 and criticism he was working for hire. 
 People said it was " clever," " brilliant, " 
 and all that, but their heart-* were not 
 won until the poet had poured out his 
 soul to his brother in that gentlest of all 
 sweet rhymes. I pity the man who can 
 read the opening lines of The Traveller 
 without a misty something coming ovei 
 his vision : 
 
 333 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
 My heart untravelled fondly turns to thee ; 
 Still to my brother turns, with ceaseless pain, 
 And drags at each remove a lengthening chain 
 
 This is the earliest English poem which 
 I can recall that makes use of our Ameri- 
 can Indian names : 
 
 Where wild Oswego spreads her swamps around, 
 And Niagara stuns with thundering sound. 
 
 Indeed we came near having Goldsmith 
 for an adopted citizen. According to his 
 own report he once secured passage to 
 Boston, and after carrying his baggage 
 aboard the ship he went back to town to 
 say a last hurried word of farewell to a 
 fair lad}', and when he got back to the 
 dock the ship had sailed away with his 
 luggage. 
 
 His wish was to spend his last days in 
 Sweet Auburn : 
 
 In all my wand'rings round this world of care, 
 In all my griefs and God has given my share 
 I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 
 Amidst those humble bowers to lav me down r 
 
 334 
 
Oliver <3oU>8mftb 
 
 To husband out life's taper at its close, 
 And keep the flame from wasting by repose. 
 I still had hopes for pride attends us still- 
 Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 
 Around my fire an evening group to draw, 
 And tell of all I felt and all I saw. 
 And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
 Pants to the place from whence at first she flew, 
 I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 
 Here to return and die at home at last. 
 
 But he never saw Ireland after he left 
 it in 1754. He died in London in 1774, 
 aged forty-six. 
 
 On the plain little monument in Tem- 
 ple Church where he was buried are only 
 these words : 
 
 Here Lies Oliver Goldsmith. 
 
 Hawkins once called on the Earl of 
 Northumberland and found Goldsmith 
 waiting in an outer room, having come 
 in response to an invitation from the 
 nobleman. Hawkins having finished his 
 business, waited until Goldsmith came 
 out, as he had a curiosity to know why 
 the Karl had sent for him. 
 
 " Well," said Hawkins, " what did he 
 say to you?" 
 
 335 
 
1baunts3 of 
 
 " His lordship told me that he had read 
 The Traveller > and that he -was pleased 
 with it, and that inasmuch as he was soon 
 to be Ivord-Lieutenant of Ireland, and 
 knowing I was an Irishman, asked what 
 he could do for me ! " 
 
 "And what did you tell him?" en- 
 quired the eager Hawkins. 
 
 " Why there was nothing for me to say, 
 but that I was glad he liked my poem, 
 and that I had a brother in Ireland, a 
 clergyman, who stood in need of help " 
 
 "Enough!" cried Hawkins, and left 
 him. 
 
 To Hawkins himself are we indebted 
 for the incident, and after relating it Haw- 
 kins adds : 
 
 " And thus did this idiot in the affairs 
 of the world trifle with his fortunes ! " 
 
 Let him who wishes preach a sermon 
 on this story. But there you have it! 
 " A brother in Ireland who needs help " 
 The brother in London, the brother in 
 America, the brother in Ireland who 
 needs help ! All men were his brothers, 
 
<3oU>0mitb 
 
 and those who needed help were first in 
 his mind. 
 
 Dear little Doctor Goldsmith, you were 
 not a hustler, but when I get to the Spirit 
 World I '11 surely hunt you up ! 
 
 337 
 
SHAKESPEARE 
 
 339 
 
It is a melancholy of mine own, compounded 
 of many simples, extracted from many objects, 
 and indeed the sundry contemplation of my 
 travels, in which my often rumination wraps me 
 in a most humorous sadness. 
 
 As You LikeTt. 
 
 340 
 
SHAKESPEARE. 
 
 1HAVB been to the Shakespeare 
 country several times, approaching 
 it from different directions, but each 
 time I am set down at Leamington. Per- 
 haps this is by Act of Parliament ; I do 
 not know, anyway I have ceased to kick 
 against the pricks and now meekly accept 
 my fate. 
 
 Leamington seems largely under sub- 
 jection to that triumvirate of despots, the 
 Butler, the Coachman and the Gardener. 
 You hear the jingle of keys, the flick of 
 the whip, and the rattle of lawn mower ; 
 and a cold, secret fear takes possession 
 of you a sort of half-frenzied impulse to 
 341 
 
flaunts ot 
 
 flee before smug modernity takes you cap- 
 tive and whisks you off to play tiddledy- 
 winks or to dance the racquet. 
 
 But the tram is at the door the outside 
 fare is a penny, inside it 's two and we 
 are soon safe, for we have reached the 
 point where the Learn and the Avon meet. 
 
 Warwick is worth our while. For here 
 we see scenes such as Shakespeare saw, 
 and our delight is in the things that his 
 eyes beheld. 
 
 At the foot of Mill Street are the ruins 
 of the old Gothic bridge that leads off to 
 Banbury. Oft have I ridden to Banbury 
 Cross on my mother's foot, and when I 
 saw that sign and pointing finger I felt 1 ike 
 leaving all and flying thence. Just be- 
 yond, settled snugly in a forest of waving 
 branches we see storied old Warwick Cas- 
 tle, with Caesar's Tower lifting itself from 
 the mass of green. 
 
 All about are quaint old houses and 
 
 shops, with red tiled roofs and little win- 
 
 dows with diamond panes, hung on 
 
 hinges, where maidens fair have looked 
 
 342 
 
Sbaftespeare 
 
 down on brave men in coats of mail. 
 These narrow, stony streets have rung 
 with the clang and echo of hurrying 
 hoofs ; the tramp of Royalist and Parlia- 
 mentarian, horse and foot, drum and ban- 
 ner ; the stir of princely visits, of mail 
 coach, market, assize and kingly court. 
 Colbrand, armed with giant club ; Sir 
 Guy ; Richard Neville, king-maker and 
 all his barbaric train trod these streets, 
 watered their horses in this river, camped 
 on yonder bank, or huddled in this castle 
 yard. And again they came back when 
 Will Shakespeare, a youth from Stratford, 
 eight miles away, came here and waved 
 his magic wand. 
 
 Warwick Castle is in better condition 
 DOW probably than it was in the sixteenth 
 century. But practically it is the same. It 
 is the only castle in England where the 
 portcullis is lowered at ten o'clock every 
 night and raised in the morning (if the 
 coast is clear) to tap of drum. 
 
 It costs a shilling to visit the castle. A 
 fine old soldier in spotless uniform, with 
 343 
 
Gbe t>aunts of 
 
 waxed white mustache and dangling 
 sword conducts the visitors. He imparts 
 full two shillings' worth of facts as we go, 
 all with a fierce roll of r's as becomes a 
 man of war. 
 
 The long line of battlements, the mas- 
 sive buttresses, the angular entrance cut 
 through solid rock, crooked, abrupt, with 
 places where fighting men can lie in am- 
 bush, all is as Shakespeare knew it. 
 
 There are the cedars of Lebanon, 
 brought by crusaders from the East, the 
 screaming peacocks in the paved court- 
 way, and in the Great Hall are to be seen 
 the sword and accoutrements of the fabled 
 Guy; the mace of the "King-Maker"- 
 the helmet of Cromwell and the armor of 
 Lord Brooke, killed at Litchfield. 
 
 And that Shakespeare saw these things 
 there is no doubt. But he saw them as a 
 countryman who came on certain fete 
 days, and stared with open mouth. We 
 know this, because he has covered all with 
 the glamour of his rich, boyish imagina- 
 tion that failed to perceive the cruel mock- 
 344 
 
Sbafeespeare 
 
 ery of such selfish pageantry. Had his 
 view been from the inside he would not 
 have made his kings noble nor his princes 
 generous ; for the stress of strife would 
 have stilled his laughter, and from his 
 brain the dazzling pictures would have 
 fled. Yet his fancies serve us better than 
 the facts. 
 
 Shakespeare shows us many castles, 
 but they are always different views of 
 Warwick or Kenil worth. When he pic- 
 tures Macbeth's castle he has Warwick 
 m his inward eye : 
 
 Thi. castle nas a pleasant seat ; the air 
 Vimhly and sweetly recommends itself 
 "nto our gentle senses ; 
 
 This guest of summer, the temple haunting mar- 
 let, does approve, 
 
 ly his loved mansionry, that the heavens breath 
 Smells wooingly here ; no jetty, frieze, 
 buttress nor coign of vantage, but this bird 
 Sath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle. 
 Where they most breed and haunt I have observed 
 4'he air is delicate. 
 
 Five miles from Warwick (ten if you 
 believe the cat drivers) are the ruins of 
 Kenilworth Castle. 
 
 345 
 
Gbe Ibaunts of 
 
 In 1575, when Shakespeare was eleven 
 years of age, Queen Elizabeth came to 
 Kenilworth. Whether her ticket was by 
 way of Leamington I do not know. But 
 she remained from July gth to July 2yth, 
 and there were great doings 'most every 
 day, to which the yeomanry were oft in- 
 vited. John Shakespeare was a worthy 
 citizen of Warwickshire and it is very 
 probable that he received an invitation, 
 and that he drove over with Mary Arden, 
 his wife, sitting on the front seat holding 
 the baby, and all of the other seven chil- 
 dren sitting in the straw behind. And we 
 may be sure that the eldest boy in that 
 brood never forgot the day. In fact, in 
 Midsummer Night's Dream he has 
 called on his memory for certain features 
 of the show. Elizabeth was forty-one 
 years old then, but very attractive and 
 glib of tongue according to accounts. 
 
 No doubt Kenilworth was stupendous 
 in its magnificence, and it will pay you to 
 take down from its shelf Sir Walter's 
 novel and read what he says of it. 
 346 
 
Sbafcespeare 
 
 But to-day it is all a crumbling heap ; 
 ivy, rooks and daws hold the place in fee 
 and each is pushing hard for sole posses- 
 sion. 
 
 It is eight miles from Warwick to Strat- 
 ford by the direct road but ten by the 
 river. I have walked both routes and con- 
 sider the latter the shortest. 
 
 Two miles down the river is Barford and 
 a mile further is Wasperton, where there 
 is a quaint old stone church. It is a good 
 place to rest : for nothing is so soothing as 
 a cool church where the dim light streams 
 through colored windows, and out of sight 
 somewhere, an organ softly plays. 
 
 Soon after leaving the church a rustic 
 swain hailed me and asked for a match. 
 This pipe and the Virginia weed they 
 mean amity the wide world over. If I 
 had questions to ask now was the time ! 
 So I asked, and Rusticus informed me 
 that Hampton Lucy was only a mile be- 
 yond and that Shakespeare never stole 
 deer at all ; so I hope we shall hear no 
 more of that libelous accusation- 
 347 
 
"fcaunts of 
 
 "But did Shakespeare run away?" I 
 demanded. 
 
 " Ave coorse he deed, sir, 'most all good 
 men 'ave roon away sometime ! " 
 
 And come to think of it Rusticusis right. 
 
 Most great men have at some time de- 
 parted hastily without leaving orders 
 where to forward their mail. Indeed it 
 seems necessary that a man should have 
 "run away" at least once, in order after- 
 ward to attain eminence. Moses, Lot, 
 Tarquin, Pericles, Demosthenes, St. Paul, 
 Shakespeare, Rousseau, Voltaire, Gold- 
 smith, Hugo but the list is too long to 
 give. 
 
 But just suppose that Shakespeare had 
 not run away ! And to whom do we owe 
 it that he did leave Justice Shallow or 
 Ann Hathaway or both ? I should say to 
 Ann first and His Honor second. I think 
 if Shakespeare could write an article for 
 The Ladies' Home Journal on "Women 
 who have helped me," and tell the whole 
 truth (as no man ever will in print), he 
 would put Ann Hathaway first. 
 348 
 
Sbafcespeare 
 
 He signed a bond when eighteen years 
 old agreeing to marry her; she was 
 twenty-six. No record is found of the 
 marriage. But we should think of her 
 gratefully, for no doubt it was she who 
 started the lad off for London. 
 
 That 's the way I expressed it to my 
 new-found friend and he agreed with me, 
 so we shook hands and parted. 
 
 Charlcote is as fair as a dream of para- 
 dise. The winding Avon, full to its banks, 
 strays lazily through rich fields and across 
 green meadows, past the bright red-brick 
 pile of Charlcote mansion. The river 
 bank is lined with rushes and in one place 
 I saw the prongs of antlers shaking the 
 elders. I sent a shrill whistle and a stick 
 that way, and out ran four fine deer that 
 loped gracefully across the turf. The 
 sight brought my poacher instincts to the 
 surface, but I bottled them, and trudged 
 on until I came to the little church that 
 stands at the entrance to the park. 
 
 All mansions, castles and prisons in 
 England have chapels or churches at- 
 349 
 
f>aunts of 
 
 tached. And this is well, for in the good 
 old days it seemed wise to keep in close 
 communication with the other world. 
 For often, on short notice, the proud scion 
 of royalty was compelled hastily to pack 
 a ghostly valise and hie him hence with 
 his battered soul ; or if he did not go him- 
 self he compelled others to do so, and who 
 but a brute would kill a man without 
 benefit of the clergy ! So each estate 
 hired its priests by the year, just as men 
 with a taste for litigation hold attorneys 
 in constant retainer. 
 
 In Charlcote church is a memorial to 
 Sir Thomas Lucy ; and there is a glowing 
 epitaph that quite upsets any of those 
 taunting and defaming allusions in The 
 Merry Wives. At the foot of the monu- 
 ment is a line to the effect that the in- 
 scription thereon was written by the only 
 one who was in possession of the facts : 
 Sir Thomas himself. 
 
 Several epitaph3 in the churchyard are 
 worthy of space in your commonplace 
 book, but the lines on the slab to John 
 350 
 
Sbafcespeare 
 
 Gibbs and wife, struck me as having the 
 true ring : 
 
 Farewell, proud, vain, false, treacherous world, 
 
 We have seen enough of thee : 
 We value not what thou canst say of we. 
 
 When the Charlcote mansion was built 
 there was a house-warming and Good 
 Queen Bess (who was not so awful good) 
 caine in great state ; so we see that she 
 had various calling acquaintances in these 
 parts. But we have no proof that she ever 
 knew that any such person as W. Shake- 
 speare lived. However she came to Charl- 
 cote and dined on venison, and what a 
 pity it is that she and Shakespeare did 
 not meet in London afterward and talk it 
 over ! 
 
 Some hasty individual has put forth a 
 statement to the effect that poets can only 
 be bred in a mountainous country, where 
 they could lift up their eyes to the hills. 
 Rock and ravine, beetling crag, singing 
 cascade, and the heights where the light- 
 ning plays and the mists hover are cer- 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 tainly good timber for poetry after you 
 have caught your poet, but nature eludes 
 all formula. Again it is the human inter- 
 est that adds vitality to art they reckon 
 ill who leave man out. 
 
 Drayton before Shakespeare's time 
 called Warwick " the heart of England," 
 and the heart of England it is to-day : rich, 
 luxuriant, slow. The great colonies of 
 rabbits that I saw at Charlcote seemed too 
 fat to frolic, save more than to play a trick 
 or two on the hounds that blinked in the 
 sun. 
 
 Down toward Stratford there are flat 
 islands covered with sedge, long rows of 
 weeping-willows, low hazel, hawthorne, 
 and places where " Green Grow the 
 Rushes O." Then, if the farmer leaves a 
 spot untilled, the dogrose pre-empts the 
 place and showers its petals on the 
 vagrant winds. Meadowsweet, forget-me- 
 nots, and wild geranium smuggle them- 
 selves below the boughs of the sturdy 
 yews. 
 
 The first glimpse we get of Stratford is 
 352 
 
Sbafcespeare 
 
 the spire of Holy Trinity ; then comes 
 the tower of the new Memorial Theatre, 
 which, by the way, is exactly like the 
 city hall at Dead Horse, Colorado. 
 
 Stratford is just another village of 
 Niagara Falls. The same shops, the 
 same guides, the same hackmen all are 
 there save poor Lo, with his bead work 
 and sassafras. In fact, a "cabby" just 
 outside of New Place offered to take me 
 to the Whirlpool, and the Canada side for 
 a dollar. At least, this is what I thought 
 he said, Of course, it is barely possible 
 that I was day-dreaming, but I think the 
 facts are that it was he who dozed, and 
 waking suddenly as I passed gave me the 
 wrong cue. 
 
 There is a Macbeth livery stable, a Fal- 
 staff bakery, and all of the shops and 
 stores keep Othello this and Hamlet 
 that. I saw briarwood pipes with Shake- 
 speare's face carved on the bowl, all for 
 one-and-six ; feather fans with advice to 
 the players printed across the folds ; the 
 Seven Ages on handkerchiefs and souve- 
 353 
 
ZTbe Ibaunta of 
 
 nir spoons galore, all warranted Gor- 
 ham's best. 
 
 The visitor at the birthplace is given a 
 cheerful little lecture on the various relics 
 and curiosities as they are shown. The 
 young ladies who perform this office are 
 clever women with pleasant voices, and 
 big starched white aprons. I was at 
 Stratford four days and went just four 
 times to the old curiosity shop. Bach day 
 the same bright British damsel conducted 
 me through, and told her tale, but it was 
 always with animation, and a certain 
 sweet satisfaction in her mission and 
 starched apron, that was very charming. 
 
 No man can tell the same story over 
 and over without soon reaching a point 
 where he betrays his weariness, and then 
 he flavors the whole with a dash of con- 
 tempt ; but a good woman, heaven bless 
 her ! is ever eager to please. Each time 
 when we came to that document certified 
 
 to by "Judith x Shakespeare," I was 
 Mark 
 
 told that it was very probable that Judith 
 354 
 
Sbafeespeare 
 
 could write, but that she affixed her name 
 thus iu merry jest. 
 
 John Shakespeare could not write, we 
 have no reason to suppose that Ann 
 Hathaway could, and this little explana- 
 tion about the daughter is so very good 
 that it deserves to rank with that other 
 pleasant subterfuge, " The age of miracles 
 is past ; " or that bit of jolly clap-trap con- 
 cerning the sacred baboons that are seen 
 about certain temples in India : " They 
 can talk," explain the priests, "but being 
 wise they never do." 
 
 Judith married Thomas Quiney. The 
 only letter addressed to Shakespeare that 
 can be found is one from the happy father 
 of Thomas, Mr. Richard Quiney, wherein 
 he asks for a loan of thirty pounds. 
 Whether he was accommodated we can- 
 not say ; and if he was, did he pay it 
 back, is a question that has caused much 
 hot debate. But it is worthy of note that 
 although considerable doubt as to au- 
 thenticity has smooched the other Shake- 
 sperian relics, yet the fact of the poet hav 
 355 
 
Gbe Ibaunts of 
 
 ing been "struck " for a loan by Richard 
 Quiney stands out in a solemn way as 
 the one undisputed thing in the mas- 
 ter's career. Little did Mr. Quiney think, 
 when he wrote that letter that he was 
 writing for the ages. Philanthropists 
 have won all by giving money, but who 
 save Quiney have reaped immortality by 
 asking for it ! 
 
 The inscription over Shakespeare's 
 grave is an offer of reward if you do, and 
 a threat of punishment if you don't, all 
 in choice doggerel. Why did he not 
 learn at the feet of Sir Thomas Lucy and 
 write his own epitaph ? 
 
 But I rather guess I know why his 
 grave was not marked with his name. He 
 was a play-actor, and the church people 
 would have been outraged at the thought 
 of burying a " strolling player" in that 
 sacred chancel. But his son-in-law, Dr. 
 John Hall, honored the great man and 
 was bound he should have a worthy rest- 
 ing place ; so at midnight, with the help 
 of a few trusted friends, he dug the grave 
 356 
 
Sbafcespeare 
 
 and lowered the dust of England's greatest 
 son. Then they hastily replaced the 
 stones, and over the grave they placed the 
 slab that they had brought : 
 
 Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear, 
 
 To dig the dust enclosed here, 
 Blest be the man who spares these stones, 
 
 And cursed be he who moves my bones. 
 
 A threat from a ghost ! ah, no one dare 
 molest that grave besides they did n't 
 know who was buried there neither are 
 we quite sure. Long years after the in- 
 terment, some one set a bust of the poet, 
 and a tablet, on the wall over against the 
 grave. 
 
 Under certain circumstances, if occa- 
 sion demands, I might muster a sublime 
 conceit ; but considering the fact that ten 
 thousand Americans visit Stratford every 
 year, and all write descriptions of the 
 place, I dare not in the face of Badaeker 
 do it. Further than that in every library 
 there are Washington Irving, Hawthorne, 
 and William Winter's three lachrymose 
 but charming volumes. 
 357 
 
Sbafcespeare 
 
 And T am glad to remember that the 
 Columbus who discovered Stratford and 
 gave it to the people was an American ; 
 I am proud to think that Americans have 
 written so charmingly of Shakespeare ; 
 I am proud to know that at Stratford no 
 man besides the master is honored as 
 Irving, and while I cannot restrain a 
 blush for our English cousins, I am proud 
 that over half the visitors at the birth- 
 place are Americans, and prouder still am 
 I to remember that they all write letters 
 to the newspapers at home about Strat- 
 ford-on-Avou. 
 
 358 
 
II. 
 
 ENGLAND relegates her Poets to a 
 " Corner." The earth and the 
 fulness thereof belongs to the men 
 who can kill ; on this rock have her State 
 and Church been built. 
 
 As the tourist approaches the city of 
 London for the first time, there are four 
 monuments that probably will attract his 
 attention. They lift themselves out of 
 the fog and smoke and soot, and seem 
 to struggle toward the blue. 
 
 One of these monuments is to com- 
 memorate a calamity the conflagration 
 of 1666 and the others are in honor of 
 deeds of war. 
 
 The finest memorial in St. Paul's is 
 to a certain eminent Irishman, Arthur 
 Wellesley. The mines and quarries of 
 359 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 earth have been called on for their richest 
 contributions ; and talent and skill have 
 given their all to produce this enduring 
 work of beauty, that tells posterity of the 
 mighty acts of this mighty man. The 
 rare richness and lavish beauty of the 
 Wellington mausoleum are only surpassed 
 by a certain tomb in France. 
 
 As an exploiter, the Corsican overdid 
 the thing a bit so the world arose and 
 put him down ; but safely dead, his shade 
 can boast a grave so sumptuous that Eng- 
 lishmen in Paris refuse to look upon it. 
 
 But England need not be ashamed. Her 
 land is spiked with glistening monuments 
 to greatness gone. And on these monu- 
 ments one often gets the epitomized life 
 of the man whose dust lies below. 
 
 On the carved marble to Lord Corn- 
 wallis I read that " He defeated the 
 Americans with great slaughter." And 
 so, wherever in England I see a beautiful 
 monument I know that probably the in- 
 scription will tell how "he defeated" 
 somebody. And one grows to the belief 
 360 
 
Sbafeegpeare 
 
 that, while woman's glory is in her hair, 
 man's glory is to defeat some one. And 
 if he can " defeat with great slaughter " 
 his monument is twice as high as if he 
 had only visited on his brother man a 
 plain undoing. 
 
 In truth, I am told by a friend who has 
 a bias for statistics, that all monuments 
 above fifty feet high in England are to the 
 honor of men who have defeated other 
 men " with great slaughter." The only 
 exceptions to this rule are the Albert 
 Memorial, which is a tribute of wifely 
 affection rather than a public testimonial, 
 so therefore need not be considered here, 
 and a monument to a worthy brewer who 
 died and left three hundred thousand 
 pounds to charity. I mentioned this fact 
 to my friend, but he unhorsed me by 
 declaring that modesty forbade carving 
 truth on monuments, yet it was a fact 
 that the brewer, too, had brought defeat to 
 vast numbers and had, like Saul, slaugh- 
 tered his thousands. 
 
 When I visited the site of the Globe 
 361 
 
trnunta ot 
 
 Theatre and found thereon a brewery, 
 whose shares are warranted to make the 
 owner rich beyond the dream of avarice, 
 I was depressed. In my boyhood I had 
 supposed that if ever I should reach this 
 spot where Shakespeare's plays were first 
 produced, I should see a beautiful park 
 and a splendid monument ; while some 
 white-haired old patriarch would greet 
 me, and give a little lecture to the assem- 
 bled pilgrims on the great man whose 
 footsteps had made sacred the soil be 
 neath our feet. 
 
 But there is no park, and no monument, 
 and no white-haired old poet to give you 
 welcome only a brewery. 
 
 "Ay, mon, but ain't ut a big un?" 
 protested an Englishman who heard my 
 murmurs. 
 
 Yes, yes, I must be truthful it is a big 
 brewery, and there are four big bull-dogs 
 in the court-way ; and there are big vats, 
 and big workmen in big aprons. And 
 each of these workmen is allowed to 
 drink six quarts of beer each day, without 
 362 
 
Sbafcespeare 
 
 charge, which proves that kindliness is 
 not dead. Then there are big horses that 
 draw the big wagons, and on the corner 
 there is a big tap-room where the thirsty 
 are served with big glasses. 
 
 The founder of this brewery became 
 rich ; and if my statistical friend is right, 
 the owners of these mighty vats have 
 defeated mankind with "great slaugh- 
 ter." 
 
 We have seen that although Napoleon, 
 the defeated, has a more gorgeous tomb 
 than Wellington, who defeated him, yet 
 there is consolation in the thought that 
 although Kngland has no monument to 
 Shakespeare he now has the freedom of 
 Elysium ; while the present address of 
 the British worthies who have battened 
 and fattened on poor humanity's thirst 
 for strong drink, since Samuel Johnson 
 was executor of Thrale's estate, is un- 
 known. 
 
 We have this on the authority of a 
 solid Englishman, who says : "The vir- 
 tues essential and peculiar to the exalted 
 363 
 
Ibaunts of 
 
 station of British Worthy debars the un- 
 fortunate possessor from entering Para- 
 dise. There is not a Lord Chancellor, or 
 Lord Mayor, or Lord of the Chamber, or 
 Master of the Hounds, or Beefeater in 
 Ordinary, or any sort of British bigwig, 
 out of the whole of British Beadledom, 
 upon which the sun never sets, in Ely- 
 sium. This is the only dignity beyond 
 their reach." 
 
 The writer quoted is an honorable man, 
 and I am sure he would not make this 
 assertion if he did not have proof of the 
 facts. So, for the present, I will allow 
 him to go on his own recognizance, be- 
 lieving that he will adduce his docu- 
 ments at the proper time. 
 
 But still should not England have a 
 fitting monument to Shakespeare? He 
 is her one universal citizen. His name is 
 honored in every school, or college of 
 earth where books are prized. There is 
 no scholar in any clime who is not his 
 debtor. 
 
 He was born in England, he never was 
 364 
 
Sbafcespeare 
 
 out of England ; his ashes rest in Eng- 
 land. But England's Budget has never 
 been ballasted with a single pound to 
 help preserve inviolate the memory of 
 her one son to whom the world uncovers. 
 
 Victor Hugo has said something on this 
 subject about like this : 
 
 Why a monument to Shakespeare? 
 
 He is his own monument and England 
 is its pedestal. Shakespeare has no need 
 of a pyramid ; he has his work. 
 
 What can bronze or marble do for 
 him ? Malachite and alabaster are of no 
 avail ; jasper, serpentine, basalt, por- 
 phyry, granite : stones from Paros and 
 marble from Cararra they are all a waste 
 of pains : genius can do without them. 
 
 What is as indestructible as these : 
 The Tempest, The Winters Tale, Julius 
 Ctzsar, Coriolanus? What monument 
 sublimer than Lear, sterner than The 
 Merchant of Venice, more dazzling than 
 Romeo and Juliet, more amazing than 
 Richard I II.? 
 
 What moon could shed about the pile 
 365 
 
Sbafcespeare 
 
 a light more mystic than that of A Mid- 
 summer Night's Dream ? What capital, 
 were it even in London, could rumble 
 around it as tumultuously as Macbeth's 
 perturbed soul? What framework of 
 cedar or oak will last as long as Othello f 
 What bronze can equal the bronze of 
 Hamlet ? 
 
 No construction of lime, or rock, of 
 iron and of cement is worth the deep 
 breath of genius, which is the respiration 
 of God through man. What edifice can 
 equal thought ? Babel is less lofty than 
 Isaiah ; Cheops is smaller than Homer ; 
 the Colosseum is inferior to Juvenal ; the 
 Giralda of Seville is dwarfish by the side 
 of Cervantes ; St. Peter's of Rome does 
 not reach to the ankle of Dante. 
 
 What architect has the skill to build 
 a tower so high as the name of Shake- 
 speare ? Add anything if you can to 
 mind ! Then why a monument to Shake 
 speare ? 
 
 I answer, not for the glory of Shake- 
 speare, but for the honor of England .' 
 366 
 
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