UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 AT LOS ANGELES
 
 CHARACTERISTICS
 
 "'ISN'T SHE NOBLE-LOOKING?'"
 
 Butbor's definitive EOitton 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS 
 I 
 
 BY 
 
 S. WEIR MITCHELL, M.D. 
 
 LL.D. HARVARD AND EDINBURGH 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 THE CENTURY CO. 
 1905
 
 Copyright. 1891. 1892, by 
 THE CENTURY Co.
 
 "PS 
 
 \305 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 HIS book is a broken record of por- 
 tions of the lives of certain friends 
 of mine, and of what I, Owen North, 
 physician, have seen and heard. My 
 people, who were of the Society of 
 Friends, came from Wales, and were 
 with Penn in the Welcome, but had lapsed from grace 
 and followed the religious guidance of Hicks. I was 
 further emancipated by the study of medicine, which 
 I took to because it interested me and not of necessity, 
 since at the age of twenty-one I was a man of ample 
 means, free to do as I liked. After a year of hospital 
 work, and three years of added study in Europe, I came 
 home to settle in my native city. 
 
 Whatever value this irregular account of myself and 
 my friends may have is due to the care with which I 
 have watched the developmental growth of character. 
 I like, therefore, to say at the outset what I appear to 
 myself to have been leaving the reader who likes to 
 follow me to learn for himself what life did to foster 
 the good or ill that was mine by nature. In early
 
 2 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 manhood I was shy, reserved, and self-conscious. Al- 
 ways ambitious, and disliking failure, my youth did 
 not supply me with such other competence of motives 
 as to urge me to success in consecutive study. What 
 I liked to do I did fairly well When older I found 
 that the power to do best what I enjoyed doing led at 
 last to the easier doing of whatever I willed to do. I 
 cannot remember that as a boy any intellectual work 
 had for me the smallest attraction. In those days it 
 was thought in my native city not quite reputable to 
 have no distinct occupation in life, and under this 
 influence I began to study medicine. As I became in- 
 creasingly interested in the studies of the profession I 
 had chosen, I was curiously surprised to find that the 
 capacity to concentrate my thoughts, which I never 
 had in youth, rapidly grew ; in fact I developed later 
 than most men. About the time I began to like scien- 
 tific study I lost for life the sense of ennui which had 
 been one of the peculiarities of my childhood, and too, 
 with success, became quietly sure of myself and more 
 and more capable of sustained effort. Finally my 
 long absence abroad enabled me usefully to escape 
 from many of the narrowing associations of my youth, 
 and to enter on life untrammeled. I found, indeed, 
 as I grew older, that the comrades of my youth were 
 no longer such. I had moved away from them ; but 
 friendly time brought others whom I learned to love 
 better and with more reason. It is only needful to 
 , add that I succeeded in my profession, and at the out- 
 break of the great civil war was in an enviable posi- 
 ' tion, having a practice far beyond what would have 
 been possible in Europe at my time of life.
 
 CHAEACTEKISTICS. 3 
 
 The call of war stirred me in many ways. My peo- 
 ple had been Friends from the day of their landing in 
 America, but I myself had ceased to be, like them, 
 troubled with scruples as to war. I only hesitated as 
 to how best I could serve my country. That in some 
 way I must do this was clear to me. As to slavery I 
 had been little disturbed j it was a gangrene sure in 
 time to die of its own accursedness. But the thought 
 of a dismembered land, and, above all, the final insult 
 of Sumter, settled for me, as it did for thousands, what 
 I ought to do. 
 
 I soon saw that as a surgeon I could be of most use. 
 I was, as the world goes, rich, and had no need to 
 consider the future. Accordingly I gave up all my 
 appointments, and entered the service as an assistant 
 surgeon in the regular army. Of this life I mean to 
 say little. 
 
 I could wish that some one would fitly record the 
 immense services of my profession during the great 
 war, but this is not the place to do so ; and I content 
 myself with the merely personal statement that I was 
 almost incessantly occupied with field duty. This 
 open-air life gave me the physical vigor I somewhat 
 lacked ; and this I saw occur in many others. Despite 
 5 the cripples made by war, and those who came out of 
 I it diseased, I am disposed to think that the survivors 
 1 returned to civil life with, on the whole, a larger cap- 
 ital of available energy than the like number would 
 have possessed had there been no contest. I was soon 
 to learn in person how valuable was this toughening 
 process. 
 
 We were lying before Petersburg, very weary of the
 
 4 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 siege, with its many failures. An attack at dawn on 
 the left flank of Lee's extending lines necessitated the 
 usual ambulance service, and for this I was detailed. 
 The effort on our part failed, and the return attack 
 cut off for a time my ambulance party and a number 
 of wounded. We were in a rather dense wood, and 
 remained unperceived until toward evening ; nor was 
 it prudent to attempt escape. The firing had been dis- 
 tant and irregular most of the day, and near dark, 
 hearing the groans of wounded men somewhat nearer 
 to the edge of the wood, I took a sergeant and two 
 men, and went in search of them. There were many 
 dead, and, lying among them, three more or less badly 
 hurt; one of these needed immediate amputation of 
 an arm, and we set about this at once. Meanwhile a 
 sharp firing broke out on the right ; the balls began to 
 fly over us so that the twigs fell about us from the 
 trees. Rarely does a man have to operate under fire. 
 This time it fell upon me to do so, and as I began my 
 assistant suddenly cried out, "It is no use, doctor." 
 A sharp convulsion shook the body of the wounded 
 man, and, looking up, I saw that a bullet had gone 
 through his head. A moment later I felt a blow on 
 the back of my neck, and lost consciousness. 
 
 I cannot say how long I remained insensible. By 
 degrees I began to see the trees, the moon, and the 
 swift hurry of clouds across its brightness. I faintly 
 remember that at first I connected their quick motion 
 with retreat and failure, and was hurt with the shame 
 of it. Then again I lost it all, and for a time how 
 long I do not know rose to brief spells of dream- 
 haunted consciousness. The sadness of dawn was in
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 5 
 
 the sky before I was fully myself. I heard the moan 
 of wounded men, and knew that it was my duty to 
 take care of them. I tried to rise, and could not ; my 
 arms and legs were alike motionless. I made an im- 
 mense effort, and knew that it was in vain. I was also 
 paralyzed as to sensation, and could not feel that I> 
 touched the ground. But about my neck I felt the 
 blood dried stiff in my collar. I must, however, have 
 been still bleeding freely, for again I lost myself while 
 divided between wonder and horror at my state. 
 
 At about sunrise I was awakened by familiar voices, 
 and presently was rolled over and inspected by a hos- 
 pital steward and one of my brother surgeons, to 
 whom were soon added two line officers. I could not 
 speak, but could hear more and more easily as they 
 lifted me to a stretcher and made my obituary in a 
 few brief and not altogether eulogistic phrases, with a 
 final remark by a captain that " He treated me at Cold 
 Harbor and got me a long sick-leave, and gave derned 
 little medicine, too." 
 
 One man remarked, "Good fellow, but a dreamy 
 sort of a cuss." And thus, having died for my coun- 
 try, and heard its opinion of me in little, I came to 
 myself. As my bearers trudged along I had first a 
 misty recognition of the fun of it, then curiosity as to 
 where I was hit, but at length pain in my neck from 
 the to-and-fro roll of the stretcher as my bearers, 
 keeping step from habit, moved toward camp. 
 
 At last I was able to say, " Break step. I 'm not 
 dead." 
 
 " By George ! The doctor 's alive ! " exclaimed one 
 of my aids, and so, after this excursion out of my wits,
 
 6 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 I got into a good tent and, after a more thorough ex- 
 amination, was sent home to die. 
 
 A bullet had passed through the muscles at the back 
 of my neck and paralyzed the spinal column without 
 directly wounding it. For several months I lay quite 
 powerless, all that there was of me within control of 
 my will being the head and its contents. I could not 
 stir arm or leg; I even spoke with difficulty; and 
 would awake gasping for breath at night, because 
 my will was more or less needed to keep my chest in 
 motion. 
 
 I was for weeks, as I well knew, on the margin of 
 another world, and absolutely clear in mind to consider 
 the peril I had no wish to die, despite my horrible 
 state, for I had no pain, and it is pain which makes 
 the ill man indifferent to living. Neither did the 
 nearness of death alarm me. I remember that I con- 
 cluded that the naturalness of death must be strongly 
 set in our instinctive being, because, although I have 
 seen many wounded or ill men die slowly without 
 suffering, and fully possessed of reason, obvious fear 
 of death, when death is near, scarcely exists, and most 
 men, under these conditions, seem to await their fate 
 with calmness. In fact, I can recall only one case 
 where a man, conscious of death at hand, showed in- 
 tensity of fear. 
 
 I lay at rest, if rest it can be called, in my own 
 rooms, and had all that means could give me. Friends 
 I had too, for I have a talent for friendship, and these 
 came and sat with me or read to me. I remember, 
 however, that some who were very dear to me in 
 health did not seem to fit into my new conditions of
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 7 
 
 life, and that in my helplessness the women whom I 
 was able to see were always the more acceptable visit- 
 ors. I suspect that at this time I must have been very 
 sensitive. Certain persons depressed me ; I could not 
 easily say why others soothed. Now and then came 
 some one who made me feel as though I had taken a 
 strong tonic. 
 
 This priceless gift nature has given only to a few. 
 It cannot be acquired; no imitation of it succeeds; 
 nor is its quality easy of analysis. It is not manner, 
 neither is it dependent on a sanguine temperament, as 
 one might fancy. Nor is it a part of such mere un- 
 thinking manners as make some men always willing 
 to predict success. One comes here to the question of 
 professional manners, a delicate matter of which I 
 thought a good deal as I became a more and more 
 sensitive human instrument. There is no place where 
 good breeding has so sweet a chance as at the bedside. 
 There are many substitutes, but the sick man is a 
 shrewd detective, and soon or late gets at the true man 
 inside of the doctor. 
 
 I know, alas ! of men who possess cheap manufact- 
 ured manners adapted, as they believe, to the wants 
 of "the sick-room" a term I loathe. According to 
 the man and his temperament do these manners vary, 
 and represent sympathetic cheerf ulness or sympathetic 
 gloom. They have, I know, their successes and their 
 commercial value, and may be of such skilful make as 
 to deceive for a time even clever women, which is say- 
 ing a great deal for the manufacturer. Then comes 
 the rarer man who is naturally tender in his contact 
 with the sick, and who is by good fortune full of edu- 
 2
 
 8 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 cated tact. He has the dramatic quality of instinctive 
 sympathy, and, above all, knows how to control it. If 
 he has directness of character too, although he may 
 make mistakes (as who does not ?), he will be, on the 
 whole, the best adviser for the sick, and the complete- 
 ness of his values will depend upon mental qualities 
 which he may or may not possess in large amount. 
 
 But over and above all this there is, as I have urged, 
 some mystery in the way in which certain men refresh 
 the patient with their presence. I fancy that every 
 doctor who has this power and sooner or later he is 
 sure to know that he has it also learns that there are 
 days when he has it not. It is in part a question of 
 his own physical state; at times the virtue has gone 
 out of him. 
 
 The gift is not confined to men. One middle-aged 
 woman had it for me when I lay helpless in my palsied 
 state. She was a person so simple, so direct, so easily 
 sure to do and so certain to abide by the right thing, 
 that to unthinking people she may have appeared to 
 be commonplace. An angelic form of good sense 
 dominated by tenderness underlay the positiveness of 
 her character and was a part of her nature. More- 
 over, she possessed also sense of humor, that gentlest 
 helpmate in life. I do not mean that she was cre- 
 atively humorous; she was only appreciatively and 
 apprehensively humorous. 
 
 I had a rather grim but most able surgeon. He 
 seemed to me to have a death-certificate ready in his 
 pocket. He came, asked questions, examined me as if 
 I were a machine, and was too absorbed in the phys- 
 ical me to think about that other me whose tentacula he
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 9 
 
 knocked about without mercy, or without knowledge 
 that tenderness was needed. Our consultant was a 
 physician with acquired manners. He always agreed 
 with what I said, and was what I call aggressively 
 gentle ; so that he seemed to me to be ever saying with 
 calm self -approval, " See how gentle I am." I am told 
 that with women he was delightfully positive, and I 
 think this may have been true, but he was incapable of 
 being firm with the obstinate. His formulas distressed 
 me, and were many. He was apt to say, as he entered 
 my room, " Well, and how are we to-day ? " And this 
 I hated, because I once knew a sallow undertaker who, 
 in the same fashion, used to associate himself with the 
 corpse, and comfort the living with the phrase, " We 
 are looking quite natural to-day." 
 
 My soft-mannered and mellifluous doctor who 
 thought well of himself was nevertheless a most in- 
 telligent physician j but some people possess no mirror 
 for social conduct, and the court fool, who tells men 
 the truth, is out of fashion. He went along in lif e not 
 knowing how absurd he was at times. To have known 
 would have lessened his usefulness. Self -ignorance is 
 sometimes an essential condition of utility. 
 
 My good little woman friend supplied me with what 
 
 my doctors did not, and to this day I cannot tell how 
 
 she did it. Despite, however, her too rare visits, and 
 
 (those of others who were less helpful, I had a horrible 
 
 i amount of time on my hands. Much reading wearied 
 
 ' me, and so I lay imprisoned within the limits of my 
 
 memories, or took a curious interest in the minutiae of 
 
 the little life or action I could see in my room or 
 
 through my windows. I watched for long months the
 
 10 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 leaves come and flourish and depart from a tree (a 
 horse-chestnut across the street), and saw its varnished 
 buds unfold to queer insect shapes and then spread 
 out into green tents. The spider which spun on my 
 window-pane I would not allow to be disturbed, and 
 even the flies were sources of interest. Far away were 
 two weathercocks ; one was too motionlessly conserva- 
 tive to stir with the breeze, but now and then, when 
 the wind was east, it was correct. It seemed to me 
 like the man with one unchanging opinion, and with 
 whom the world comes some day to agree. The other 
 cock was an honest, mutable fellow, and warned me 
 that a norther was on the way to torment me, as it 
 always did, with a horrible sense of futile restlessness. 
 I used to lie and wonder whether the cock was chosen 
 for a sign of changeful winds because it was a re- 
 minder to the unstable Peter. But these trifles are of 
 the intimate life of chronic sickness, and perhaps are 
 of little interest to the thoughtless who are well. 
 
 The man thus imprisoned within himself recovers 
 by effort a vast amount of memorial property pre- 
 sumed to have been lost. If I shut my eyes and lay 
 still, as, indeed, I had to do, and then seized firmly on 
 some remembrance of verse or prose or events, by de- 
 grees it seemed to aggregate other memories long for- 
 gotten. It was like a process of crystallization to 
 stir up the fluid is apt to disturb the formative action. 
 If I stopped to think, compare, and conclude, I found 
 that I interfered with the process of accumulative 
 recollection. My favorite amusement was to recall 
 men I had known, and to construct for them in my 
 mind characters out of what I had seen or heard of
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 11 
 
 them under the varying conditions of camp, battle, or 
 wounds. This would lead me to anticipate what their 
 future lives would be and how in certain crises of ex- 
 istence they might act. I did this also for myself over 
 and over, until it seemed to me that I could be sure of 
 my precise conduct under any and almost every variety 
 of circumstances. Some of the insights I thus won by 
 these excursions into the puzzle-land of character used 
 to startle me at times, because it seemed as though the 
 concentration and intensity of attention imposed upon 
 me by my state enabled me, from the memory of a 
 single interview or incident, to work out easily the 
 whole characteristics of a man. This power did not 
 continue in as full force when my conditions of life 
 were altered. What it left with me was an unusual 
 fondness for the study of men and women, and this I 
 take to be a rare taste, because although people make 
 guesses at character, and novelists and dramatists are 
 presumed to study it for a purpose, and some men of 
 affairs have an almost instinctive appreciation of what 
 a man in contact with a given matter will do, the 
 tendency to study character for its own sake from a 
 naturalist's point of view is most uncommon. In fact, 
 too, the business-man's working knowledge of char- 
 acter and the writer's are distinct, says George Eliot ; 
 the former cannot put in words what he uses any more 
 than the latter can use in the give and take of life 
 what he can so well put on paper. 
 
 I look back with surprise at the months I passed as 
 a crippled man, my head alone alive. My cheerfulness 
 was due to temperament, and also to what I may call 
 the temperament of my disease, for people who have
 
 12 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 spinal lesions without pain are apt to be more calm 
 and unirritable than those who have certain visceral 
 disorders. Consumptives are said to be hopeful, but 
 the sick liver predicts damnation. A learned divine 
 said a thing of extraordinary wisdom when he an- 
 nounced that no man, however secure he may be in 
 mind as to his future lif e, ever dies a triumphant death 
 with disease below the diaphragm. 
 / On the 8th of May, 1866, 1 observed that I could 
 wiggle the second toe of my left foot. I have ever 
 since had a peculiar affection for this little sub-mem- 
 ber of my locomotive organs. Head and toe were now 
 both alive, and seemed to salute each other across a 
 length of motionless body. I indicated this immense 
 fact to my affable doctor. He put on his glasses and 
 looked. Then he said, " You will get welL" 
 To which I replied, " I always was sure of that." 
 I saw that it was disagreeable to him to be thus 
 anticipated by hope, and so said no more. In the 
 evening he brought the consulting surgeon, and 
 triumphantly pointed out the prophetic conduct of 
 this hitherto uninteresting part of me. 
 
 I am not concerned to dwell upon the medical de- 
 tails of my case except as they bear upon life or char- 
 acter. Sensation came back first, and in about a 
 month I could move both legs and arms ; but I had 
 become the victim of a new experience. As my loco- 
 motive powers increased I suffered agonizing pain 
 in the back and neck and arms. It was almost my 
 first enduring personal sensation of acute pain, and it 
 lasted long enough to enable me to make acquaintance 
 with every variety of torment. Civilized mankind has
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 13 
 
 of will ceased to torture, but in our process of being 
 civilized we have won, I suspect, intensified capacity to 
 suffer. The savage does not feel pain as we do ; nor, 
 as we examine the descending scale of life, do animals 
 seem to have the acuteness of pain-sense to which we 
 have arrived, a fact I have often observed in regard to 
 wounded horses on the battle-field. I had at one time 
 served awhile as assistant surgeon in the wards of a 
 hospital to which were sent most of the bad cases of 
 wounded nerves. In this abode of torment, where 
 sixty thousand hypodermatic injections of morphia 
 were given and needed within a year, I saw every form 
 of suffering. But personal acquaintance with pain is 
 quite another matter. It inclines me to think that 
 every doctor ought to go through a sharp little course 
 of colic, gout, and, if you please, a smart fitjrf hyster- 
 ics before venturing on the practice of his profession. 
 An old friend of mine used to say that all clergymen 
 should have a mild education in iniquity as a prepara- 
 tion for their career, but this I hardly hold to as a 
 serious opinion. 
 
 Assuredly I had never realized the influential quali- 
 ties of pain as I now came to do. Of all the means 
 not of his own making which degrade, debase, and 
 morally ruin a man, pain seems to be the most potent. 
 I became irritable, perverse, ungrateful, and selfish. I 
 lay abed thinking how I could put my tortures into 
 language descriptive enough to impress the infernal 
 calm of that placid doctor, who came and went, and 
 was as cool as I had been in the wards of that museum 
 of anguish to which I have above referred. I had 
 been wont to think and speak philosophically of pain,
 
 14 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 but this continual and ingeniously varied torture was 
 to me a novel experience, and left on my mind the be- 
 lief that certainly an abode of eternal torment would 
 have the effect of making men hopelessly regret lost 
 opportunities, but would as surely make them morally 
 worse, if it left them leisure to think at all. 
 
 I steadily resisted all efforts to induce me to use 
 sedatives until one day, toward evening, when I had a 
 new performance in my hands, as if they were being 
 rasped with hot files. Then I yielded, and my doctor 
 gave me a hypodermatic injection of morphia. I lay 
 awake all night in perfect comfort, heedless of the 
 passage of time, and wondering at the bliss of relief. 
 'T was heaven bought with hell, for the next day I 
 was doubly tormented. 
 
 None who have not known long chronic illness can 
 conceive of the misery enforced idleness inflicts on a ( 
 \J man used to active life. This intensity of ennui, com- j 
 parable only to that which some children suffer, is 
 eased by morphia. The hours go by almost joyously. 
 Misfortunes trouble no longer. One drifts on an en- 
 , chanted sea. This death of ennui is the most efficient 
 \ bribe which opium offers. 
 
 I dreamed a great deal during my long sickness, 
 and not always unpleasantly. At one time, in my 
 younger life, I read that Lord Coke kept a diary of his 
 dreams, in the belief that from them he could learn 
 more of his true character. Before I took morphia I 
 followed his example for a time, dictating my dreams 
 to my nurse ; but I soon tired of this, as I observed 
 that often in dreaming I could, as it were, examine my 
 own mental state, and always to the effect of conclud-
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 15 
 
 ing that what I did, said, or thought was as I would 
 have done under the like circumstances when awake, 
 except that I rarely seemed to myself to laugh in 
 dreams, whereas, when awake, life was full of humor- 
 ous aspects to me. Under morphia I was capable of 
 mirthful visions, which occurred to me while I was 
 awake at night. Dreams are very personal things, and 
 this may be why my father always insisted to me when 
 a child that it was bad manners to relate dreams, and 
 certainly nothing interests one less than to be told the 
 dreams of another man. I had, however, two experi- 
 ences in this matter which are so amusing and curious 
 that I venture to relate them as additions to the rather 
 grim literature of opium. 
 
 I had taken one night a grain of morphia, and then 
 another like dose, and thereupon passed into a sweet 
 sleep. In an hour I awoke and began to see things, 
 chiefly scenes from the "Arabian Nights," and then, 
 abruptly, the following : 
 
 I had been for some years, as I have said, in practice 
 in a great city, and now I saw my little study with all 
 its belongings set out clearly in the darkness of my 
 chamber. A maid servant entered and told me that a 
 patient wished to see me. I said, or seemed to say, 
 "Ask him to walk hi." Upon which the woman opened 
 both leaves of the folding-door between me and my 
 waiting-room. This excited my wonder until I saw 
 enter with difficulty a man of enormous bulk. He 
 looked at the chairs, and finally sat down with care on 
 a lounge, remarking : 
 
 " At hotels I have to be careful ; they put it in the 
 bill."
 
 16 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 
 
 The vision went on, and I apparently said, "What 
 can I do for you ? " 
 
 " As a gentleman," he returned, " I cannot go fur- 
 ther without a warning. I want to consult you, but I 
 cannot in justice do so until I say that whenever I 
 mention a symptom to a doctor it leaves me and goes 
 to him." 
 
 " Really ! " I exclaimed, incredulously. 
 
 "Yes. They all tell me that I am a crank; that 
 this is a peculiar delusion, and the like." 
 
 " Go on," I said. " It is easily tested." 
 
 As I replied I noticed that his eyes were singular, 
 the iris and pupil being quite double the ordinary 
 diameters. The color was a dead gray, and the organs 
 in question had a malicious fixity of expression. 
 
 " Pray go on," I repeated. " Are you in earnest ? " 
 
 " I have a severe pain in my back, about the lumbar 
 region on the left" 
 
 Instantly I myself felt a sharp pain just in the part 
 mentioned, and I put my hand to it, or seemed to, for 
 the arms were still unable to move freely. 
 
 "Aha! I was right; you doctors are all skeptical." 
 
 "Nonsense," I returned. "This is not strange 
 enough to convince a reasoning man." 
 
 " The last fellow said it was a coincidence." 
 
 "Goon." 
 
 " Oh, very well. I am blind in my left eye." 
 
 At once I covered my right eye, and knew that he 
 was right. I was unable to see anything. 
 
 " That will do," said I, faintly. " Stop." 
 
 " Yes. You cannot say that I did not warn you. It 
 may interest you to know that as I came up the street
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 17 
 
 I left eleven symptoms with different doctors. One 
 was difficult to satisfy j he got an enlarged liver, em- 
 physema of the left lung, and varicose veins. I have 
 seen but one reasonable doctor, and it, or she (for the 
 doctor was a woman), said she always carried away 
 some of her patients' symptoms, and would have noth- 
 ing to do with me." 
 
 At this he rose, and I also attempted to do the same, 
 but found that my armchair rose with me. 
 
 "What horrible thing is this?" I said. 
 
 " I forgot ! " he exclaimed. " How shall I ever for- 
 give myself ! Now it is too late. I ought to have told 
 you that as my aches and ailments leave me to settle 
 in the body of the doctor, so also does my flesh, which, 
 as you see, is unduly great. A few days more and I 
 shall have left the rest of my excess in Boston. There 
 no one believes anything old, and everybody believes 
 anything new." 
 
 " Please to go away," I said ; and I saw him waddle 
 slowly out of the room. 
 
 The notes of this queer vision I managed to make 
 my nurse write for me the next morning. Its oddness 
 to me consisted in the fact that it amused me as it 
 passed before me, and that I appeared to be at the 
 time watching myself, as if I, the watcher, were one, 
 and I, the actor, another person not a very rare state 
 in ordinary dreams. 
 
 These opium visions were of a definiteness which is 
 never found in the dreams of sleep, and were rarely 
 unpleasant. I could not command their presence. 
 For many nights I would sleep well under morphia, 
 and then pass a night of entire wakefulness haunted
 
 18 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 by spectacular scenes. I promised to limit myself to 
 the telling of only two; both had some relation to 
 things in which I had been especially interested. Thus 
 I had once experimented with care on myself to learn 
 how most safely to reduce an excess of fat ; and my 
 second vision was in some way the outcome of a paper 
 I wrote as a student. 
 
 I was of a sudden in the laboratory of the foremost 
 of American chemists, and had arranged an apparatus 
 so that on one side of a piece of tanned rhinoceros- 
 hide I placed bisulphid of carbon, and on the other an 
 agent well known to my dream state, but, alas ! lost to 
 the memory of daylight. My chemical friend smiled 
 blandly as I told him that osmotic currents would 
 slowly form in the course of months, and, my bisulphid 
 of carbon being very gradually decomposed, crystals 
 of carbon, or, in other words, diamonds, would be 
 formed on the surface of the membrane. Having ar- 
 ranged my apparatus, it was put into a safe. I re- 
 member to have felt the most profound interest, not 
 unmixed with amusement, at what I did, and I was 
 annoyed when the laboratory faded away and a Druid- 
 ical procession appeared in a grove. At last I had a 
 distinct sense of gratification as again the laboratory 
 appeared, and my friend stood before the open safe. 
 I carefully drew out the tray on which stood the 
 dialyzer. On the top of the membrane were several 
 dull-looking stones, one as large as a walnut. My 
 friend took this up, and crossed the room. In a min- 
 ute he came back, saying: "You have made seven 
 hundred thousand dollars' worth of diamonds. This
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 19 
 
 lesser one is of perfect water ; the large one is a little 
 blue." 
 
 I said that I knew I should succeed. 
 
 "It will be very useful in the arts," returned my 
 friend. " I shall like to have about two dozen of the 
 size of a pigeon's egg to enable me to make certain 
 studies in chemical physics." 
 
 Now this was pretty much what the man would have 
 desired, and would have asked under like circum- 
 stances. The scientific aspect of the matter would for 
 him have been the only one, and it did seem to me odd 
 that, without act of will of which I was cognizant, he 
 should thus speak through me with the simplicity and 
 directness which are a part of his character. Again, 
 it was characteristic of me that some of the moral de- 
 velopments of the affair should present themselves. 
 However, without more comment, I will relate my fur- 
 ther remembrance of it as it was written down next day. 
 
 I answered his desire by a promise that he should 
 have what he wanted, and went on to say: "What 
 shall we do ? I may make ten millions in diamonds, 
 and then cease, and never reveal the method; or I 
 may at once publish it, in which case all the diamonds 
 in the world become as glass, and multitudes of people 
 are ruined. And what will the women say ? " 
 
 " Some one must continue to make diamonds," said 
 my friend. "There are numberless uses for them 
 which their cost now forbids." 
 
 But I could not consent to make a fortune, sell my 
 diamonds, and then render them valueless to those to 
 whom I had sold them.
 
 20 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " It is a difficult problem," said he. 
 
 " It is an impossible one," said I ; and here the vis- 
 ion ended in some wild cavern scene, for neither will 
 nor wish on my part had power to detain a picture, 
 nor to secure the continuance of one of these dramatic 
 visions where I was the whole company and the whole 
 audience.
 
 H. 
 
 WAS a year in bed before I could 
 walk, or even stand, but my recovery 
 was then rapid and complete. Pain 
 I knew by this time in a wonderful 
 variety of forms, but of whatever it 
 finally did of good or evil to me I 
 shall say but little. The evil was immediate, the 
 good remote or indirect. If any man wants to learn 
 sympathetic charity, let him keep pain subdued for six 
 months by morphia, and then make the experiment of 
 giving up the drug. By this time he will have become 
 irritable, nervous, and cowardly. The nerves, muffled 
 so to speak, by narcotics, will have grown to be not 
 less sensitive, but acutely, abnormally capable of feel- 
 ing pain, and of feeling as pain a multitude of things 
 not usually competent to cause it. I did what I have 
 known one other human being to do, and that a 
 woman. After several efforts to get rid of my foe by 
 degrees, I shut myself up in my room, and, declining 
 to see any physician, fought it out alone and unaided. 
 At the close of two weeks I could sleep without mor- 
 phia, but of the torture of that fortnight I have even 
 now scarce courage to think. The victory left me, as 
 to my body, a wreck, but made me forever tender to 
 those who are under the despotic rule of this and other
 
 22 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 as hurtful habits. I learned also how much of char- 
 acter is a question of health, and this too has had for 
 me its value in life. 
 
 At the close of two years I was well and as vigorous 
 as ever, but the wound and its consequence left with 
 me one other result for which I was not prepared. I 
 took a growing dislike to the profession of which I had 
 been proud, having looked forward to being enabled 
 to apply myself wholly to the study of the science of 
 medicine rather than to its general practice. I sup- 
 pose that I could have conquered my feelings, and that 
 in time they would have left me ; but I had no need 
 to make a fight, and as yet my power of self-govern- 
 ment was not what it had been. I disliked most of all 
 the idea of practising among disorders like my own. 
 This I cannot understand, but I may say that patients 
 who have grave chronic maladies which they know to 
 be fatal are, as a rule, indisposed to hear of the sad 
 needs of like cases among the poor ; nor, if rich, do 
 they especially incline to help these, or to provide for 
 
 , them in any way. I am, as I have said, a student of 
 ' character, but this peculiarity has never been quite 
 
 1 explicable to me, and that it has had noble exceptions 
 only serves to emphasize the existence of the mass of 
 facts which prove my point. I saw pretty soon that 
 I was in no condition to make a struggle, and so gave 
 it up for a time, and went abroad. 
 
 While in Europe I amused myself with a close study 
 of the characteristics of the Slav, the Teutonic, and the 
 Celtic races, and for this purpose lived much among 
 all classes. Some of my conclusions are to be found 
 in my volume on the " Influence of Language on Char-
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 23 
 
 acter," which is, of course, but a part of a larger sub- 
 ject. I ain not wholly satisfied as yet with my method 
 of treating this matter, but I am quite certain that 
 if to-day France and Germany were suddenly and 
 miraculously to interchange tongues, the two nations 
 would shortly undergo some unlooked-for alterations. 
 I have known several people whose superficial char- 
 acteristics were quite different according as they spoke 
 French or English, although they were as fluent in the 
 one as in the other. I know of one woman who is 
 common and ill-bred as an Englishwoman, but who, 
 when she speaks French, which she knows well, is 
 apparently well-mannered and rather attractive. Nor, 
 as we reflect, does this seem altogether strange when 
 we consider how much national character has to do 
 with the evolution of language and how impossible 
 exact translation is. I have heard a man say that to 
 read or speak French made him feel gay, and that the 
 effect of like uses of German was quieting. 
 
 The second part of my work on national character- 
 istics was to have been on the relative conception and 
 valuation of truth, and then of courage, among na- 
 tions. I was interrupted in the study by a call home 
 on a matter of business which involved a large amount 
 of money and allowed of no delay. 
 
 On my return I found that a certain Western cap- 
 italist, a man already of vast fortune obtained by 
 modern methods, had succeeded in depressing what 
 are fantastically termed securities connected with a 
 short railroad, and that a good deal of my means was 
 likely to disappear in the process of adding a million 
 or more to the hoards of a great gambler. 
 3
 
 24 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 What was worse, my father, who had had charge of 
 many trusts, had confidently invested certain excesses 
 of income for the widow of a friend in the securities 
 in question, and for years their rise in value had jus- 
 tified him. But now came a robber who, by a variety 
 of methods, succeeded in injuring the road with the 
 intention of buying it in at a low rate as a bankrupt 
 concern. In the case just mentioned a sick woman 
 and two children relied largely on the income hitherto 
 coming to them with regularity, and I felt that, as re- 
 gards these victims, I must make good their losses. 
 I was told by business men that this was absurd ; that 
 my father had acted in good faith and within the law ; 
 that it was no one's fault that their sources of income 
 had failed these people. 
 
 It became more and more clear to me on my way 
 home that I was to be a serious loser, and I went at 
 once to consult a friend of whom I shall have, by and 
 by, more to say. When I entered his office, Frederick 
 Vincent was talking with Clayborne, another friend of 
 both of us, and whom I had not met since my recent 
 return. Clayborne looked like a giant out of business. 
 A tall, stalwart man, clumsily strong, he stooped a 
 little, and carried off but ill his unusual stature. To 
 shake hands with this huge creature was a serious 
 matter. He was innocently given to crushing the 
 hand one confided to his grip in a fashion which not 
 insignificantly reminded one of the way in which he 
 was apt to deal with the emotions or prejudices even 
 of those he loved the best. 
 
 " I have been to see you both," I said, " and did see 
 Mrs. Vincent."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 25 
 
 It was pleasant to feel sure how glad these men 
 were to welcome me. As I explained the reason for 
 my sudden return Vincent's face took on that look of 
 grave intensity of attention which so inspired confi- 
 dence in his advice. The large ruggedness of Clay- 
 borne's features underwent no change, but he, too, set 
 himself to listen, and now and then made a note. 
 
 " Well," I said, after fully stating the situation, " it 
 is my good fortune to have found you together. I 
 come prepared to take whatever counsel you may give. 
 Does the law offer me any chance, Vincent ? " 
 
 "You might as well go to law with a cyclone," 
 growled Clayborne. 
 
 " No," said Vincent ; " I think we might beat him in 
 time j but it would be costly, might take two years or 
 V'more, and, frankly, my dear Owen, I do not think you 
 could stand it. Commercial men have no idea what a 
 torture business complicated business may become 
 to" 
 
 " To one like me, Fred ? You are right, quite right. 
 I could not stand it." 
 
 " I would not go to law," continued Vincent, " and 
 I see no other way out, except to sell and accept the 
 loss." 
 
 "Transfer your interest to me," said Clayborne, 
 " and let me fight it for you ; I shall enjoy the row. 
 It won't hurt me." 
 
 " No ; I cannot do that." 
 
 " And what else will you do ? " 
 
 "I must go West, and look into the state of the 
 road. If it seem hopeless, I shall sell out and make 
 good the losses of the woman I spoke of."
 
 26 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Nonsense ! " exclaimed Clayborne. 
 
 Vincent said nothing. 
 
 " Do tell the boy not to make an ass of himself," 
 said Clayborne, who was, I should have said, by many 
 years our senior. 
 
 Vincent smiled. " In a year or two, you, under like 
 circumstances, would do the same as Owen. Your 
 moral mill grinds slowly, my friend, but I have ob- 
 served that it is pretty sure at last." 
 
 "But no man's conscience not the most scrupu- 
 lous" 
 
 " Pardon me, Clayborne," interrupted Vincent ; " it 
 is not a case of conscience or of honesty." 
 
 "And of what then?" 
 
 " Men used to call it honor," said Vincent, gently, 
 without reproach or cynicism in his manner. 
 
 "Confound it!" said Clayborne, slowly rising. 
 u The note is above my moral gamut. I am like the 
 people who cannot hear the squeak of a mouse." 
 
 "Nevertheless, Owen is right." 
 
 After this I went away to my hotel, reflecting as I 
 walked along on the possible character of my robber. 
 Here was a man with over-much who wanted more. 
 Was this avarice, or was it due to the pleasure he 
 found in a game played without scruple ? A famous 
 burglar once told me that it was largely the excite- 
 ment and the immense obstacles in the way which 
 made him a plunderer of safes. Perhaps my foe had 
 a certain joy in the complexity of the game of destruc- 
 tion ; yet it must have been also that he loved mere 
 money, because no one ever heard of his having sud- 
 denly restored a road to its ruined owners, as one sets
 
 CHARACTEEISTICS. 27 
 
 up tenpins it has been a pleasure successfully to bowl 
 over. Had he never been threatened ? Did he fear 
 no wild justice, the outcome of the agony or madness 
 of some one who saw wife and children beggared and 
 himself too old or too ill to renew the fierce battle of 
 lif e ? My robber financier must have the courage of 
 his guilt or lack predictive imagination. 
 
 Meanwhile the process of ruin went on, and, quite 
 helpless, I resolved at once to carry out my plan of 
 investigation. Accordingly I went straight to the 
 great "Western city which was one terminus of the road 
 in question. A few days made plain to me how rap- 
 idly my bandit had matured his plans. 
 
 On my arrival in L I found two letters. One, 
 
 from Vincent, said : 
 
 I send you a blank check. You must not be incommoded by 
 this scoundrel, or let this trouble break up your life plan. I 
 shall leave you in my will the amount you draw, and you can 
 then repay my estate. Anne and I have talked it over 
 
 The other was from Clayborne. 
 
 Dear Owen : It is immensely pleasant to be able to help a 
 man make a fool of himself. If you do not let me pay that 
 woman I will give the money to a homeopathic hospital. You 
 may choose as to which folly I shall commit. 
 
 Yours, C . 
 
 I said to myself, these are some of the sweet uses of 
 adversity. So, having made up my mind to accept 
 the loss, and having taken my ticket for the homeward 
 journey, I went out quite at rest in mind to wander 
 
 in L for the hour or two yet left to me. Pausing 
 
 in the street to ask of an elderly man a light for my
 
 28 CHARACTERISTICS, 
 
 cigar, I inquired the name of the owner of a huge 
 house at the corner. The man replied, " Why, that 's 
 
 Xerxes Z 's. Guess you 're a stranger. I knowed 
 
 him when he was a boy ; blacked my boots many a 
 time. Wonder what he 'd take to black 'em now ? " 
 Surprised to hear thus the name of my foe, I went on ; 
 but the house attracted me, and presently I turned 
 back. Then I crossed over, and just at that moment 
 the door was opened by a rather frowzy maid. A 
 sudden impulse seized me. I would see this man if 
 he were at home, and if he were not I would go away, 
 and accept tranquilly the misfortune his avarice had 
 
 created for me. The woman said Mr. Z was at 
 
 home, and showed me through an unfurnished hall 
 into the parlor. The house was an old one with open 
 grates in which blazed fierce anthracite fires. The 
 furniture was ugly but not extravagant. 
 
 I had no plan in mind. I would at least learn what 
 manner of creature this was, and have the poor com- 
 fort before I left of telling him what the world of the 
 honest thought of him and his ways. 
 
 As a preliminary to our interview, I glanced about 
 me hastily. Several large Swiss landscapes adorned 
 the walls, and there was also an excellent oil-painting 
 of a man in a red shirt casting for trout beside a quiet 
 pool. Near it was a clever sketch of the same sturdy 
 person caressing a beautiful setter. On a marble cen- 
 ter-table were piled a few books : a volume of Ameri- 
 can scenery, Bryant, Longfellow, and Tupper, all with 
 a certain stiffness of back symptomatic of lack of use. 
 One, gorgeously bound, was "Travels in the Holy 
 Land," a gift from the Rev. P. Y. to Xerxes Z., Esq.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 29 
 
 A volume on the " Education of the Young," by the 
 same to the same. Also memoir of "Travels in 
 Strange Lands," affectionately and gratefully dedi- 
 cated to X. Z., by his pastor, P. Y. My knowledge 
 was accumulating. In the darkened back parlor was 
 a full length of the fisherman by a great English art- 
 ist. It looked as if the painter had found pleasure in 
 labeling the visage with his own opinion of the sitter. 
 I wondered at the courage, or the ignorance, which 
 could accept such a vivid commentary ; but, as I have 
 said, it was rather too dark to see well this or other 
 portraits, and, observing a single square green volume 
 on the table, I walked back with it to the lighter room, 
 and stood with wonder looking over its few pages. It 
 was made up of old pamphlets containing chess prob- 
 lems, and at the close was an account, written in 1760, 
 of the famous automaton chess-player. On the fly-leaf 
 was the autograph of Von Kempelen, the inventor. 
 
 As I looked over the queer little book, puzzled and 
 interested, and knowing, too, something of the fate of 
 the great and really historical figure which had played 
 with Maria Theresa, Frederick the Great, and Napo- 
 leon, I heard a heavy footfall, and my host entered 
 a man tall and broad, with ruddy, coarse, and large 
 features borne on a head which was carried well back 
 and up. 
 
 I said, " Mr. X. Z., I presume ? And first, before we 
 talk, let me replace this book which I brought from the 
 back room. As a chess-player it interested me." 
 
 " All right," he said, and sat down while I disposed 
 of the book, and came back to my host, who was still 
 seated.
 
 30 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " Set down," lie said. " What is it you want ? If 
 you 're a reporter, my secretary will attend to you." 
 
 "No; I am not a reporter. To go at once to the 
 mark, I want a half -hour's talk with you." 
 
 " You can't have it unless it interests me. What 's 
 it about?" 
 
 "About the P. L. and C. Railroad." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; go ahead. That is interesting. Papers 
 say I 'm whittlin' it up to buy the chips low." 
 
 " Are you not ? " 
 
 " Well, you are a cool hand. What 's in all this ? 
 Who sent you I " 
 
 " I am a considerable owner of the stock and bonds," 
 I said, " and, as I see that these are tumbling pretty 
 fast, and observe that you have diverted all the nat- 
 ural coal and goods traffic to a longer loop line, and 
 that some one is shoveling the stock out in heaps, 
 I concluded that you are the man who, having organ- 
 ized arrangements to injure my little road, will step 
 in some day and secure the property of myself and 
 others." 
 
 I supposed that he would be angry. Not at all. He 
 slowly stroked his long grizzled beard, smiled as I went 
 on, and as I ended said : 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " No ; not quite. I want your advice as to what I 
 shall do." 
 
 " Suppose that I tell you to go to the devil?" 
 
 " But you will not, or you would have done so at 
 once. I promised to interest you, and you are inter- 
 ested, and, besides, it would be like well I could n't 
 go there, because I am there now."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 31 
 
 " There ? Oh, I see. I am the devil, am I, and you 
 want advice ? Sell out." 
 
 "I cannot afford to do that. That is diabolical 
 advice." 
 
 " Well, hold on." 
 
 " That means almost total loss. You are advising 
 me from your point of view ; reverse it, and take mine, 
 and then, with what you know, say do this or that. 
 I shall do as you say." 
 
 "Oh, will you? I won't do it; it ain't business- 
 Mind, I ain't said I 'm in this thing at all. By George ! 
 my son Peter 's in the same boat as you. He wants 
 advice too. He thinks he 's clever. Well I advised 
 him, I did. I give him high-class advice. He was 
 grateful, that boy. Hope it '11 last. Are n't we gettin' 
 off the track ? " 
 
 "Yes; I 'm sorry for Peter. Of course you must 
 keep up financial discipline." 
 
 " That 's good. I '11 tell Peter that financial disci- 
 pline must be kep' up in one's own family circle." 
 
 " And now, as you have admitted to being in this 
 scheme " 
 
 "I I diddid It 8 
 
 " Yes ; you rose to my third fly." 
 
 " Look here, I won't stand this. Suppose I am in it ? 
 Suppose I am not in it ? " 
 
 " But you not only rose to my fly, you took it too. 
 You 're hooked. Once you are in an affair you go 
 through. You began to advise me, and it is not in 
 your character to fail. Advice is what you yourself, 
 with your knowledge and in like circumstances, would 
 accept. You say, hold on. I cannot. You are tri-
 
 32 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 fling, and that is not your nature. You might have 
 said, I will not advise. I should have taken that, and 
 left ; but now you are pledged to find me a way out, 
 and a safe way. You are hooked, and it is time I 
 reeled you in. Three runs are enough." 
 
 My host rose up, and set two heavy paws on the 
 table behind which I sat. He looked for all the world 
 like some strong plantigrade beast of the grizzly type. 
 For a moment he regarded me with curiosity, and then 
 broke into a roar of laughter which shook the bulky 
 chandelier-pendants above us. I remained tranquil. 
 At last he said : 
 
 " Who 's been a-blowin' to you about me ? " 
 
 "No one." 
 
 " Oh, come now. I rose to the fly, did I ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it looked new to you, and up you came. 
 Fatal curiosity." 
 
 " Oh, it is all very well to compare me to a trout, 
 but no man was ever took that simple. I 'd like to 
 have old Phil Sleeper with a hook in his gills and a 
 long line and quick water and a multiplyin' reel 
 hang him." 
 
 " I am not Phil Sleeper. The case is reversed." 
 
 "Is it? Why, you must be a fisherman yourself. 
 Come here and see this picture. I had Simmons do 
 that. It is just at the outlet of Moosehead. I 'm fast 
 to a cast of eight pounds one five, one three. Ever 
 tie your own flies ? n 
 
 "Sometimes." 
 
 " This morning, I suppose ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Rather curious, is n't it, that two men as different
 
 CHAKACTERISTICS. 33 
 
 as you and me should like the same sort of things 
 fly-fishin', chess?" 
 
 " And how are we different?" I said, much amused. 
 
 "You 're the queerest man I ever saw a whole 
 menagerie. By the time you 're ten years older you 
 won't have a dollar. How 's that for a guess ? " 
 
 " Not a bad one. And here is one for you. Some 
 day you will go to bits. I see it in your face." 
 
 " Why, I 've been worth millions three times, and not 
 a cent next day. Safe this time ; got it solid." 
 
 "I 'm not sure. One more smash, and your ner- 
 vous system won't stand it. What advice have you ? 
 You have wasted quite time enough. Three long runs, 
 sulked a little, two or three dangerous jumps. Now I 
 propose to reel in. You like a man who can outwit 
 you j he is the only thing you esteem on earth." 
 
 " That 's so. TeU you what I 11 do. If you can 
 beat me one game at chess I '11 take your stock at par.'' 
 
 " And bonds ? " 
 
 "Yes; last offer." 
 
 " 1 11 do it," I said. 
 
 " Then you 're done for, young man. Come along. 
 Who riz to the fly this time ? " 
 
 I followed him into a small room, bare of furniture 
 except a desk, chess-table, and spittoons. I was looked 
 upon as a good second-rate among our local players, 
 and had a pretty clear idea that I should win. He 
 chuckled as we went in, and, sitting down, arranged 
 the board. He won the move, and opened with the 
 famous but little-known Catapult gambit. I replied 
 with Herr Strombalovsky's defense, and the game went 
 on. I soon saw that he was quite my equal. Pres-
 
 34 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 ently, having a little view ahead, and his queen being 
 in trouble, I said, "Did you ever see Maelzel's au- 
 tomaton ? " 
 
 "Never," he returned, abstractedly. 
 
 "It used to be in Philadelphia; was burned up; 
 said ' check ' in its last moments. Queer that, was it 
 not?" 
 
 " Oh, look here, there 's a lot of money in this game. 
 If you think " 
 
 I had accustomed myself to talk to a by-stander 
 while playing chess, because I found that constant at- 
 tention never helped me, and that a few moments of 
 intense concentration between moves got the best re- 
 sults out of my chess capacities. I thought a moment, 
 and castled the king. This altered the situation, and 
 while he studiously contemplated the game I went on 
 talking. 
 
 "I have an old Dutch treatise on chess. There is 
 one splendid gambit. Never been published. You 
 begin with the king castle's pawn." 
 
 " Nonsense ! Oh, look here," he said, " I don't be- 
 lieve in new gambits. What is it, anyway ? You wait 
 till we 're done. Bet you five hundred dollars it is n't 
 new." 
 
 Then he moved a knight. 
 
 " Check," said I. " I have myself two books of ends 
 of games belonging to Von Kempelen." He made no 
 answer, but moved a bishop to guard the king. 
 
 " Check," said I. 
 
 " Oh, that 's your talk. It 's against the rules." 
 
 " Nonsense ! This is a game of chess, not the game. 
 Check again."
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 35 
 
 " Ever kill a salmon ? " I added. 
 
 "No; that must be fun." 
 
 " There is a boss salmon in the Cascapedia, weighs 
 about ninety pounds. They say he has been hooked 
 at least six dozen times. His mouth is so full of flies 
 and leaders it looks like a beard. They call him the 
 governor-general." 
 
 " Oh, bother ! " And he moved a pawn. 
 
 " Check." 
 
 " Euchred," he said. " I give up. It 's sure mate in 
 three moves. I give up." 
 
 " No ; we must play it out. A given game is not 
 won. You would turn around and say I had not beaten 
 you, and decline to pay the forfeit." 
 
 " That 's just what I meant to do, my boy. I wish 
 Peter was like you. He believes every word I say." 
 
 "Check mate," said I. 
 
 " I 've lost. What possessed me ? You just write 
 to Falls & Sons. They '11 settle. Want it in writing ? " 
 
 " I ? No. Of course not. You are free to pay or 
 not. I pestered you with talk. It was hardly fair. 
 Pay or not, as you like. I did not in any honest sense 
 win." 
 
 " Stuff and nonsense. Do you suppose, sir, I don't 
 keep my engagements ? I don't guess you came here 
 to insult me." 
 
 " No ; hardly. I really came because I was curious 
 to see what manner of man you were." 
 
 " Like going to a menagerie show. Well, you 've 
 seen it, and got your money back too ; but don't you 
 go and buy a lot more stock now. It 's awful low. 
 How much am I in for this gamble ? "
 
 36 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 I named the amounts ; he noted them, rose, and as 
 we went out into the hall said, " Let me see those ends 
 of games." 
 
 " I will send you the books. Pray keep them." 
 
 "And look here I never had a better mornin' in 
 my life ; but don't you go and tell everybody, and put 
 it in the papers. What 's your address? I '11 send 
 you the Wall street trout-fly. Peter calls him the bull." 
 
 At the door I said, " By the way, I never told you my 
 name." 
 
 " That 's so ! a And he took my card. 
 
 " Well, by George ! you 're a doctor. That 's the 
 very queerest thing I ever did know. Why, I never 
 knew a doctor ever knew anything his own busi- 
 ness, or any one else's. How Peter would laugh. But 
 he won't next Monday. Good mornin', Doctor North. 
 Come in again and give me my revenge." 
 
 As I turned to go he stopped me. "You said I 
 did n't look well " 
 
 "Yes; I said that. It is something, I cannot tell 
 what, about your eyes " 
 
 " Hum ! come back and go over me a bit. I ain't 
 felt well of late, that 's a fact. And I can't tell the 
 doctors here. Don't trust 'em." I went in again, and 
 finally remained in the city overnight to complete my 
 study of his case. 
 
 "Well," he said at last, "what 's wrong with my 
 works ? Not much margin, eh ? " 
 
 "You have a disease of the kidneys " 
 
 "Fatal? Mind, I don't skeer easy. Yes, or no? 
 Out with it." 
 
 " Yes ; but with care you may live many years."
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 37 
 
 " How many ? " 
 
 " I do not know. I will write out my advice for you 
 in full." 
 
 " Good. And I may trust you not to let it get into 
 the papers. It would be worth a lot of money to some- 
 body." 
 
 " You are safe with me." 
 
 " I believe you. You have done me a big service. 
 What 's your fee ? " 
 
 " It is large." 
 
 " I don't care. What is it ? " 
 
 " My fee is that you put that road back where it was 
 a year ago." 
 
 " Darned if I do. And take your stock too ? No, 
 sir." 
 
 " I have reflected. I won't take the money for it. I 
 have told you my fee. Good morning." 
 
 " I '11 do it. No man can say Xerxes Z don't 
 
 pay his debts. Five years ? Ten ? How long have I 
 got ? You '11 have to take care of me. I '11 send my 
 private car for you every month." 
 
 " I will do it. There is even a chance, a small one, 
 of recovery." 
 
 "Is that so? Hold on to your stock; buy more; 
 it 's pretty low. And come and dine here to-day." 
 
 " No ; I cannot. I must go. Good-by." 
 
 " Well, buy soon. Don't you forget, and hold your 
 tongue, too. It 's the biggest bill I ever paid. You 're 
 not a cheap doctor." 
 
 XERXES was as good as his word, but I bought no 
 more of the stock. In a year or two I was better off
 
 38 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 than before. Nevertheless, I did not appear to myself 
 well in this transaction. I had used the robber's 
 methods to overcome the robber. It was true that I 
 had estimated correctly the character of Mr. X. Z., but 
 to meet the demands of the situation I had acted 
 against my own habitual ways. To this day the first 
 part of that little affair sits like a toad in one corner 
 of my mind and sneers at me. It is the one thing I 
 have never told Vincent. I merely said to him on my 
 return that I was resolved to wait, and have been much 
 applauded for my sagacity. Also, I am free to admit 
 that I did pull the great financier through his physical 
 difficulties. He lived to do untold mischief. I was 
 once standing on a pier in London when a thief, sharply 
 pursued, in trying to jump into a wherry, fell over- 
 board. He sank twice, when in dashed a huge New- 
 foundland and towed the unconscious rascal ashore, 
 where he was promptly seized by the police. For my 
 part, the behavior of that dog interested me. He shook 
 himself, and settled down in the sun on the pier with 
 a look of distinct self-gratulation at his feat. The 
 morals of the drowning man did not concern him. I 
 have often thought about that dog.
 
 m. 
 
 WAS now again at ease as to the 
 future, and without occupation. A 
 man of some thirty-six years of age, 
 I was master of three languages, well 
 read in a general way, and, as may 
 have been seen, a practised and in- 
 terested observer of my fellow men. Moreover, I had 
 had the experience of a long illness, and found, there- 
 fore, renewed pleasure in outdoor life as well as in 
 a myriad of things which are to be seen in field and 
 wood, and air and water. Mere science had in it for 
 me little that I liked, and it was clear to me that only 
 in my own profession was there what I desired a 
 combination of ever-changing science, and its constant 
 applications to medicine as an art. 
 
 Having no wish to increase my fortune, I took chiefly 
 to consulting practice, declining cases at will, and was 
 lucky enough to obtain a good hospital position. 
 
 Contented with my daily work, and the constant 
 problems it set before intelligent curiosity, I lived at 
 tranquil ease, my friends making for me a large part 
 of the pleasure of life. Some of them I loved for 
 groups of moral qualities, some for the mental food 
 with which they stimulated me. There were others 
 who were dear because they found something in me to 
 4
 
 40 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 like and to trust and to use, and who themselves were 
 not in any way remarkably attractive except for hav- 
 ing a notable capacity to love. Undoubtedly there are 
 folks whom one loves as one does some quite useless 
 pleasant dog. From all of which it may be clear that 
 I had many friends. Some of them were always in- 
 teresting, and this is rare although I may as well 
 confess here that more people have interest for me 
 than is the case with educated men in general. Even 
 those who are generally looked upon as commonplace 
 often find a warm corner at the hearth-side of my 
 heart. When friends die or drift away, I like to fill 
 their places, and hope when life ends to find the ranks 
 as full as in the mid-flow of existence. Mrs. Vincent 
 says that I collect friends as a naturalist does flowers. 
 The only rational limit I can set to an increase of the 
 number of those whom one qualifies as friends lies in 
 the fact that one must contribute more or less in the 
 way of time, letters, and pleasant service. Some need 
 little ; others insist on constancy of relation for there 
 are genera and species in friendship. Of one of them, 
 Vincent, already mentioned, I should feel as sure if we 
 were parted for half a lif e. He was of the rare men 
 who have intellectual apprehensions so swift as to 
 seem instinctive. While in some matter of social diffi- 
 culty, or of tangled business, I should have slowly 
 reasoned out my conclusion, he attained the same re- 
 sult apparently without effort, and yet could afterward 
 give you his reasons. He was a man too sensitively 
 reserved to admit many to his friendship, too silent as 
 to his charities to be known to the world as generous. 
 His character was indeed throughout the more beauti-
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 41 
 
 ful for the modesty which hid its values. He was one 
 of the few I ever knew who had the art of giving, even 
 money, with graciousness. Also, he was master of 
 himself, body and mind. To me he seemed the ideal 
 of modern common sense, with ever a present possi- 
 bility of chivalric action carried to the verge of the 
 quixotic. Of this man, in company with a sculptor, 
 now very famous, and a scholar, also of the upper 
 rank, and already mentioned, I saw much. Among 
 them Frederick Vincent attracted me most. While 
 these others had attained in life all, or nearly all, of 
 what their capabilities made possible, he alone ap- 
 peared to me never to reach the success which seemed 
 within the command of his qualities. When I came to 
 know that it was his frail physical state which set limits 
 to a boundless ambition, I loved him more than ever, 
 because there was never on his part the least unmanly 
 repining. In fact, life active life was only possi- 
 ble to him on condition that he lived with care and 
 spent much time out of doors. 
 
 One evening we met, as was often the case, at my own 
 rooms. Three of us being bachelors and only Vincent 
 married, these meetings were easily and often possible. 
 
 Detained by a consultation, I came in late to find two 
 of my three friends gathered about the blazing hickory 
 logs of my study hearth. The third, Clayborne, was 
 as usual wandering about, now along the coast of my 
 bookcases, now knocking against chair or table, a great 
 drifting hulk of a man. 
 
 ''And what have you been discussing?" I said. 
 
 " We began," said Vincent, " with a long screed from 
 St. Clair. He is laughing at Mrs. B for having
 
 42 CHAKACTEKISTICS. 
 
 her girls trained by a drill-sergeant to have flat backs 
 like West Point cadets. He insists that no antique 
 statue of woman is erect, and he declares that they all 
 droop like flowers." 
 
 " It was n't a fertile text," said Clayborne, " and we 
 soon got through with it. There is one comfort about 
 that boy St. Glair's futilities of speech. If he talks 
 often he does n't talk long at a time." 
 
 " Thanks," said St. Clair. " It was Clayborne who 
 digressed ; I could have gone on for an hour about the 
 flat backs of what they call ' women ' in these days. I 
 wonder would Eve know her modern sisters. Clay- 
 borne went off for an unbroken half -hour on the an- 
 cients as realists. He thinks the Laocoon the finest 
 thing in plastic art, old or new. He meant, I fancy, 
 to start on that as a text, but the text got in only at 
 the end of the sermon. Realism I loathe the word, 
 and he calls the Laocoon realistic." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 "What, to carve a snake as a round rope, and to 
 give a constrictor serpent fangs f Any boy knows 
 better than that" 
 
 " Those snakes have no fangs," returned Clayborne. 
 
 " Yes, they have," I said ; " and in the upper jaw, in 
 the right place, and one on each side." 
 
 " I don't believe it," said Clayborne. 
 
 "And still it is so," returned St. Clair. " Moreover, 
 Clayborne, although the old sculptors were fond of 
 carving serpents, I never saw another example of the 
 venomous f anged snake in any art museum." 
 
 " And snakes are not round ? " said Clayborne, ap- 
 pealing to me.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 43 
 
 " No ; a section of a snake in motion or constricting 
 would be like a half moon, and flattened on the belly 
 side." 
 
 " I give up," said the scholar. " I am always ready 
 to yield to real knowledge ; but " 
 
 " Oh, come now ! " cried St. Clair. " When you do 
 eat your humble-pie don't growl because it gives you a 
 mental colic." 
 
 "I am not sure about it yet," urged Clayborne. 
 " However, we got off next on to weariness, or rather 
 fatigue of mind. Vincent happened to say that his 
 head was tired his brain, I mean. St. Clair and I 
 can't understand what that means. We do agree now 
 and then." 
 
 " Then," said St. Clair, " we remembered what some 
 one has said, that scholars who have lived much in 
 Europe believe work to be possible there at less cost to 
 one's nervous system than in our climate." 
 
 "I said that was absurd," said Clayborne. "So 
 much thought, so much product, so much tissue 
 wasted." 
 
 "Try to climb in our summer climate, and on a 
 Swiss mountain," returned Vincent, " and see whether 
 or not more effort is needed here. It seems to me that 
 the same may be true as to the use of the mind." 
 
 " I think that a fair reply," I said. " But also, to 
 generalize, I fancy that any given thousand Americans 
 do more work in a year than as many of a like group 
 of English, we may say." 
 
 " As to this whole question," said Clayborne, " I am 
 a bad witness. I cannot understand what a man 
 means when he says his brain is tired."
 
 44 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " You must have strained it badly to know/' I re- 
 turned. "Sense of fatigue as referred to the brain, 
 and not merely to eye, hand, or back, is hardly a nor- 
 mal sensation." 
 
 " I wonder is it wholly modern/' remarked Vincent ; 
 " and did we Yankees really invent neurasthenia ? " 
 
 " If I had Sydenham here," I replied, " I would show 
 you what that master in medicine said of overwork, 
 and the consequences, in Charles II.'s time. While I 
 am sure we have only too many breakdowns from ex- 
 cesses in work, and above all from anxiety with work, 
 I know well enough that since we discovered, described, 
 and named the condition of nervous exhaustion it has 
 been found to exist everywhere in Europe." 
 
 " And the remedy ? " said St. Clair, who had merely 
 listened. 
 
 " Turn beast," cried Clayborne. " Who ever saw a 
 horse with neurasthenia ? " 
 
 "Go back to nature, I suppose," said St. Clair. "Live 
 out of doors. Turn cowboy. Get near the soil again. 
 Imagine a neurasthenic Sioux chief." 
 
 "The remedy would destroy me," said Clayborne. 
 " I once camped out with Owen. Never was man so 
 wretched. My own remedy would be change of oc- 
 cupation for a time. Some hobby is valuable. If I 
 weary of my work I simply go and fuss over my coins. 
 There is Vincent ; why does n't he write a play when 
 he is tired, or hunt butterflies ? " 
 
 Vincent smiled, but made no reply. I well knew 
 why. His fund of physical energy barely sufficed for 
 the week's work, and left him no available reserve. 
 
 " Once," I said, " a lawyer or a doctor could not af-
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 45 
 
 ford to go against the public opinion which decreed 
 that he could not be anything else but mere lawyer or 
 doctor. Now, in our great towns at least, these limi- 
 tations are passing away. We have more freedom, 
 and certainly what Clayborne says is true : one can't 
 run away always, and a little canter on a hobby of 
 literature, science, or art is usually possible." 
 
 " What is too often wanting to the tired man," said 
 Vincent, quite sadly, '4s the energy to saddle and 
 bridle and mount his hobby. Best is what I want. I 
 stay in bed of a Sunday." 
 
 " It is rather odd," said St. Clair, who was apt to be 
 discursive, " that in literature the doctor so often ap- 
 pears. There are Rabelais, Keats, Goldsmith, Holmes, 
 Akenside, and more, if one chose to think them over. 
 But among notable poets who have had legal training 
 one recalls only Goethe." 
 
 " I think that is true," remarked Clayborne, who, as 
 was common with him, was still moving about, and 
 now and then glancing at a book on my shelves. 
 
 "But no great poet," urged St. Clair, "ever could be 
 long or seriously anything else. None of those men 
 continued to be doctors. Akenside one need hardly 
 consider. Poetry is an inexorable mistress." 
 
 " I have often wondered," said Vincent, " what forms 
 of pursuit give on the whole the largest bounty in the 
 way of happiness." 
 
 " The naturalist's, I should say," I returned. 
 
 "The artist's," cried St. Clair. "I am supremely 
 happy." 
 
 " And you ? " said Clayborne to me. 
 
 " My life contents me," I said. " Yes ; I am happy
 
 46 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 in my work. It admits of so much intellectual vari- 
 ety, and there is too the persistent daily work which, 
 like a great fly-wheel, steadies all the machinery of 
 life." 
 
 " I wish," said Vincent, " I could get inside of any 
 other man's life." 
 
 " It would not explain or make easier your own life," 
 said Clay borne. " After all, joyousness is a question 
 of temperament. But, over and above that, there is 
 something to be said as to the pleasurable quality of 
 men's pursuits." 
 
 "Are poets happy as a rule?" 
 
 " No," returned St. Clair ; " they are the very bonds- 
 men of common sense, and that is always unpleasant 
 in its influence. They see too clearly to be happy, 
 and feel too acutely." 
 
 " Stuff ! " cried Clayborne. " The rule would work 
 both ways. The trouble is that most of them were 
 fools and suffered for their nonsense. The best of 
 brains cannot always shut the door on folly. If a man 
 enjoys nature too much to go indoors when it rains 
 morally or physically rains need he growl at the 
 consequences ? " 
 
 " And yet the notion," I returned, " that poets, art- 
 ists, and men of science are wanting in every-day com- 
 mon business sense appears to me negatived by the 
 lives of many. Really, the great poets and foremost 
 men of science are always variously capable. They 
 fail in business matters merely because they care more 
 for other things. Whenever they have been forced to 
 conduct affairs they have shown no want of capacity. 
 There is Goethe again, and Shakspere, and Spenser,
 
 CHARACTEKISTICS. 47 
 
 and Emerson, and in science the noble list of men who 
 have managed the vast Smithsonian business." 
 
 "How we drift in our talk," said Clayborne. "I 
 think you may be correct. But let me go back and 
 recaU the talk to" 
 
 " Recall it ! " interrupted Vincent. " You can't an- 
 chor a conversation. It is only when it drifts that I 
 like it. Your serious talkers are too tiresome. How 
 very few good things they say. How often they must 
 re-say them. Look at any table-talk, even Coleridge's. 
 Imagine these things said to you gravely. Nobody 
 talks that way now; no one should. Think of the 
 long, dull fuses that fizzed gently between their brill- 
 iant firecrackers. These professors of conversation 
 are things of the past. As a rule, for good talk, you 
 must have people used to talk and to listen. They 
 must want to amuse and be amused. You can't have 
 good talk without good manners. For my part, I 
 would rather take my chance at table beside some 
 woman of the world than beside most of the literary 
 or scientific folks I have known." 
 
 There was silence for a moment while St. Clair rose 
 and filled a pipe, saying as he dropped the match, 
 " That is the reason why the forests are so agreeable." 
 
 " If you want to destroy conversation toss a conun- 
 drum into it," cried Clayborne. He detested lack of 
 clearness in verse, prose, or the talk of man. 
 
 St. Clair started up. " And you call that a conun- 
 drum? Do you know any one with the breeding or 
 manners of a pine tree ; and who talks better ? " 
 
 Vincent looked up at our poet-sculptor with a smile 
 which for a certain dignity and sweetness I never saw
 
 48 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 the like of. " My manners are better and my talk more 
 amusing," he cried, laughing. " What stuff is all this 
 modern nonsense about the relation of man to nature ! 
 It is all manufacture, all conventional. I love the 
 pleasant noises of trees, and wind, and waters. I like 
 them as a child likes music in a vague way. 
 
 I am it, and it is me, 
 Earth and water, air and sea ; 
 I am them, and they are me. 
 In my soul the poplar shivers, 
 la my heart the ash tree quivers, 
 And a philosophical search 
 Readeth anguish in the birch." 
 
 We all laughed and laughed again, except St. Clair. 
 
 "Does it seem to you really so absurd," he said, "that 
 the man and the tree should have mysterious relation- 
 ships ? Once they were both atoms somewhere in the 
 slime of what you call chaos." Our friend was just 
 now wildly, delightedly puzzled over the theories of 
 evolution. " This unity of original product explains to 
 me a good deal," he added. 
 
 " Does it? " said Vincent. 
 
 " The sun and moon shall fall a-main 
 Like sower's seeds into his brain, 
 There quickened, to be born again." 
 
 St. Clair was now really vexed. He had a keen 
 sense of humor, but also a childlike sense of annoy- 
 ance when it was used against him. " It is easy," he 
 cried, " to spoil a man's dreams, to bruise his ideals." 
 
 " Oh," exclaimed Vincent, " that is true, and you may 
 be right. The relation of nature and its voices to
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 49 
 
 man not to all men may be like the relations of 
 music to some. I say it as a verity because I have 
 no such relation to music. I have seen my wife with 
 tears in her eyes, or light of joy in her face, when 
 
 L played Beethoven. It was a closed door to me. 
 
 I sat and wondered at her passionate pleasure. It 
 was to me as are to you the murmurs of brooks, the 
 wind in the pines. I marvel at it. I am like the beg- 
 gar on the door-step. I see the house lighted up; 
 I hear merriment within. It is not of my world ; I 
 gather up my rags, and go on." 
 
 " There is no real music in nature," said Clayborne ; 
 "really none, and rhythm too is of purely human 
 begetting. Emerson guesses at the heart-pulse as its 
 origin. Holmes says the easier rimes are born of the 
 accidental length of respiration." 
 
 " Do you suppose," said I, " that verse is ever a 
 birth-gift ? Music may be, as it seems to me. Some 
 idiots can sing distinctly. I wonder if many of the 
 great poets had in very early childhood the tendency 
 to rime or to speak rhythmically. Apart from its in- 
 tellectual aspects, poetry does seem to me like a dis- 
 tinct means of expression, almost a distinct language, 
 easy for some, impossible for others." 
 -/ " There is the puzzle," said Vincent. " You can't 
 separate the form-power from the informing intellect- 
 ual capacity in poetry. The greatest poets are always 
 the greatest masters of verse ; the lesser ones may be 
 melodious, but are never capable of the higher music 
 of verse. The architects of thought are the master 
 builders. Then, too, it is a curiously dominative tem- 
 perament. I never shall believe there was ever a
 
 50 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 ' mute Milton.' Perhaps great creative musical power 
 is as despotic in its order to the man to utter himself. 
 What I envy either is the creative act. They must 
 enjoy the making of a poem or a sonata with an in- 
 tensity past our conception." 
 
 " And now I am out of my depth," said Clayborne. 
 
 " I think," said I, " that the pleasure of some revolu- 
 tionizing discovery must be the equal of any joy which 
 either poetic or musical creativeness affords. To know 
 of a sudden some far-reaching law, some fact hidden 
 in solar space, or time-buried; to come on its con- 
 ception abruptly, as between two breaths well, I 
 would as gladly experience that as to have written 
 'Comus.'" 
 
 "Not I," said St. Clair. 
 
 Nor I," said Vincent ; " but, like Clayborne, I have 
 not imagination enough to enable me to conceive of 
 either as possible. I am quite sure that as yet the 
 psychical share of imagination in great material dis- 
 covery has not been fully appreciated. In Goethe's 
 scientific work it shows remarkably. The other side 
 is seen in his poetry, and in Dante." 
 
 "How? "cried St. Clair. 
 
 "You, at least, ought to know. Talk about glory 
 and rewards for these men of many crystalline facets, 
 each with its light and colors. They must needs be 
 glory and joy enough to themselves." 
 
 " It is an awfully human fact," I observed, " that 
 they all craved recognition." 
 
 " And when," returned Clayborne, " we see how little 
 most men can do, the absence of limitations in some 
 men of genius appears incredible. I suppose none of
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 51 
 
 them equaled Da Vinci in the wonderful variety of 
 gifts painter, sculptor, poet, architect, hydraulic en- 
 gineer, anatomist, physiologist. What a life! One 
 marvels most at the memory of a man like that. It 
 must have been perfect." 
 
 We all laughed; the speaker was a wonder of 
 memorial strength. He went on, "Oh, I remember 
 well enough; but my last word makes me ask if 
 there ever was a man with an absolutely perfect 
 memory." 
 
 " That is rather droll," said I, " because I was con- 
 sulted yesterday by a queer fellow who says that his 
 memory is too good. In a day or two he is to bring 
 me a written statement of his case. If you like I will 
 read it to you the first time chance brings us to- 
 gether." 
 
 " I should like to hear it," returned Vincent. " Noth- 
 ing seems to me more improbable." 
 
 As they went away, he lingered. " I wish," he said, 
 " you would do for me as you some time ago said you 
 would, and let me see the inside of a doctor's life. I 
 mean as much of it as one can see. We have talked 
 it over so often." 
 
 " That is in part possible," I returned. " Meet me 
 to-morrow. It is Sunday. I am due at St. Ann's 
 Hospital at eleven." 
 
 " Agreed," he said, and left me.
 
 TV. 
 
 ICENT was waiting for me next day 
 in the manager's room of the hos- 
 pital. I said to him, " If you are to 
 excite no remark, look as wise as 
 nature allows, and let me call you 
 doctor." 
 
 He nodded, and followed me. At the head of the 
 stairs a young resident physician met us. He carried 
 my case-book, a stethoscope, and a percussion-ham- 
 mer. The walls, like the floors, were of exquisite 
 cleanliness, and unornamented save by portraits of 
 physicians who had gone their rounds for years in 
 these wards, and at last followed their many patients 
 out of the world. 
 
 The young doctor, a favorite of mine, opened a door, 
 pausing a moment to say, " Joe is worse, sir." 
 " And Johnson ? " 
 "Oh, better; much better." 
 
 I said to Vincent : " My young friend and I differed 
 a little as to a case. It looks now as though he were 
 right." The young man glanced up flushed and glad, 
 and we went into the ward. 
 
 Here were some twenty beds, all full. Beside each 
 was a little table, and, now, neatly tucked back, clean 
 fly-nets, it being near to summer. The floor was of
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 53 
 
 spotless boards; the walls were of a pleasant gray 
 tone, and there was ample light, and, of course, 
 abundant air, so that the atmosphere was without 
 odor. Four neat, white-capped, white-aproned young 
 women, their arms covered with protecting white 
 over-sleeves, moved to and fro noiselessly. An older 
 woman came up to us, smiling. I presented her to 
 my doctor. 
 
 " I like my head nurse to make the round with me,'' 
 said I. " Come, and ask what questions you please, 
 doctor. I hope not to tire you; my Sunday visits 
 here are long ones. Here is a case not clear to me ; 
 perhaps you can help us." Vincent preserved a per- 
 fect gravity. 
 
 "How are you, John?" I said. A great stalwart 
 lumberman lay stretched out in bed his full six feet 
 two. 
 
 " Look at his face," I said in an undertone. 
 
 " I am no better, sir, and I won't never be." 
 
 " A case of pneumonia, doctor, and not a bad one. 
 He is on the way to health : no pain ; no cough ; pulse 
 good; won't eat; thinks he will die. What would 
 you do for him, Doctor Vincent ? " 
 
 He replied without hesitation, and to my surprise, 
 " Pitch a tent ; put him out in the sun ; give him a 
 penknife and a shingle." The man looked up, a quick 
 response in his face. 
 
 " Couldn't we manage it ? " I said to my young aid. 
 " I will speak to the steward." 
 
 "I hate," said I aside to Vincent, "to see a man 
 bent on dying. They sometimes go unaccountably to 
 death. I once saw in Paris a man from whom Roux
 
 64 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 had removed a small tumor of no moment. The man 
 said that he would die, and the old surgeon remarked 
 to us that he did not like that. The patient was dead 
 in two days, and no man could tell then, or on exami- 
 nation, what killed him." 
 
 "Did you ever," said Vincent, "see a man die be- 
 cause he willed to ! " 
 
 " No," I replied ; " nor escape death by mere decis- 
 ion not to die. The resolution to do whatever is need- 
 ful to get well, the belief in its possibility, help men ; 
 that is all. I once heard a man with cholera a sturdy 
 mechanic declare that he did not mean to die, and 
 would not. He tried to make himself think he must 
 get well. The thing was most painful." 
 
 " And he died ? " said the nurse. 
 
 "Yes; he died." 
 
 In the next bed a young carpenter lay ill. He had 
 the clearly cut American features, neat mustache, and 
 Vandyke beard so much worn by his class. 
 
 " How are you, Joe ? " I said. 
 
 " Oh, better ; a lot better." 
 
 I went over his case with care. " Listen here," I 
 said to Vincent. My friend bent down awkwardly, 
 listened a moment, and then followed me away. 
 
 " What was that I heard like a rattle ? " 
 
 "Yes, a death-rattle a sentence of death in clear 
 language," I answered. 
 
 " It is strange to have a man's lungs talk to one. It 
 is a language. Shall you tell him ? " 
 
 " Not unless he asks me. I have told his relatives." 
 
 "And will he ask?" 
 
 " Probably. A hundred years hence or sooner we
 
 CHARACTEEISTICS. 55 
 
 will cure such cases. I hate these inevitables in medi- 
 cine cancer, consumption. Come, here is something 
 better." 
 
 " Good morning," I said to a pale, sallow creature in 
 the next bed but one. He shook his head. I took a 
 slate off his bed, and wrote, " How are you ? " 
 
 " Oh, better," he said. " I understood twice yester- 
 day. Then it went." 
 
 "Back better too? Have you books enough?" I 
 wrote. 
 
 Vincent lifted one from his table ; it was a harrow- 
 ing tale of piracy poor trash. 
 
 " I will send him ' The Three Musketeers/ if you will 
 let me," said my friend. 
 
 I went on : " He is word-deaf. He hears but can- 
 not interpret. The connecting nerve-threads between 
 word-memory (I mean ideas gotten by hearing) and 
 his receptive organs are broken, but he has word-vis- 
 ion ; words which he reads are still usefully dealt with 
 by the mind. He fell a hundred feet from a scaffold 
 and broke his back. He is going to recover. It is 
 curious that he has no memory of the events which 
 preceded his fall for two hours. It seems as if time 
 V were needed to fix the records of memory. I have 
 seen this often. Some physical shock interferes with 
 the permanence of the delicate impression made on the 
 brain-cells. It is like interrupting the fixation of a 
 photo picture. It is so in battle. The hurry of emo- 
 tions, the swiftness of the march of events, the mad 
 fury of fight, have a like effect, and hence with the 
 coolest the memory of the details of a battle are apt to 
 be imperfect. But let one of these men be wounded 
 5
 
 66 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 so as to make him a passive spectator, and thencefor- 
 ward he remembers all that goes on." 
 
 "I wonder," said Vincent, "if death, too, is like the 
 shock of a fall, and crushes out all remembrance of the 
 past?" 
 
 My young resident doctor looked up at him with a 
 quick glance of curiosity, and said, "Do you recall, Dr- 
 North, that girl we had here last year who forgot only 
 people, and ceased to know even her lover?" 
 
 "Yes; and everything else remained as before." 
 
 "Too much memory, or too little," said Vincent. 
 "Who could choose?" 
 
 "I would take too much," said the resident. 
 
 "Wait till you are forty," said Vincent. 
 
 "Come, doctor," I said, "it is not the curiosities we 
 came to see ; you will find them in every ward. They 
 have their own value to us ; but now we can't talk of 
 them." So saying, I turned to a bed near by. On the 
 table were several books a volume of Shakspere, and 
 a novel or two from the hospital library, the Bible (as 
 on all the tables), and some magazines. The sick man 
 was about thirty-five years old, clean-shaven, large of 
 feature, but very pale, and huge of limb and hand. As 
 we came near a smile of singular sweetness welcomed 
 me. "My friend Dr. Vincent," said I. 
 
 The sick man put out his thin hand and greeted us 
 in turn, saying, " I 'm what they call an interesting 
 case, sir." I sat down beside him. 
 
 "Mason, doctor, is a workman in iron. He made 
 the beautiful hammered-iron fire-screen in my study." 
 
 "I was a good workman," he said, "but I shall 
 never strike iron again, sir will I, doctor? Oh, I
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 57 
 
 have asked that so often, and I ought not to. I beg 
 pardon." There was fitness, almost grace of manner, 
 in the apologetic checking of himself. 
 
 "Mason was hurt in the back, doctor, by the fall of 
 a bar of iron. He knows how much I want to help 
 him, and I am not without hope ; but it may be long." 
 
 "Oh, I could wait, but I am that savage and irrita- 
 ble_I_ 
 
 "His wife was here yesterday," said my aid in an 
 undertone. 
 
 "Books enough, Mason?" I said. 
 
 "Yes; and to spare, sir, and flowers too. Mrs. 
 L takes care of that." 
 
 "Sit down," I said to Vincent, "and talk to him 
 while I see a case or two. He has made friends with 
 books since he has been in bed." 
 
 "That ; s true, sir. It seems to me so queer now that 
 I never heard of Scott before ; and Hamlet, I know a 
 man just like him. Ever read Hamlet, sir?" 
 
 Vincent sat down as I moved away, and while I ex- 
 amined two new cases I noticed that he was deep in 
 interested talk with Mason. By and by I saw him 
 shake hands with the sick man and heard him say, 
 "Yes ; I will come again," and then he joined me as I 
 sat down by the bed of a lad of twenty. 
 
 "Is this a new case!" he said. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then let me hear how you go to work." 
 
 "I will try to tell you ; it is not very easy without 
 too much talk. Give me the bed-card," I said to my 
 resident doctor. " Here. This lad came in yesterday ; 
 on his card you see his name, date of admission, a
 
 58 CHAKACTEEISTICS. 
 
 place for the diagnosis, and, below, lines left for diet 
 and change of treatment ; also here is a chart of the 
 heat-curves. In this ward-book the resident has written 
 out every detail as to his habits, inheritance, illness. 
 Take this card and run your eye over it. It will save 
 time. It is a guide to the note-takers so that a certain 
 order may prevail in our histories of cases." 
 
 "I see, I see. No organ is left unexamined. But 
 how can you get the time? And you must have a 
 whole arsenal of tools, if I may judge by the recent 
 survey made of my own throat and eyes." 
 
 I laughed, and my resident doctor regarded this 
 other physician with suppressed amusement, being 
 himself a youngster who, by habit, eased the frictions 
 of lif e with the precious ointment of mirth. 
 
 "Yes," I said; "I can, of course, make personally 
 the whole study of a case. As a rule, here, where 
 there is so much to be done that has to be done 
 thoroughly and rapidly, one man goes over the eyes 
 and other sense-organs, and one over the secretions, 
 which may exact hours of work." 
 
 "And," added Vincent, "there are electric testings, 
 I see. And reflexes ! What on earth are they?" 
 
 This doctor who asked what a "reflex" meant was 
 fast becoming too much for my resident, whose eyes 
 were flashing with mirth, and narrowing to imminence 
 of laughter. I touched his arm, as a warning, and 
 went on : " Reflexes ? Oh, reflex acts. I strike on a 
 spot, say, below the knee, and a certain muscle in- 
 stantly and in health always replies by a movement. 
 There are many such. I might call them muscle-in- 
 stinct acts."
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 59 
 
 "I see," returned Vincent. "It becomes clearer to 
 me if I think of some of our instinctive acts as intel- 
 lectual reflexes. There ought to be a new word in- 
 stinctions." 
 
 And now my resident cast a look of solemn wonder 
 at this reasoning ignoramus. 
 
 "Let us put that to Clayborne," I said. "I want to 
 show you how complete, how painstaking is our work ; 
 how efficient it is. If that sick boy were lord of a 
 guinea a minute no more could be known of his case, 
 no more could be done for it. Let us talk about this 
 again when we meet. A hospital is a fertile text. 
 We are at our best here. Illness in a private dwelling 
 loads one at times with needless perplexities." 
 
 "One word more, North. I had an idea that you 
 often made well made what people call a diagnosis 
 by intuition j at least one reads of such things." 
 
 "Rather by tuition so complete that the intellectual 
 act for the moment escapes analysis. Your idea be- 
 longs to the medicine of fiction. "We do something 
 like that, of course. A man walks in, and we guess at 
 a look by his walk that he has disease of certain 
 columns of the spine. It appears like magic to a lay- 
 man, but after that comes the real and careful work. 
 What is the cause, the man's history, his general state 
 of health these are the valuable things at which 
 one cannot merely guess and rest tranquil. It is true 
 that often we reason from dubious premises to con- 
 clusions as doubtful, and that requires a mind of very 
 peculiar type. It is quite remote from the mathematic 
 faculty." 
 
 "Yes j I do not well understand how a great mathe-
 
 60 CHARACTERISTICS, 
 
 matician could ever be a physician of force. Galileo 
 gave up medicine, I believe." 
 
 "The present case seems clear to me," I said, and, as 
 we moved away, "I wish it were not. He has an 
 aneurism of the arch of the aorta, the great artery. 
 It compresses nerves that give motor activity to the 
 muscles of speech." 
 
 "Then death is certain?" 
 
 "No; not quite. There is a chance, a small one; 
 and he is young. That will help, except that it will 
 make him impatient, and he must have six months of 
 absolute rest in bed, and heroic doses of certain saline 
 medicines." 
 
 "I see. And, pray tell me, do the young or the old 
 bear sickness, long sickness, best?" 
 
 "Oh, that is a matter of temperament, of moral 
 construction. Children well, I think; women too 
 well." 
 
 "Too well?" 
 
 "Yes ; to get a man into bed and a woman out of 
 bed is almost equally difficult. But come; I am 
 through. What about Mason, Vincent?" 
 
 "Oh, that poor fellow. You know people talk to 
 me about themselves. It is a doubtful privilege." 
 
 "Yes ; and he is as reserved and self-contained as a 
 well-bred lady," I said. 
 
 "He told me of the wife, who is weak and giddy- 
 minded ; of his six children, like to starve or to go to 
 the poorhouse. I shall see them to-morrow. Who is 
 this Mrs. L he talks about?" 
 
 "Oh, an angel, a heart of gold. I wish we had a 
 hundred like her."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 61 
 
 "It is awful, isn't it, to see these many cases which 
 only money can help ? A mere question of money." 
 
 "Not altogether, but largely j yes, very largely. 
 Look down this ward. I could point you. out a dozen 
 whose cases could be helped by money. This man 
 needs a few weeks in the country to complete his cure, 
 that man a month of salt air. Here is one so troubled 
 because he will lose his place that cure becomes diffi- 
 cult. Here we are like to fail with another because 
 he does not know how to feed his children while he is 
 ill. The beneficiary associations help. Women like 
 
 Mrs. L , or as like as God allows, come between 
 
 these people and their wants wants which in illness 
 you and I do not know. These wrecks of sturdy men 
 talk to such women as they rarely talk to us. Women 
 are the natural confessors of men ; but, after all, there 
 is always the lack of money. If I could do it, I would 
 give every hospital a contingent fund some thousands 
 a year for just such wants. And the people you see 
 here are mostly mechanics rarely mere laborers 
 proud as only the American is, loathing charity, and 
 having to be taken with tact. And now good-by ; I 
 must have talked you tired, and said but half." 
 
 "No ; you have brought me close to many things of 
 which I had no clear conception. But it does seem to 
 me that yours, my dear Owen, must be of all modes 
 of usefulness the saddest." 
 
 "No ; we were not sad in war, or we were rarely so, 
 with comrades f ailing around us every month, and this 
 seems to me much like it. One gets used to it. Who 
 is permanently saddened by the ever-repeated inevita- 
 ble ? None but the morbid, I fancy. What I person-
 
 62 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 ally hate is defeat, by death, by incurable ailments. I 
 have the feeling, which all physicians ought to have, 
 that every one should get well; that all disease is 
 curable somehow. It is, I suspect, the intellectual 
 defeat I so dislike ; but there is a host of compensa- 
 tions." 
 
 "Thank you. You have really opened to me a 
 vista of the physician's life which is worth a good 
 deal."
 
 V. 
 
 WEEK later I met Vincent one 
 evening in the street. "Come," lie 
 said; "I am going to see Clayborne. 
 I fancy we shall find St. Clair also. 
 Have you seen our iron-worker to- 
 day?" 
 
 "Yes; and he is really better; your talk did him 
 good. What a tonic is hope. I fancy you helped 
 him more than you know. He tells me you are about 
 to secure a patent for him. Is it worth while ?" 
 
 "Yes; I have submitted his model to S . He 
 
 tells me it is a very novel invention, and will bring 
 him a good deal of money. It has been a pleasant 
 task for me. The American of his class is so interest- 
 ing, so self-respecting, and so just; I may add, so 
 well-mannered. But here we are." 
 
 Clayborne was a bachelor, older than the rest of us, 
 and a man of large fortune. We were shown up-stairs 
 to the top of the house, the whole area of which (and 
 it was large) was occupied by his library. From floor 
 to ceiling, all around, were books. They overflowed 
 on to the floor, the chairs, the many tables. Although 
 he was as to his writings a historian, his tastes in liter- 
 ature were nearly limitless, and it seemed to me that 
 he read everything save modern verse. The last novel,
 
 64 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 the last magazine, the newest work of travel, even 
 science, seemed to interest him. For modern poetry 
 alone he had no strong liking. A slow thinker, he was 
 also defective as to his power to enjoy wit or humor, 
 and was apt laboriously to analyze a jest. I should 
 prefer to say that he enjoyed mere rollicking fun, ex- 
 amined wit with a kind of scornful indifference, and 
 was simply inaccessible to humor. Although a kindly 
 man, he lived too much alone with his own very keen 
 intelligence. He was apt to reason himself out of all 
 beliefs in the need of attending to the duties of social 
 and public affairs with an ease favored by his liking 
 for books and a lonely contemplative existence. He 
 had had fancies for several women, but, as Vincent 
 once remarked, he was apt to set his cool brain to 
 hatch the eggs of a warm heart, and then was sur- 
 prised to find his eggs addled. 
 
 When we entered the great, airy room, with its busts 
 of philosophers and its legions of books, St. Clair was 
 seated at an open window, and the stalwart owner was 
 walking to and fro with his hands behind his back. 
 He was discoursing volubly to the sculptor on Greek 
 and medieval art. Now and then he paused to turn 
 up a gas-jet; for he enjoyed a superabundance of 
 light, and even on a hot night in July, despite our en- 
 treaties, delighted to illuminate his study as if for a 
 winter ball. 
 
 Both men greeted us with the conventional "How 
 are you?" Vincent had a mental habit which in 
 some men would have looked like affectation. He 
 was apt to pick up for examination any usual word or 
 phrase, and say about it something most unusual. It
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 66 
 
 made him as a talker very suggestive to quick-witted 
 people ; but to others this habit was apt to bring em- 
 barrassment, silent dismay, or one of those acquiescent 
 phrases which kill conversation. 
 
 He said now, "Why does every one say, 'How are 
 you? How do you do!'" 
 
 "Why not?" said St. Clair. 
 
 "Why not?" cried Vincent, dropping into a chair. 
 "Am I always to be reminded that I am mortal? that 
 I may be ill any day ? It is a bit of universal bad 
 manners." 
 
 "Of good, I should say," returned Clayborne. 
 
 "I do not agree with you," cried Vincent. " It is my 
 friend's business to say how well I look ; certainly it 
 is an impertinence in a mere acquaintance to enter 
 into the question of my health. I wonder how it be- 
 gan ? I should like to know if an Indian or a Hotten- 
 tot asks how his savage neighbor is." 
 
 "The mass of humanity must like it, or the custom 
 would die," said our host, reflectively. 
 
 "Bad manners never die," returned Vincent, smiling. 
 
 "And what is the best test of good manners?" I 
 said. 
 
 "Capacity to listen agreeably/ said Clayborne. We 
 all laughed, for the speaker was at times given to dis- 
 course. 
 
 "I don't see why you laugh," he continued. This 
 provoked a new outbreak. 
 
 "The hardest test of manners is the capacity to 
 submit to an obligation with graciousness," I ventured. 
 
 "I should say," said St. Clair, "the power to oblige 
 with grace."
 
 66 CHARACTEEISTICS. 
 
 "I can do neither," cried Clayborne. "I hate being 
 obliged, and I hate to oblige, because there is no end 
 to it. The man who obliges gets in debt. There is 
 nothing obliges like obligation." 
 
 "Oh!" ejaculated Vincent. 
 
 "Yes; both embarrass me to oblige and to be 
 obliged." 
 
 Said Vincent: "It is the complexities of life which 
 annoy us. The man who gives with joyous simplicity 
 gives, as we all should give, for his own sake. The 
 simply imaginative, kindly man expects to do his own 
 thankfulness. 'The Lord assisteth the simple.' It is 
 self -analysis which breeds annoyance. I was walking 
 in the Tyrol years ago, and found a charming wayside 
 fountain over which the giver had set the words I 
 can translate them roughly 
 
 'Ye who drink, 
 Pause and think.' 
 
 An old Englishman who came up as I contemplated the 
 inscription said to me, 'That man had bad manners.'" 
 
 "The point is too fine for my use," growled Clay- 
 borne. 
 
 Said St. Clair : "There is an equally odd inscription 
 on the marble floor of a lovely spring in an English 
 wood I know. It puzzled me." 
 
 "And now the talk has gone astray," said Clayborne, 
 discontentedly. 
 
 "And so it should," I replied. 
 
 " But St. Clair always gets adrift." 
 
 "He 's a poet," laughed Vincent. "I should define a 
 poet as a man with buttons to his mental garments
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 67 
 
 and no buttonholes. He is always fumbling at the 
 impossible." 
 
 "Now, wait a little," cried the poet, mildly wrathful 
 "Who's adrift now?" 
 
 ' ' Oh, your fountain," said I. " What was the inscrip- 
 tion ? Never mind these fellows." 
 
 "It is not worth quoting," said St. Clair. 
 
 Clayborne had, without intention, a special power 
 to annoy him. Looking up, however, St. Clair caught 
 Vincent's appearance of utmost interest. It seemed 
 to say, "You are just now the only person in the world 
 worth hearing." It was an inherited trait of manners 
 a family jewel. 
 
 St. Clair went on: "I make too much of a trifle. 
 On the marble-floored spring, in letters of red stone, 
 were the words, 'Tell us your secrets.' At each side 
 the spring rolled forth a bountiful volume of water, 
 which, as I looked, seemed to contort and shake, and 
 at times to hide the legend." 
 
 "What did it mean?" said Clayborne. 
 
 "Was it," I returned, "advice to confess to the 
 waters ? That were safe indeed." 
 
 "Or," said St. Clair, "was it a mere pretty, fancy- 
 born appeal to them to tell us their secrets?" 
 
 "Ah, if they but would!" murmured Vincent. "I 
 am for St. Glair's idea of it. When you make a foun- 
 tain, master sculptor, set around it that verse of the 
 19th Psalm. It is not there applied to the waters, but, 
 like all high poetic thought, is capable of many appli- 
 cative uses. I quote the Prayer-book version. It is, 
 I think, 'There is neither speech nor language; but 
 their voices are heard among them.' "
 
 68 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "That would be charming," said St. Clair. 
 
 Clayborne picked up his unwieldy length, and, as 
 Mrs. Vincent liked to say, added on his legs last, and, 
 having put himself together, went to a corner, whence 
 he took two or three books in turn, and while we went 
 on with our chat looked them over. Presently he 
 came toward us, for we had dropped at last into cane 
 easy-chairs, and were all smoking together near the 
 window. "Vincent is apt to get his quotations incor- 
 rect," he said. "The words apply, of course, to the 
 verse before, 'One day telleth another; and one night 
 certifieth another,' and also to the preceding verse. 
 I should hesitate to use it as Vincent suggests." 
 
 "But I should not," cried St. Clair. 
 
 "King James's Bible," Clayborne went on, "says, 
 ' There is no speech nor language where their voice is 
 not heard.' And here, this will interest you. My old 
 friend, Leeser's translation for use among Hebrews, 
 has it, 'There is no speech ; there are no words ; their 
 voice is not heard: but their melody extendeth 
 through all the earth, and to the end of the world 
 their work/ and so on. For force, beauty, and clear- 
 ness this is better than our version." 
 
 "Let me look at it," said Vincent 
 
 "This is the octavo," said Clayborne; "the quarto 
 edition is full of notes, and more interesting." 
 
 "I see," returned Vincent, as he glanced over the 
 book. "The renderings of the poetic forms of 
 Deborah's grand ballad-poem are admirable. I will 
 borrow it, Clayborne." 
 
 "I have had it bound in two volumes," returned 
 the scholar. " I dislike thick books, fat books, books
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 69 
 
 which do not lend themselves to the hospitality of the 
 hand. I hate to lay a book open on the table and see 
 it shut itself up. If a man lives with books, he gets 
 sensitive about their dress and their manners." 
 
 "How poetical he is !" said St. Clair, who was apt 
 to have a long memory for small annoyances. 
 
 "Is that your idea of poetry ?" growled our host. 
 "Take both volumes, V." he had a fashion of call- 
 ing us by the initial letter of our names, "both, 
 please. And don't forget to return them. I hate to 
 lose books; but to lose one volume and to have the 
 other as a perpetual reminder of the baseness of man- 
 kind is unendurable." 
 
 "Do you remember," said I, "S ; s keeping one 
 
 of your volumes of 'Cardan/ two years ago, and your 
 sending him the rest with a note to the effect that if 
 he would not return volume one, it were better that 
 the family were kept together?" 
 
 "Oh, I do, indeed. And then he sent them all back. 
 I knew he would, but the volume he had kept so long 
 was horribly abused. Actually the man had made 
 penciled comments on the margins." 
 
 "That does seem incredible," I said. 
 
 As to Vincent, he smiled in his quiet way when re' 
 quested to be sure to return the books. 
 
 "What did a man like S want with the book?" 
 
 said St. Clair. "I know of Jerome Cardan in a dim 
 sort of way. He was a doctor, I think." 
 
 "Oh, but he was a master of algebra too," said I, 
 
 "and S is a mathematician. And a banker, too, 
 
 by all that is strange. Mathematics is his hobby. He 
 is a common fellow, coarse of grain, strong of head.
 
 70 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 A hard business man, and horribly exact in his deal- 
 ings j full of prejudices ; full even to hostility for 
 those who differ with him, but very generous. I 
 know him well." 
 
 " I should like to know your full estimate of us," 
 cried Vincent, with a laugh. " I can understand the 
 perfect compatibility of generosity with exactness, 
 even cruel exactness, in business. It is not a rare 
 type." 
 
 "And to me," said St. Clair, "it is incomprehensible." 
 
 "I can at least illustrate it," I returned. "On one 
 occasion I knew him to ruin a man by insisting on the 
 return of money lent. He declined to wait, took the 
 last cent of what was due, and a month later lent the 
 penniless man a really large sum on easy terms to 
 start him in business again." 
 
 "I know of a case quite as illustrative," said Vin- 
 cent. "A friend of mine, a physician, did a rich man- 
 ufacturer a vast service in the way of his profession. 
 When the obliged man asked for his account, he 
 requested a deduction for prompt payment, and this 
 being declined, grumbled over the amount. The doc- 
 tor was immovable. 'You are at liberty,' he said, 'to 
 pay nothing or all.' 'But this is business,' answered 
 the other ; 'why not discuss it like any other business ?' 
 'I am not a business man,' said my friend; 'I belong 
 to a profession. I sell that which no man can weigh 
 or measure.' Finally the bill was paid, and then the 
 manufacturer, suddenly changing his tone, said, 'Well, 
 now that the business is completed, I should like you 
 to accept this as a slight proof of our gratitude.' It 
 was a check for thrice the amount of the debt. The
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 71 
 
 doctor said, 'No ; I never allow a man to overpay me.' 
 The next day the check was sent to a hospital in which 
 the physician was interested." 
 
 "I like that definition of a profession," said Clay- 
 borne. "I think I can guess who the doctor was." 
 
 Vincent looked up with a faint smile. 
 
 "The story is true," I said. "How difficult it is for 
 us to comprehend these men who are born and bred 
 in a commercial atmosphere. The type of mere busi- 
 ness men, devoid of this man's generosity, is a more 
 unpleasant one.'' 
 
 "Oh, I know them," cried Vincent, "and I see them, 
 too, as you do not, on the business side. They have 
 set ideas and utter absence of tastes or pursuits outside 
 of the game of money-making. I mean that they have 
 in life no other game. They do not read, or shoot, or 
 fish, or even ride. They have no liking for books, or 
 art, or music. Travel soon bores them, and brings no 
 new resources." 
 
 "The nemesis comes with loss of health," said I, "or 
 with some threat of incapacity to work. Then the 
 doctor says, travel, and either the man does not care 
 for that, or will not obey, or goes like a bird in its 
 flight from land to land, and comes back to his desk 
 unutterably weary. It is useless to say, shoot, fish, 
 ride. He has but one taste in life, and habit has made 
 all else impossible." 
 
 "To do him justice, it is not always the money but 
 the game he loves," remarked Vincent. "I think the 
 gospel of play needs to be preached in this land of 
 ours." 
 
 "The moral is," said Clayborne, "have a hobby." 
 6
 
 72 CHARACTEEISTICS. 
 
 "And learn to ride it early," said Vincent, rising. 
 "I must go." And he left us. 
 
 For a few minutes we smoked in silence. Then 
 Clayborne said, "V. has left his books." 
 
 "Yes," I returned; "when he put them on the table 
 I saw, as he pushed them aside, that he would not 
 take them." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "You asked him to be sure to return them." 
 
 "I did. What then ? What of that ?" 
 
 "He did not like it. He is as sensitive as a girl, and 
 as reserved as a man can be." 
 
 "And I annoyed him. I will send him the quarto 
 to-morrow, and ask him to keep it. How queer for a 
 man of his force." 
 
 "His sensitiveness is a part of his force. He sees 
 and feels as by instinct all the shades of difference in 
 men's ways and conduct. His reserve hides the effect 
 on himself. He is master of his moods, however they 
 are caused. Socially, as now, he may act on his too 
 ready sense of the meaning of a word or a phrase 
 lightly dropped ; but even this is rare, and in his pro- 
 fession his fineness of perception never does him harm 
 or injures his value." 
 
 " I see," returned Clayborne, thoughtfully. " Go on ; 
 it interests me, well as we know him." 
 
 "I could wish that he had the art to appear unre- 
 served," I said. "Reserve is disliked by men in gen- 
 eral. Familiarities, even from friends, I fancy Vincent 
 finds it hard to bear." 
 
 "And yet, what friend can compare to him?" said 
 St. Clair, who was like a child with those he loved.
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 73 
 
 "He is manly, brave, and generous as few men are. 
 And what I like, too, is a slight old-fashioned quaint- 
 ness about him quite undefinable." 
 
 "His ears should burn by this time," said I. "And 
 where, indeed, as he would say, did that familiar phrase 
 arise?" 
 
 "Do one's ears burn at praise?" said Clayborne. 
 
 "Praise me a little, and try," said St. Clair. "Come, 
 North, it is time we went home. I wanted to go back 
 to that fountain, but it is too late." 
 
 "I meant," said I, "to add a word to what you said 
 of Vincent's manners. It is the manner of his man- 
 ners which makes him so charming. Many men have 
 good manners ; few men have manner." 
 
 " Too fine for me, that," cried Clayborne. "What is 
 manner?" 
 
 "The grain of the wood under the polish," returned 
 St. Clair. 
 
 "The modification which character gives to man- 
 ners," said I. 
 
 "Shade of Chesterfield, help me!" laughed Clay- 
 borne. " Get ye gone, both of you, or I shall go mad."
 
 VI 
 
 was some weeks before we were all 
 together again. St. Clair had asked 
 us to come to see certain clay models 
 he had been at work upon, and thus 
 it chanced one night that we met at 
 his studio. This was a long building 
 of brick, and only a story high. The rooms were sepa- 
 rated only by heavy curtains, and the roof was broken 
 by skylights. The place was ablaze with gas-jets as I 
 entered the waiting-room, which was full of bas-reliefs, 
 statuettes, and pictures the gifts of artist friends. 
 St. Clair was walking to and fro. 
 
 "A penny for your thoughts," I said, as I greeted 
 him. 
 
 " They are worth more. I was thinking how Michel- 
 angelo would have enjoyed this good pipe of tobacco. 
 As to Shakspere, he must have smoked. I should like 
 to know who of the poets smoked. Lamb alone has 
 sung of it. Lowell loved a pipe : so does Tennyson ; 
 but neither ever sang its praise." 
 
 " Certainly you are wrong as to Lowell," I said. " I 
 recall a charming passage of his about the solace of 
 the pipe. It is an immense help to good talk, makes 
 decent pauses, gives time to reflect, and what a re- 
 source it is when a good solidly constructed bore has 
 you in his coils."
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 75 
 
 " You speak feelingly. When shall you write that 
 little essay about bores we talked of ? " 
 
 " Oh, who can say ? When I shall have written my 
 natural history of fools. I began it once, but was 
 checked at the outset by the need to define a bore. It 
 is more mysterious than it seems. We are all bores at 
 times. I am, I know. I am acquainted with two very 
 able and original thinkers who never talk very long, 
 and never pay long visits, but who nevertheless inde- 
 scribably bore me. I made out at last, as regards one, 
 that it was something in the tone of his voice ; and as 
 to the other, that it was the excessive slowness of his 
 talk." 
 
 " The man who bores one the worst," said St. Clair, 
 "the through-and-through bore, is the man who as- 
 sumes the utter absence of capacity on your part to 
 imagine or to know what is easily imagined or known. 
 He begins with the Ark, or the Fall of Man, when he is 
 about to relate how he slipped on an orange-peeling." 
 
 " I know," said I. " We have a style of professional 
 bore we call a case-doctor, who is always relating to 
 you cases just in that fashion. As to the fool business, 
 that is simpler. There is the foolish fool, the fool who 
 is a good fellow, the ass fool, and the fool finely en- 
 dowed with obstinacy the mule fool, and the middle- 
 aged woman fool. They are all first cousins of the 
 bores." 
 
 "And which am I?" cried Vincent, as he entered 
 with Clayborne. 
 
 " The reverse of all folly," I cried. 
 
 "IT By George ! If you had my intimate acquaint- 
 ance with Fred Vincent you would hardly say so."
 
 76 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 " Envy no man," said Clayborne, " who is not some- 
 times a fool. The thing is to know it. Your true fool 
 never does. Sickness, my dear Owen, must present 
 you with some interesting varieties of the genus fool." 
 
 " Yes," I returned ; " the hysterical fool is of all the 
 worst. How about the statues, St. Clair ?" 
 
 " Come in. They are only huge sketches as yet." 
 
 "We followed him into the middle room, where, amid 
 plaster legs, arms, torsos, and medallions, were three 
 tall formless things draped in wet gray cloths. About 
 them lay chisels, molding-tools, buckets, and troughs 
 of damp clay. 
 
 " Do you recall," said St. Clair to me, " that a year 
 ago you were here when I was modeling my Venus ? " 
 
 " Perfectly." 
 
 " You inquired of me how the female form would 
 look in a masculine attitude like that of the gladiator 
 
 striking with the cestus. I asked Miss S , the 
 
 model, to take the attitude. I was struck with its 
 beauty, and a month ago I made use of it, or began 
 to. It is a Roman lady, in the days of the decadence, 
 boxing. You know it became the strange fashion to 
 imitate the gladiators. Look ! " And at this he cast 
 off the wet covering. 
 
 A young, nude, and beautiful woman was striking 
 exactly as does the trained boxer. The face, somewhat 
 large of feature, was proud, sensual, and cruel. The 
 muscles were rather too strongly marked for beauty, 
 but the long, sinuous curves from shoulder to foot were 
 of marvelous vigor. 
 
 " It has its moral," said Vincent, gravely. 
 
 "Yes," returned the sculptor; "I hope so."
 
 CHAEACTEKISTICS. 77 
 
 Then we were silent a moment, and he went on. 
 
 " It had a curious effect on my model. Miss S is 
 
 a perfectly good girl, like many of our models, and 
 queerly full of the art sayings and criticisms of a dozen 
 studios. She said she did not like it, and I really think 
 was angry, but I could get nothing more out of her." 
 
 " One might guess why she disliked it," said Vin- 
 cent. "It is a terrible conception. Let us see the 
 other. I am like your model, I hate it." 
 
 " And I may in a week," returned St. Clair, as he 
 removed a second cloth, and looked around at us, 
 smiling. 
 
 Four armed Greeks bore on their shoulders a shield 
 on which lay, passive in death, the body of a young 
 man slain in battle. The beardless face, still in the 
 relaxation of death, rested on the edge of the shield. 
 The features wore the expressionless calm of eternal 
 rest from strife. I remarked on the success of the 
 rendering of this difficult expression, or simple lack of 
 expression, which I had seen on so many battle-fields. 
 It is not lasting, and it is not common. 
 
 " But," said Vincent, " are not men, killed with the 
 sword, apt to show pain in the lines of the face after 
 death?" 
 
 "Really," I said, "so few men are killed with the 
 / sword or bayonet in modern warfare that it is rather 
 hard to answer you. For the artist this is of little mo- 
 ment. Men killed instantly by bullets sometimes pre- 
 serve for a time precisely the expression of the moment, 
 and no doubt you have all seen those photographs of 
 / the dead at Gettysburg, where some of them remain 
 in exactly the postures of their last act."
 
 78 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " No," said Clayborne. " How strange ! " 
 
 " It appears," I continued, " to 'be a sudden, indeed, 
 an almost instantaneous, rigor mortis. Usually the dead 
 grow rigid after some hours. Previous fatigue is said 
 to have to do with this early and abrupt rigidity. The 
 effect is ghastly. One of our greatest generals * told 
 me that at a spring in Georgia he halted to water his 
 horse, and called to a man kneeling with his head at 
 the water-level to move and make way for him. As 
 he did not stir, an aide dismounted and spoke to him. 
 He still remained motionless, and it was then seen 
 that while in the act of kneeling to drink a bullet had 
 crashed through his brain, and he had stayed, as if of 
 stone, in the attitude in which the deadly messenger 
 of fate found him." 
 
 " I recall your having mentioned this before," said 
 Clayborne. "You spoke then of an essay upon the 
 subject." 
 
 "Yes; by Surgeon John H. Brinton a most cu- 
 rious record." 
 
 " I once chanced," said Clayborne, " to mention it to 
 General Grant. He said that it could not be true, as 
 he had seen numberless battle-fields, but had never 
 noticed a single instance of a man shot retaining his 
 posture. I replied that General Sheridan had told me 
 he had many times seen it, and spoke of Brinton's pa- 
 per. General Grant replied at once that what these 
 two men said they had noticed must be correct, but 
 that it was strange that he himself should never have 
 had his attention called to what was so singular a 
 fact." 
 
 * Sherman.
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 79 
 
 " The singularity," I replied, " is indeed in his failure 
 to see what must have been before him many times. 
 He must have been lacking in the power of minute 
 observation, or rather in that automatic capacity to 
 note details amidst such scenes, which some possess." 
 
 " He might," said Vincent, " have been too profoundly 
 absorbed by the greater problems with which he had 
 to deal." 
 
 " No ; it was want of the naturalist's habit of observ- 
 ing without effort of attention, and in part defect of 
 interest in the unusual. He saw, but was not im- 
 pressed, and so took away no remembrance of what 
 impressed others. Certainly it was not the mere ab- 
 sorption in greater matters. He was almost abnor- 
 mally unimpressible. Neither sudden deaths of masses 
 of men, nor sudden reverses, disturbed his mind. I 
 have known him to discuss breeds of horses with in- 
 terest while a battle was going on." 
 
 As I talked, and after I ceased, we moved about the 
 group for a while in silence. Then presently Vincent 
 said, " The charm of the thing is in the bearers of the 
 dead. It is not a calamity for them. The young hero 
 goes home on his shield from victorious strife, dead 
 with honor. The contrast of his set, still face with the 
 look of triumph in their features is really a noble suc- 
 cess in art, and there is, too, some remnant of the pas- 
 sion and wrath of fight still suggested in the lower 
 facial lines of the living bearers. I congratulate you, 
 St. Glair 5 it is a poem in clay. The epitaph of the dead 
 man is in their faces." 
 
 St. Clair was delighted. " You have seized my mean- 
 ing precisely," he said. " My chief trouble was in the
 
 80 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 management of the arm which hangs over the shield. 
 It does not yet satisfy me, and to finish it in marble 
 will be difficult." 
 
 " Had you good models ? " I said. " The four men 
 are remarkably individualized, both as to form and ex- 
 pression. One is much younger than the others, and 
 his face is distinctly more sad." 
 
 " Might be a brother of the dead man," said Vincent. 
 
 "Precisely," returned St. Clair. "What charming 
 critics you fellows are ! As to models, I was fairly 
 well off j I had two brothers of Miss S ." 
 
 "The shield is not correct as to form," said Clay- 
 borne. 
 
 " That may be true," returned the sculptor. 
 
 " Nothing seems to me more strange," I said, " than 
 the life of a female model. And yet great ladies have 
 been willing to be models." 
 
 " What you say," returned St. Clair, " recalls a rather 
 singular story, which came to my knowledge in Italy 
 years ago. Come into the outer room ; it is less warm 
 there, and we can talk at ease. The third figure is un- 
 finished, and does not please me. It is after Brown- 
 ing's poem of ' Saul.' No ; I won't show it, at least not 
 to-night. Come." 
 
 We followed him into the outer room, and settled 
 ourselves on lounges or easy-chairs, pipe in hand. 
 
 " And now for the story," said I. 
 
 "!T was in Florence," he said, "years ago. The 
 
 sculptor N , at present a man of world-wide fame, 
 
 was just rising into notice. He was desperately poor, 
 proud as only an impoverished noble can be, and as
 
 CHAKACTEKIBTICS. 81 
 
 handsome as one of my young Greeks. His absorption 
 in his art was something past belief. He lived in it, 
 and for it, and neither man nor woman seemed to at- 
 tract him save in their relation to his work. I remem- 
 ber once, after an evening at the theater, being amused 
 to discover that he did not know what opera had been 
 sung, his attention having been entirely captured by 
 the lines of the neck of a woman in a box near by. 
 
 " To cut a long story short, the young widow of an 
 old Neapolitan prince fell madly in love with him, and, 
 to my surprise, I learned that he was to marry her. He 
 was rather cool about it when I congratulated him, 
 and so the affair ran on for some months, the woman 
 evidently much the more interested of the two. 
 
 " One night, at an open-air concert, he was talking 
 to me excitedly of his new statue a vestal virgin, a 
 partly draped figure. I had seen his sketches, and an- 
 ticipated a triumph of original work in its completion. 
 Certainly the idea was novel. The vestal was asleep 
 in her chair beside the dying altar-fire she had been set 
 to guard. A tender smile, perhaps the dream-gift of 
 rorbidden love, was on her face a charming concep- 
 tion. He told me he had had several models, but that 
 all lacked the dignity and refinement of a Roman pa- 
 trician. He foresaw failure, and wailed in an outspoken 
 Italian way. What was the world to him? What 
 was anything, with this fate before him, to know he 
 might realize his vision of chastity and loveliness, and 
 to find it eluding him ? There were models in Rome, 
 but he had no means to seek or bring them. I offered 
 help as delicately as I could, and he resented it almost 
 as an insult.
 
 82 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "'Do you suppose/ said he, 'the Princess N 
 
 would not help me if I asked her ? I would die first ! 
 Money ! I wish she had none.' 
 
 " ' Hush ! ' I said ; ' some one will overhear you. You 
 have so much in life your art, your growing fame, a 
 noble woman, love, youth.' 
 
 " ' And what are these ? ' he cried, bitterly. ' What 
 is anything to me ? What is youth or fame ? What 
 is she compared to my art? Do you suppose any 
 woman's love can compensate me for what I am losing ? 
 These dreams must be born into marble or they be- 
 come as wind-torn mists, and fade away. I have had 
 this bitterness before, and love! you talk to me of 
 love ! ' 
 
 "'Nonsense,' I said; 'you cannot love as a man 
 should love as that woman is worthy to be loved.' 
 
 " He started up. 
 
 " 'Love her as I love my art? Not I. The mortal 
 before the enduring? Not I.' 
 
 " He was too passionately moved to hear the quick 
 rustle of garments behind us. But, turning my head, 
 I saw, or thought I saw, the Princess retreating swiftly. 
 A week later I met him radiant and joyous. As he 
 took a seat beside me at a cafe, he cried : 
 
 " ' I have it ! The clay is nearly done. Count R 
 
 has bought it, and I am to put it into marble at once.' 
 
 < And the model?' I said. 
 
 " 'Ah, thereby hangs a tale, as you English say. The 
 day after I saw you the Princess left Florence. She 
 returns next week. It is strange how she disturbs my 
 use of the power which I know is in me. I felt free 
 once more. You will think that horrible ; it is true.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 83 
 
 Well, the day I bade her good-by I found a peasant 
 woman waiting in my studio. She was, to my amuse- 
 ment, masked, and carried a little slate, like Ursula, 
 the dumb model in Rome. On the slate was written : 
 " I am a modeL My brothers insist that my face shall 
 not be seen. I can come daily for a week." I said : 
 " Well, here is the statue in the rough. Go back of 
 the curtain; take this veil stuff; arrange yourself; 
 and we will see." Presently she came in, still masked 
 and took instantly the pose of my vestal. I was struck 
 as dumb as she. An arm and shoulder are bare ; the 
 left arm, gathering the drapery, lies across the waist ; 
 the limbs are partly draped; the feet are in little 
 sandals I had had made. Anything more gracious, 
 more virginal, man never saw. I asked no questions, 
 but went on as if I were inspired. No model I can 
 recall so caught the spirit of the thing. If the ghost 
 of some patrician girl of Rome's noblest had come to 
 help me, it could not have been more wonderful It 
 was not a model ; it was a vestal. The seventh day 
 she did not appear, and that is the queerest of all, be- 
 cause I had agreed to pay her then, and her terms were 
 unusually moderate. However, it is done, or nearly 
 done ; I can do without her but ' 
 
 " 'But what r 
 
 " ' Oh, I should have liked to have seen her again. 
 That is all.' 
 
 " ' And/ I said, ' when does Princess N return ? ' 
 
 " ' To-morrow. I shall be glad to see her. My mind 
 is at ease now ; and how much it will please her ! ' 
 
 " We met again in three days. He was wild with 
 anger.
 
 84 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " ' She is gone ! ' he said. ' Come and gone. Gone to 
 Constantinople, they said, and thence to the East. Not 
 a word, not a note. I had written to her at Naples, but 
 had no reply. Yesterday I called, and was told she 
 was not at home ; and to-day, that she left last night.' 
 
 " I said that it did seem strange to me, and that 
 something certainly would explain it in a few days j 
 but nothing did." 
 
 "WELL," said Clayborne, "is that all?" 
 
 " You don't mean that you don't understand it ! " 
 cried St. Clair. 
 
 " Yes. It seems to me entirely without ending." 
 
 The rest of us laughed. Clayborne, a most intelli- 
 gent being, was subject at times to total eclipses. 
 
 "Perhaps," said St. Clair, "the sequel may help you. 
 
 Three years later the Princess N married Count 
 
 von C , the German cavalry general, and a man in 
 
 every way charming. Still later, at the sale of the 
 
 effects of Count R , the Princess bought my friend's 
 
 vestal, outbidding an English duke and a French 
 banker. I was told that she keeps it in her own bou- 
 doir, and that no visitors see it." 
 
 " And is that a true story ? " said Vincent. 
 
 "Why ask?" cried St. Clair. 
 
 "Oh, I wanted to know if the man really did not 
 know or ever guess who his model was. It seems in- 
 credible." 
 
 " I never asked him." 
 
 " I suppose not." 
 
 "I see now," said Clayborne, and was noisily con- 
 gratulated on his acuteness amidst storms of laughter.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 85 
 
 "Did I not once tell you," said the object of our 
 mirth, " that at times all of us are subject to attacks 
 of folly idiocy, if you like. Vide Newton and the 
 cats." 
 
 "Do you suppose the reverse applies to the fool?" 
 laughed Vincent. 
 
 " Yes," I said ; " in a way, up to a certain or uncer- 
 tain limit. A friend of mine once made a clever enigma. 
 It was correctly answered, and that in a moment, by a 
 rather dull school-girl and by one of the most brilliant 
 of American writers, but by no one else." 
 
 " Leave out the headings of a good many poems I 
 know," said Clayborne, " and see if you have not good 
 enigmas." 
 
 " Let us hear your enigma," said Vincent. 
 " Certainly," said I. " By the way, to justify Clay- 
 borne, I may as well say that it was really lines on " 
 " Oh, don't teU ! " cried St. Glair. 
 " Well, the author saw that without the heading it 
 was a clever enigma. I believe it has not been in 
 print. 
 
 "A simple go-between am I, 
 Without a thought of pride ; 
 I part the gathered thoughts of men, 
 And liberally divide. 
 I set the soul of Shakspere free, 
 To Milton's thoughts give liberty, 
 Bid Sidney speak with freer speech, 
 Let Spenser sing, and Taylor preach. 
 Though through all learning swift I glide, 
 No wisdom doth with me abide." 
 
 ''What nonsense ! " said Clayborne. "And the an- 
 swer?"
 
 86 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Don't tell!" cried St. Glair. "Let us ask Mrs. 
 Vincent." 
 
 "Agreed," said I. 
 
 " As you like," added Clayborne ; " but to go back a 
 little. There is some element of luck in the guessing 
 business, almost the chance falling upon the clue; 
 and as to the reverse cases of which you spoke, there 
 are instances of the single poem of value a man writes, 
 the one speech of force coming from men who were 
 before, or after, incapable. Take the stray passages 
 in books, otherwise valueless, as the guess at the true 
 theory of the circulation by Servetus. If my memory 
 served me better, I could quote no end of such cases. 
 
 Talking of memory, H told me once that he could 
 
 never remember his own poems I mean so as to re- 
 peat them accurately. That seemed odd to me." 
 
 " Not at all," said I. " He has in mind a multitude 
 of versions, variations, and changes. It is like the 
 want of clearness which is caused by the superposition 
 of photographic images." 
 
 "That must be it. And, by the way, North, you 
 promised us a sketch from the man who has the curi- 
 ous complaint of too good a memory. Is that alone 
 as a case, or did you ever hear of a like instance ? " 
 
 "Yes ; the late C P told me he knew well 
 
 a French savant who was troubled by the perfection of 
 his memory. He forgot nothing. The words a pass- 
 ing friend said in the street, the editorial he read to- 
 day, the lecture he heard a week or five years ago were 
 all alike, and equally ready to turn up in mind distinct, 
 or capable of being repeated word for word. His 
 childish fears, emotions experienced years before, were
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 87 
 
 in the same way competent to trouble him in all the 
 acuteness of their first presence. Unlike my patient, 
 this man, a member of the Academy, was a person of 
 great intelligence, and had his memorial stores some- 
 what under control. About my case there is an ele- 
 ment of morbidness, and certainly only a moderate 
 amount of mental force." 
 
 "I should think," said Clayborne, "that a curious 
 essay could be written about the people who possessed 
 an excess of one quality of mind without the balancing 
 faculties which act as critical or controlling forces. I 
 can conceive of a man with a really good intellect 
 without imagination, or of a strong mind devoid of 
 power to love." 
 
 " Like a cherub a winged brain and no heart," said 
 St. Clair. 
 
 " Delightful ! " cried Vincent. " And again there is 
 the man of imagination without critical intelligence." 
 
 " But how is it, North, as to people with excessive 
 sensory powers? Are they apt to be as clever as 
 others?" 
 
 "No; hardly," I replied, a little in doubt. "The 
 cases I have seen of extraordinary sight, hearing, or 
 smell have been in hypnotized or hysterical folks, or 
 in people in some way diseased. I TmvtTknown per- 
 sons who could hear what was said in the next room ; 
 others who could detect by smell to whom garments 
 belonged which had been laundried. Now that you 
 raise the question, it does seem strange that our senses 
 should sometimes in disease, or morbid conditions, at- 
 tain a perfection beyond that which under any educa- 
 tion they can reach in health." 
 7
 
 88 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Your examples serve at least to show what we 
 might be," said Clayborne. " There are some curious 
 speculations in this direction in Taylor's 'Physical 
 Theory of Another Life.' " 
 
 " But what about your case ? " said St. Clair. 
 
 " I have it here," said I. " It is rather long, but you 
 can smoke." 
 
 " Let me quote first," said Vincent, " the reflection 
 of Emerson, ' A pity that the insanities of the insane 
 are not complementary, so that we could house two of 
 them together.' That is about his phrase. I fancy he 
 referred to the cranks who tormented him." 
 
 " And," said St. Clair, " who have no dead point like 
 an honest working crank." 
 
 "I must not let Vincent begin the subject of cranks," 
 I said, "or we shall sit all night. But as Vincent 
 quoted that suggestive thinker I was reflecting upon 
 the fact that while we accept individuality as a thing 
 certain for all men, and cease to wonder at its immen- 
 sity of variation, we rarely remark upon the equal in- 
 dividualization of man's many faculties the distinct- 
 ness of quality in the different little workmen who 
 haunt the factories of the brain. And then the won- 
 der of it ! To see these brain-cells and fibers so nearly 
 alike that while the convolutions, the weight, and the 
 gross form of the low criminal brain and the brain of 
 a Newton are, within limits, different, these tiny crea- 
 tive or reflective cells, these little masses of nerve-mat- 
 ter that think, suffer, remember, and love, and always 
 in their own individualized way, are so much alike in 
 the best and the worst brains that the grouped cells 
 that made ' Hamlet ' could not be distinguished by any
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 89 
 
 material feature from those which gave us ' Proverbial 
 Philosophy.' " 
 
 " Or ' Leaves of Grass,' " said Clayborne. 
 
 " Bet you anything you never read either," said St. 
 Clair. " ' Leaves of Grass ' and Tupper ! There was 
 a bore." 
 
 " There are no literary bores," retorted Clayborne. 
 " No book need bore ; you can always cut a book." 
 
 " Or not cut it," I laughed. 
 
 " Shame ! " cried Clayborne. 
 
 "Shall I help you?" said St. Clair. 
 
 " Oh, I saw it. I really did," said Clayborne. 
 
 " I am not sure," cried St. Clair, rising to fill his pipe 
 anew. "But to end these metaphysical fancies. It 
 does seem strange to a man dealing with the ma- 
 terial outside human make, that while every inch of 
 a man's skin varies so that you can swear to it as 
 belonging to this or that man, and to no one else, the 
 material within his skull, which at least represents him 
 as to his highest qualities, should be to appearances 
 so unindividual, and vary only a little as to quantity, 
 or only a little as to gross form." 
 
 " There must be more essential variations, unseen as 
 yet," said Vincent. 
 
 " Yes j it is we, the critics, who fail," I replied. 
 
 "As the mere materialists always will," cried Vin- 
 cent. " But what does St. Clair mean by every inch of 
 us differing?" 
 
 " I mean our surfaces. You can see it if you get a 
 thousand men to press each his forefinger on a bit of 
 slightly smoked card. No two will be identically the 
 same."
 
 90 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " Delightful ! " said Vincent. " Sounds like a bit of 
 ' Gulliver's Travels.' 
 
 11 Oh, it is true ; it has been studied, I believe, with 
 care. What about that biography ? " 
 
 " It is rather late," said I. 
 
 "Oh, go on," returned St. Clair. "We can smoke, 
 as you said." 
 
 " No j we have talked away all the time I can now 
 spare. Let us adjourn to Vincent's, say to Sunday 
 night. We shall have Mrs. Vincent then, and I want 
 her to hear it."
 
 vn. 
 
 F there be such a thing as friend- 
 ship at first sight, then it happened 
 to me when first I saw Mrs. Vin- 
 cent. I was still in bed, and at times 
 suffering in such ways as are hid- 
 eous to recall, and Fred had asked 
 leave to bring his young wife to see me. I was glad, 
 for, as I have said, to be ill is a feminine verb, and 
 agrees best with that gender. I was justified in her 
 choice of time and a companion. She would have none 
 
 of Fred, and went quietly and asked Mrs. L to go 
 
 with her, and also she sent me word it would be at 
 twilight, and named the hour, and was there as it 
 struck all of which goes to show that a goodly part 
 of the divinity which shapes our ends materializes here 
 below in the form of a woman. 
 
 She said no word as to my wound or my ailments, 
 and yet, often since, I have seen her profuse in senti- 
 ment and demonstrative in manner, being a creature 
 of many available moods. She talked pretty gossip, 
 
 while Mrs. L sat by and wondered a little at the 
 
 light folly of the chat. But when Anne Vincent left 
 me, I was happier and more hopeful. At the door she 
 
 turned, Mrs. L having preceded her, and said, 
 
 "And now we are friends, you know." And with a
 
 92 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 smile on her lip, and with eyes quite overfull, added, 
 " I am very exacting. Good-by." 
 
 Her goodness, her gentle follies, and the like we 
 shall know better as these rambling pages go on. 
 
 The drawing-room was unlighted, as it was May and 
 warm, and Mrs. Vincent, with St. Clair and Clayborne, 
 sat at the open window, which overlooked large garden 
 
 " How silent you all are !" said I. 
 
 " That is only because we do not speak aloud," said 
 St. Clair, with a laugh. "We are busily talking to 
 ourselves. For my part, when I think that I came out 
 of silence and shall return to it again, I feel what a 
 vast balance there is against me. 
 
 " Oh, is there not enough of silence here, 
 Of joy unspoken, of unworded cheer ? n 
 
 Claybome muttered in his great beard something 
 about grown-up children, and then said aloud, " It is a 
 Persian poet who says : 
 
 "Silence is the seed of thought." 
 
 " Well, then, that man had better have kept quiet a 
 little longer ! " exclaimed St. Clair. " Talk is the seed 
 of thought." 
 
 " That is measurably true for me," returned Vincent, 
 who had just entered. " At all events, I get cleared up 
 as to a problem when I talk it out, and especially when 
 I speak it out afoot ; I mean in court, for instance." 
 
 " But for my part," I said, " I never clear my head 
 to my satisfaction until I write out my thinkings. I 
 may have to do it over and over, but in no other way 
 do I get the best out of my brain."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 93 
 
 "And I," said Clayborne, "must sit down with a 
 pipe, alone, and let my head work. Then it comes, if 
 it come at all. But this follows days of looser, yet 
 quite constant musing on the matter, and I talk slowly, 
 as you know." 
 
 " Yes ; we know," murmured St. Clair, viciously. 
 
 " Bad boy ! " whispered Mrs. Vincent. " Go into a 
 corner of silence, and stay there. Pray go on, Mr. 
 Clayborne." 
 
 " I fancy," he continued, " that the rate of thought 
 must govern the rate of speech. Quick thinkers are 
 rapid speakers." 
 
 " I wonder," said St. Clair, " why it bothers a fellow 
 to talk on his feet. I once had to speak at a dinner. 
 I shiver at the remembrance. Where did my thoughts 
 go, Owen ? I got up with a full pocket, and in a mo- 
 ment was a bankrupt." 
 
 " Judging," said I, " from one's f eelings the day after 
 a public dinner, one's thoughts must go to the liver." 
 
 "That explains it," laughed Vincent. "It has al- 
 ways been a puzzle to me." 
 
 " Apropos of puzzles," said Mrs. Vincent, " Fred tells 
 me you have an enigma for me, and that is curious, 
 because I have one for you." 
 
 " Here is ours," I returned, and repeated it. 
 
 "You will never guess it," said Clayborne. "It 
 roosted that night in a corner of my brain, and kept 
 me awake. At last I cursed it in good Arabic, and 
 f eU asleep." 
 
 "Stop!" said Mrs. Vincent. "It is " And she 
 whispered to me. 
 
 " You have it. That is correct."
 
 94 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " The female brain is an extraordinary instrument," 
 said Clayborne, reflectively ; while Vincent, laughing, 
 insisted on hearing the solution. 
 
 "No," she said 5 "not until you have guessed mine, 
 and perhaps not then. It is short, and pretty, and 
 very easy; in fact, it was made for some children. 
 
 Here it is : 
 
 "My first is one, 
 My second five, 
 My whole is four, 
 And backwards six." 
 
 "That is rather pretty," said St. Clair. "Is it" 
 And he whispered. 
 
 " No ; that is clever, but not correct." 
 
 " An amusement for fiends," said Clayborne. "Any- 
 thing is better." 
 
 "Do you all give it up?" asked Mrs. Vincent. 
 " Well, the answer is I shall never, never, tell you 
 the answer." 
 
 " Then here is my history. I had the man's leave 
 to use it. And now, candles, please." And so I 
 went on. 
 
 NOTES OP A CASE OF TOO GOOD A MEMORY. 
 
 As a child I was remarked on account of absence 
 of imagination, and for a memory of remarkable char- 
 acter. I learned everything with singular ease. As I 
 grew older, I found it so possible to memorize readily 
 that in place of using my mind in geometry or algebra, 
 I simply read over the problems and their solutions, 
 and got them by heart. At first this method answered
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 95 
 
 all the demands of education, but when I came to ap- 
 ply my knowledge to examples where no solutions 
 were given, I of course failed. Nevertheless, I was so 
 ready with acquired knowledge that I contrived to zig- 
 zag through my school course, and then, by my father's 
 help, obtained a place as reporter of street incidents. 
 
 And here let me pause to describe my mental con- 
 dition. The full consciousness of the great mental 
 peculiarity of which I now speak came to me only 
 after a time, and by degrees, and more by reason of 
 the remarks made by others than from my own unas- 
 sisted observation. This struck me forcibly once when 
 I was about to do a race ; I was then eighteen years 
 old. A man asked what was the lineage of a certain 
 horse. I began, and without effort, or, indeed, thought, 
 traced the parentage back to Eclipse. This excited 
 vast amazement. Then, as afterward, I wondered at 
 the surprise and interest my powers of memory occa- 
 sioned. The results which caused surprise were purely 
 automatic, and cost me no effort j nor have I ever been 
 able to feel that I had to try in order to recall a fact. 
 In a word, my memory was perfect. At first this may 
 seem to the reader a matter of little interest ; but in 
 reality the power to forget is one of the most valuable 
 and helpful gifts which a man possesses. When men 
 regret the want of vivid memory, I wonder, and envy 
 the deficiency of which they complain. I wish, indeed, 
 that I could feel sure of the power of death as an ob- 
 literative change. As to the loss of memory, of which 
 the aged speak, I am most anxious. I presume, from 
 what I hear, that men lose in time the vivid recollec- 
 tions of sorrow, and that Methuselah at nine hundred
 
 96 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 might have reflected with little discomfort on the 
 follies, the griefs, the crimes, of his youth. Even the 
 keenest remorse would lose its cruel edge and be rusted 
 dull by time. If I read a book, it is mine forever; 
 clever or vapid, there it is. I forget nothing. I can 
 repeat Shakspere from end to end. As a consequence, 
 nothing seems to me to be fresh or original. A phrase 
 recalls one like it, and as life goes on I cease to get 
 pleasure out of books or men's talk. 
 
 At one time I eked out my narrow income by read- 
 ing manuscripts for a journal ; but as in regard to the 
 cleverest contributions I could at once point out end- 
 less plagiarisms of thought or expression, I soon be- 
 came unpopular and lost the occupation. Somewhat 
 later I was given work to do for an encyclopedia. 
 Seemingly there was no task for which my enormous 
 store of varied erudition was better fitted, and yet here 
 too I failed. My employers complained that I had no 
 sense of proportion. All knowledge was alike to me, 
 and all was equally well remembered. The large, the 
 small, were as one in my mind, and had the same im- 
 portance, because the place of a comma, and the words 
 among which it lay, seemed to me equally distinct. 
 As I reflect on this with an ever-present sense of puzzle, 
 I seem to myself to be a mere memorial machine in 
 which the gearing of association is altogether too 
 complete. 
 
 My intensity of memory is accompanied with a curi- 
 ous automatic capacity over which I have, as life goes 
 on, a constantly lessening control. If I remember a 
 note, or a bar of music, I seem to hear it and a long 
 succession of passages from the opera to which it be-
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 97 
 
 longs, and this is also true as to books. When awake 
 in the dark, but also in a less degree in the daylight, 
 I have any scene or incident which occurs to me vis- 
 ually projected into space before my eyes even more 
 vividly than when I first saw it. Of late the fidelity 
 of these recurring phantoms has troubled me, on ac- 
 count of their appearance seeming to be real, or what 
 is called objective. I ascribe such apparitions to the 
 diseased perfectness of memory, for sometimes what is 
 past returns to me remembered in a shape even more 
 distinct than was the impression made at the time by 
 the then present course of the occurrence. It is singu- 
 lar to me that remembered sounds, which ring in my 
 head, seem heard within it, but things once seen al- 
 ways appear to be outside of the head. 
 
 As I remember my dreams quite as well as the scenes 
 of the day, I find myself troubled at times, and in 
 doubt as to whether something is real or the product 
 of a dream ; for if a dream be as definite as a thing 
 seen in the daylight, how shall we know it to be a 
 thing untrue ? 
 
 Certainly absolute perfection of memory is a mis- 
 fortune, unless the deliberative and executive powers 
 of the mind are normally competent to keep discipline 
 and deal with memories which have the force of a mob. 
 
 I am told, indeed, I know, that, for most men, 
 time slowly but surely blurs emotional recollections. 
 If it were not so, all lives would be like mine unen- 
 durable. With me the strong absolute fact of a ca- 
 lamity, the thing as it took place, really lives in my 
 mind as if it had happened a moment ago, and with 
 its recollection rises, in agonizing clearness, the emo-
 
 98 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 tion to which it originally gave birth. Time has no 
 destructive value ; all the details remain. Thus, as to 
 my mother's death, I am forced, when associations 
 arise, to see in all its ghastliness the minutest of the 
 incidents of her last hours with the dreadful sharpness 
 they had for me when, a tender child of twelve, I saw 
 her die. Does a recurring memory merely play anew 
 on our capacity for emotion, or do the emotions once 
 felt remain for us as memories ? I do not know. I 
 think I must remember the emotions and not recreate 
 them, because I am not now so sensitive to moral 
 hurts as I once was. There is one curious trick which 
 my sensations now and then play, and which I es- 
 pecially dread, and, strangely enough, it is connected 
 with the only defect of memory to which I am ever 
 subject. I can best illustrate this by relating an inci- 
 dent of my reportorial life. 
 
 Passing up an obscure street in New York, I saw a 
 crowd around a doorway. I went, as was my business, 
 to see what was the matter. A policeman who knew 
 me, and who arrived at the same time, took me in with 
 him through a window in the basement. It seemed 
 that screams had been heard in the house, and those 
 collected by the noise feared to enter. We went up a 
 shabby staircase and finally found a door which was 
 locked. As we stood near it, getting no answer to our 
 demands to be let in, I suddenly grew faint, and a 
 sensation of pure, causeless terror overcame me. I 
 told my companion that I was ill, and ran down-stairs. 
 Here I sat in a lower room, opened the window, and 
 tried to think what it was that had thus disturbed me. 
 The feeling that for once my memory was at fault was
 
 CHABACTEKISTICS. 99 
 
 agreeable to me, as it always is. In a few minutes I 
 knew that I had simply remembered a mental state 
 without getting hold of the causative fact. Then sud- 
 denly I was aware that it was the odor of blood which 
 had caused me to remember I should say, to feel 
 again the anguish of terror I had experienced when, 
 as a child, I saw my father bleeding from a wound of 
 the forehead. In a few moments the policeman came 
 down to say that a brutal murder had been done in 
 the room we had tried to enter. This leads me to add 
 that my sense of smell is acute. 
 
 A few days after this I was walking up the Bowery 
 of a cold night, when I found a group around a girl 
 who had fallen on the slippery ice and hurt herself 
 badly. Her face, as she lay pale under a gas-lamp, at 
 onco recalled one whom I had well known. With 
 some help I got her into a hack, and took her home to 
 a poor little lodging where she lived with her mother. 
 She herself was a map-colorer, and the two were evi- 
 dently folks who had seen better days. The following 
 morning I went to see them, and then began for me a 
 period of indescribable joy in my lonely life, and yet 
 of as utter misery. 
 
 I was, at the time I speak of, thirty-one years old. 
 When about twenty I had been engaged (foolishly, my 
 father said, as I had not a cent) to a girl of quite or- 
 dinary character. It ended as such affairs are apt to 
 do, and I suffered as a lad does. Another would in 
 process of time have come out unhurt. As for me, it 
 led me to avoid women. Not that I disliked them; 
 they have more charity for peculiar people than men 
 have. But every little tenderness, a movement, a turn
 
 100 CHAEACTEKISTICS. 
 
 of the head, brought back to me intense remembrances, 
 and all their bitter emotional accompaniments. 
 
 Throughout our simple courtship I struggled with 
 the demon of remorseless memory. If I touched her 
 hand, there arose the many times when I had so 
 touched the hand of the other woman, and when at 
 last I kissed Helen, of a sudden I felt the older joy, as 
 it were, alongside of this new one. The ghost of ex- 
 tinct passion haunted the sweetness of my new and 
 better love. So mercilessly intense was my remem- 
 brance that I became giddy for a moment. I no 
 longer loved the other woman, and yet the recollection 
 of my joy at winning her was brought back by a like 
 joy in a form so real as to puzzle and confuse me. 
 
 There is no need to exemplify this trouble in detail. 
 It recurred so often that at last I told Helen. At first 
 she seemed only amused, but very soon became an- 
 noyed, and, absurd as it may seem, jealous of the in- 
 fluence my fatal memory exerted. She insisted that I 
 could control my thoughts. I became angry at last, 
 and we parted. Strangely enough, this rupture was 
 a relief to me. 
 
 It seemed to me, as I read the books about memory, 
 that every memorial impression must materially alter 
 the brain somewhere and somehow, and that very little 
 change should be needed to lessen what must be so 
 slight a record. And yet, alas ! for me these records 
 seem to be unalterably persistent. 
 
 In Professor Draper's work I found his illustration 
 of how faint need be a material record to be perma- 
 nent He says: "Put a coin on a clean mirror. 
 Breathe on both, and wait for the moisture to evapo-
 
 CHAKACTEEISTICS. 101 
 
 rate ; cast off the coin, put the glass aside for some 
 days, and again breathe on the glass, and the outline 
 of the coin will reappear." His illustration is good, 
 but is as nothing to the delicacy of the memorial mind- 
 marks. 
 
 I have said that I have small power to reason. I 
 may add that I have no imagination. Memory is too 
 implacable with me to admit of that. When I try to 
 imagine in any of the forms described by Ruskin, I 
 feel as though I am merely hustled by a rush of re- 
 membered facts. Every one is a poet in his sleep, but 
 even in dreams I seldom see anything not possible, 
 or even not clearly out of my memorial storehouse. 
 Facts suggest only facts for me in my effort to reason 
 deeply, and to drive a wedge in between two facts or 
 remembrances, and thus to separate and hold and ex- 
 amine them comparatively is difficult. My mind asso- 
 ciates too rapidly for mental valuations. Thus I am 
 forbidden by my morbid accuracy of memory to be 
 other than minutely truthful, and the effort to make 
 use of the little lies which cement social intercourse is 
 rendered hard. I am not unwilling to fib, but it hurts 
 me to be inaccurate. 
 
 After reading Dr. Horatio Wood's articles on hash- 
 ish, I decided to see if this drug might not help me. 
 I took, at first, small doses, and at last a larger one. 
 The result I shall never forget. I had been writing, 
 and was suddenly aware that I had lost control of my 
 mind, and faintly realized what had happened. In 
 place of enfeebling my memory, the drug had rein- 
 forced it. With this came also a horribly strange sen- 
 sation of the flight of time. Countless ages seemed to
 
 102 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 go by as palpably as a rushing stream. Every mo- 
 ment seemed to be freighted with a load of memories, 
 each mercilessly definite. I had, in fact, a sort of ver- 
 tigo of reminiscences. It seemed to me that every- 
 thing I had ever seen, read, or heard flashed into and 
 through my consciousness. This ended my experi- 
 ments. I am a miserable man. 
 
 WHEN I came to a close Clayborne was calmly sleep- 
 ing. As I ceased, he wakened, and declared it to be 
 very interesting. 
 
 " It is merely horrible," said Mrs. Vincent. " How 
 welcome death must be to such a man ! I can under- 
 stand that he might kill himself." 
 
 " But perhaps death may also result in a vertigo of 
 memories," I returned. 
 
 " Perhaps ; yes. That indeed might give us pause."
 
 VHI. 
 
 VINCENT, who did not love the 
 sea, and whose dislike was recipro- 
 cated by very evil treatment on its 
 part, was always glad to give her 
 husband what she called a temporary 
 divorce. She knew well how much 
 the roughest sea voyage was his friend, and was well 
 pleased when in summer she could persuade him to 
 get away in his yacht. 
 
 " I have a note from Vincent," said St. Clair one 
 day early in September. " He wants us to join him at 
 Jamestown. Clayborne says this town is good enough. 
 I believe he cools himself with the classic authors. At 
 all events, go he will not." 
 
 I was happy in the chance of relief, having been 
 detained in town all of August, and so it was that two 
 days later we joined Vincent. We lived on his little 
 vessel, sailed around Newport,, and for a month lived 
 a life of joyous freedom. 
 
 One day we started together to walk on Canonicut 
 Island, across a country road which led away from the 
 few houses on the shore. Gaining a little hilltop, we 
 looked over at Narragansett and out to sea, or, turn- 
 ing, saw the Dumplings, the fort, and the quaint old 
 8
 
 104 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 steeples of Newport above the white houses scattered 
 along the bay. 
 
 The day was perfect, and it was quiet, too, with the 
 stillness on sea and on land of a New England Sab- 
 bath. Presently, moving on, we overtook a small, 
 slightly built woman, who was pausing here and there 
 to gather wild flowers. 
 
 St. Clair asked her the road to Beaver Tail Light- 
 house. She said it was a rather crooked way through 
 gates and fields, and then, as Vincent drew near, ex- 
 claimed, " Oh, what a bit of luck to see you here ! n 
 
 It was evident from his greeting that they were old 
 acquaintances. He turned and presented us. " Miss 
 
 M ," he said, " and will not you show us the way ? 
 
 For otherwise we are but lost men." 
 
 She smiled pleasantly, and said a few words to each 
 in turn, in a manner quite hard to put in words, but 
 which, however one might describe it, as gracious or 
 generous, at once established mysteriously cordial re- 
 lations with the hearer. It was easy to see in a few 
 minutes that she had the rare gift of intellectual sym- 
 pathy, perhaps I should have said of sympathy in most 
 of its forms. The farmers we met in their Sunday 
 black suits knew her, and their dogs came and jumped 
 on her as if welcoming a friend. The little children 
 cast up at her shy glances of acquaintance. As we 
 walked along, she seemed to hear all that was said, and 
 yet with wandering eyes to see all that earth, air, and 
 sea had to show. 
 
 We passed through fields and open gates, and at 
 last rested on a grass-bank by the roadside. On our 
 left was a dense shrubbery of undergrowth, ferns
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 105 
 
 and scrub-oaks. The low lichen-stained walls bounded 
 fields of perfect grass. Below us, to the left, the mur- 
 mur of breaking waves came softly to the ear, and 
 beyond, the open ocean lay intensely blue in the sun 
 of noon. 
 
 St. Clair evidently interested our companion. He 
 was in a mood of half -suppressed and joyous excite- 
 ment, such as open air and nature at her best were apt 
 to produce in him. " What a well-mannered day ! " he 
 said, looking around. " Such a nice reserve in its way. 
 Here comes the wind out of the north, and says, I 
 might be cold, but I am not ; and the midday sun lets 
 you know it might be warm, and is not. It is a 
 day full of delicious possibilities, like like a nice 
 woman." 
 
 I saw Vincent's eyebrows go up in faint amusement, 
 and his face said clearly, "The dear fellow is off." 
 
 Not so Miss M . " What a pretty phrase ! " she 
 
 exclaimed, smiling. "A well-mannered day. I shall re- 
 member that. One has worn out weather phraseology." 
 
 "Oh," said I, "the thief, 
 
 "She has the mystery of a morn in May, 
 Nor hot nor cold, 
 Nor ever grave, nor ever gay, 
 Until her secret soul be told." 
 
 "Ah, they always laugh at me," cried St. Clair. 
 "And as for Dr. North's quotations, who can trust 
 them ? He is a poet in disguise, and has a half -sup- 
 pressed notion that poetry is a sort of asking of the 
 alms of emotion, and not quite as reputable work as 
 pretending to cure folks. The day may guard her
 
 106 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 
 
 secret soul for me. The fair outside is enough. There 
 is joy in the very air. It is a honeymoon of delight. 
 Come, I am for the sea." And with this he rose and 
 walked on ahead of us at a pace that soon left us far 
 behind. 
 
 " What a glad face ! " said Miss M . " It has the 
 
 most singular power of joyous expression. I remem- 
 ber, cousin Fred, your once speaking of him in Rome, 
 of his intense power to feel ; of his camaraderie with 
 all natural objects (I think that was the word you 
 used ; it struck me as happy)." 
 
 " I am very fond of him," returned Vincent. " He 
 is joyous by mere natural construction, a seer of things 
 that escape us. I envy, without comprehending, his 
 sensitiveness to innumerable impressions which escape 
 uncaught through the coarser meshes of my mental 
 net." 
 
 " What you say is quite true," I added ; " and with 
 it all there is a capacity for friendliness with every 
 living thing which has often surprised me. He will 
 quiet the fiercest dog, or take unhurt a handful of bees 
 in his grasp. I have seen him handle a rattlesnake." 
 
 " In another man," said Vincent, " I should call his 
 affection for trees or flowers an affectation. In him it 
 seems entirely natural. I am an observer because I 
 have learned to observe, but this close relation to the 
 world of animate and inanimate things is like the tie 
 of kindred. I can merely regard it with wonder." 
 
 "Why do you call them inanimate?" said Miss 
 M . 
 
 " Because they are." 
 
 " We may not be animate enough to know."
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 107 
 
 "I am not," returned Vincent. "I wish I were. 
 Something I lose, and we cannot afford to lose any of 
 the reasonable joys of life." 
 
 " You will never miss it," said Miss M , " really 
 
 miss it I mean this nearness of relation to nature 
 as you will if ever a great misfortune should pass into 
 your life, and become thenceforward a part of you I 
 may say, of your every fiber." 
 
 She spoke quietly, without any tone of self -allusion 
 in her manner ; but I turned to scan her face, and 
 saw that as she spoke her eyes were set on the distant 
 horizon, and at once understood that she spoke of 
 herself. 
 
 " That is true," I said. " There is strange comfort 
 in nature v/hen man has none to profit you. I think 
 we all must have felt with Victor Hugo the helpfulness 
 of finding in nature such companionship in our moods 
 as does give a certain, if mysterious, solace. 
 
 " J'aime la roche solennelle 
 D'ou j'entends la plainte eternelle, 
 Sans tr&ve eomme le remords, 
 Totijours renaissant dans les ombres. 
 
 He is grieving over a debased and fallen France, and 
 the sea is grieving with him." 
 
 " Yes," she said ; " there are times when no human 
 soul is tender enough, simple enough, or, if you like, 
 subtle enough in its apprehensions, to be the friend we 
 want when man delights you not, nor woman either. 
 It may be, it may seem to be, absurd to some, but there 
 are days when to be alone with the sea, or solitary in 
 the forest, consoles as nothing else can do on earth. 
 I think," she went on, " that this mere loneliness with
 
 108 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 nature has negative as well as positive values. One 
 escapes from talk. That alone is an immense thing 
 one need not make reply to the glad babble of the 
 waters." 
 
 "And for me," said Vincent, "there would be but 
 one remedy work." 
 
 " No," I returned. " Few men, and fewer women, 
 while still near to a great sorrow, can find relief in 
 work. Few have energy enough for this. Those who 
 have strong characteristics run risks which not the 
 sturdiest can afford to despise. I have seen many a 
 man under the stress of grief break down with intense 
 business occupation." 
 
 "And yet," said Vincent, " what else is there ? Let 
 us suppose that we have used as we may all that higher 
 consolations can offer ; what shall a man do who is 
 stricken down with the loss of something the most dear 
 to him on earth ? Work would be my remedy." 
 
 " You might be able to bear it ; many are. Time 
 would probably answer with you, and do all that is 
 possible. I fancy the means of relief must vary with 
 the man. It is quite sure that for many physical ac- 
 tion is of use, and often saves the sensitive from those 
 outward expressions of emotion which for them, at 
 least, are full of moral and even physical danger. 
 After a while there comes a time when systematic work 
 is of value ; but I am sure that in days of sorrow some 
 people are best left to themselves. The blow of grief, 
 like that of the lion's paw, deadens the sense of its own 
 hurt, and to urge physical exertion, work, or travel, 
 or, in fact, anything, is vain or dangerous."
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 109 
 
 "Of course," said Vincent, "one's thoughts about 
 these matters are chiefly of and for the nobler char- 
 acter. The mass of men suffer and get well without 
 excess of sorrow." 
 
 " The thing we are after is, or ought to be," said 
 
 Miss M , " how to save the best natures from the 
 
 inefficiency which sorrow sometimes brings in its train 
 the physical wreckage it makes." 
 
 " And, after all, is that common, North ? " 
 
 " Common enough to be feared. But very often the 
 inefficiency which it brings has other explanations. 
 The dissolution of a partnership in life ruins or im- 
 pairs the usefulness of the surviving partner. The 
 dead gave something which was a complement essen- 
 tial to the usefulness of the remaining member of the 
 firm. There are wives who supply judgment or com- 
 mon sense, or who in some way have the gift of en- 
 ergizing the husband, or of keeping him economical. 
 She dies, and he is relatively valueless. Then people 
 say it is grief, while very often he himself never fully 
 comprehends what has happened to him." 
 
 "That is most true," said Vincent. "But to go 
 back a little. Your remedy of contact with solitary- 
 nature must be only for the few, who have with it such 
 relationship as you have been discussing. For some 
 I am sure that travel has its value, because we are thus 
 surrounded with distracting objects, and by people who 
 may interest us without intruding on the solitude of 
 ourselves. The loneliness of forest or sea would for 
 me be madness under circumstances of such trouble 
 as we are speaking of. Nature, not your nature, but
 
 110 CHAKACTEEISTICS. 
 
 nature in the more inclusive sense, never invented La 
 Trappe." 
 
 "It gets very complex as we go on," said Miss 
 
 M . "The fact remains that for many, for the 
 
 sensitive, and often for others than the intellectual, 
 the world of natural things has soothing ways and an 
 inexplicable comfort not elsewhere to be found." 
 
 " It may be," returned Vincent. " What are those 
 lines of which St. Clair is so fond ? 
 
 "Only on Nature's lap can some men weep, 
 Only to her beloved gives she sleep ; 
 Her sympathy alone hath ever perfect touch, 
 Mpn gives too little or he gives too much." 
 
 "Thank you," said Miss M . "And where is 
 
 your friend? "We ought to be ashamed to use this 
 perfect day for a talk so grave. Let us keep the rest 
 of it for an east wind." 
 
 "And its consolations," laughed Vincent. "As to 
 that I am at one with you. Its relations to me are 
 despotic and disagreeable. Oh, there he is, the idle 
 beggar. All Lombard street to a china orange, he has 
 been making poetry. Halloo, St. Clair ! " 
 
 Below the small lighthouse, on the rocks at the verge 
 of the sea, the sculptor lay with his head over the 
 edge, his face exposed to the full sunlight. The waves 
 broke far out on a reef, and as they rose again with 
 failing power just touched his head. He laughed with 
 the glee of a truant boy. As we came down the rocks 
 he sat up, shook the brine out of his hair as a dog 
 does, looked about him, and said, " Oh, the treacherous 
 sea ! There it is." 
 
 The little black note-book he usually carried in his
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. Ill 
 
 pocket, having been laid on a rock, had been drifted 
 off by a wave. 
 
 " Poetry gone to sea," said I j and while we laughed 
 heartily at his look of solemn discomfiture Vincent 
 hooked the soaked book ashore with his cane. St. 
 Clair ruefully spread it out in the sun, while we made 
 numerous suggestions as to the loss to the world. St. 
 
 Clair said nothing until he looked up at Miss M 's 
 
 face. Then he exclaimed, " I think you could help me." 
 
 " Yes ; men have no resources," she said, and, taking 
 the book, went quietly up the shore and into the house 
 attached to the light-tower. 
 
 " Epic or sonnet ? " said Vincent. 
 
 "Sonnet," said St. Clair, tranquilly. "What bad 
 men you are ! Don't you know that was a real mis- 
 fortune? Only women are entirely good. No man 
 was ever so good as some women. Men reason them- 
 selves into goodness, but women oh, I hate you both ! 
 Get away, do." 
 
 There was some fun and some earnestness in his 
 phrases. Then he sat on the rock and threw stones at 
 
 the billows as if for punishment, until Miss M , 
 
 who was gone for a full half -hour, came back. 
 
 " It is all right," said she, " only a little blurred and 
 crumpled. It will serve now to keep me in remem- 
 brance." 
 
 He made no conventional mention of thanks, but 
 looking up, only smiled as he put the book away. 
 After this we sat on the rocks, saying little. 
 
 The sea was one vast round of sapphire set in the 
 gray of the rocks and the sparkling grasses of the up- 
 lands. Out of the pine woods of the northland came
 
 112 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 stronger every hour a great wind, and as the vast bil- 
 lows rose on the reef with white crests, it sniote them 
 so severely that the foam streamed southward in level 
 lines. 
 
 At last Miss M said : " How much of this do 
 
 you carry away, Dr. North ? In memory, I mean, and 
 distinctly." 
 
 I said : " My thoughts were far afield. I can see it 
 in a manner when I close my eyes; not as I once 
 could, when a child." 
 
 " It is with me almost as present with my eyes shut 
 as now," said St. Clair, " and I shall not lose it. Just 
 as I go to sleep is the time to recall a scene I once 
 saw, but I cannot always keep it. It changes, or gives 
 place to another. Is that common, North ? " 
 
 " I am not sure. It is common with me ; but al- 
 though, like you, I can best recall a scene then, I can- 
 not always do so. Something else appears, and then 
 that too changes. There must be a law deducible, but 
 as it is, with what we now know, I cannot explain the 
 facts." 
 
 "And have you," said Miss M , " certain habitual 
 
 dreams ? I have." 
 
 " Yes. I used to fancy I would collect experiences 
 on this subject. My own are often professional. I 
 make an error in a prescription ; or, about to lecture, 
 find in my portfolio a fairy tale." 
 
 "They would be equal in value a hundred years 
 hence," laughed Vincent. 
 
 "Too true," I returned. "A very common dream 
 with me is to feel that I float above the ground, always 
 a foot or two above it. It is most agreeable." 
 
 " Oh, I do that," said Miss M .
 
 CHAKACTEKISTICS. 113 
 
 " Yes ? And you like the sensation as you have it 
 in your dream ? " 
 
 " Certainly. But I had no idea it was a frequent 
 delusion ; for it is such with me, and a very complete 
 delusion. Sometimes I seem to have no legs at all, 
 and to be a spirit afloat." 
 
 " It reminds me," said Vincent, " of that queer tale 
 of a man who lost both arms and both legs in the war. 
 How was it the story ended, Owen ? a 
 
 " He is carried to a spiritual seance, and there in- 
 vited to choose what spirits he would call up. With 
 a great deal of sense he requested his legs to reappear, 
 and immediately was able to walk about the room. 
 He described his gait as rather uncertain, but ex- 
 plained it by the fact that both legs had been for two 
 years in the Government Museum, preserved in alco- 
 hol. The fun of it was that this absurd stoiy was ac- 
 cepted by spiritualists as a new proof of the truth of 
 their doctrine." 
 
 " Oh, not really ! " exclaimed Miss M . 
 
 " Yes. He had letters thanking him and asking for 
 details. But, in fact, the autobiography, as a whole, 
 deceived many, although it was written without the 
 least desire to mystify. In one place a sum of money 
 was collected for the poor victim." 
 
 " I think I must have read the story," remarked Miss 
 M . 
 
 " Just now," said Vincent, " I have in my sensitive 
 center a waking dream to the effect that my less noble 
 organs have been long vacant of food." 
 
 "Indeed?" said Miss M . "Then let us go. 
 
 But first, Mr. St. Glair, may I confess you ? " 
 
 "Yes; surely."
 
 114 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 " You have been making verses." 
 
 "They make themselves j sometimes in a vague, 
 disconnected way, sometimes so as to stay in my mind 
 and bother me like bad children until I hear and heed." 
 
 "And have you heeded to-day! and may I hear 
 what the children of the brain have said ? " 
 
 " If it will be pleasant to you." 
 
 "It will." 
 
 Then he quietly repeated these lines : 
 
 BEAVER TAIL ROCKS. 
 
 Fare forth, my soul, fare forth and take thine own ; 
 
 The silver morning and the golden eve 
 
 Wait, as the virgins waited to receive 
 
 The bridegroom and the bride with roses strewn. 
 
 Fare forth and lift her veil, the bride is joy alone. 
 
 To thee the friendly hours with her shall bring 
 
 The changeless trust that bird and poet sing ; 
 
 Her dower to-day shall be the asters sown 
 
 On breezy uplands, hers the vigor brought 
 
 Upon the north 1 wind's wing, and hers for thee 
 
 A stately heritage of land and sea, 
 
 And all that nature hath, and all the great have thought. 
 
 And she shall whisper, like a sea-born shell, 
 
 Things that thy love may hear, but never tell. 
 
 Vincent was silent, and I merely nodded to the poet 
 He understood me always. 
 
 "Is it good? Is it bad, Miss M ?" he said. "I 
 
 do not know." 
 
 " It is the spirit of this joyous day for me set some- 
 how in words," Miss M replied. " It likes me. I 
 
 always think that such a pretty phrase. I don't quite 
 care to discuss the verses. Send them to me, will 
 you?"
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 115 
 
 St. Clair nodded gaily, and we rose and went our 
 way. 
 
 Over the grass, through swaying primroses, among 
 the bowing plumes of goldenrod and aster came the 
 hearty north wind, as we went across the stone-walled 
 fields and saw the quiet bay and the gray lines of the 
 fort. 
 
 A farmer on the fence with his pipe took off his hat 
 to Miss M . She asked about his crops. 
 
 " There 's been a heap of grass, marm, this year, and 
 corn was never better. But this here farm of mine 'a 
 the best on the island." 
 
 " And he thinks he owns it," said St. Clair, apart. 
 "And yet the best of it to-day is yours and mine, and 
 stem or flower of that will he never own, nor sea nor 
 sky. I have known princes who did not own their 
 great old galleries of pictures." 
 
 " What it is to be a poetical Marquis of Carrabas ! " 
 laughed Vincent. " I am not of that famous family. 
 Gracious, it is four o'clock ! " 
 
 At the town Miss M left us. Then I asked 
 
 Vincent who she was. 
 
 "Miss M ," he said, "is a far-away cousin of 
 
 mine very distant, in fact. A New England woman. 
 During the war the man she was to have married was 
 killed at Fair Oaks. Since then her life has been one 
 of the widest charity. Strangely enough, this slight, 
 gentle woman with her quiet ways has a remarkable 
 control over the criminal classes. The good she has 
 done is past belief, and how it is that she understands 
 and influences these ruined outcasts I cannot even 
 dimly comprehend."
 
 116 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " I can," said St. Clair. " I am wicked enough to 
 understand. I could tell that woman anything." 
 
 "And how swiftly apprehensive she is," I added; 
 " and yet, despite her quickness, a patient hearer, and 
 that, I think, is rare. Quick-witted folks are apt to be 
 impatient. It needs the finest manners to keep them 
 free from the appearance of showing that they have 
 anticipated your explanations. They are very likely to 
 "be a trifle annoyed at overfulness of statement, just as 
 a slightly deaf man is at your speaking too loud." 
 
 "I think," said Vincent, "it is rather the dull to 
 whom you try to make things a little too clear who re- 
 sent it as the deaf man does a loud voice. Was not 
 your comparison rather misapplied here ? " 
 
 " Perhaps so ; but it is enough that you understand 
 me." 
 
 " I should like to know that woman better," said St. 
 Clair, " and never may. That is the worst of life." 
 
 While eating our belated lunch we ran down past 
 Beaver Tail, and then away toward the pretty tints of 
 Gray Head, and at last, crossing over past the beech 
 woods of Naushon, came to anchor in the moonlight 
 in the haven of Wood's Holl. There, on deck, in the 
 calm of a September night (for the north wind had 
 blown itself out), we fell by and by again into chat 
 about the chance companion of the morning. 
 
 Lying upon long cushions on deck with our pipes 
 the water sparkling below us with luminous life, for a 
 while no one spoke, until, at last, St. Clair said : " The 
 wonder to me is how that woman took up the threads 
 of activity and wove anew the warp and woof of lif e. 
 Was the man she lost worth having ? "
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 117 
 
 " He was of the best," replied Vincent. " A person 
 of resolute character and positive convictions. He en- 
 tered the army as a private, and was a colonel when 
 he died." 
 
 " And she has made herself what we have seen and 
 have heard to-day?" 
 
 " Yes," said Vincent ; " but she has one peculiarity 
 at first sight an odd one. She is not very fond of 
 children. Their needs and claims she recognizes, of 
 course, but she prefers to help men and women. I 
 never could understand that in one so tender." 
 
 " I think I do," I returned. " She has never again 
 thought of marriage, and the contact with these little 
 ones arouses, I suspect, all the sense of sadness she 
 must have at feeling that the vast instincts of mater- 
 nity can never be gratified. The sentiment is subtle, 
 but real. Men can with difficulty understand the 
 imTnen.se instinctiveness of the true woman nature. 
 When her lif e is fulfilled in marriage and motherhood, 
 everything tends to cultivate her instincts. In the 
 man's life, everything tends to lessen their influence, 
 and will with the woman, in proportion as she takes to 
 the sterner pursuits of man." 
 
 " You are, no doubt, right," said Vincent. " It makes 
 one think of her with renewed pity." 
 
 " And how it would all have destroyed some women," 
 said I. "When I write my famous book on the con- 
 duct of life, I shall have to consider disaster in its re- 
 lation to character." 
 
 " It gives a man," cried St. Glair, " a horrible sense 
 of responsibility to hear you fellows talk, as if events 
 were nothing and the man everything."
 
 118 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 
 
 " Why, in your way," laughed Vincent, " you are the 
 most obstinate little rascal conceivable." 
 
 "I!" said St. Clair. "I am kicked about by cir- 
 cumstances ; I am bullied by events. Experience does 
 me no good, and all the moral tonics disagree with me. 
 My what do you call it, North? oh, my idiosyn- 
 crasy is tremendously idiosyncratic." 
 
 "Oh, stop him," cried Vincent, laughing. "Take 
 his pipe away ; do something." 
 
 " I am a happy accident. Indeed, I am a series of 
 happy accidents. I never had a real trouble in my 
 life. And how delicious the night is! I am for a 
 swim, and to bed." 
 
 Nevertheless, he stood by the mast awhile, and then 
 said, "How stupid it is without women," and then 
 presently broke out in his clear tenor, a voice not very 
 accurate, and of no great strength, but of passionate 
 sweetness : 
 
 Good night ! Good night ! Ah, good the night 
 That wraps thee in its silver light. 
 Good night ! No night is good to me 
 That does not bring a thought of thee 
 
 Good night 1 
 
 Good night ! Be every night as sweet 
 As that which made our love complete ; 
 Till that last night when death shall be 
 One brief good night for you and me 
 
 Good night ! 
 
 A minute later the singer went overboard into the 
 glory of luminous gold, amidst which he swam, laugh- 
 ing out his joy as he smote the water into light. The 
 next day we left Vincent and returned home together.
 
 IX. 
 
 N a quiet Sunday afternoon Vincent, 
 St. Glair, and I were wandering in 
 the park. St. Clair was amusing him- 
 self over Clayborne's peculiarities. 
 "I wonder," he cried, "that he needs 
 any friends, considering the many 
 great and famous folks with whom he associates in 
 his library. I think that his books are more real to 
 him than are we. He even comes near to poetry when 
 he talks of them. I know they affect him as they do 
 but few. I declare to you, I can tell of an evening 
 what kind of books he has been reading. You know 
 he is capable of awful exercise in this way, and will 
 read straight through a day play after play of the 
 Greek dramatists, while dressing, and at meals, never 
 leaving the house. I have known Tiim to read all of 
 Bossuet without pause, and when I asked him once 
 what he had been doing the past week, he said he had 
 gone through Bernal Diaz del Castillo (what a noble 
 name!), Southey's 'Brazil/ and a beautiful tome, the 
 size of a small house, about Peru, by one Grarcilaso 
 de la Vega. He showed it to me. It has horrible 
 pictures of Incas burned alive. I tried the work on 
 Brazil a few minutes. Alas ! " 
 
 To this long discourse about our friend Vincent and 
 9
 
 120 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 I listened with much amusement as we strolled in per- 
 fect weather under the trees and along the west bank 
 of the river in our great city park. 
 
 The park, clotted with groups of happy people en- 
 joying the quiet and the green stillness of the trees, 
 was yet so vast as in nowise to trouble us by their 
 number, or to take away from the pleasant sense of 
 ownership we have in our many-acred domain. 
 
 Said Vincent presently, "And you think, my dear 
 fellow, you can tell what literary society Clayborne has 
 been keeping?" 
 
 "Oh, I can; indeed, I can, sometimes. One even- 
 ing (it was a month ago) he had very fine manners. 
 He has n't very good manners usually, but this time 
 he quite reminded me of well, of you, Vincent." 
 
 "Oh, really," said our friend; "of me?" 
 
 "Yes; and it turned out that he had been, as one 
 might say, to call on Mme. de Sevigne, and had met 
 Beaumarchais rather later, and La Rochefoucauld. 
 He hates poetry, all modern verse at least, or I 
 would lend him my Villon, just to see what a delight- 
 ful scamp he would come to be for an evening." 
 
 "It is a wonder that he can endure you at all," said 
 I. "Nothing annoys him more than vain questions, 
 as he calls them ; and for a fact, St. Clair, you have 
 a distinct capacity in that line." 
 
 "I know it. He does n't mind telling me. He says 
 I am like an intelligent child ; that I come, like Ham- 
 let's papa, in questionable shape ; and such other felic- 
 ities of abuse." 
 
 Much amused, I glanced from him to Vincent's face 
 of sympathetic mirth. The poet had a look of child
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 121 
 
 like joy at the remembrance of being looked upon by 
 Clayborne as a troublesome infant. He had what Vin- 
 cent called an instinctive nature, and the world seemed 
 to teach him no lessons, and experience to fail as a 
 schoolmaster. Yet, on the whole, I think he was of 
 us all the most happy. 
 
 I never saw any one quite like him in the infantile 
 way in which he could be influenced for the time by 
 his associations; and in bad society he had been 
 known to be very naughty. But this neither lasted 
 very long, nor affected him in a permanent manner ; 
 and with us he was ever at his best, which to me at 
 least, and to Vincent, was always better than the best 
 of most able men, for in his double way of sculptor 
 and poet he was distinctly a man of genius. 
 
 Evidently both Vincent and I were at one and the 
 same time thinking, with our companion as a text, for 
 the former said presently : 
 
 "Your notion about Clayborne is very amusing." 
 
 "And just what do you mean?" 
 
 "Oh, what you said of Clayborne. I was thinking 
 about it. Your statement of the peculiarity was well, 
 rather poetical, and yet measurably true. The inter- 
 course of men does not influence his ways or conduct, 
 but the quality of the books he has been reading does 
 appear in his thought and manner." 
 
 "Is it not," said I, "an instance of the automatic 
 imitativeness one observes as so variously influential 
 in life ? It is men who thus affect me. If I am with 
 a man of noble manners, I too become stately in my 
 fashions for the hour ; and with rough-mannered men 
 I find I must be on my guard."
 
 122 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Yes; I know that I know that," returned St. 
 Clair, ruefully. 
 
 "Great genius," said I, "perhaps only the greatest, 
 escapes the influence of this animal quality of imita- 
 tiveness j but you can still see it in the youth of the 
 poets, and sometimes even later. I should like to see 
 an essay on the 'Relations of the Poet to Poets.' They 
 are nearly all ignorantly, or of purpose, imitative in 
 their early verse." 
 
 "But is it not interesting, too," returned St. Clair, 
 "to notice how the individuality of the man may still 
 exist with unconscious imitation ? I wonder if Words- 
 worth knew how much of Scott got into his splendid 
 ballad of 'The Feast of Brougham Castle'; and yet 
 there are lines in it which only Wordsworth could have 
 written." 
 
 "And," said I, "is n't there a ring of Byron's vigor- 
 ous march of verse in those lines I love so well, 'Fleet 
 the Tartar's reinless steed' !" 
 
 "The same tendency to borrow form or matter is 
 in the early compositions of the great musicians," re- 
 marked St. Clair. "At least, so I am told." 
 
 "It is very human, no doubt," I returned; "and of 
 course one sees it intensified to morbidness in disease 
 in hysteria, and in rare eases of insanity, where a 
 man repeats automatically the words he hears, or the 
 gestures of the man at whom he chances to be looking. 
 
 "Are there really such cases?" Vincent asked. 
 
 "Yes ; I have caught even myself repeating uncon- 
 sciously the facial spasm of a man I was intensely 
 watching. The subject of hypnotism is very apt to 
 be the victim of suggestion, and to have set free that
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 123 
 
 imitative instinct which we usually keep under con- 
 trol. In fact, these cases are often the mere sport of 
 varied forms of suggestion. If, without other hint, 
 you pinch together the frontal muscles of one of these 
 sleepers, so as to imitate the facial expression of a 
 frown, he will at once become angry, perhaps furiously 
 so, and swear, or strike a blow. If you make his 
 cheek-lines assume the curves of mirth, this suggests 
 amusement, and he roars with laughter. He is deli- 
 cately susceptible to the hint, and responds at once." 
 
 "Then, probably," said Vincent, "to allow our feat- 
 ures to assume the first slight expression of passion is 
 a step toward failure of self-control, because what is 
 true of the morbid in a high degree must be true in a 
 measure of the wholesome." 
 
 " Yes j one sees that in emotional people. The yield- 
 ing to tears is the first step down a bad staircase, 
 where, soon or late, serious trouble from loss of moral 
 balance awaits the feeble." 
 
 "And to yield," said Vincent, "is to make at last a 
 habit. Repeated resistance to the slighter physical 
 expressions of emotion must end in making self-con- 
 trol easy." 
 
 "Yes; that is true. It is the constant lesson we 
 have, as doctors, to teach the hysterical. They are 
 always in danger of being trampled on by their emo- 
 tions. They can take no risks. For them even excess 
 of mirth is dangerous. What the children call a 'gale 
 of laughter' ends abruptly in an explosion of tears, and 
 then the brakes are off, and away they go." 
 
 "Pathos is the very shadow of humor," returned 
 Vincent. "We all know that, and yet the grave be-
 
 124 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 gets the gay more surely than the reverse occurs. It 
 seems curious that the expressions of the two states 
 should in nervous people reverse the rule of succession. 
 I mean that these should tend more readily to pass 
 from mirth to tears." 
 
 "That is not accurately correct," I said. "Tears 
 with them beget laughter, and the opposite is also 
 true." 
 
 "You men are getting out of my depth," cried St. 
 Clair. "I hate self-control except in other people. It 
 creates habits, and I loathe them. The only habit I 
 have is the habit of having no habits ; one inherits too 
 many as it is. There is a nice story in that big book 
 on Brazil ; it is the only thing I got out of it. It will 
 answer to kill your large talk. An ancient Indian con- 
 vert of the Jesuits, at Para, was sick to death, and be- 
 ing asked by the good padre what delicacies he would 
 like to comfort him on his way to purgatory, said, 'I 
 should like the tender hand of a Tapuya boy, well 
 broiled.'" 
 
 "Certainly it illustrates the permanence of original 
 habits," said Vincent, laughing. "But habit " 
 
 "Oh, don't begin again," cried St. Clair, who pro- 
 fessed to detest psychological talk. "Look at what 
 you are missing." 
 
 "You are right," returned Vincent. " 'Your solid 
 man sees not the sky.' Is n't that Emerson ?" 
 
 "Yes," said St. Clair ; "and his is also, 'Show me thy 
 face, dear Nature, that I may forget my own.' That 
 is what this is good for." 
 
 As he spoke, he led us through a hedge of under- 
 brush, and we came out on a green space with groups
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 125 
 
 of stately tulip-trees and oaks. A little beyond them 
 a marble-paved spring welcomed us. Overhead were 
 maples of great size and breadth of wholesome leaf- 
 age. Their roots were peeping out in white fibrous 
 bunches into the half -choked spring, alongside of which 
 St. Glair threw himself at length, while Vincent and I 
 sat down on the grass at a little distance. For a while 
 we said nothing. The clouds mottled the sunshine on 
 the woods and turf as they sailed overhead, and the 
 waters, finding a voice with their new birth, troub- 
 lously whirled around the stone-built pool, and gurgled 
 out through an irregular latticework of roots, mur- 
 muring more and more noisily as they tumbled down 
 the slope. 
 
 Meanwhile I watched our poet's face. His cap was 
 off, and below the crown of brown half curls his face 
 expressed in its varying lines a sense of the joy he 
 felt. I knew that he was more near akin to it all 
 than we. 
 
 As I looked, Vincent called my attention to a tree 
 near by, and, rising, for a few minutes we wandered 
 away. As we returned, I touched Vincent's arm, and 
 we stood silently observant. St. Clair lay on his back 
 beside the spring, dabbling in it with his hand, his 
 head against the rising bank of turf. I had seen him 
 in such a mood before. He was improvising. Quite 
 unconscious of our presence, he broke out into verse, 
 and then fell away to prose again, or let fall a rime. 
 
 "I see it, I hear it ; a fawn I be, and this is my play- 
 mate, new-born like me. A fawn on the hillside, a 
 brooklet is he. How the water finds a voice, and war- 
 bles meaningless things ; sobs and cries like an infant
 
 126 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 just born ! I break the clear mirror, I prance in the 
 stream j I laugh with its laughter, I dream with its 
 dream. It does not wait for me, my new playmate. 
 It is off and away: past rocks we go, twin-leaping 
 things, until at the cliff -verge I see it spring from 
 the edge. I dare not to follow the curve of its leap. 
 I hear its wild cry. Is it dead or asleep ? 'Mid the 
 ferns far below lies a quiet smoothness, so still, ah, so 
 still! Are yon dead, pleasant comrade? Then with 
 fear I go down, with my sharp ears intent, until far 
 away on the grass-slopes I find my little friend. I 
 see it trickle out of the rocks in jets, and remake it- 
 self again, and go athwart the slope, joyously tossing 
 the grasses on its way. Then I know that my new- 
 born friend can take no harm, and is as the gods 
 immortal." 
 
 " Is this the way they make verse ? " whispered 
 Vincent 
 
 We need not have feared to disturb him. St. Clair 
 was at times more simple than a child with its mother. 
 He turned, in no wise embarrassed. The mood of 
 wrapt, fanciful thought was gone, and, sitting up, he 
 said pleasantly, "Ah, you heard me. By Zeus ! but a 
 fawn I was for the moment." Meanwhile Vincent 
 looked on, in his face a faint expression of withheld 
 surprise at the naturalness of the man. 
 
 "Were I you, I would carve me a new-born fawn by 
 the just-born fountain," said I, "and put your mood in 
 verse on the rock near by." 
 
 "I could not," cried St. Clair; "I could not The 
 song is gone. To sing it anew, I should have to re- 
 capture the mood, and that is impossible.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 127 
 
 "I heard a bird in the air above 
 Sing, as he flew, a song of love. 
 To earth, from heaven overhead, 
 All the soul of love it said ; 
 But the bird is gone, the song is dead, 
 And heaven is empty overhead. 
 If I were the bird, or the song were I, 
 I may not know until I die, 
 And somewhere in the world to be, 
 Chant again, with soul set free, 
 Its rapture of felicity." 
 
 "Whose is that?" said I. 
 
 "Mine. I made it for you now as it came. I like 
 it; I shall not to-morrow. Do you like it, Vincent?" 
 
 "My dear fellow, I have been shaking myself up in- 
 wardly like a kaleidoscope to see if I could get my 
 confused mental atoms, by happy chance, into some 
 form of sympathy with you and yours. I cannot." 
 
 "And," said the joyous face looking up at him, "it 
 seems to you nonsense. Does n't it, now?" 
 
 "Not that, not just that, but incredible, curious; 
 and, frankly, I do not care about it as a product. I see 
 it gives you and others pleasure. It gives me little. 
 Sometimes I like the verses which jingle agreeably." 
 
 "O Vincent! Well" 
 
 "Yes; I suppose rime is the sugar of verse, but I 
 soon find it is only the sugar I am liking, and at the 
 end I can't tell what it all meant." 
 
 "He has been reading Swinburne," cried St. Glair. 
 "A wild debauch of rime and rhythms, and the sense 
 gets seasick on a rolling ocean of rhythmic billows. 
 I hate him. You like Owen Meredith. I know it ; I 
 am sure," he added, with mild scorn.
 
 128 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Well, yes," said Vincent, smiling. "I do some- 
 times a little not much." 
 
 "It is a demi-mundane creature, not a poet at all" 
 
 "I can read Milton and Browning some of him 
 and Pope," said Vincent, defensively. 
 
 "And the greatest what of them?" said I. "We 
 may as well know all your wickedness." 
 
 "Oh, those. Those are the revelations. 'The gods 
 who speak in men.' " 
 
 "And Wordsworth ?" said St. Clair, wistfully, and as 
 if he were tenderly mentioning some well-loved woman. 
 "Out with it!" 
 
 "And Wordsworth?" repeated Vincent. "Do not 
 fear that I shall be so commonplace as to sneer at him. 
 Yes ; I can read him. But how was it that he could fly 
 to-day and crawl to-morrow never seemed to know 
 if he were in heaven or of the merest earth ? Tell me 
 why so many poets lack power to criticize their own 
 work, and yet the making of it presupposes critical la- 
 bor soon or late. The poem you began to quote from 
 Wordsworth the other day I had never chanced upon. 
 I went home, and read and learned it. The first two 
 verses I care less for, but the last is like a storm for 
 vigor, like a trumpet for power to stir you ; and yet I 
 do not see them in any of the volumes of selections." 
 
 "Say them," said St. Clair. 
 
 "I can. You of course know them; they record 
 the fate of the French armies in Russia. 
 
 "Fleet the Tartar's reinless steed, 
 But fleeter far the pinions of the wind, 
 Which from Siberian caves the monarch freed, 
 And sent him forth, with squadrons of his kind,
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 129 
 
 And bade the snow their ample backs bestride, 
 And to the battle ride. 
 No pitying voice commands a halt, 
 No courage can repel the dire assault ; 
 Distracted, spiritless, benumbed, and blind, 
 Whole legions sink and, in one instant, find 
 Burial and death : Look for them and descry, 
 When morn returns, beneath the clear blue sky, 
 A soundless waste, a trackless vacancy. 
 
 How the first line tramps through one's brain, and ho"W 
 solemn is the silence in which the ending leaves you ! 
 Pardon me, St. Clair, if again I am stupid enough to 
 wonder how he who struck this note could " 
 
 "No, no, Fred ! " exclaimed the poet. " The children 
 of the brain are like the children of the body. You 
 say that is a fine lad, and how crooked is his sister. 
 Do you think the father feels responsible ?" 
 
 "Ah, my dear St. Clair, illustrations are full of peril. 
 Verse has no grandfathers, and, really, I think some 
 of your master's acknowledged offspring might have 
 been left at his doorstep in a basket by by " 
 
 "Now, take care !" laughed St. Clair. 
 
 "Well, by some Muse of easy virtue." 
 
 The poet laughed, and then said thoughtfully: 
 "The answer lies here. All the great poets have 
 written much. That is as if you were to say that you 
 or I talk much. Verse is their natural mode of ex- 
 pression, and there being in many of them a childlike 
 despotism of temperament which the world cannot 
 subdue, they sing what they feel, or think, or desire. 
 That is all of it, Vincent or one word more. This 
 must result in the product being often poor. But then 
 a time comes when health, joy, opportunity, sugges-
 
 ] 30 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 tion, nourish the prosperous hour, and something great 
 is done." 
 
 "But," urged Vincent, "why cannot they, like other 
 men, see where and how they have failed, and then 
 suppress for us the mass of stuff they leave us?" 
 
 "Let me answer him," said I. "For the lover of 
 verse there is less of this than you think, and among 
 the worst products of the best men there are lines one 
 would not lose. This is true even of the lesser poets 
 Crabbe, Somerville. I should be glad to have 
 written those lines on a good physician, 
 
 " And well he knew to understand 
 The poor man's cry as God's command. 
 
 Yet, who reads Somerville I* 
 
 "Remember, too," said St. Clair, "that self-criticism 
 is a thing in its fulness impossible. A man would 
 have to forget and live again. The poem is, for the 
 writer, a thing made up of the poem and the remem- 
 brance of all that went to form it the joy, the pain, 
 and what not. It has for him the delightfulness the 
 new-born child has for the mother. A poet once said 
 to me, 'I make my poems swiftly, when in the mood, 
 and afterward, except as to minor verbal changes, am 
 about as helplessly uncritical as is a bird of its song. 
 Always my last is for me my best, and then in a year 
 I cease to love it. But, surely, as nurses say, my last 
 poem puts out of joint the noses of all the rest.'" 
 
 "I have not heard that bit of nursery-talk since I 
 was a boy," said Vincent. "It is more meaningless 
 than most of our childish folk-lore. But you have not 
 answered me j you have only restated the facts."
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 131 
 
 "I think I have answered you," said St. Clair ; "and 
 you must remember that what another says of a poet's 
 verse (however just the comment) is to the poet as 
 mere babble. And then, too, the great critics are more 
 rare than the great poets, which is curious to me, but 
 I think true." 
 
 "Some one should write the history of criticism," 
 said Vincent. 
 
 "Do you know Dallas 'The Gay Art'?" 
 
 "No, or rather yes ; it is an unreadable book, despite 
 its learning. Even Clayborne could hardly stand a 
 full dose of it. I read a goodly part of it with wonder 
 and fatigue." 
 
 "I doubt," said St. Clair, "if any man who writes 
 were ever the better for the critics I mean as a 
 writer." 
 
 "That appears to me absurd," said Vincent. "A 
 good course of Sainte-Beuve might make you believe 
 that such a thing should be possible, unless all men 
 who write are idiots." 
 
 "But in this country," I urged, "we have only one 
 critic worth the name, and he has no ear except for 
 the past.* Yes; we could give up one half of our 
 authors for a critic like the author of the 'Causeries 
 du Lundi.' Come, let us go. Come." And we moved 
 through the field and into a noble woodland. 
 
 "Look at that creeper," said St. Clair. "An English 
 friend wrote me last year to ask what I meant by 
 
 "Autumn vines 
 Ablaze within the somber pines." 
 
 * And now, alas I since these lines were written, he, too, be- 
 longs to the past.
 
 132 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "And pretty hard it must be on the Canadian poets," 
 langhed Vincent, "that along the rivers of New Bruns- 
 wick the wild rose has no thorns. There is a frog- 
 pond below us. Just hear them ; they speak all the 
 tongues. The American boy calls them 'bloody 
 nouns.' Do they say that?" 
 
 "They do," said I, "and anything else you please. 
 I wonder what Russian frogs say ; the Greek frog is 
 immortal. I once fell in with some ex-rebel briga- 
 diers in North Carolina, and, among other good things, 
 I carried away one delightful frog story. I wish I 
 could give it tie flavor of the very pleasant Southern 
 tongue. 
 
 "The Yankee soldier, settled in Roanoke Island after 
 the war, complains of his fate. 
 
 " 'No, sir ; I don't git on, I 'm that bothered. I don't 
 mind bein' shot at used to that ; and I don't mind 
 cussin' cusses is soft sort of things. But when a 
 fellow 's tired 'bout sundown, and ye gits seated on a 
 smooth-topped fence-rail, and tucks yer toes under the 
 third rail, and lights yer corn-cob pipe, and is jus' 
 comfortable, and ye git to thinkin' of the ole home 
 and the apple-orchard and bees then them thar 
 derned grayback frogs commences. And one of 'em 
 he says, "Bull Run!" and another he says, "Ball's 
 Bluff ! " and at las' one little cuss gits up on his toes 
 'way out in the ma'sh, and he says, " Cheeckahominy ! " 
 I can't stand them there frogs. I 'm jus' goin' to leave.' " 
 
 "The story is rapidly improving under your hands," 
 said Vincent. 
 
 "For shame," I returned. "What ingratitude ! " 
 
 "Odd, is n't it," said St. Clair, "that every one has a
 
 CHAKACTERISTICS. 133 
 
 kind of tender feeling for frogs, and worse than none 
 for toads?" 
 
 "I admit it," said I. "I loathe toads. As a fact, 
 they secrete from the skin-glands an acrid and quite 
 deadly poison; if for defense or not, I cannot say. 
 But come, it is getting late." 
 
 "One moment," said Vincent. "Before we go, do 
 look at these trees. Really, there are few such collec- 
 tions of unusual trees. These cypresses are old friends 
 of mine ; this must be their northern limit." 
 
 "Of course they are not natives," I said. "And 
 they have lost their southern habit of sending up little 
 conical shoots from the roots what they call 'knees' 
 in the South a puzzle to the botanists." 
 
 "Probably want of moisture has to do with their ab- 
 sence here, because our monumental cypress at Bar- 
 tram's garden in wet ground has numberless knees. 
 Only a few miles from here stands the most northern 
 papaw-tree." 
 
 "Do you remember," I said to Vincent, "that it was 
 under that great cypress you and I first met?" 
 
 "I do, and pleasantly well I remember. We were 
 only lads then. You were looking up at its vast 
 branchings with your hat off. You uncovered as you 
 approached it." 
 
 "It is a feeling I often have that I must uncover 
 to a tree like that. I have always felt grateful to the 
 sturdy old fellow who silently introduced us to each 
 other." 
 
 "That 's rather nice," said St. Glair. "About trees 
 we are all of a mind. I wonder there never was a tree 
 worship."
 
 134 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 
 
 "And," I added, "what various pleasure one gets 
 out of them, how many kinds of joy." 
 
 "I have said before," remarked Vincent, "where my 
 own limitations lie. My pleasure is in simple obser- 
 vation. When people talk of books which influenced 
 them, I gratefully think that it was Ruskin who taught 
 me what to see, how to see, and the happiness of it. 
 Then I would come to a place where he spread wings 
 of a larger delight, and left me sighing." 
 
 "One should train children to see," I said; "really 
 to see. What is to be had in the way of enjoyment 
 out of the trained powers of the naturalist none know 
 who are not familiar with the higher grade of such 
 students." 
 
 "And that I can more easily comprehend," returned 
 Vincent. 
 
 "You ought to know Leidy,"* I said. "You remem- 
 ber my speaking once of his memory for specific 
 names. As were Agassiz and Wyman, so is he to- 
 day a delightful companion. He would stand here 
 and call by name every living thing, and the stones 
 beneath your feet also. Turn over a bit of rock, and 
 as the queer tiny menagerie of its sheltered life scut- 
 tles out, he knows them one and all their lives, their 
 marriages, what they eat, their ways, their deaths, a 
 hundred little dramas of this swarming vitality. And 
 then the knowledge is all so easily given, with so much 
 placid enjoyment, with such childlike directness, and 
 yet with but little sense of the deeper poetic relation- 
 ships which they bring to a rare few. He has the 
 morale of the best naturalists simplicity, earnestness, 
 * This greatest of our naturalists is since dead.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 135 
 
 and magnanimity. To help others to observe is his 
 greatest joy, and, my dear St. Glair, he does not really 
 care a sixpence for all the poetry from Homer to Long- 
 fellow." 
 
 "Poor fellow," said the sculptor. "If that is where 
 science takes a man, leave me to my folly." 
 
 "Happy man!" said Vincent. "Come, the dew is 
 falling ; let us go." 
 
 "The dew is condensing on the chilled earth, Mr. 
 Philosopher," I said. "It only falls for poets." 
 
 "Come," said St. Clair ; "I am tired." 
 
 After this the talk died out, and in the shadows we 
 wandered along the river-bank until the lights of the 
 town appeared in lanes of red on the water and in a 
 broad glow of luminous reflection from the sky above. 
 
 10
 
 OMETIMES it happened that I saw 
 often one or another of the three 
 men I called friends. Vincent and 
 I were both busy. St. Clair was at 
 times invisible for days 5 was shut up 
 with statues, or away alone on the 
 hills or by the sea. He used to say : "Every man has 
 need at times of a monastic life. If he cannot make 
 one for himself, he must be a poor creature. If I were 
 married, I should desire divorce for six months in each 
 year." 
 
 As to Clayborne, he was always accessible, and, as I 
 
 have said, Vincent alone was married. I myself had 
 
 had in earlier life a great trouble. For months it had 
 
 left me like one who has been near to death, and 
 
 escaped. In fact, it came close to being the foolish 
 
 death of all tender sentiment, of all respect for women. 
 
 I From this I had the wholesome logical recoil brought 
 
 \ about by the tremendous business called war. It saved 
 
 ' me from a fate worse than its bullets prepared for me. 
 
 That Vincent and his wife knew my story helped to 
 
 increase my intimacy with him. "We, too, were also 
 
 of the busy world of men and affairs, in which St. 
 
 Clair and Clayborne had no share, the one being in-
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 137 
 
 different, the other mildly scornful. None of us were 
 what I call ordinary men j and, indeed, Vincent used 
 to say that, to complete our group, we needed some 
 merely good fellow, who would represent the common- 
 place and commercial aspects of every-day life. 
 
 I called one morning upon Vincent on my way to 
 the hospital. He came down to his library at once, 
 and made me welcome with the cordiality which has so 
 much value in a man by habit reserved and tranquil. 
 
 "Ah," said he, "since you have been away our poor 
 iron-worker is able to move about on crutches, and is 
 going to make a little money out of his patent. St. 
 Clair is anywhere. As to Clayborne, he is just now 
 writing like mad. Some fellow in Berlin says he has 
 made grave errors in facts in that last book. You 
 should see him ; you would think the man had phys- 
 ically insulted him." 
 
 "And the good wife?" I said. 
 
 Oh, well ; and, by George ! North, she has another 
 oung woman in training for you. Look out. It will 
 be the woman you take in to dinner the first time you 
 dine here." 
 
 "'Who feels the warmth escapes the fire.' Come in 
 to-night j I have an ocean of talk dammed up for you. 
 Come late." 
 
 "I will. I meant to see you on a professional 
 matter ; it will keep until then." 
 
 As we went through the hall, Mrs. Vincent appeared 
 on the stair. "How lucky to catch you! How well 
 you look ! Come and dine on Friday night. You need 
 not think about it. I say yes for you ; it is settled." 
 
 Vincent smiled.
 
 138 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 I said, "It were useless to hesitate over so impla- 
 cable a fate," and went away. 
 
 That evening, late, I sat in what the American 
 doctor calls his office, but which was for me rather a 
 library, as the many tools my work required were kept 
 out of view in another room. I had none of Clay- 
 borne's desire to be walled in with books. The few 
 I loved best, a couple of hundred, were on one wall in 
 low shelves. Another case was full of dictionaries (of 
 which I am fond), and the walls were covered above 
 with pictures, prints, etchings, and the hundred me- 
 morials of a life of war, travel, and varied tastes and 
 interests. 
 
 "I want at least an hour," said Vincent, as he en- 
 tered. 
 
 "Then give me first ten minutes, Fred," I said. "I 
 have some notes to answer. I can write and talk, too, 
 in a way." 
 
 I gave such orders as would leave us undisturbed, 
 and went on with my work, while Vincent, putting a 
 portfolio on the table, took a cigar and wandered 
 about the room. 
 
 "If you really do not mind my talking " 
 
 "Oh, no ; not in the least." 
 
 "Well, if I say anything worth answering you may 
 reply or not. You have been shifting your pictures, 
 I see. We both have that fancy for rearrangement. 
 I like to prowl about a man's living-room ; there is a 
 sense of animal freedom in the name he gives it, a 
 den, and yours is full of the bones of things past. 
 Few women get much character into their rooms. The 
 very derivation of the name they bear is unamiable.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 139 
 
 I could tell that you have the taste of the savage for 
 pronounced color, and for disorder, too." 
 
 "Go on," I said, laughing. "I shall presently have 
 my whole biography evolved out of my surround- 
 ings. I simply loathe the precision of that table of 
 yours." 
 
 "Yes," said Vincent; "no doubt. It would annoy 
 me to have it otherwise, and I prefer to pamper my 
 own feelings rather than at their cost to coddle my 
 friend's sentiments. I am naturally selfish." 
 
 "Cold and indifferent," I went on. 
 
 "So says the world ; but, really, I do not think I am. 
 I am as tender inside as a crab, and sometimes I get 
 into the soft-shell state, and then alas! But as for 
 you," he added, "it is quite true that your room is 
 characteristic, at least of your tastes even of your 
 sentiments. Your table represents order amidst ap- 
 pearance of disorder. I should say you had trained 
 yourself to be methodical from absolute need to be so. 
 Also you are a hero-worshiper." 
 
 "Am I ? I could wish it were more common. But," 
 I added, dropping my pen, " I have done. You have 
 not yet noticed the new bronze of one of my heroes." 
 I directed his attention to a mask of Lincoln. 
 
 He stood a moment regarding it with interest. 
 " Curious, that," he remarked. " The side face smiles ; 
 there is humor in it. That is an immense help in a 
 serious life. It is the gentlest and wisest of critics. 
 And the full face is grave and homely." 
 
 " Do you see any resemblance to the masks of Crom- 
 well?" 
 
 " Faintly. And to Luther, who resembled Lincoln
 
 140 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 strongly in some ways; but the German face was 
 coarser." 
 
 "To Lincoln," I said, "humor was both sword 
 and shield; and yet he escaped that evil influence 
 which for some who possess it largely makes men like 
 Greeley absurd, or too ridiculous for charitable treat- 
 ment." 
 
 " It seems to me to have been intellectually helpful 
 to the man. Certainly it aided him to understand a 
 people who are at once the gravest on earth and the 
 most humorous." 
 
 " I suspect," said I, " that it plays a larger part on 
 the stage of life, even of the largest lives, than men 
 suppose, and, assuredly, it is a quality which asserts 
 itself even when death is near. Its absence is fatal to 
 
 some careers." 
 
 " There is none of it in this other hero of yours in 
 his face, at least," returned Vincent, turning to look at 
 a noble portrait of William Harvey. 
 
 "Not in the face," I said, "nor in his life as we 
 knew it until quite lately. But in his notes for lect- 
 ures on anatomy, just published, there is plenty of it. 
 Very early in his career, not remote from the date of 
 Shakspere's death, he must have been pretty surely 
 aware of the true doctrine of the circulation of the 
 blood, but, although he discussed it for his class, he 
 waited many years before he put it into print. Imag- 
 ine such reticent patience in these noisy days of hurry 
 and scramble to get the last novelty into print, lest it 
 should be found out and made public by some one else. 
 Haste does not belong to genius. That has the pa- 
 tience which seems to have been assigned by nature
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 141 
 
 to all forms of the creative faculty. For the gods, and 
 for genius, time is not." 
 
 " How un-English the face is," said Vincent. " The 
 type is that of a New England professor. The hands 
 are badly drawn." 
 
 "No; that is the gout. The painter knew better 
 than to manufacture hands for him. You are right in 
 the belief that he is one of my heroes. He had every 
 quality I should desire. He was grave, but humorous ; 
 gentle, but courageous; magnanimous, truthful, pa- 
 tient, and religious j and, above all, simple. I said he 
 had humor. Some idiots have been saying of late that 
 Bacon wrote Shakspere's plays. One point settled it 
 for me. Humor is a light no man can hide. Bacon 
 has none of it, and it is everywhere in Shakspere." 
 
 " The point," said Vincent, " as we lawyers put it, is 
 well taken." 
 
 " Here are Harvey's lecture notes," I went on. " The 
 other day I reread his life by Willis. Unluckily, we 
 know little of him, and grave text-books of science 
 give small chance for play of humorous thought ; but 
 in these notes we catch him in a familiar hour. See 
 how crabbed is the English hand of that day. The 
 notes, you see, are a medley of Latin and English. 
 He has set down headings and hints for illustrations. 
 The humor is quaint. An acid taste rising from the 
 stomach into the mouth reminds him of a motion from 
 the Lower to the Upper House of Parliament l ventris 
 inferni ' (nasty), he says, ' yett recompensed by admiry ' 
 (admirable variety). The brain is the parlor, the 
 stomach the kitchen, and so on. But what is it you 
 want, Fred ? "
 
 142 CHARACTEKISTICS. 
 
 "I want a little professional help. Last week a 
 woman came to consult me, a slight, tall person, re- 
 markably graceful, rather pretty, and, I may say, well- 
 bred a lady. She said that the case she wished to 
 lay before me was of a criminal nature. I replied that 
 I did not practise in the courts of criminal law. 
 
 " She returned at once, ' No, I was aware of that ; 
 but I need a gentleman, a man of my own class, and, 
 above all, one capable of imagining as possible what 
 seems to most men incredible.' 
 
 "I said at once, 'Sit down. 7 Her evident intelli- 
 gence, her calmness of statement, and her pretty man- 
 ners excited my sympathy. I begged her to go on. 
 She was a better witness than most, but her story was 
 a long one. I have condensed it into a few pages. I 
 will read them. Make your comments, or, better, note 
 them for discussion afterward. 
 
 "Seven years ago J. C , aged thirty, married 
 
 a woman of twenty in a Western city. She was 
 rich, very rich, I may say, and in person as I de- 
 scribed her. 
 
 " J. C , a man of refined and scholarly tastes, a 
 
 student of Oriental languages, failed in business soon 
 after their marriage. She induced him to retire to the 
 country, where they possessed, on a Western lake, a 
 charming home. He was a man without other than 
 mere intellectual tastes, slight, but healthy; refined, 
 gentle, and of a temper generally gay. At times, but 
 rarely, he was subject to depression, and was never 
 happy away from his wife and only child. In youth 
 he had been a sleep-walker. His father died early of 
 palsy. The father was an only child."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 143 
 
 ""A neurotic family," I said, "and two generations of 
 one child each. Some element of weakness. Go on." 
 
 "One year ago she received a check for twenty 
 thousand dollars, the amount of a mortgage paid off. 
 She indorsed it over to him to enable him to arrange, 
 in a city near by, for the payment of the only business 
 debt he had left, and, very happy at the promised re- 
 lease, he left her. 
 
 " On his arrival at M , he wrote her that he had 
 
 never been more glad, and that he was about to be rid 
 of the one burden which had troubled a life otherwise 
 entirely happy. From that day until a month back, 
 he was never heard of. He drew the money from the 
 bank, paid no one, was known to have taken an East- 
 ern-bound train, and that was all. 
 
 " The woman's distress of mind was evident to me, 
 but she had all of that self-control which belongs 
 to the thoroughbred woman, and, despite her distress, 
 was clear and exact in her statements. By and by it 
 became only too plain that she was a deserted wife. 
 The detectives, whom at last she employed, traced him 
 to this city, and here lost the clue. He was gone. 
 The case got into the papers, and was a nine-day 
 wonder. 
 
 " Meanwhile, two months passed, and Mrs. C , 
 
 having paid his debts in full, came hither to live, with 
 some vague hope of finding him ; and now comes the 
 second and more curious part of her story. It is al- 
 most as incredible as anything in fiction. 
 
 "After living here until July, and exhausting the 
 powers of the police, she went one day to the post-office 
 to ask for a letter which had been underpaid. At the
 
 144 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 general-delivery window the clerk was running over a 
 bundle of letters, and, as she waited, threw them one 
 by one on the window-shelf. Suddenly the handwrit- 
 ing on a letter caught Mrs. C 's eye. She said, ' Is 
 
 not that a letter for me?' The man said, 'Which? 
 What letter?' 
 
 " ' Oh, the last but one you threw down.' 
 
 " ' Your name is ? ' 
 
 " She mentioned it. 
 
 " He returned, ' There is no such name in this lot.' 
 
 " She turned away, went at once to the office of the 
 postmaster, and, simply telling her story, said she had 
 recognized her husband's handwriting in the address 
 of a letter. The official declined to allow her to in- 
 spect the letters. But at last she so satisfied him as 
 to herself and her object that he sent for the clerk, and 
 allowed him to run over the letters in question while 
 she looked on. 
 
 "Presently she said, "There! He wrote that ad- 
 dress.' It was Mrs. Louis Wilson, No. 422 Blank 
 street. The official of course declined to do more; 
 nor did she insist, being clear-headed enough to be 
 satisfied with the clue. Then she went back to her 
 detectives, and in a week or two knew all that there 
 was to know. Here is the report. 
 
 " Six months ago a man took a small house No. 
 422 Blank street. He was presumed to be married. 
 The man was roughly dressed and careless in person ; 
 had some business occupation as a clerk in a dry-goods 
 house ; known there as a good worker and punctual, 
 but slovenly as to dress, and unpopular by reason of
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 146 
 
 an abrupt temper and general lack of social qualities. 
 Traced back to a small hotel where he had once lived. 
 Was believed to have married one of the maids a 
 rough, good-natured, common woman older than he j 
 was now on a week's vacation at the shore. Name, 
 Louis Wilson. Home habits of life unknown. Might 
 drink at times, as he occasionally frequented a tavern 
 near by. 
 
 " After this Mrs. C easily contrived to see the 
 
 man. She is sure it is her husband. Her own force 
 and intelligence are shown by the fact that she did 
 not speak to him, and it is certain that there is some 
 mystery back of it all. Lastly, she comes to me." 
 
 " Well," said I, 
 
 "Oh, I could, of course, fasten on him; prove 
 bigamy ; punish him 5 free her ; or pay off the woman 
 in possession. By the way, he is certainly married ; 
 that I learned to-day. As against either course there 
 is much to be urged, and to neither course does Mrs. 
 C consent." 
 
 "And what does she want?" 
 
 " Nothing yet. She insists that the whole affair is 
 incredible under any assumption of sanity on the part 
 of C . How does it look to you ? " 
 
 " If all she says be true, the man is not insane." 
 
 " No. I have seen his employer ; you know him, I 
 fancy. I was able to learn from him all I wanted to 
 hear without alarming the man C . He is un- 
 sociable and even morose ; ill-dressed, even uncleanly, 
 so that he has been told that he must be neater. He 
 is said to be clear-headed, punctual, and accurate."
 
 146 CHARACTEEISTICS. 
 
 "All that might be, and yet he might have left 
 her under some delusion of which there had been no 
 warning." 
 
 "Well, it seems unlikely, and, let me add, Mrs. 
 
 C 's people I find are known to me. You may rest 
 
 assured as to her intelligent truthfulness, and even as 
 
 to her accuracy. I wired Mr. R , in M , and 
 
 now know all about her. What do you think ? and is 
 it a case for a doctor ? I myself am secure only as to 
 this not being an example of mere vulgar desertion." 
 
 " No ; there we are at one." 
 
 "Mr. S , his employer, has arranged to send 
 
 C to me with a letter to-morrow at eleven ; Mr. 
 
 C to wait for an answer. Could you meet us ? " 
 
 "Yes; I should like to. Let us adjourn further 
 consideration of the matter until then." 
 
 The next day I was talking to Vincent when Mr. 
 C came in. Vincent said to me, " Sit down, Doc- 
 tor, please, until I answer this note." While he wrote 
 
 I studied C . He was dressed carelessly; cuffs 
 
 and collar soiled; hair unkempt; nails uncared for. 
 Nevertheless, his facial lines were refined, if not strong, 
 and both hands and feet were of delicate make. He 
 sat in quiet, apparently a stolid, indifferent man. 
 
 At last Vincent looked up as he inclosed his reply, 
 
 and said : " I have asked Mr. S to name a man 
 
 who can do accurately a large amount of copying from 
 notes of testimony. It needs care to decipher two or 
 three bad handwritings. Once in clear shape, I can 
 have it type-written. He says you can do it." 
 
 " Yes, I can ; but I am slow. I could take it home. 
 I would be glad to do it."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 147 
 
 As C spoke I observed that it was with slowness 
 
 and as if unsure of his words. 
 
 Vincent went on, " Will you let me see your writ- 
 ing ? " 
 
 " I will bring some to-morrow. I write slowly." 
 
 "You speak a little like a foreigner." And then 
 carelessly, " Where were you born ? " 
 
 C looked at him, hesitated a moment, and said, 
 
 "I don't know." 
 
 " None of us do," returned Vincent in his gentlest 
 manner. "But where were you brought up? Are 
 you an American ? " 
 
 "I do not know; I kind of don't know. I must 
 have been sick ; I don't remember rightly." 
 
 The language and the tones were unrefined. Evi- 
 dent embarrassment was in the speaker's face, and he 
 moved uneasily. 
 
 " Try to think," said Vincent, kindly. When one 
 employs a man, it is desirable to know a little about 
 him." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I see " ; and he was silent. 
 
 " Where does your memory fail you ? " 
 
 "About seven months ago." 
 
 " And before that all is a blank," said I, abruptly. 
 
 C turned to answer me, troubled as I could see, 
 
 but with no sign of alarm or anger. 
 
 " Yes ; I think that is it. I don't go back any more 
 than if I was born seven months ago. I can't make 
 it out ; sometimes I am unhappy about it." 
 
 " Could you tell how you got here ? " 
 
 " Yes ; on the railroad from M ." 
 
 "Gould you write and read when you came hither?"
 
 
 148 CHABACTERISTICS. 
 
 " That is a strange question, sir. I could speak. I 
 speak badly. I must have been sick. I speak better 
 now. I could not write my name in the hotel book. 
 The clerk said that was queer, but I told him my 
 name. He wrote it. In a few weeks I tried to write ; 
 at first I wrote from right to left, but I learned soon. 
 I must have had a fever." 
 
 As he spoke, he became less disturbed and more in- 
 terested. Then pausing, he added, " Why do you ask 
 me ? It quite bothers me." 
 
 Ignoring his query, I went on. " You came hither 
 
 from M , you say. Did you ever know a Mr. J. 
 
 C ? You quite resemble him." 
 
 " No ; never heard of such a man." 
 
 " An Oriental scholar. Student of Sanskrit, and so 
 on." 
 
 " What '& Sanskrit ? " he replied. " Never heard of 
 that either." 
 
 At this moment Vincent rose, with a glance at me, 
 and saying, " Wait a moment, Mr. Wilson, I will get 
 a few pages of the notes. You may copy them and 
 let me see to-morrow how you get on. Then we can 
 arrange as to terms." 
 
 So saying he passed us and went into the outer 
 room ; was gone a minute or two and returned, fol- 
 lowed by Mrs. C . Her dignity of carriage and 
 
 extraordinary calmness overwhelmed me with amaze- 
 ment. She looked at C , flushed, and, drawing 
 
 back a chair, as women do when about to sit down, 
 adjusted her skirts, and took a seat. 
 
 I instantly turned to watch C . Not a sign be- 
 trayed memory of the woman.
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 149 
 
 "Mrs. C ," said Vincent, "my friend Doctor 
 
 North." I bowed. "Mrs. C 's difficulty I have 
 
 already mentioned," continued Vincent. "She has as 
 yet no news of her husband, and, by the way, Mr. 
 Wilson here is a Western man, Mrs. C . I vent- 
 ured on the mere chance of a clue to ask him if he 
 ever heard of Mr. C . I think you said no." 
 
 " Never heard of any such man." 
 
 I saw a change go over the woman's face ; it was 
 almost too severe a trial. The muscles of her chin 
 twitched. She was silent for a moment, and then said, 
 
 with evident effort, " You look like Mr. C " ; and, 
 
 rising, " you might be he. I am his wife." 
 
 The clerk smiled. " Well, I am Louis Wilson, and 
 have a wife of my own." 
 
 I saw Vincent touch his lips with his finger as she 
 turned toward him. At once her remarkable self- 
 control asserted itself. 
 
 " Excuse me," she said ; " I must go. Pray send me 
 the title-deeds, Mr. Vincent. I really must go. Good 
 morning," and went out. 
 
 " My clerk has the notes ready, Mr. Wilson," said 
 Vincent; "you need not wait here in the outer 
 room, please." And then the lawyer and I were alone. 
 "What now?" said he. 
 
 " It is a case of what is called double consciousness. 
 This man abruptly lost all memory of his lif e and its 
 events that is, of people, of things, not of words; 
 probably of all written signs. Most habits must have 
 remained, but as to this we do not know. The intel- 
 lect was not altered. He was able rapidly to reacquire 
 a new store of guiding, useful remembrances, and to
 
 150 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 learn to write. In a case I know of there was this 
 same tendency to write to the left." 
 
 " He knew Hebrew ; did it not come from that ? * 
 
 " No," I said. " The other case was that of a half- 
 educated country girl." 
 
 " When," returned Vincent, " he came to the H 
 
 House here, he was like a rough, ignorant child, and 
 was alarmed when addressed by a stranger. The 
 chambermaid said he must have been ill. After a 
 while she learned that he had money. He seemed able 
 to count it, but for a long while could not understand 
 what a bank was. The landlord, an honest German, 
 took an interest in him, and finally induced him to de- 
 posit the money in a bank. His intellectual apprecia- 
 tion of things returned with great rapidity, and now 
 you see what he is." 
 
 " Yes ; it seems incredible. These cases are rarely 
 seen in their abnormal state; that is the difficulty. 
 Of this I am sure, the loss of memory of people, of 
 animals, of places, is absolute ; of language the loss is 
 incomplete; of writing, entire. But the reacquired 
 writing is identical as to the forms of the letters with 
 what has been lost ; you will be able to verify that with 
 ease. Strangest of all is the change of character, of 
 tastes, of manners. In one instance a sad, morbidly 
 religious person became gay, vivacious, ignorant of 
 religion, fond of jokes, and at last wrote queer dog- 
 gerel verses, and for years oscillated from one state to 
 the other ; ignorant in state A of all that belonged to 
 or had been learned in state B, and vice versa. It is 
 a long story, and in print. I need not go on. The 
 case ended by her remaining in the abnormal state.
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 151 
 
 She was gradually sobered as time went on, and as she 
 acquired information through others as to her former 
 condition. She finally became a pleasant, useful per- 
 son, and lived for twenty-five years a happy, active 
 life as a teacher." 
 
 " Then," remarked Vincent, "like this man, she was, 
 at different periods, two distinct people, with quite 
 opposite characteristics ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And irresponsible in one state for the crime or 
 foUy of the other?" 
 
 "Yes; like this man. Some people explain these 
 strange facts by our having two hemispheres in the 
 brain ; but the power to write and to speak are the 
 function only of the left side of the brain, and speech 
 is lost but in part, and writing altogether, or not at 
 all in other instances. I see no explanation. What- 
 ever be the cause, it is such as may disappear and re- 
 appear in a minute." 
 
 "And this may happen here in this case?" 
 
 " Or may not ; and there is nothing to be done.'' 
 
 " How horrible ! And what do you advise ? " 
 
 " If we tell him the truth, and prove it, there is the 
 woman, his present wife, against us. Of course it 
 will be hard to influence a man in his mental state 
 commonplace, satisfied careless, at least. With the 
 woman against us, we shall have a suit for bigamy, 
 and to go into court with the defense of double con- 
 / sciousness would be useless." 
 
 " I see it all. If Mrs. C will have the sense to 
 
 wait, time may settle it. I see no other resource." 
 
 When Mrs. C heard our opinion she was in- 
 
 11
 
 152 CHARACTEEISTICS. 
 
 clined to make a further effort, but at last, on being 
 
 assured that C would be well watched, concluded 
 
 to await the result in her old home. 
 
 To conclude this story, I may add that just four 
 
 months later C appeared suddenly in her house 
 
 in great perplexity and terribly disturbed. He had 
 not a trace of remembrance of the past eleven months. 
 He recalled the fact that he had gone to the bank in 
 
 M , and there his recollection failed. The new 
 
 life, the novel employment, the locality he had lived 
 in, the new wife, were for him as though they had 
 never been. His rough dress surprised him. He was 
 once more the quiet, well-bred, sensitive scholar. 
 
 He declared that one day he was walking in L street 
 in this city, when, abruptly he was astounded and be- 
 wildered by the strangeness and unfamiliarity of the 
 surroundings. He asked some one where he was. 
 The second wife and home were as things dead to 
 memory. He said to himself that he must have been 
 ill. He went into a hotel, got a paper, saw that eleven 
 months were a blank to him, and, asking his way to 
 the station, went at once to his former dwelling-place. 
 
 Mrs. C adds that his ways, manners, tastes 
 
 seem to be as they once were. At first he was some- 
 what dazed, but by degrees improved in health, and 
 reassumed his studies. In answer to his uneasy ques- 
 tions as to his presumed illness and long loss of mem- 
 ory, she was able to say that vain efforts had been 
 made to find him. At last he showed a strong disin- 
 clination to hear his former mysterious condition re- 
 ferred to, not a rare peculiarity in persons who have 
 had his disorder. Now she proposes to go to the East
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 163 
 
 and travel in Oriental countries, a plan which in every- 
 way suits him. 
 
 Of the sum he took from home about two thousand 
 dollars remained in the bank, and as to this we were 
 
 embarrassed. He could not draw it out as J. C , 
 
 and he could not as Louis Wilson. It was decided to 
 sacrifice it. To this day no one knows what became 
 of the remainder of the money he had originally de- 
 posited. It had been drawn upon during his life here 
 in large amounts, and Vincent had reason to think 
 was lost in foolish stock speculations. 
 
 Mrs. C , a just and generous woman, settled on 
 
 the ex- wife a sum competent to support her. She was 
 told that Wilson was disordered in mind and already 
 married, and that she herself would enjoy her income 
 so long as she took no steps to solve the mystery, or to 
 discover her lost husband. She agreed to this, and 
 the C s will remain for years in the East. 
 
 " It is well done," said I. " I wonder how many of 
 the incomprehensible disappearances depend upon a 
 state of mind similar to C 's. The more one con- 
 siders it, the more bewildering does it seem. Are we 
 all of us 'two single gentlemen rolled into one'! 
 However, some day we will talk it over again, and ask 
 me, too, about the cases of insanity where a man is 
 conscious of two personalities in his own being, and 
 converses for both." 
 
 " I shall not forget. Are there ever three ? " 
 
 "No; I believe not."
 
 XI. 
 
 UNDAY was, both of choice and of 
 necessity, the day when we were 
 apt to make holiday together. The 
 matchless weather of early Novem- 
 ber was also a temptation to be out 
 of doors, and the wide hospitality 
 of the park assured us of comparative solitude. And 
 now it was an hour before set of sun, and about us 
 the margin of a great wood, with a deep stillness in 
 the cool autumn air, through which the leaves fell 
 lazily, drifting earthward one by one. Far away be- 
 low us many people lay on the slopes, quietly enjoying 
 the rest and the sunlit river gay with boats. 
 
 On the forest verge, and in and out, St. Clair 
 walked, his cap in his hand, and kicked the rustling 
 leaves as he went, pleased like a child with the noise 
 and with their colors. 
 
 It was rarely that Clayborne could be made to join 
 our walking parties. He hated exercise, affirming it 
 to be needless for health, illustrating his theory by his 
 own example of perfect soundness. He, too, as he lay 
 and watched the distant carriages and the quiet enjoy- 
 ment of the groups below us, amused himself by stir- 
 ring up the drifted leaves with his stick. At last he 
 turned to Vincent. "I sometimes wish," said he,
 
 CHAEACTERISTTCS. 155 
 
 "that men were like books, so that one could take 
 them down from a shelf and read them at will." 
 
 "And then put them back when you have had 
 enough," returned Vincent. " But then, my books are 
 men, and they do vastly entertain me on the whole, 
 and vary from day to day, which your tedious volumes 
 do not." 
 
 " Oh, don't they ? " cried Clayborne. 
 
 "By George!" said St. Clair. "This is the first 
 time in my life I ever agreed with you. Vincent 
 thinks books are just mere changeless things. My 
 books, at least, do alter. I have suspected them of 
 moving about on the shelves, and of course their 
 dress, their associations, affect their power over men. 
 Do not a man's clothes influence your, estimate of 
 him?" 
 
 " What do you mean ? " cried Vincent, pretending 
 not to understand. 
 
 " And," added St. Clair, " would you as lief read a 
 paper-bound Leipsic ' Horace ' as my Elzevir, with the 
 thumb-marks of Sir Thomas Browne ? Would it be 
 the same to you ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " said Vincent. " The book is the book, 
 that is all. Nonsense ! The print should be clear, and 
 the volume clean. I ask no more. Go on." 
 
 "Oh, we could fit all this truth to the books you 
 call men," said St. Clair. "North has a little old 
 Huguenot Bible. On its dainty binding are the signs 
 of long and reverent use. It has the psalms for those 
 who are about to go into battle, and for such as are 
 condemned to the ax. It is just about the date of the 
 massacre of St. Bartholomew. Is n't it, North ? n
 
 156 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " Yes," I answered ; " and when it came to me there 
 was in it a rose faded gray." 
 
 " Oh," continued St. Clair, " and I know of a little 
 volume of Shakspere which is faintly smirched here 
 and there with the touch of finger-tips, now dark- 
 red. It belonged to Keats, and as you all know 
 how he died, you may know what were these red 
 stains." 
 
 " And," said Clayborne, " in the great French library 
 there is that rare book, the ' De Trinitatis Erroribus ' 
 of Servetus. Calvin burned him and his books, and 
 it is thought, and I like to believe, that the slight 
 marks of fire on this copy are evidence that it was 
 rescued by some disciple, who came at nightfall to 
 grieve where the smoldering ashes lay." 
 
 " Thanks," said St. Clair, simply. " That is a thing 
 to make one think. "Would you mind my using that 
 little poem ? " 
 
 "Poem! Who! I! What !" cried Clayborne. 
 
 "Yes. What a tragedy!" And the poet slowly 
 moved aside into the verge of the woodland. 
 
 "I, too, have a book," I said, "which is to me 
 strangely interesting. It is the copy of his ' De G-en- 
 eratione,' which William Harvey gave to one Francis 
 Bernard, a London doctor. Men do not seem, in 
 those days, to have inscribed their names in presenta- 
 tion copies. It is a modern fashion, I suspect. But 
 this Bernard is clearly aware of the honor done him. 
 He writes on a blank leaf, 'Donum Eruditissimi et 
 Perspicacissimi Autoris, May 1, 1651.' " 
 
 "And why did you chance to say, Clayborne, that
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 157 
 
 you wished men were like books ? Why, just now, I 
 mean ? " said Vincent. 
 
 " I had a woman's curiosity about these people on 
 the hillside. I wanted to see their table of contents. 
 They seemed to me, as we walked among them, to be 
 chiefly Americans mechanics I take it mostly, a class 
 I never can get near to in talk, I mean. Men of 
 business, professional folks, the people of our own 
 class, seem transparent enough." 
 
 Vincent smiled at me furtively. Clayborne was a 
 bad judge of living character. His intelligence was, 
 indeed, of a rare order of excellence. His lack of 
 sympathy was complete, and sympathy is one of the 
 keys to character. 
 
 "The trouble lies with you," I said. "No men are 
 so approachable nor so often interesting as our own 
 mechanics. All the lower classes in England are 
 struck shy at once when a stranger of a class above 
 them attempts to engage them in easy talk. It is not 
 so with our people. Their sense of difference of social 
 position is of other quality than that of the English- 
 man. The ups and downs of life are vast and com- 
 mon with us, and everywhere is growing a wholesome 
 sense of the fact that the form of labor does not de- 
 grade that at least it need not." 
 
 " The more the people think that, the less it will 
 degrade," said St. Clair. " But there will always re- 
 main the influential effect of occupations." 
 
 "Let us clear our heads," said Clayborne, "as to 
 what we mean by degradation." 
 
 " I mean," said Vincent, " or you mean, I fancy, that
 
 158 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 there are occupations which cut men off from social 
 relations with refined people, or shall we say with the 
 class in which are found the best manners ? No need 
 to discuss the value of these." 
 
 " Well, then," said St. Clair, " accept that ; and now 
 if you were to name the occupations which socially 
 disqualify to-day, you would find them fewer than 
 they were even fifty years ago." 
 
 " True, quite true," said Clayborne. " Let us each 
 make a personal list of the occupations which we 
 think ought to disqualify for the best social life. 
 Mine would amaze you. I have not the courage to 
 state it. But go on, my little saint. You are doing 
 it well I never knew you half so definite before." 
 
 " Confound his impudence ! " cried the poet, pleased 
 nevertheless to be praised. " There was a time when 
 to be a business man in some Southern cities was a 
 social degradation. It is not so now. Compare the 
 position of a teacher to what it once was. See how 
 the poorer students of New England colleges may 
 work in summer as waiters at hotels and go back to 
 their studies socially uninjured. I must have told you 
 before of the amazement of an Oxford Fellow when a 
 waiter in the White Mountains, overhearing me speak 
 at supper of my difficulty with a passage in an old 
 Italian life of Galileo, offered to translate it." 
 
 " When a man's occupation, if it does not make him 
 physically unpleasant, ceases to put social barriers in 
 his way, you think that we shall have attained the 
 right thing. Is that it ? " said Vincent. 
 
 " Yes," I answered. 
 
 "But now it does make him socially impossible,
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 159 
 
 sometimes. How can the manners of a dry-goods re- 
 tailing clerk ever be " 
 
 "As yours," I said, laughing. 
 
 " Well, if you like, yes." And then, gaily, " But it 
 would have been better manners to have left my man- 
 ners out of the question." 
 
 "Oh, we need a standard," I said. "The clerk's 
 manners do now disqualify. They need not continue 
 to do so." 
 
 " I doubt it," said Vincent. "And yet in some New 
 England towns the standard of manners and of culti- 
 vation is much nearer alike in all occupations than in 
 our cities, and is not bad by any means. However, it 
 is a long question to discuss here." 
 
 "I don't quite agree with you," said St. Clair. "I 
 rather think that mere manners are essentially and in- 
 variably modified by what a man's work is. It ought 
 not to be so, but it is. I hold a lease of my studio 
 from an undertaker. Now and then he comes in to 
 see me as to rent, or repairs, or what not. I perfectly 
 loathe that man. His manners are subdued, like the 
 dyer's hands, to what he deals in ; he talks under his 
 breath. He is always composing himself into attitudes 
 of constrained sobriety. He pays you the same lugu- 
 brious attention he gives to a corpse. When he comes 
 into a room it is always head first, and he seems to 
 me to crawl around the half -opened door with cautious 
 quietness. My workman calls him 'the measuring- 
 worm.' " 
 
 " A cheerful person," said Vincent. " But St. Clair 
 has proved his point." 
 
 "No; only illustrated his thesis," I returned.
 
 160 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " Your undertaker reminds me of a jest which ought 
 to be preserved. St. Claims landlord the ' ghoul,' we 
 used to call him once consulted a friend of mine. 
 The doctor said, < You seem to have something on your 
 mind, Mr. Maw.' 
 
 " 'I have, sir. Whenever I feel ill, and I am get- 
 ting on in years, I am saddened by the reflection 
 that possibly my own funeral obsequies will be con- 
 ducted with less orderly decorum than if I were here 
 to superintend them.' " 
 
 " That is immense ! " cried St. Clair. " I beg pardon ; 
 go on." 
 
 " The doctor replied, ' Well, Mr. Maw, why not have 
 a rehearsal ? ' " 
 
 "That seems reasonable," said Clayborne, gravely. 
 " But where on earth is the fun ? " 
 
 This nearly crippled the party for further talk, but 
 after some moments Vincent said, " Suppose we drop 
 the undertaker, and " 
 
 " Horrible word in its literalness," broke in St. Clair. 
 
 " Yes ; bury him," I said. " Go on, Vincent." 
 
 " I was only about to take up the broken threads of 
 our chat. There is the clerical manner, with its habit 
 of exhortative inflections, very droll when astray in 
 the commonplaces of every-day life. And the doctor 
 manner " 
 
 " Mine, for example t " 
 
 "Well, sometimes." 
 
 " Thanks j I shall remember that" 
 
 " The question," Vincent went on, " is whether any 
 business must always of need so affect a man's man- 
 ners and ways as to cut him off from the social life of
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 161 
 
 men so favored by fortune, inherited qualities, and 
 education as to demand a certain standard. Do I put 
 it fairly?" 
 
 "Yes," said Clayborne. 
 
 "Well," I said, "we must admit, I think, that all 
 work has its influence on character, and on what 
 makes for or against social charm. Are not these in- 
 fluences in some businesses too potent for evil to ad- 
 mit of their being overcome ? It would be a vast gain 
 to feel that merely because you do this or that you are 
 not set aside as of a class to which certain avenues are 
 closed. That alone injures, as St. Clair said, and is 
 competent to affect both character and manners. I 
 was told once in a great city of Europe that I would 
 find it pleasant to be received in a certain class of so- 
 ciety, but that it would be impossible while I con- 
 tinued to call myself doctor on my card. ' Of course,' 
 said the friend who desired for me this privilege, ' my 
 doctor does not dine with me. 7 And the man she 
 named was a physician of European celebrity. He 
 was not excluded because he was ill-bred, but because 
 it was silently accepted as a fact that he could not be 
 well-bred. I affirm that this alone is injurious in a 
 measure, and leads to his being just what they des- 
 potically affirm him to be." 
 
 " Yes," said Clayborne ; " however much a man may 
 struggle against the social peculiarities of his class, in 
 the end he will be apt to suffer defeat. Now as to the 
 doctors." 
 
 " As to them," I urged, " let me say a word. Every 
 occupation has its influence on character, be that what 
 it may. My own profession is full of temptations to
 
 162 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 yield to little meannesses. It is a constant trial of 
 temper. It offers ample chance to win in retail ways 
 by disparagement of others, and by flattery and ap- 
 pearance of interest where little is felt. The small 
 man what I may call the retail nature gives way 
 to these temptations ; the nobler nature strengthens 
 in resisting them. A doctor's life-work is the best 
 education for the best characters. It is of the worst 
 for the small of soul." 
 
 " Let us return to St. Glair's dictum," said Vincent. 
 " I think it was that no general reverence for his mode 
 of work, and no example, and no desire on his part, 
 could ever make an undertaker socially endurable." 
 
 " Oh, sentiment comes in there," said I, " and that is 
 inexorable. But to-day we have false lines for social 
 boundaries. There is no sentiment in the way as to 
 the mechanic. Make it only a question of manners, 
 and leave that to him, but let us stand up for the 
 American idea. It is the business of every man to see 
 that his work in lif e does not put into his character 
 anything which lessens his powers to please and be 
 pleased in right ways." 
 
 "And that was what your screed about doctors 
 meant," said Vincent. " You are an abominably sensi- 
 tive breed. You abuse yourselves, but allow no one 
 else to do so." 
 
 "Yes; I hardly know why, except that gilds are 
 generally sensitive, and ours is a world- wide gild, and 
 the only one. The world over we keep touch of one 
 another, claim constantly of one another unrequited 
 service, and abide by a creed of morals old when 
 Christ was born."
 
 - 
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 163 
 
 "When you got off on to the doctors," said St. 
 Clair, "I was about to ask you not to forget your 
 promise to tell us about your friend the character 
 doctor." 
 
 " That is a new trade," said Vincent. 
 
 " I will not forget it," I returned. 
 
 " Good ! " said Clayborne. " But all this fuss about 
 character is rather amusing. I don't think I ever took 
 much pains with mine." 
 
 " Nor I," cried St. Clair. 
 
 " Nonsense ! n I replied. " If not, then you had bet- 
 ter begin." 
 
 "Did you ever hear the Russian account of the 
 moral tontine ? " said Clayborne. " I translated it for 
 amusement when I was learning Russian. I. can read 
 it to you some time, if you like. It shows how a fel- 
 low may acquire too much character." 
 
 " I should like to hear that. Let '& have it next 
 Sunday night at Vincent's. And now, suppose we walk 
 home along the drive ; I like to see the people." 
 
 " Oh, anywhere," grumbled Clayborne, " if you will 
 leave alone my poor little character, as the servant- 
 girls say ; it is all I have. It satisfies me, and I have 
 no respect for you people who have to send your char- 
 acters to the wash every week." 
 
 "Mine needs it," said Vincent, "and well, there 
 really are folks who like paper collars." 
 
 " I hardly understand your very indistinct allusion," 
 said Clayborne; "I have worn paper collars myself 
 on a journey. I consider their inventor a benefactor 
 to to so much of the race as wears collars." 
 
 "And I," said St. Clair, "would like to introduce
 
 164 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 the custom of erecting statues to what I call the 
 negative benefactors of mankind, the people who 
 invent tomato-cans, telegraph-poles, or paper collars. 
 Oh, I could write the inscriptions too. This monu- 
 ment is erected by an injured public to preserve for 
 eternal detestation the memory of Blank, Esq., who 
 invented a new means of desecrating the beautiful 
 in nature." 
 
 " We will all subscribe," I said, laughing. 
 
 " Oh, yes ; you may laugh, but, think of this. To 
 be alone with a friend in the forests of Maine. About 
 you the moss-grown trunks of a windfall's ravage a 
 century old. At last, you say, here no foot of man 
 has been. Tour friend points to a soiled paper collar 
 at your feet. There are some crimes I could more 
 easily condone than certain vulgarities, and the worst 
 of it is that you get used to these horrors." 
 
 " Pshaw ! " exclaimed Clayborne. " You really don't 
 mean what you were saying. Would a bit of news- 
 paper have offended your sensibilities ? " 
 
 " Yes j it would. The American newspaper editor 
 would have one of my tallest negative statues." 
 
 " That is rather too bad," exclaimed Clayborne, fall- 
 ing behind with the poet while Vincent and I went 
 down the hill together. 
 
 " Clayborne's incapacity to see fun in any shape is 
 exasperating," said I. " I consider it a real annoyance 
 at times." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "Oh, I mean if we are alone together. It limits 
 talk, and to have to keep too close watch on what you 
 say is fatal to reasonable human intercourse. Imagine
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 165 
 
 yourself, when with a charming young woman, being 
 asked every five minutes to explain your intentions. 
 Clayborne is every whit as bad as that." 
 
 " Who is the man yonder ? " said Vincent. 
 
 We were now near the drive, and about us were the 
 serious but not discontented faces of well-clad peo- 
 ple, chiefly Americans, and not a few Germans. The 
 drive was in a remote portion of the park, and was 
 scarcely watched by the guards, so that on it a few 
 men were speeding their fast horses, amidst critical 
 comments on the trotters by the groups on the grassy 
 slope. Presently came at lawless speed a perfect pair 
 of Morgans. Behind them, in a light wagon, sat a 
 stout, red-faced man, smoking as if it were a duty to 
 make his fairy-like equipage seem a steam-engine. He 
 looked straight ahead at the road. 
 
 "Who?" I said in answer. "That is Mr. O . 
 
 That pair is worth well, the value of your house. 
 The man has this one pleasure in life. He runs 
 horses, but never bets. He says that ain't business. 
 He has accumulated a fabulous fortune from a patent 
 he took for a bad debt. I happen to know him pretty 
 well. He rises at six, breakfasts alone, reads swiftly 
 two or more papers, is at work by eight o'clock, dines 
 standing at a restaurant counter at noon, leaves work 
 at four, drives until seven, eats supper, plays a little 
 euchre twice a week at his club, or else reads a news- 
 paper until ten, and goes to bed. Also, he is a bache- 
 lor and is clean shaven." 
 
 "Well, that is the outside the natural history. 
 What of the physiology?" 
 
 "He has a small house, lives plainly, has his one
 
 166 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 extravagance, fast horses, and never gives away a 
 dollar." 
 
 " The man has then neither vices nor virtues." 
 
 " Yes, Vincent," I returned ; " he has the courage of 
 his convictions, like other hardened thieves." 
 
 " And does not the sentence of a kindlier world on 
 such as he touch him at times ? " 
 
 " Never, I fear. I once went to put before him the 
 needs of a great charity. He heard me patiently, and 
 then said : ' I object to doing that which I am taxed 
 for, and, besides, I am unable to give away money. I 
 cannot do it. Other people can. I can't do it.' " 
 
 " And that was all ? " 
 
 "Yes; almost all. He asked me to smoke, say- 
 ing the cigars cost half a dollar apiece. I laughed, 
 and said, ' How can you be willing to give me a half- 
 dollar?"' 
 
 " ' That 's true,' said he ; ' but it is n't money. 
 There 's something darned queer about money. I '11 
 leave your hospital something in my will, but I won't 
 give you a cent.' " 
 
 " The being you describe seems to me incredible." 
 
 " Oh, here are the others." And we went down to 
 the river, and walked homeward. 
 
 " And there is another horror," said St. Clair, point- 
 ing to the hideous collection of white marble tomb- 
 stones on the further side. We could but agree. 
 
 " Yet," said Vincent, " even a modern graveyard can 
 be made a fitting thing. Near a Western town a man 
 gave a fine old wood as a cemetery, with the condi- 
 tion that small spaces might be cleared ; that no grave- 
 stones should be other than gray ; that none should rise
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 167 
 
 over three or four inches from the earth, and that the 
 boundary-lines of ownerships should be marked only 
 in the same way. Flowers and vines might be planted, 
 but no tall monuments or iron fences were allowed. 
 I am told that it was most solemn and beautiful." 
 
 "And/' said Clayborne, "yonder mass of the dead 
 must drain into the river from which men drink." 
 
 "Mother Earth is a great purifier," I remarked; 
 "but the idea is certainly unpleasant. My friend 
 
 W says it accounts for the conservatism of this 
 
 great city." 
 
 " How ? " said Clayborne. 
 
 "Oh, don't ten him," cried St. Clair, laughing. 
 "Don't. It is a riddle." 
 
 " I hate riddles," said Clayborne. 
 /*But there is a tremendous wisdom in this one," 
 , said Vincent. "It is a question of hygiene how to 
 separate purity from impurity." 
 
 Clayborne walked along in silence, while we chatted 
 gaily. He was apt to keep an idea in his mind long 
 after the talk had drifted away from it, so that half 
 an hour later we were not surprised to hear him say : 
 " I think I see it now. How curious ! But it is an 
 argument as well as a jest." 
 
 12
 
 xn. 
 
 our Sunday evening talks 
 chanced to be at Vincent's I was 
 always well pleased. The addition 
 of Mrs. Vincent seemed to bring out 
 all the peculiar qualities of each of 
 us, as a ripe peach before your best 
 Burgundy enlarges your knowledge 
 as to how one pleasant thing may mysteriously in- 
 crease the power of another to give delight. If you 
 were happy enough to be liked by this woman, you 
 were made to feel when with her how gladsome a thing 
 life may be. And this, too, in a sober way, for there 
 was in her fashions a pretty tranquillity, and only 
 rarely louder mirth. When she smiled, it was, as St. 
 Clair quoted, 
 
 As when an infant smiles, 
 Not at but with yon. 
 
 For her smiles were never employed for unspoken 
 cynical comment, nor to hint the thing she dare not 
 say. 
 
 I remember hearing her husband remark that she 
 was more apt to laugh when alone, and her answer 
 that her smile was for all, but that her laughter was 
 private property.
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 169 
 
 TMs puzzled Clayborne, who insisted that Saadi had 
 said, " The wise smile, and the fool laughs." 
 
 Mrs. Vincent retorted, " Then I am wise only when 
 in company, and a fool when alone, which is a proof 
 of wisdom." 
 
 However, St. Clair, liking to tease Clayborne, said 
 that he knew Saadi well, and that the quotation was 
 an invention. Upon which Mrs. Vincent insisted that 
 for a man to quote himself was the same as quoting 
 some one else, because men were never the same from 
 year to year. Clayborne, confused by her nonsense, 
 as usual retreated into himself to examine the proposi- 
 tion seriously, while she and St. Clair exchanged un- 
 spoken signals of childlike delight. 
 
 She was sure, however she teased him, to send the 
 scholar away in good humor, and I confess that for 
 me she had the effect of a glass or two of champagne, 
 and kept me wondering at my own cleverness. 
 
 She had, like many nice women, a taste for the mise 
 en scene; but this was instinctive, and probably un- 
 suspected by herself. For the rest, she understood 
 her husband, and was his best friend and lover. I do 
 not think she liked women as well as men, but it 
 pleases me that she never said so. Her housekeeping 
 was mysteriously perfect. She had one accomplish- 
 ment, a noble voice in speech and song; and one 
 grief, the absence of children. I fancied myself her 
 best friend, but I was never her physician, for she 
 said, "I could not have my friend for my doctor" 
 a not very rare feeling among women. 
 
 When I came in she was seated alone, reading, and, 
 the evening being warm, was clad in white, with deli-
 
 170 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 cacies of lace here and there. She wore, as usual, no 
 ornament, but behind her, on the table, so that the 
 strength of her head was set against them, were several 
 bowls of roses ; and at her feet, on a low stool, stood 
 a large, flat Moorish vessel, also full of flowers, on 
 which she was gazing with distinct pleasure, her book 
 lying open on her lap. 
 
 " What 1 Alone ? " I said. 
 
 " Yes ; we have had a discussion on folly and wis- 
 dom. Mr. St. Clair said a happy fool was better off 
 than an unhappy wise man. Mr. Clayborne insisted 
 with solemnity that a really wise man could not be as 
 unhappy as a fool, other circumstances being equal. 
 Then I quoted, ' There 's no comfort in wisdom, and 
 no satisfaction in folly ; for all that the former can do 
 is, in some passage or other of matchless eloquence, to 
 call the latter by her right name, after which she will 
 dwell as contentedly your mistress as before.' I could 
 not tell whence it came, and nothing would satisfy 
 him but to take Fred down to the library to look for 
 it, and the poet to help them. Sit down ; they will 
 not be long. You did not come to dinner, after all, 
 and Miss L was so charming." 
 
 "Ah, my dear lady, how many of these charming 
 women have you bidden me to see ? I come, and talk, 
 And look at them, and could classify them." 
 
 "You must not. This one was really all that I 
 pay." 
 
 " But you have said nothing. I wait." 
 
 " Well, she is not very pretty. She never says what 
 you expect her to say, and seems always about to say 
 or do something that might seem well, a little pro-
 
 CHARACTERISTICS, 171 
 
 nounced. Yet she never does really do or say any- 
 thing that the best bred might not say or do. She 
 has 'eyes that do not know their own solemnities' 
 eyes of heaven and a mouth of this earth." 
 
 " Fair food for saint or sinner," I said. " But really, 
 I could not dine with you, and I should like to see this 
 woman. When shall it be ? " 
 
 " People who decline my dinners never, never make 
 up their loss on this earth." 
 
 " I will never dine here again," I cried, laughing. 
 " What are you what were you reading?" 
 
 " St. Glair's new book ; he brought it to me yester- 
 day. Have you seen it?" 
 
 " Yes ; but only the outside. What is it ? " 
 
 "A dramatic poem called 'A Life.' A man sees a 
 woman in her youth. They are in love, are separated 
 by the inevitable, meet once again in middle life for a 
 day, and once more when both are old. The interest 
 lies in what they say of life and its intervening ex- 
 periences. I am puzzled by the large knowledge he 
 displays of a world he has never seen save in mere 
 
 " Indeed, but does not that often strike you in the 
 work of genius? A friend of mine told me Lewes 
 once said to him that George Eliot never, to his or 
 her knowledge, had the experience of physicians which 
 enabled her to put on paper Lydgate, the only perfect 
 characterization of a physician in fiction. Indeed, she 
 had said as much to a man well known on the turf as 
 regards the low turfmen in the same book." 
 
 " And can you explain it ? " 
 
 " My friend said in reply, that although Mr. Lewes,
 
 172 CHAKACTEEISTICS. 
 
 for example, might know little of serpent-worship, 
 that were he able to recall all he had ever heard or 
 read of it, he could write on it a book of great learn- 
 ing. He thought that we must presuppose in genius 
 the capacity to reassemble by degrees a host of minutiae 
 for use at need. 
 
 " We all possess more or less of this. "We set an 
 idea before us, and by and by we are amazed to find 
 how many ghosts of things apparently forgotten are 
 summoned by this steady call upon associative mem- 
 ory. It is as when you drop into a solution of num- 
 berless salts a crystal of one of them. The formed 
 solid begins at once to gather for its increase all the 
 atoms of its kind." 
 
 She was silent a moment. 
 
 "Well?" I exclaimed. 
 
 " Oh, I was only thinking over your illustration to 
 see if it helped me to understand any better. Perhaps 
 it does. Illustrations in argument often serve only to 
 puzzle me. You know P ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " His talk is a constant rosary of illustrations, or of 
 illustrative comparisons, which merely bewilder. Be- 
 fore you have mastered one of them (and they are al- 
 ways clever), he is presenting you with another. But 
 about genius in characterization, there must be also 
 some power to do far more than memorize. There 
 must be power to reject and modify assembled mem- 
 ories, so as at last to create that natural oneness of the 
 being described which ends by making a living thing, 
 not a mere photograph." 
 
 " Yes, there are plenty of bright books nowadays in 
 which a man represents people he knows ; but that is
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 173 
 
 bad art. Usually it begins and ends with one book, 
 which excites false hopes of a brilliant career in fic- 
 tion. Abidingly true power to characterize in fiction 
 is automatic." 
 
 " Oh, here they come. And did you find the quota- 
 tion?" 
 
 " No ; we think you invented it," said Vincent. 
 
 "Not I, indeed." 
 
 "And are we to have the two manuscripts to-night? 
 I vote for the Russian story first. Did you bring it, 
 Mr. Clayborne ? The title excited my curiosity ' The 
 Moral Tontine.' " 
 
 " I brought it, but I have no power to translate so 
 as really to render the spirit of the thing. I well, 
 really, I would rather you let me off." 
 
 " Oh, but you promised. What was it about ? " 
 
 "Yes," said St. Glair; "you are in the toils. We 
 insist on hearing." 
 
 " It is quite too absurd," said Clayborne. 
 
 " Then we shall see you in a new character," cried 
 St. Clair. 
 
 " You shall have no tea," laughed Mrs. Vincent ; " not 
 a drop." 
 
 " That decides it," cried Clayborne. " Intelligent law 
 proportions the punishment to the crime. I shall spoil 
 the story, but no matter, I can't lose my cup, my three 
 cups, of tea." 
 
 When we were quietly seated and ready, he said : 
 " This is 
 
 "THE MORAL TONTINE. 
 
 "THE mysterious sides of Russian life are little 
 known to the West. Nowhere else do certain forms
 
 174 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 of mysticism secure so many serious converts. Some 
 of these peculiar beliefs have been historically long- 
 lived; others come and vanish. The singular story 
 I am about to relate concerns one of these strange so- 
 cieties. It is taken, as I give it, from a rare book by 
 Leresky, a Pole of great learning, who has investigated 
 these curious associations, and whose book was sup- 
 pressed, and is now difficult to obtain. He was en- 
 abled to see the proceedings of the circle or society 
 which concerns my tale, and from them copied this 
 illustration of the views held by the members. 
 
 " He abbreviated it in the telling, and it no doubt 
 loses something by his abrupt way of relating what 
 might with more art have been made interesting." 
 
 " One moment," said Vincent. " Did the Polish his- 
 torian believe in the story ? n 
 
 " Yes ; he was himself a mystic. He gives evidence 
 as to its occurrence, but makes no effort to explain it." 
 
 " And do you yourself credit it ? n 
 
 " I ! " said Clayborne. " Let me first read it. We 
 can discuss it afterward." 
 
 "And I," cried Mrs. Vincent, " can wait no longer." 
 
 In the province of Vasilyskoosky were the head- 
 quarters of the secret society of the Kassilynza. This 
 group of people traced their origin far back into the 
 night of Russian barbaric time. They believed that 
 lingual expression has interfered with the more natural 
 and closer means of mental intercommunication, by 
 which soul may come into contact with soul. For the 
 purpose of recovering the lost powers of man, these 
 mystics were accustomed to take vows of silence, and
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 175 
 
 to live together in pairs, abhorring speech, writing, 
 and even signs. They believed also that for devoted 
 natures it was possible to exchange for a time, or 
 permanently, mental or moral qualities. This was 
 brought about by an effort on the part of one man to 
 eject from his mind a quality like courage, while the 
 other man became passive and simply receptive. Thus 
 a surplus of virtue or vice was gotten rid of, the ob- 
 ject being the general good of man. 
 
 The center of this strange creed was the capital of 
 the department, Notsob, and here they continued to 
 meet, and to elude the police, who considered their 
 views to be dangerous to the public good. 
 
 " Of course you will understand that all this I con- 
 sider nonsense. It is much more in North's line than 
 mine." 
 
 " Thank you," said I. " Go on." 
 
 " It may interest you, North, to know that the same 
 process by which a man got rid of an excess of temper 
 applied also to disease. The one man willed to lose 
 his ill temper ; another accepted it by mental effort. 
 After some days, or at times abruptly, the former 
 man's temper returned to him ameliorated by having 
 dwelt in union with the nobler qualities of a man 
 trained to self-restraint. And so also of disease ; the 
 same process being repeated over and over, as between 
 the ill man and many well ones, his disorder was en- 
 feebled by distribution until no one possessed enough 
 of it to do harm." 
 
 Dr. Skoblowitsky, the second regent of the society, 
 discovered that it was possible to influence disease at
 
 176 CHABACTEEISTICS. 
 
 a distance, so that a man in Warsaw might be recep- 
 tive at a set hour for one in Irkutsk, and, also, what 
 was stranger, that the difference in time made by the 
 longitude of two places disappeared as a hindrance 
 before the potency of the double exercise of two wills. 
 But all of this has little to do with the incidents of my 
 story, which Dr. Skoblowitsky describes in his chapter 
 of proofs of the power of the double will. 
 
 It is related, in connection with some of the state- 
 ments as to certain of the later discoveries made by 
 members of the " Council of Minds," just before the 
 police finally broke up the association in 1783, that at 
 this time Dolinkovitch, the chief councilor, announced 
 his belief that as the qualities of mind and morals 
 involved distinctive entities, grouped for use in the 
 republic known as man, these must be scattered by 
 death. Some means, he conceived, might be discov- 
 ered of utilizing and securing for the living man such 
 of these faculties as, dislocated from the rest, and set 
 at valueless freedom in spiritual ether, would otherwise 
 cease for ages to be means of good. 
 
 It was found at last that by proper exertion of will 
 power a man about to die could convey to one alive 
 the dominant qualities which he himself possessed, 
 but that those of which he had only a minor share 
 could not thus be transferred. A prearranged accept- 
 ive willingness on the part of the recipient was alone 
 needful for his share of the transaction. 
 
 Several curious illustrations are given of the work- 
 ings of this method. Thus, the Russian poet Vasiloe 
 Amgine, known as the Slavonic Poe, willed his imag- 
 ination to his friend, the great German algebraist Von
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 177 
 
 Heidenbrugger, and in consequence of the fact that 
 two sets of qualities came thus to exist in the same 
 being with equality of force, the mathematician wrote 
 a superb ode on the square root of x raised to the 
 ninth power, and was in consequence put in the asy- 
 lum at Cracow. 
 
 Other as sad failures, however, did not deter three 
 men of the lower circle of the society from agreeing 
 that as each died his best faculties were to become the 
 property of the survivors, it being supposed that as 
 they were all people of varied endowments the survivor 
 of this intellectual tontine would end by possessing 
 such force as would raise him to eminence. 
 
 Count Ortroff, the youngest of the three, was a man 
 of great personal beauty, and endowed with a rather 
 light mental organization ; apparently, one of those 
 butterfly natures which are generally acceptable, but 
 incapable of profound affection. He had too easily 
 captured the heart of his cousin, a woman of force and 
 remarkable charms, but quite too well aware of the 
 slightness of character of her lover. The engagement 
 was broken off by a singular incident. 
 
 One morning in May Count Ortroff became sud- 
 denly aware of a change in himself. He awoke to a 
 sense of vigor and activity of mind and body un- 
 known before. Commonly gentle and confiding, he 
 felt now a sense of desire to be aggressive, and 
 scolded his valet because he had ventured to inquire 
 of him whether he would ride or drive to the prin- 
 cess's country-seat. 
 
 All that day he felt himself a victim of contending 
 forces. He was for the first time aware of being
 
 178 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 deeply in love, and astonished the princess as much 
 by the unwonted manifestations of passion as by 
 abrupt outbreaks of vehement criticism of various 
 people. As a rule he was gentle, refined, and most 
 suave of speech, and to this his easy nature inclined 
 him. Also, he had known himself to be so wanting in 
 courage that he regarded the possible consequences 
 of a quarrel with terror, and had declined to enter the 
 army. His life was spent in concealing this painful 
 defect of character. 
 
 After seeing the princess he remained at home for 
 two days, reflecting on the sudden changes which had 
 made him an irascible man and a passionate lover, 
 and had also, as it seemed, lifted him into a higher 
 intellectual sphere. In his amazement he consulted 
 the chief councilor of the society, Ivanovitch Dolinko- 
 vitch, who said at once, " But was not yours the No. 
 27, Moral Tontine!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Then you should have prepared yourself to as- 
 similate usefully the moral and mental properties 
 of General Graboskovitch and Captain Viloff. You 
 could by continuous effort of will have been ready to 
 decline to entertain in your soul their bad qualities, 
 and to welcome their better ones. You have been 
 loosely and thoughtlessly acceptive. It is now too 
 late. I was always fearful that your soul was of low 
 specific gravity. The general died four days ago. I 
 suppose that the more receptive nature of Captain 
 Viloff secured the dead man's courage ; without it his 
 aggressiveness would have long since gotten him into 
 trouble. You must be carefuL"
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 179 
 
 " Alas ! " said Ortroff, and went away in despair. 
 
 A few days later he received a letter from Viloff. 
 "I hear," wrote the captain, "that No. 2 of our tontine 
 is gone. I am distressed to feel that I come in for 
 no addition to my mental force, and that I have 
 obtained only an excess of courage and an absurd 
 indifference to danger. All gentlemen have courage 
 enough ; you will not need that, but if by ill luck you 
 have inherited the general's obstinate pugnacity, I am 
 sorry for you." 
 
 " And I," said Ortroff. " I must indeed be careful." 
 
 A few days later, at a ball, a gentleman offered 
 some trifling slight to the princess. Ortroff was 
 present. An irresistible impulse seized him. He fol- 
 lowed the man from the hall, and struck him. In- 
 stantly an agony of fear came upon him ; a duel was 
 of course unavoidable. He sat up all night, and on 
 the field next day displayed such signs of cowardice 
 that his seconds declined to act. He apologized to his 
 scornful foe, and a few hours after drove to the house 
 of Dr. Dolinkovitch, to whom he related his trouble. 
 The doctor was both sympathetic and interested. At 
 last he said: "You have only to follow my advice. 
 Go to the chief hotel and take rooms. To-morrow 
 get up late, and go into the street in your shirt and 
 drawers. The police will arrest you. Ask if it is 
 midnight, and say you want them to find me, that I 
 know your watch is out of order. They will send for 
 me, as I am the police surgeon. You will act wildly, 
 and I will send you to an insane asylum. In two 
 months you will come out well, and your failure will 
 be regarded as having been due to mental disorder."
 
 180 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 Ortroff hesitated, but a note from the princess 
 breaking off the engagement determined him, and the 
 next day he followed out the doctor's advice to the 
 letter, and was sent to an asylum. His friends and 
 family gladly accepted the excuse, and took care to 
 circulate it widely. 
 
 After two or three months he returned to his es- 
 tates profoundly depressed. A week later he became 
 aware of a new change. The acquisition of the vigor- 
 ous intelligence of the general had made even more 
 painful the sense of his own defect in courage, and 
 the whole affair of the duel had troubled greatly the 
 members of the circle, who had been much attached 
 to him by reason of his sweetness of character and 
 gentle manners. These, in a degree, had suffered by 
 the inheritance of General Graboskovitch's soldierly 
 roughness and shortness of temper. But fear of his 
 own defects, together with his newly acquired acute- 
 ness of mind, had somewhat enabled him, as time 
 went on, to control and modify them. 
 
 But now, again, there was a change. Captain Vil- 
 off, dangerously stimulated by an overplus of audac- 
 ity, had been again and again wounded, and at last 
 in a desperate night attack on the frontier was mor- 
 tally hurt. The news already found Ortroff a new 
 man. Indeed, before he heard that he was the sur- 
 viving heir of the qualities of the other two members 
 of the tontine, he had begun to feel the influence of 
 the quality of courage which the two dead members 
 possessed. The results greatly interested the circle. 
 Again the count was seen in the neighboring town, 
 and every one except the members of his secret society
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 181 
 
 was astonished to hear that he had called out his old 
 antagonist, had explained to his seconds that his fear 
 was only the coming on of his mental trouble, and 
 had badly wounded his opponent. As a result every 
 one called upon him, and with perfect calmness he 
 himself went to visit the princess. 
 
 She received him coldly. Her notable intelligence 
 was dominated by immense tenderness, by all the self- 
 sacrificial qualities found in many women, and by a 
 feminine adoration of masculine beauty. These had 
 twice involved her in love-affairs with weaker persons 
 of the male sex, and now her chief difficulty in renew- 
 ing her promise to marry Ortroff arose from the fact 
 that he seemed to possess the stronger will, and no 
 longer appealed silently to her sympathies by his 
 gentleness and instability. She replied to his passion- 
 ate wooing that she could not marry a coward. 
 
 " But I am not. I will submit to any test," he as- 
 sured her. " There is my duel. I was, of course, in- 
 sane." At this she smiled incredulously. 
 
 "I do not know now whether I love you or not. 
 Give me six months to reflect, and and bring me 
 the order of St. George won on the battle-field." 
 
 Then she kissed him, and fled from the room. 
 
 Six weeks later, he was mortally wounded in the 
 desperate struggle of Olnovina, and a friend brought 
 the princess the cross which the emperor left on his 
 breast as he lay dying in the hospital at Yasiloff. 
 
 " What a cruel ending ! " cried Mrs. Vincent. 
 "It was a good exercise in Russian," said Clay- 
 borne, as he cast the manuscript on the table. " North
 
 182 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 would have rendered it better. I hope it has amused 
 you." 
 
 " Oh, amused ! No," returned Mrs. Vincent ; " it has 
 interested me. I wonder if there can be any founda- 
 tion for it." 
 
 " My wife has a coy interest in mysticism," laughed 
 V Vincent. "She enjoys a little flirtation with the 
 vague." 
 
 " Then never could a flirtation with you have de- 
 lighted her," said I. 
 
 " No, indeed," she cried ; " he is atrociously definite. 
 But what is there vague about all this strange story ? 
 It seems to the man who tells it to have happened." 
 
 "I think it in a measure explicable," I returned. 
 " The doctrine of suggestion might " 
 
 "There, don't explain it," she broke in. "I shall 
 wait the demise of some of my friends with interest. 
 Be it true or not, I understand the woman." 
 
 "I do not," said St. Clair. "How could a highly 
 intelligent woman care for a man as feminine as he ? " 
 
 " And you of all people ! You, who worship per- 
 sonal beauty ! " said Vincent. 
 
 " I am answered," cried the poet. 
 
 "No, not fully," said Mrs. Vincent. "And still, as 
 for myself, although I understand the woman instinct- 
 ively, I cannot explain." 
 
 " That is not understanding," said Clayborne, in his 
 blunt way. 
 
 " Possibly not ; but I decline to betray the secret 
 counsels of my own sex. And here is your tea. One 
 lump or two ? "
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 183 
 
 The little chat had amused me, as, glancing at Mrs. 
 Vincent's face, I had seen it flush faintly. She had 
 been twice engaged before she married my friend, 
 and, until then, her favored lovers had been men be- 
 neath her both in mind and character. She once said 
 to me, " When you come at last to pay the debts con- 
 tracted by that idiot Pity, the little god is apt to put 
 up the shutters and declare that he is not at home for 
 business." I should have liked to hear more from her 
 on this subject, because the love-affairs of the best 
 women are often inexplicable to men, and perhaps also 
 to the women concerned. I ventured on one occasion 
 to ask her a leading question on this serious matter. 
 She said, smiling, " Have you not observed that clever 
 women are apt to have more than one serious love- 
 affair?" 
 
 I said that I had made that not difficult observa- 
 tion. 
 
 "Ah, well," she said, "I will make it clear to you. 
 The answer to any one such drama is in the next." 
 
 " That," I said, " is delightfully lucid to a woman." 
 
 As I sipped my tea I turned over a book of etch- 
 ings, while our hostess went on talking the prettiest 
 mere society nonsense to St. Clair and Clayborne. 
 Her husband, much amused, sat by. Now and then 
 she darted at him a swift glance of fun, or sought his 
 eyes with a look of questioning eagerness. Whatever 
 ideals had once been hers, she had found a trusted 
 anchorage in the man she married. Indeed, I think 
 the admiration she excited was one of the happinesses 
 of Vincent's existence, and in every relation the per-
 
 184 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 
 
 feet tact with which these two managed their common 
 life was a pleasant thing to see. Like many kind and 
 able women, dulness was for her no barrier to friend- 
 ship ; but to none was Vincent so charming as to her 
 uninteresting friends, to none so generous and so 
 courteous. She repaid the debt in kind to us all, and, 
 as to St. Clair, was a sort of confessor to whom he 
 confided his occasional troubles with a quiet, childlike 
 certainty of help. I think that she did not much 
 fancy Clayborne, but the art of absolute social mas- 
 querade belongs to the woman alone, and I doubt if 
 even Vincent suspected her of caring less for the 
 scholar than for her husband's other friends. Hear- 
 ing the talk take a more serious turn, I drew my chair 
 nearer. 
 
 " Yes," said Vincent ; " a nation in the making is 
 as to its individuals more interesting than one which 
 is set in slowly changing historic ruts. As a rule, the 
 English people I mean the undistinguished are to 
 me of all the dullest. The chance American of any 
 class, as one meets him in travel, is by far more amus- 
 ing. I don't speak of his manners ; he is apt enough 
 to be common, just as the corresponding Englishman 
 is to be vulgar ; but class for class, our people interest 
 me more." 
 
 " But how silent they are." 
 
 " Yes 5 yet open to talk if you ask for it. We had 
 once the name with our cousins of being questioning 
 creatures, but really I think that of late years we have 
 exchanged roles. Certainly the frank inquisitiveness 
 of the English is past belief." 
 
 " If," said St. Clair, with his easy way of dislocating
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 185 
 
 the talk, " I had to attend to the education of a nation, 
 I should declare a war once in every fifty years at 
 least." 
 
 " I don't care myself to manufacture any more his- 
 tory," returned Vincent; "but certainly the genera- 
 tion which emerged from our great strife, North and 
 South, was the better for it." 
 
 "And what faces it wrought! " said St. Clair. "I 
 stood and saw go by me in Washington that army 
 which followed Sherman to the sea grave, thought- 
 ful, strong-featured, with eyes looking homeward." 
 
 "And behind them the dead of countless homes," 
 said Mrs. Vincent, " and that desolated, mourning 
 South. Let us talk of other things; I cannot even 
 now think of it without pain." 
 
 " It was but the historic consequences of folly and 
 crime," said Clayborne. 
 
 She made no answer except in her gentlest tone to 
 ask me to ring for the servant to remove the tea-tray. 
 I knew that one of her brothers, long settled in the 
 South, had lost his life in the Confederate cause, and 
 I could have soundly cuffed Clayborne, who never 
 remembered anything not in books. Now he rose to 
 go, as we decided that it was too late to hear the 
 "Memoir"; but then, retiring to a corner, as though 
 he had forgotten his intention, sat down to read the 
 nearest book. 
 
 St. Clair, who was greatly attached to Mrs. Vin- 
 cent, noticing the slight look of pain which still lin- 
 gered on her face, said, " You have been glancing at my 
 little book." 
 
 "Yes. Read me something." And then and this
 
 186 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 was quite characteristic " I should like the lines on 
 Lincoln." He took up the book and read : 
 
 Chained by stern duty to the rock of state, 
 
 His spirit armed in rugged mail of mirth, 
 
 Ever above yet ever near the earth, 
 
 Still felt his heart the vulture-beaks that sate 
 
 Base appetites, and foul with slander wait 
 
 Till the sharp lightning brings the awful hour 
 
 When wounds and suffering give them double power. 
 
 Most was he like that Luther, gay and great, 
 Solemn and mirthful, strong of head and limb. 
 Tender and simple was he too ; so near 
 To all things human that he cast out fear, 
 And ever simpler, like a little child, 
 Lived in unconscious nearness unto him 
 Who always for earth's little ones has smiled. 
 
 " Thank you," she said. "And one more before you 
 go." 
 
 " This is not mine, but a friend's. He has a certain 
 terror of publicity, but you will see at the close of the 
 book I have put together a few of his verses. They 
 have a fineness of quality I like. He does not write 
 for the world, but as you write to a friend. He has 
 pleasure in the clear coinage thought finds only when 
 on paper." 
 
 " I think I know the man," she said. "And thank 
 you again." 
 
 " Shall I read any more ? " he said. 
 
 " Yes," she answered j " if you will be so good." 
 
 He took a book from the table, and read aloud the 
 first half of " Saul." As he read I watched him and 
 her. He seemed to know he was soothing her, that
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 187 
 
 this was what she needed. He read the po.em as a boy 
 explores a fresh stream or wood, with thoughtful joy, 
 and as though he had just discovered it all, and was 
 sharing it with you. As he turned the last leaf, she 
 said quickly, " Do not read the second part." 
 
 " No danger of that," he said. " I think that at a 
 certain age the poets should be retired on prose pen- 
 sions." 
 
 " And who shall set the date ? " said I. 
 
 " Not I," she replied j " and yet and yet 
 
 "Well, what?" 
 
 " Merely that I feel now as to this poet as one feels 
 about a friend who, as life goes on, ceases to be what 
 he was, and becomes something else which is no longer 
 grateful to you. You knew and loved him when only 
 a few others understood him. And now, when he has 
 won the adulation of the literary populace, you can 
 only look on, and wonder with a little sadness at the 
 character of the development which time has brought 
 about." 
 
 "It is true," said St. Clair. "Once I went to a 
 society, and a gentleman in the dry-goods business 
 unrolled for us a mummy. He explained the pro- 
 cesses of embalming and the spices used, and then the 
 object of it and its relation to the solar system and to 
 the manufacture of oleomargarine. He told us, too, 
 how the Egyptians embalmed geese, and, reverting to 
 his mummy, made plain to us that, having exposed 
 the body thereof, it was found that it was not always 
 possible to decide its sex or nature. I think I must 
 have been half asleep, because, just as he assured us 
 that this state of bewilderment was the main value of
 
 188 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 the study of mummification, and that it was a wise in- 
 vention of beneficent priests to train, through vexa- 
 tion, the intellect of the future, I woke up and knew 
 that he was discussing ' Sordello ' with occasional allu- 
 sions to Mr. Sludge." 
 
 " I never before knew you half so cynical," said our 
 
 "Really, I have not put it too strongly. These 
 societies for the infinitesimal dilution of criticism are 
 exasperating. How the poet must laugh in his sleeve ! 
 My only comfort is that we did not invent the craze. 
 There is a true story that an Englishwoman broke off 
 her engagement with a sturdy guardsman because he 
 did not know who Browning was. She took the man 
 back again into favor when he was able to stand an 
 examination on ' The Flight of the Duchess,' and ' The 
 Red Cotton Night-cap Country.' " 
 
 " At least now, for a while, they will let my Shak- 
 spere alone. They have fresher prey." 
 
 " That is curious," said the poet. " Did not you see, 
 Clayborne, that lately in repairing Shakspere's tomb 
 there was found on the under side of the marble slab 
 
 the lines, 
 
 "Who stirs the ashes of my verse 
 In his soul shall roost a curse f " 
 
 "What? what?" cried Clayborne. "Nonsense!" 
 While the rest of us smiled, and the poet, who de- 
 lighted to mystify the historian, burst into childlike 
 laughter. 
 
 " In my young days," said I, " the business of dis- 
 secting dead poets had hardly begun. When but a 
 boy I asked a mild old professor what Shakspere
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 189 
 
 meant by ' Many, come up.' He reflected a little, and 
 then said it meant merely advice to marry, and indi- 
 cated the elevation of soul which would follow." 
 
 " But he was jesting at you." 
 
 " Not at all. He was quite vexed at the smile of an 
 elder boy who stood by, and who cleared my head 
 about it when we had left the class-room. I could tell 
 you my critic's name, but I will not." 
 
 "Don't you want sometimes," said Mrs. Vincent, 
 u to do to your books as the Russian censors do to 
 newspapers, and blot ruthlessly some parts of them ? 
 If a human friend is silly, or wanting in some way, 
 it is not thrust on you forever ; but the folly of our 
 friend-book we cannot escape. One must take our 
 friend-book as all friends must be taken, with reason- 
 able charity as to defect and limitation." 
 
 " A noble old man whom I know well," I said, "has 
 had printed for himself in a book all the bits of verse 
 he loves best ; the little poems, the old ballads, he fan- 
 cies; whatever taste, circumstance, or remembrance 
 has made dear to him." 
 
 " That really is a good idea," said Mrs. Vincent. 
 " Could n't I do that, Fred ? " 
 
 " Readily," he said, with a smile. " The book might 
 be a trifle large. And shall it be only verse ? " 
 
 " Oh, there must be two ; I cannot mix them. And 
 a book or two there are I can't have in chips. By the 
 way, is n't this a charming thought ? " And so saying 
 she gave me from the table a little copy of Marcus 
 Aurelius. It was uncut, and tied to the long ribbon 
 marker was a paper-cutter having on its handle a coin 
 stamped with the features of the great emperor and.
 
 190 CHARACTEEISTICS. 
 
 greater man. I knew in a moment who had given it 
 by St. Glair's pleased look. 
 
 As I studied the grave face on the coin, Mrs. Vin- 
 cent said: "I am waiting to cut the leaves. I did 
 begin, but then fell to thinking of the emperor man 
 guiding my fingers through his own immortal pages, 
 and how some Roman boy, playing at pitch-penny 
 with this coin, may have paused as the emperor 
 passed, and turned to see if the medal were like him 
 or not. I shall wait." 
 
 "Would he have been more great, or less," asked 
 Vincent, " but for the woman, his wife, who had no 
 sense of the moral stature of the man ? " 
 
 " I do not surely know," she answered. " Women 
 may immensely help men, but the strong of purpose 
 even a bad woman does not mar. The best and the 
 greatest have had bad luck with wives. The women 
 who can worship the heroic, and yet use their own 
 common sense usefully to criticize the hero oh, they 
 must be very rare indeed. And as to that book, I 
 think I shall rest content with my present plan." 
 
 "And that?" I said. 
 
 " I keep near me on my table a few books, three or 
 four real books, I mean ; books that are in the peer- 
 age of thought. They are as friends invited for a 
 limited stay. Some day they go back to their home 
 on the shelves, and others are invited to their places. 
 But I meant to ask you how such a man could have 
 had a son like Commodus." 
 
 "His father," I replied, "had virtue lifted to the 
 height of genius, and genius is not heritable. By the 
 by, a great Frenchman has said that is why genius is
 
 CHAEACTEKISTICS. 191 
 
 not fl.THn to madness, since madness is so apt to de- 
 scend with the blood. And there, too, was the mother." 
 
 "And so," said Mrs. Vincent, rising, " the blame is 
 to fall as usual on my sex. I shall leave you, I think, 
 to your cigars. I have exhausted your wisdom. 
 Good-night, and thank you again, Mr. St. Clair." 
 
 We rose, and she left us. 
 
 A few minutes later, Vincent said, "Have you 
 guessed the man St. Glair's friend describes in that 
 little poem ? Do you know him ? " 
 
 As he spoke I saw the sculptor look up with a gleam 
 of amusement in his face. "Oh, it is a character; 
 merely a character." 
 
 " I fancy I know the man," I returned. " I mean to 
 respect his incognito. More might be said of him. 
 He was, when first I saw him, a rather narrow person, 
 but it was the narrowness not of parallel lines, but of 
 a broadening angle sure to enlarge. In all ways his 
 life has widened with the years his tastes, his char- 
 ity, his intellect, his power to please and be pleased, 
 his range of sympathies. As a young man he was 
 cynical, at least in talk, which is sometimes far enough 
 away from the cynicism of action. We used to call 
 him bitter, but some able men are in youth like per- 
 simmons, and ripen into sweetness under the frosts of 
 circumstance." 
 
 " The men," said Vincent, " who reverse your com- 
 parison, and, facing all their lives a lessening angle, 
 narrow to the point called death we know them also." 
 
 Said St. Clair, " Let us hope that the crossing lines 
 create for them too the widening angle of larger 
 growth."
 
 xin. 
 
 HE account I had so long promised / 
 my friends of the character-doctor * 
 was delayed by a variety of matters. 
 But one evening in the winter we 
 met again at Vincent's. When I 
 came in the room was ringing with 
 
 the notes of his wife's voice. She had set for St. Clair 
 a little love-song. Her voice had the rare charm of 
 rendering the words with perfect distinctness, and the 
 music was such as prettily to humor the sentiments 
 of the verse. As she finished, he took it up and read 
 it in his fervid way. 
 
 " Alas," he said, " we have lost the art of song. The 
 gaiety and self-abandonment of its Elizabethan notes 
 are dead for us. All the pretty silliness of it its 
 careless folly, and its gay music rings with the life 
 of that splendid day. Think of the lusty vigor of it, 
 the noble madness of the lives. Imagine the struggle 
 for national existence which made poets soldiers, and 
 gave to life that uncertainty which makes man natural 
 and outspoken. Here was a queen who, whatever her 
 faults, had the art to get from noble men an ever 
 nobler service; a woman who somehow influenced 
 men toward greatness as surely as her ' sister of de- 
 bate ' made worse all who loved her."
 
 CHARACTEEISTICS. 193 
 
 " Oh," laughed Vincent, " we should have Clayborne 
 give you his cold judgment of Elizabeth." 
 
 "And almost all he would say is true," cried St. 
 Clair, " and yet but half the story. It wants a poet 
 for entire estimate of the values of character. Your 
 sweet, gentle, merely lovely woman makes on man no 
 permanent impression. There must be force some- 
 where to evolve force. A very feminine woman with 
 some flavor of the resoluteness of the masculine char- / 
 acter has the trick to keep men steadily influenced, 
 and there must be, too, tie high-minded sympathy 
 with heroism in fact, some touch of that quality in 
 the woman herself." 
 
 " I meant," I said, " to have added a word to what 
 St. Clair said. England was musical in those days. 
 Without that the song has no natural birth. Music 
 died, and the song with it, as Puritanism grew to be 
 a power. It was lucky for Germany, I think, that 
 Luther loved music." 
 
 " The thought is interesting," remarked Clayborne. 
 
 " Yes," said Mrs. Vincent. " But to go back to our 
 last subject. One of these days I mean to write wom- 
 en's husbands. A calm statement of our side might 
 be valuable. I should take as my title-page motto the 
 wise words of a friend of mine, ' Men differ, but all 
 husbands are alike.' " 
 
 " That would begin and end your book," I said. 
 
 " Oh, the husband is generically alike, but specific- 
 ally various. You may smile, but wait until you read 
 my chapter on the management of husbands. How- 
 ever, I do not mean to spoil my literary venture by 
 talking about it."
 
 194 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Give me a few points," laughed St. Clair. "At 
 any time I may become a victim. I cannot imagine 
 it, but everything is possible." 
 
 " Might I protest ? " cried Vincent. 
 
 " No, indeed," we said in one breath. 
 
 " Oh, it will be quite impersonal, my dear," she said. 
 
 " Well, and suppose we question you ? " said I. "Is 
 marriage, as we see it, a failure ? " 
 
 " What a question ! Is business ? Are books ? 
 There are three marriages. One is a monarchy; a 
 king or queen presides over life. One is a true feder- 
 ative republic; there is equality under large sense 
 of law and of mutual rights. The third is anarchy. 
 Time is the true priest. Many couples who seem un- 
 fitly mated learn as years go by to find the happiness 
 they miss at first. There are people who ask too much 
 of life. Sometimes they fail as to their own ideals and 
 get what is better. I shall have a chapter on the friend- 
 ship of marriage, and one on its disappointments." 
 
 "And one," said Vincent, "on the marriage of friend- 
 ship." 
 
 "Might I say of that," she returned, "that if not a 
 marriage of convenance (for it is more than that), it is, 
 at least, a marriage of convenience f " 
 
 "Good! "cried I. 
 
 "And now we are going to hear something more ; 
 it is interesting," said St. Clair. 
 
 "No; I elect to pause here. I give you only one 
 piece of advice." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Don't marry a fool. If you would only let me 
 choose for you."
 
 CHAKACTEEISTICS. 195 
 
 "Agreed," said St. Clair, "if I may have a veto." 
 
 "By all means. But" 
 
 At this moment Vincent's servant came in with a 
 note for me. "Pardon me," I said. "Your revelations 
 must keep, at least for me. I have to go to the hospital. 
 I may be gone a half -hour, or much longer. Good-by, 
 Mrs. Vincent." 
 
 "I am sorry. I had set my mind on a pleasant 
 evening." 
 
 "What is your errand at St. Ann's?" said Vincent, 
 as I rose to go. 
 
 "A consultation with the surgeons." 
 
 "Might I go with you!" said St. Clair. 
 
 I looked at him, astonished. "Well, yes," I returned, 
 doubtfully. "But you may have to wait long if you 
 remain until I can leave the wards. What on earth, 
 my dear St. Clair, can you want now, at night ? There 
 is nothing to see." 
 
 "I will tell you as we go. If you say no, I shall be 
 satisfied." 
 
 "Very well; come, and make haste," I said, as the 
 others bade us good-night. 
 
 Presently, as we walked along, St. Clair said, "Your 
 note told you that a man was probably dying. An 
 operation might save him." 
 
 "Certainly." 
 
 \X "I want to see death. I want to see a man die. I 
 never saw that strange thing. I have two reasons. 
 One is related to my art, and is not an unworthy 
 reason. But also, North, lif e is an immense happiness 
 to me, and I feel some strange craving at times to see 
 its misery, its darker side."
 
 196 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Great heaven ! It is all around you." 
 
 "Yes, no doubt; but I cannot grasp it. If I help a 
 beggar, his satisfaction alone goes with me. I can be 
 sad on paper, but nowhere else. It seems to me, as I 
 reflect, unnatural, wrong. I think I realize grief and 
 pain and trouble for others, but not as a thing possi- 
 ble for me. And this great awful fact of all life 
 death I must see it." 
 
 I did not reply for a moment. Then I said, "Per- 
 haps you are right. I am not sure. But you shall 
 have your way." 
 
 "And death," he said, "you must have seen it until 
 it is commonplace to you." 
 
 "I have seen it," I said, "countless deaths in battle, 
 / executions, death-beds men, women, and children. 
 It has never quite lost for me its awfulness. The ma- 
 terialism which makes it seem the mere stopping of a 
 machine, into which I once reasoned myself, lessened 
 and left me long ago. Once, by a death-bed in a hos- 
 pital, I heard a surgeon say, as a man ceased to 
 breathe, 'It has stopped ; the engine has ceased to go.' 
 His senior, an old man, replied, 'No ; the engineer has 
 left it.' I have ceased to reason about it. At every 
 dead man's side I feel more and more that something, 
 J immaterial as the Being who willed the thing to live, 
 has escaped me and my analysis. Life seems to me a 
 thing as real, as positive, as death, and, trust me, St. 
 Glair, as we live on and on, we get to have more and 
 more trust in recognitions of truths indefensible by 
 mere logic. To the man whom the latter despotically 
 governs I have nothing to say in the way of blame." 
 
 "As I think of it," said St. Clair, "death, of which I
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 197 
 
 have seen nothing, only excites my boundless curios- 
 ity ; and as I observe that generally I am correct in 
 my predictions about myself, and am by nature fear- 
 less, I suspect that I would feel more curiosity than 
 dread if I knew that I were to die to-night. One fear 
 I certainly should have. I should shudder to think 
 that my curiosity might not be gratified. And you ? 
 Do you think it will be ?" 
 
 " I do not know. We are on ground which I rarely 
 tread in talk. Some men, and I am one, shrink from 
 these discussions as they grow older. One says more 
 or less than one means, and a word said is like a bullet 
 sped. As to some things I like to be silent. One gets 
 into the power of words." 
 
 "What are you saying?" I added. He was speak- 
 ing under his breath. He at once repeated aloud what 
 he had been murmuring. 
 
 Death seems so simple. Will it be 
 Only a new complexity? 
 Or shall the broken body free 
 Broad wings of clearer life for me ? 
 
 The mood and its expressed thoughts were unusual 
 in the joyous man beside me, and without more words 
 we moved on to the gate of St. Ann's. I left St. Clair 
 below-stairs, and went up alone to the consultation. 
 
 Drs. L and S awaited my coming. The case 
 
 was one of old injury to the head. The consulta- 
 tion was called so late in the case that the question of 
 the value of an operation was doubtful. The charac- 
 ter of the two men came out strongly, as it is apt to 
 do in these grim councils. The one, L , was clear,
 
 198 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 rapid, seized on the main points with almost instinctive 
 capacity, formulated the facts and reached his conclu- 
 sions with confident decisiveness. The other, S , 
 
 an older man, listened, read and reread the notes, lifted 
 into prominence for himself the minor symptoms, and 
 ceaselessly combated the other doctor's conclusions, de- 
 ciding finally against an operation as useless. 
 
 My own voice settled the question for operation 
 on the ground of harmlessness to a man insensible to 
 pain, and without it sure to die. The operation was 
 
 done swiftly and well by L . As it went on it 
 
 became clear that it had failed because of being a week 
 
 or more too late. Said S , who had the case in 
 
 charge: "I always knew it would fail 5 I am sorry I 
 troubled you at all. I don't believe much in brain 
 surgery." 
 
 The instruments were cleaned and removed, the 
 dressings arranged, the man carried to his ward bed, 
 and a screen drawn around it. Then a fair-haired 
 nurse sat down by his side, and the man was left to 
 his fate. 
 
 As L and I descended the stairs alone, he said 
 
 to me, "If you or I had had that case a month ago, 
 it would have been operated upon, and possibly saved. 
 Certainly his chances would have been enormously 
 
 better. That man S is like an indecisive little 
 
 child playing at puss-in-the-corner. He tries this 
 corner, and runs for that, and all are occupied by 
 some logical difficulty. Is it a moral or an intellectual 
 defect?" 
 
 I said : " It has probably cost a life, and must have 
 cost many. It is not any mere lack of reasoning
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 199 
 
 power. His essays are clear. You would think from 
 them that he never had a doubt. There he has no 
 responsibility. But let him face a case, and he be- 
 gins to be troubled. He is a good man, and so tre- 
 mendously anxious to be right, and to do right, that 
 when human life and interests enter into his mental 
 operations he becomes perplexed. At least that is the 
 way I read him." 
 
 " How different from Y , who does not care an 
 
 atom for the patient, but is distracted by his fear of 
 intellectual failure. Naturally he abhors the post- 
 mortem criticism. I hate most of all the fellow who 
 reaches an opinion somehow, is scared by his own de- 
 cision, and begins to hedge." 
 
 I laughed, 
 
 "If ifsandans 
 Were pots and pans, 
 How good a brain 
 Were any man's. 
 
 " Indecision is an awful fool. Good-night." 
 
 In the waiting-room I found St. Clair. " Are you 
 still of the same mind ? " said I. He nodded. " Then 
 come." And we went up-stairs. 
 
 Stillness reigned in the dimly lighted ward, except 
 for the soft tread of a night nurse, or the hoarse 
 breathing of some sleeper lost to his own troubles, and 
 regardless in slumber of the neighboring tragedy of 
 death. 
 
 With St. Clair at my side I walked over to the bed, 
 drew the screen aside, and went within its shelter. I 
 could see that my friend was awed. 
 
 " He is worse," said the quiet little nurse in a low 
 14
 
 200 CHARACTEEISTICS. 
 
 tone. " You can talk," I said to St. Clair, " only not 
 so as to disturb these others. This man will never 
 hear voice of earthly man." 
 
 " And he is dying ! " He spoke in a tone of sur- 
 prise. 
 
 "Yes, and rapidly." 
 
 " And has no pain ? 
 
 "No; none." 
 
 "And why don't you do something?" 
 
 " All has been done. We are face to face with the 
 inevitable." 
 
 "He seems as if he was working," said St. Clair. 
 " How flushed he is ! How hard he breathes ! And 
 he sweats like one who toils, and has no other expres- 
 sion. It is like a watch with the mainspring broken, 
 all a hurry of meaningless motion. And his hands, 
 how they twitch ! And this you call death. I told 
 you that I had never seen it before, and yet it looks 
 not unnatural. Have we some intuition of it ? I must 
 have seen it before." 
 
 The young nurse looked up at him with surprise. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, recoiling. The mockery of laugh- 
 ter which sometimes contorts the face of death, the 
 risus sardonicus, passed over the features. 
 
 " Come," I said ; " you have had enough of this." 
 
 "No; I shall stay. May I stay?" 
 
 " Certainly. A seat, nurse. I will speak to the head 
 nurse." And I left him.
 
 xrv. 
 
 OME time passed before we met to 
 hear my account of the character 
 doctor, and meanwhile St. Clair had 
 abruptly left town the day after our 
 hospital experience. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent was talking to her 
 husband when, just after dinner, I entered her draw- 
 ing-room. 
 
 " It is an age since we met," she cried, cordially. 
 " Sit down. Mr. Clayborne will be here shortly. And 
 what have you done to my poor St. Clair? Read 
 that," and she took from her work-basket a note dated 
 the night I last saw him. 
 
 I cannot dine with you to-morrow. I have seen to-night 
 what I shall be some day. It is horrible. 
 
 It was true, and he had gone away into the woods 
 for a fortnight, like a wounded animal. Nor did he 
 ever speak of it again, but came back as gay and joy- 
 ous as usual. I returned the note to her. 
 
 "How could you?" she said. "I should have 
 known how he would feel." 
 
 " I took him," I returned, " because he was reason- 
 able in his desire to see a man die. But I suppose 
 that, with all its awe, death is so constantly about us
 
 202 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 doctors that we cannot estimate its influence upon 
 others. When I left him for he would stay he 
 was simply curious and contemplative." 
 
 " Do you remember," said Mrs. Vincent, " that de- 
 scription in Stendhal of the Italian who first sees death 
 of a sudden on a great battle-field his surprise, his 
 curiosity, and at last his terror? It is in his 'La 
 Chartreuse de Panne.'" 
 
 " No ; I will look at it, but I have seen all this in 
 war once or twice." 
 
 As she spoke, Clayborne came in. "Of what are 
 you speaking ? " he said. 
 
 " Of fear. Of the anguish of fear, uncontrollable, 
 like the fear in dreams." 
 
 " Yes ; the agony of terror," I returned. " One sees 
 it in the insane at times, and in delirium tremens. 
 There is nothing in normal life to compare with it." 
 
 " And were you ever afraid in war ? " 
 
 " Abominably. We were supposed as surgeons to 
 be non-combatants, but that means merely that one is 
 to run risks without the chance to quiet himself by 
 violent action. Practically, we lost in dead and hurt 
 a long list of surgeons." 
 
 "Indeed ? I did not know that. And what do you 
 think the best test, after all, of a man's courage ? " said 
 Vincent. 
 
 " To face a mob or a madman. I knew a man who 
 once by ill luck was shut up with a crazy, athletic 
 brute. My friend locked the door, hearing the man's 
 wife wailing outside. The brute, while suffering from 
 a delusion, had once hurt her ; and now again imagin- 
 ing her to have been false to him, meant to kill her.
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 203 
 
 He asked for the key, and gave my friend five min- 
 utes to reflect, as he stood before him with a billet of 
 wood he had seized from the hearth." 
 
 " And what did your friend do ? " 
 
 " It was summer, and the windows were open. He 
 threw the key into the street." 
 
 "And what then?" 
 
 " Oh, help came just as it was wanted, which is rare 
 in this world. I have cut a long story short. My 
 friend said afterward that he was glad of the experi- 
 ence j that he had little hope of escape, and now felt 
 sure for the first time in his life that he was equal to 
 any test of courage." 
 
 " I can understand that," said Vincent. " In these 
 quiet days we are rarely tried as to courage. But, 
 after all, is n't it somewhat a matter of training of 
 profession? I suppose, North, it never enters into 
 your mind to fear contagious disease ? " 
 
 " Never ; except as to one disease : I have a fancy I 
 shall die of yeUow fever." 
 
 " Oh, but," said our hostess, " is n't it also true that 
 physicians do not take disease as others do ? " 
 
 " No ; that is a popular notion, but quite untrue. I 
 have thrice suffered from disease thus acquired : once 
 from smallpox, twice from diphtheria. In Ireland, in 
 the great typhus years, physicians died in frightful 
 numbers, and so did the old doctors here in yellow- 
 fever days. Unlike the soldier, we are always under 
 fire." 
 
 "I should certainly run from smallpox. I might 
 face a madman," said Mrs. Vincent. "As to war, I 
 should run."
 
 204 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "And I from a dog," said Clayborne. "And you, 
 Vincent?" 
 
 " I do not know," he returned. " I cannot imagine 
 anything which would make me visibly show fear. I 
 think I am more afraid of what Anne would think of 
 me than of any earthly object of dread. I can con- 
 ceive as possible what North mentioned. We must 
 have somewhere a nerve-organ or -organs which feel 
 what we call fear. Now, to have these so diseased as 
 to originate a sensation of causeless, overwhelming ter- 
 ror, uncontrollable by will, must be of possible human 
 torture the worst. And you have seen it ? " 
 
 "Yes. A man says, 'I am afraid.' You say, 'Of 
 what?' He cannot tell you. 'Of nothing. I am 
 afraid.'" 
 
 " Two things I fear," cried St. Clair, who had come 
 in silently behind us "pain and a ghost." 
 
 "So glad to see you," cried Mrs. Vincent. "Sit 
 down. We are discussing fear, cowardice, courage." 
 
 " Pain I fear most," he said, " yet hardly know it. 
 And a ghost ! Well, I know that. I have seen one." 
 
 "What? When? Where ?" they cried. 
 
 "Ask North," he replied. 
 
 "Yes, it is true; but first, before I come in with 
 skeptical comments, let us hear your story. You are 
 the only one here who has seen a ghost." 
 
 " I was in my studio six months ago at dusk. I was 
 thinking, as I stood, of how well my statue of Saul 
 looked, the light being dim, as it would have been in 
 his tent. I remembered then having seen the statues 
 of the Louvre on a moonlight night, when, with the 
 curator, I lingered along the hall of the great Venus.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 205 
 
 Some of the fine lines of Sill's poem came back to me, 
 and, turning, I moved toward the front room to get 
 the book. At that moment I became aware of a black 
 figure on my left side. It was literally shrouded from 
 head to foot ; even the face and the extremities were 
 hidden. At first I was surprised, and then by degrees 
 a deadly fear possessed me. I was motionless, and it 
 did not stir. I turned to face it, but, as I did so, it 
 moved so as to keep relatively to me the same position. 
 The whole act, if I may call it that, lasted, I should 
 say, a minute. Then an agitation seized the form, as 
 if it were convulsed under its black cloak, and a faint 
 glow, like phosphorescence, ran along the lines of the 
 drapery, and it was gone." 
 
 When he had finished there was a moment of si- 
 lence. Then Mrs. Vincent exclaimed, " Was that all ? " 
 
 " A ghost in daytime," said Clayborne. " And the 
 comment, North." 
 
 " As he lost it," said I, " he felt a violent pain over 
 his left eye, and this was one of his usual attacks of 
 ^ neuralgic headaches. He has seen this phantom twice 
 since. It was merely the substitution of a figure of a 
 cloaked man for the lines of zigzag light which usually 
 precede his headaches, and are not very rare. One 
 man sees stars falling, one a catharine-wheel ; but the 
 appearance of distinct human or other forms in their 
 place is a recent observation. I have known a woman 
 to see her dead sister, until, after many returns of the 
 V phantom, she ceased to be impressed by it." 
 
 " How disappointing ! " exclaimed Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " And do you think these facts," said Vincent, " ex- 
 plain some ghost- tales ? "
 
 206 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 
 
 "Yes, some. I have seen cases where the headache 
 did not follow the catharine-wheel, or the lines of 
 light, or the specter, or was very trifling. And in 
 some of these the ghost was duly honored as a true 
 article until subsequent and violent neuralgias ex- \/ 
 plained it as a rare symptom of a common disorder." 
 
 " Is the disease itself understood ? " said Clayborne. 
 / "No disease is understood. "We trace back the 
 threads a little way, and find a tangle none can un- 
 ravel." 
 
 "Then the disease is as bad as a ghost a real 
 ghost," cried Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " I disbelieve in ghosts, and do not try at spiritual 
 explanations. The material for study of nature is 
 with us always. We cannot experiment on ghosts. I 
 know of at least but one hint in that direction." 
 
 "And that?" said Clayborne. 
 
 " Well, if the ghost be a real thing outside of us, you 
 will on theory double it if with a finger you press one 
 eye out of line, thus, and will then be able to say, like 
 the mousquetaire in the 'Ingoldsby Legends,' 'Mon 
 Dieu! Via deux.'" 
 
 " Which shows," said Mrs. Vincent, gaily, " how easily 
 V/ one may become the cause of duplicity in others. It is 
 a lesson in morals." 
 
 " Imagine Hamlet squinting at his papa ! " said St. 
 Clair. " I tried it on my ghost, but it failed. North 
 says he was only a monocularly projected phantom." 
 
 "That sounds reasonably explanatory," growled 
 Clayborne, grimly. 
 
 " But what does your phrase really mean ? " asked 
 Mrs. Vincent of me.
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 207 
 
 " It means that the phantom is present only to one 
 eye in these cases. To be able to double it, it must be 
 seen by both eyes and be really external. If it be only 
 in the brain, and due to brain disorder, we should not 
 be able to squint it into doubleness." 
 
 " But," said Vincent, " it ought, in the latter case, to 
 be present also when the eyes are shut. How is that ? " 
 
 " I am not sure as to that, for I have been told by 
 one person that her waking visions were seen with 
 either eye, and with both, and that they could not be 
 doubled by squinting, and were lost when the eyes 
 were closed." 
 
 " And how do you explain that ? " 
 
 " I do not yet. The patient was a remarkably in- 
 telligent woman, but hysterical, and the very suspicion 
 of this puts one on guard, because these people delight 
 to be considered peculiar, and their testimony must 
 always be carefully studied, and tested by that of 
 others." 
 
 " Tell us what she saw," said Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 "It is interesting, but I must cut it short. At 
 eleven daily a gigantic black man entered the room 
 with a huge bass viol, set it in a corner, and went out. 
 Presently a second brought in an open coffin in which 
 lay the patient herself. A little later a host of tiny 
 men, all in red medieval dresses, swarmed out of the 
 cracks of the viol, ran to the coffin, planted ladders 
 against it, sat in hordes on its upper edges, and, lower- 
 ing on the outside tiny buckets, brought them up full 
 of tinted sand. This they threw into the coffin until 
 it reached the face of the figure within. At this 
 moment the patient began to breathe with difficulty,
 
 208 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 and then of a sudden the pygmies emptied the coffin 
 as quickly as they had filled it, and scuttled away into 
 the viol, while tie two blacks returned and took it 
 away with the coffin." 
 
 "What an extraordinary story ! " said St. Clair. "Can 
 you explain it all?" 
 
 " Yes, in a measure ; but it is hardly worth while. 
 And as for ghosts, the honest old-fashioned ghosts, does 
 any one believe in them ? " 
 
 " I do," said our hostess. 
 
 " And I do not," returned Clayborne. 
 
 " But do you believe anything ? " cried St. Clair. 
 
 " Yes," said Clayborne ; "I believe there was a past, 
 is a present, will be a future. And as to the rest " 
 
 " Granted the past. As to the future," said St. Clair, 
 " you cannot prove that it will be. But there is no 
 present, because that implies rest of a moving world, 
 swinging round with a moving solar system. It is a 
 mere word." 
 
 " What ! what ! what ! " cried Clayborne, suddenly 
 contemplative. 
 
 " And, after all," said Mrs. Vincent, " we have had 
 no really curdling ghost-story. Only nineteenth-cent- 
 ury explanations." 
 
 " It is dangerous to tell a ghost-story nowadays," I 
 returned. "A friend of mine once told one in print 
 out of his wicked head, just for the fun of it. It was 
 about a little dead child who rang up a doctor one 
 night, and took him to see her dying mother. Since 
 then he has been the prey of collectors of such mar- 
 vels. Psychical societies write to him; anxious be- 
 lievers and disbelievers in the supernatural assail him
 
 CHAKACTEEISTICS. 209 
 
 with letters. He has written some fifty to lay this 
 ghost. How could he predict a day when he would 
 be taken seriously ? " 
 
 " I am very sleepy," said Mrs. Vincent, " and it is 
 near to twelve. You have not had the smoke you are 
 all hungering after." 
 
 " Clearly the character doctor must wait," said I. 
 
 " That may," she replied ; " but not one of you can 
 have a cigar until I hear a real ghost-story." 
 
 "Well," I said, "come close to me, all of you, and I 
 will ransom the party." 
 
 " Oh, this is too delightful ! " exclaimed Mrs. Vin- 
 cent. 
 
 " It is serious, Clayborne," I said ; " you might take 
 notes." 
 
 " Preposterous ! " he cried. " Might I not have even 
 a cigarette at the window ? " 
 
 " Not a whiff," said she ; " I have heard that smoke 
 acts on ghosts most injuriously." 
 
 " A ghost-smudge ! " cried Vincent. " That is good." 
 
 " Suppose we get through with this thing," groaned 
 the historian. 
 
 "It is brief, "I returned. 
 
 " One morning, last autumn, I found on my break- 
 fast-table a card, ' Alexander Gavin MacAllister, M. D., 
 Edinburgh.' I know the man well. An able, sturdy 
 Scot, given to usquebaugh. He had a large practice 
 among the mechanic classes, and frequently consulted 
 me. If a friend desired to annoy him, he had but to 
 address him as Gavin. ' Gawin I was creesened, and 
 that 's my name.' He would have fought on this, or 
 for the honor of Scotland, or any man who thought
 
 210 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 Burns a lesser poet than Shakspere. My servant said 
 he had been waiting two hours. I said, < Show him in.' 
 
 " Ah, MacAHister,' 1 said, ' sit down. I did not want 
 you to wait. Talk away while I eat my breakfast ; or, 
 will you have some I ' 
 
 " ' Nae bite, sir,' and after I had sent the servant 
 away, ' I 'm in vara deep waters. I hae killed a mon 
 last night, and I hae done it of knowleedge.' 
 
 " I looked at him curiously. Eyes, hair, beard, skin, 
 were all of various tints of red. All ' burned a burn- 
 ing flame together.' Also he was wet with the sweat 
 of terror. 
 
 " ' Let me hear/ I said. < A little whisky ? ' 
 
 " ' Nae drap, sir. I hae a deep fear that 's the witeh 
 seduced me. I 'm of opeenion that wheesky must hae 
 petticoats, there 's such an abidin' leaven of meeschief 
 in her soceeiety. I maun try to tell you, but I 'm 
 nigher prayin' than talkin'. Ghosts and warlocks are 
 nae quietin' company.' 
 
 " ' Go on,' I said. 
 
 " < Dinna ye ken Mr. Gillespie, the banker 1' 
 
 " ' Yes j I see that it was reported that he died in 
 San Francisco two days ago.' 
 
 " ' It is so related. But I maun tell ye the hale case.' 
 
 "'Goon.' 
 
 " ' Last night I hae reason to suspect that I maun 
 hae been takin' bad wheesky. It was nae the honest 
 barley ; I blame the rye. It 's a warnin' to me for life, 
 if the gude Lord spares me to reform. Ye see, yes- 
 treen, after the Thistle Society, I went to the St. 
 Andrew's dinner. By ill fortune Mr. McGillivray sat 
 opposite to me. Aiblins ye ken Mr. McGillivray. The
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 211 
 
 mon has nae havin's, which is to say manners. He 
 made a very opprobrious remark concernin' the True 
 Kirk, By reason of too mony veenous counselors, I 
 had na the recht word to han'. And thinkin' he might 
 na understond me correctly if I bided too long, I cast 
 a bannock at his foul face. A gude bittie haggis he 
 threw at me. I wad na hae dune that to a dog. The 
 beast has nae senteement of nationality (it 's but a 
 Lowlander he is, after a'). A watermelon he got for 
 answer to his remark. It broke on his bald head, and 
 the sinner went doun in gore, or the like of it, after 
 the manner of the mon Sisera. And that terminated 
 the conversation vara sateesf actorily. 
 
 " ' The cheerman made a point of order that I, Alex- 
 ander MacAllister, was drunk, and I was over-per- 
 suaded by five men to gae hame. When I got in, there 
 on my slate was a message to go at once to veesit Mr. 
 Gillespie, at No. 9 St. Peter's Place. Vara ill, it said. 
 
 " ' Ye ken the mon's deid. I dinna ken why I went, 
 but the next I remember I was at his door. There 
 were lichts in the house, and a braw hussy of a maid 
 let me in. Preesently I was in a bedroom, and there 
 sat Mr. Gillespie, vara white, but dressed. 
 
 " ' " Tak' a seat, Gawin," he said, and I sat doun. 
 
 " ' Then he said, " Gawin, yer owin' me a year's 
 reent." 
 
 " < " Oh, aye," I said. 
 
 " * " I am deid," said he, " and the executors will be 
 hard. Now, Gawin, I want you to gie me a gude dose 
 of poison." 
 
 " ' " But you 're deid now," I said, and my hair stood 
 up like flax stubble, that stiff with fear.
 
 212 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " ' " I was a vara eccentric mon in the fleesh," he 
 said, " and I 'm uae less in the speerit. It has occurred 
 to me, Gawin, an I were weel poisoned I might die as 
 a ghaist, and get alive again. Dinna ye see the point, 
 mon ? " 
 
 " ' I said, " That is aye gude logic," and ye ken he 
 was a vara ingenious creature. " But war would be 
 my neck for takin' the life of a mon ? " 
 
 " ' " I 'm nae a mon, Gawin," he said ; " I 'm a ghaist, 
 and it 's only a change of state I 'm cravin'. And 
 there 's the reent. But ye maun mak' haste, or I will 
 call in Doctor O'Beirne." 
 
 " ' Gude Lord ! " I said, " ye canna mean that, Mr. 
 Gillespie. There 's a hantle of deaths at yon mon's 
 door." 
 
 i it Th en h e s the practitioner for me. I canna be 
 waur. My time 's short ; I was streakit yestreen, and 
 to-morrow I shall be put awa' in the ground. And 
 there 's the reent." 
 
 " ' " Wull ye f orgie me the arrears ? " I said. 
 
 "'"Iwull." 
 
 " l So I pulled out my little pocket-case, and mixed 
 him enough strychnia to kill the ghaist of a witch's cat. 
 He took it doun wi' a gulp. 
 
 "'"It's rather constreengent," he said, and yon 
 were his vara last words ; and then he fell doun in a 
 spawsm, and tied himself into bow-knots, and yelled 
 O Lord ! sir. I fled like Tarn O'Shanter, and here I 
 am. I hae killed a mon.' 
 
 " ' And then you went home ? ' 
 
 "'That may be, sir. When I cam' to full knowl- 
 eedge of Alexander MacAUister I was seated on the
 
 CHAKACTEKISTICS. 213 
 
 step of my door in the snaw. I went in, and will ye 
 creedit it? the slate was clean. But that maim be 
 the way wi' ghaist-writin'. It 's nae abidin'.' 
 
 " l But the man is alive, Grawin. There is a telegram 
 in the morning papers to say that the report of his 
 death was a mistake. He had a faint spell or a trance 
 something of the kind. He will be at home next 
 week. You must have been very drunk, Grawin.' 
 
 " ' I dinna ken. And there 's the reent, and I saw 
 it. Sir, a ghaist in spawsms. Nae, nae ; it was nae 
 a coeencidence. Dinna ye think, sir, considerin' the 
 service, a gude bill for the reent and arrears would 
 be but just?' 
 
 " ' Certainly/ I said ; ' he ought to pay.' 
 
 " ' I hae muckle doubt as to the matter. If he f or- 
 gies me the moneys, I '11 stond by the Kirk against 
 the whole clan of the McGillivrays to the mortal end 
 of my days. Might I hae a drop o' wheesky? No 
 matter what kind. I '11 neever blaspheme against the 
 rye again there's waur things.'" 
 
 " Delightful ! " cried Mrs. Vincent. "You have earned 
 your cigar," and we broke up amidst laughter in which 
 even Clayborne joined.
 
 XV. 
 
 JE met by agreement at Vincent's a 
 week later. When I came in St. 
 Clair was talking of my story. 
 
 "The possibilities of the ghost- 
 tales are pretty well worked out," he 
 said, " but Owen's was really fresh." 
 " The logical character of the old Scot in your story 
 was past praise," said Clayborne. 
 
 " And what about the arrears ? " remarked Vincent. 
 " I should like to be employed to bring suit for them." 
 "Oh, I then and there made him write the bill 
 against Mr. Gillespie's ghost. The old banker was 
 delighted when I told him the story ; he admitted the 
 obligation, dead or alive, he said, and he was as good 
 as his word." 
 
 "That ends it neatly," said Mrs. Vincent. "And 
 now we must really have the character doctor." 
 I went on to read it, saying : 
 
 " The friend who gave me, at my desire, the notes 
 of a part of a rather odd life is now abroad. I have 
 woven what I knew of him into his own account of 
 himself, and have tried to preserve the peculiar abrupt- 
 ness of his style."
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 215 
 
 THE CHAEACTEE DOCTOE. 
 
 AT the age of twenty-three I was an orphan. I was 
 independent as to means, and by profession a doctor 
 
 of medicine. I began to practise in L , and, as I 
 
 obtained only by slow degrees the patients I needed 
 rather than wanted, I found increasing difficulties. If 
 a case were painful, I suffered too. If it ended ill, I 
 was tormented by self-reproaches. In a word, I was 
 too sensitive to be of use. Weak or hysterical women 
 liked me and my too ready show of sympathy. It 
 was, in fact, real, and quite too real for my good or 
 my comfort. Moreover, I hated to be told that I had 
 so much sympathy. It is a quality to use with wis- 
 dom. I could not control it. It was valuable to some 
 patients ; it was useless to many, or even did harm. 
 It made me anxious when my mind told me there was 
 no need to be anxious. I was, in fact, too intensely 
 troubled at times over a child or a young mother 
 to be efficient. Decided or pain-giving treatment I 
 shrank from using. I was inclined to gloomy prog- 
 nostications, and this weakened my capacity to do 
 good. And yet I was a conscientious man, and eager 
 to do what was right. I have, however, observed that 
 sanguine men, or men who deliberately and constantly 
 * predict relief or cure, do best. If failure comes, it ex- 
 plains itself or may be explained. I knew once a foxy 
 old country doctor, who said to me, " Hide your inde- 
 cisions ; tell folks they will get well ; tell their friends 
 your doubts afterward." This may be one way of 
 practising a profession ; it was not mine. 
 
 A few years of practice wore me out, and yet I liked 
 15
 
 
 216 CHARACTEEISTICS. 
 
 it in a way, and best of all the infinite varieties of life 
 and character laid open to one's view. At last I con- 
 sulted Professor N . "And you feel," he said, 
 
 "more and more the troubles and pain of your 
 patients? To feel too sharply is not rare, and not 
 bad for the young. Sympathy should harden by re- 
 peated blows into the tempered steel of usefulness, 
 which has values in proportion to what it has borne ; 
 otherwise it and you are useless. Get out of our pro- 
 fession." And I did. I accepted the chair of psychol- 
 ogy at B University, and plunged with joy into 
 
 mere study. I soon found a want. The study of man 
 in books and through self -observation became weari- 
 some. The study of myself in the mirror of myself 
 made me morbid. I might have known it would. 
 There may be some who can do this. Autopsycholog- 
 ical study seemed to me profitless. Can a man see his 
 own eyes move in a mirror ? Also the single man is 
 useless as a field of examination. You recall my lect- 
 ure on " Genera and Species of Mind," and on " Varie- 
 ties of the Same." After all, it appeared to me that 
 what I wanted was to collect notes of characters, good, 
 bad, and neutral, if there be such ; to study motives, 
 large and small, and to collate them with the history 
 of men intellectually regarded, and to see, also, how 
 the moral nature modifies the mental product, and the 
 reverse. Out of all this I must get some good for 
 others. This my nature made imperative. I obtained 
 a long holiday, which it was supposed I would spend 
 in Germany with Herr Valzenberg, whose study of the 
 diameters of the nerve-cells in relation to criminal ten- 
 dencies has attracted so much notice.
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 217 
 
 Nothing was further from my intention. I left 
 
 B in February, 1863, and a week later had an 
 
 office in quiet West street in the city of Baypoint. I 
 put on my door "Sylvian West, Character Doctor." 
 You will see that I changed my name. For this I had 
 good reasons. I meant to be another man for the 
 time. I believed that change of name would mentally 
 assist me to this, and I had no desire to be called insane 
 because I chose to strike out a novel method of study, 
 with which I meant to combine immediate utility. 
 
 During my office-hours I sat for a while near my 
 window to observe the effect of my business-sign. It 
 was a rather pleasant study. The street was a quiet 
 byway, but morning and evening many people of all 
 classes passed through it. Most of them went by with 
 a passing glance of amusement or vague curiosity; 
 others paused in wonder, went on, looked back, and 
 again went on. Some crossed the street to make sure 
 they had rightly read my sign. 
 
 On the fourth day a young man crossed the street, 
 rang the bell, and was shown into my office. I recog- 
 nized the type at once. He was very sprucely dressed, 
 was not over-clean as to his hands, and in his side- 
 pocket I saw the top of a note-book. He sat down as 
 I rose from my seat at the window. 
 
 "Dr. West? "he said. 
 
 " Yes. You are a reporter ? * 
 
 " I am. How did you guess that ? " 
 
 " It is simple. A note-book and pencil, soiled fin- 
 gers, and, also " 
 
 "Now that 's rather smart," he broke in. "And 
 what else ? "
 
 218 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 " Well, you 're right anyway. I 'm the social re- 
 porter for the < Standard.' " 
 
 " A collector of garbage to manure with fools' vani- 
 ties the devil's farms," I said. " You may not be bad 
 yourself, but you are part of a bad system. I do not 
 want you." On this his look of alert smartness sud- 
 denly faded. 
 
 He did not lose his temper, but replied in a tone of 
 some thoughtf ulness : 
 
 " A man must make a living." 
 
 " I wish," I said, " there was such a phrase as make 
 a dying. That 's what you are making. Go your way ; 
 mine is an honest business." 
 
 "But the public are interested. The thing is un- 
 usual. I should like to ask you a few questions." 
 
 "As man to man let me ask you one. Are you 
 y never ashamed of yourself ? " 
 
 He flushed a little. " Well, sometimes. I hate it." 
 
 " Then go and sin no more," I said, rising. " Good 
 morning." At this he too rose, replaced the note-book 
 he had drawn from his pocket, and, urging me no 
 further, went out with a simple " Good morning." He 
 must be young at the business, I reflected, and per- 
 haps I may have done him good. I was undeceived 
 two days later when I read in the " Standard " : 
 
 GREAT SENSATION ON WEST STREET. 
 
 Crowds assembled about a curious sign : 
 8YLVIAN WEST, 
 
 CHARACTER DOCTOR.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 219 
 
 . 
 
 Oar reporter was courteously received by Dr. West, who said 
 he was glad in the interest of the public to answer any ques- 
 tions. The interview was as follows : 
 
 " Yes ; I am a character doctor. My business is to furnish 
 characters to those who need them. Also I attend to sick char- 
 acters. Sometimes whole families consult me as to the amend- 
 ment and reconstruction of conflicting characters. Yes ; I expect 
 to have a character hospital, with wards for jealousy, anger, 
 folly." 
 
 Then came details of my life. How I was born in 
 Kamchatka, etc. I let the paper fall in dismay. It 
 was the dull season, and there was much more of it. 
 The man's trade-habit had been too much for him. I 
 had more of them, but I gave up advising, and simply 
 said that I would not answer. Then they interviewed 
 my maid, and, at last, the cook at the back gate. It 
 was almost as bad as the case of my friend who found 
 a reporter under his table just before a dinner he was 
 to give to a stranger of high position. I made a note 
 upon the influence of business upon character. In a 
 few days the plague abated. 
 
 Very soon my harvest began. At first I had an influx 
 of Biddies, who each wanted a character. It seemed 
 hard to make the public comprehend my purpose. 
 
 One afternoon about five I was told that some one 
 wished to see me, and, leaving the up-stairs room I 
 reserved for my books, went down to the office. On 
 the lounge lay a man about twenty, of a death-like 
 pallor. He sprang up as I came in, staggered, and fell 
 back. I saw that he was ill, and called to the maid 
 to bring wine, which he took eagerly. I said, " When 
 did you last eat ? " 
 
 "At seven to-day." Upon this I went out and
 
 220 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 
 
 came back with food. " Eat," I said. By and by he 
 rose, saying : "I thank you. I came to see you for 
 but now I must tell you all. I left the penitentiary 
 to-day. I got a year for stealing from my employer. 
 A woman was the cause. Ah, three months would 
 have done. When I got out I walked and walked ; I 
 thought I could walk forever, and at the corners the 
 wind was in my face, sir. It was like heaven. Of a 
 sudden I grew weak, and, seeing your sign, I came in. 
 Now you know all. I fancy you '11 think I certainly 
 do need a character." 
 
 " Yes. Where are you going ? " 
 
 "To B , in Indiana. I have my good-service 
 
 money. I will go to L , and then walk. I am an 
 
 Englishman. I have no friends here. I was once in 
 B a little while." 
 
 "Now for my advice. You cannot walk. Here, 
 
 this will take you to B . You will get on, I think. 
 
 Pay me some day. Be tender to the wrong-doer in 
 days to come, and marry early a good woman, not 
 a fool ; mind that. Solomon's experience was large, 
 and, as you may remember, he gave pretty much the 
 same advice." 
 
 He looked at me, at the money, and began to cry. 
 
 "Don't," I said. "I never could stand that," and 
 went out of the room. In a few minutes he was gone. 
 I ought to add that he did greatly prosper, and is 
 to-day an esteemed citizen with many happy children. 
 About a week later a lad of seventeen called on me. 
 He was well dressed and well bred. As he faced me 
 I saw that he looked troubled, and that he hesitated. 
 
 "Well," I said.
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 221 
 
 "You are a character doctor?" 
 
 " Yes. What can I do for you ?; 
 
 " I do not know. I don't know why I came here at 
 all. Do I look like a bad fellow ? " And he regarded 
 me with eyes of honest calmness. 
 
 "No; you are not bad." 
 
 " Maybe 1 7 m a fool. I saw in the paper that you 
 could tell if a man was bad, and why he was bad." 
 
 " Oh, hang the papers ! What is it ? " 
 
 "Do you think, sir, a fellow could steal and not 
 know he did it ? " 
 
 " Yes. Suppose you tell me your story." 
 
 Always people have been too ready to confess things 
 to me ; it was one of the many torments of my life as 
 a doctor. 
 
 "Well, suppose a fellow had the key of a safe in 
 charge, and something was missing. Could any one 
 have taken it but him ? " 
 
 I replied : " You are only half trusting me. Were 
 I you I would be quite frank, or say nothing at 
 least to me." 
 
 There was a certain sweetness in the young man's 
 face as he looked up at me and said, " Well, I know 
 about doctors; they are like priests but " 
 
 " I am a physician." 
 
 " Must I tell you my name ? " 
 
 " No ; merely what happened." 
 
 "Well, father went out of town a month ago, and 
 left with me the key of the safe in his library in our 
 own house, you know. I did not want it, but my elder 
 brother is ill in bed, and there was no one else. The 
 day father left he showed me where all the papers
 
 222 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 were, in case he wired for any of them, and also 
 showed me a necklace of emeralds my aunt my 
 au-nt, oh, I came awfully near telling her name, 
 my aunt left in his care, because she 's in Europe. 
 That safe kept me anxious. Yes, sir ; it seems silly, 
 but my mind was on it, and I am just nearly through 
 college, and I never have had any cares. Of course 
 it wore off by degrees, and then father came back. 
 Indeed, sir, he was worse troubled than I, but I think 
 I have been nearly crazy. I mean the necklace was 
 gone. Why, I heard mother tell father I was very 
 young and he must forgive me ; but she sits in her 
 room and rocks and rocks, and takes valerian. And 
 now there is a detective, and he searches the house, 
 and the servants look at me as if I were a thief, and 
 that scoundrel he talked to me yesterday and guessed 
 I 'd best own up." 
 
 " And is that all?" 
 
 "No, sir; I they all try not to think I did it, 
 and they believe I did. I think I must have done it. 
 I was wondering when it was. If I only knew what I 
 did with it ! Every one thinks I took it. But where 
 is it ? How can I confess it ? I am not sure." 
 
 At this he rose and moved about, looked out of 
 the window, and suddenly came back, saying, "By 
 George ! there 's that detective." 
 
 "Sit down," I said. "You need not tell me you 
 have been a good lad or worked at school." 
 
 " I 'm in the honor list, and I 'm captain of the 
 eleven," he said, with sorrowful pride, " and to think 
 but I did it. It 's so." 
 
 "Hush!" I returned. "The man who slanders
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 223 
 
 himself is wicked or weak. You are only weak, and 
 only that just now. You never did this act. I say 
 so. If a dozen people say to a man daily, ' You are 
 going to be ill/ that at last affects the most whole- 
 some. If all you love tell you in words, looks, and 
 ways that you have been a thief, at last a man doubts 
 the evidence of his own memory and conscience, and 
 loses his mental equilibrium, and joins the majority 
 against himself. Then he is on the verge of becom- 
 ing insane. Now, really, are all your people of one 
 opinion ? " 
 
 " No ; my sister Helen she just laughs at the whole 
 thing. I mean when she don't cry." 
 
 " Sister Helen has some sense, I should say. And 
 now listen. Go and play cricket to-day. Settle down 
 to your work ; you have neglected it. Mind, these are 
 prescriptions. It will come right. I know you for an 
 honest gentleman ; now hurry out of the door and de- 
 tect your detective. Tell him you have told me all, 
 and come back to-morrow. And your name, please ? " 
 
 He hesitated, and said, " Frederick Winslow." 
 
 " And mind, make a good score at cricket, and leave 
 it all to me." 
 
 " Thank you," he said. "I must try, sir. I what 
 is your charge ? " 
 
 "Let that rest now. When you go the detective 
 will visit me. It is our turn now." 
 
 A minute later, as I expected, the detective walked 
 in. " Mr. Winslow," he said, " says he has told you all. 
 I am Mr. Diggles. Here 's my card." It bore a large 
 eye in the center, and over it, " John Diggles, Confi- 
 dential Detective Agency."
 
 224 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 " Glad lie owned up. Pretty smart boy, but they 
 gets worried into lettin' out at last." All this rather 
 volubly. 
 
 " Sit down," I said. " You believe that young fel- 
 low stole an emerald necklace ? " 
 
 " Why, who else could have done it ? a 
 
 u There is a reason for crime, usually ? " 
 
 " Yes 5 I guess there 's always reason for wanting 
 other folks' things. But he has told you he took it f " 
 
 " No ; and if he had, in the state he is in now, I 
 should not have believed him." 
 
 "Why? Not believe him ! Why not ?" 
 
 " Because you took it yourself." 
 
 At this he sprang to his feet and exclaimed, " I did 
 not come here to be insulted," 
 
 I was about to explain that the probability of his 
 being the thief was to me not less than of the necklace 
 having been stolen by my young captain of the cricket 
 eleven, but something in the sudden flush and rage of 
 a man living always in familiar nearness to crime gave 
 me reason to hesitate. Crime for these men loses its 
 horror, and becomes a mere enemy to be technically 
 dealt with. It troubles them as little as deceit does 
 the soldier, who plays the game of war. Fraud is his 
 weapon. I returned quickly : " What has been your 
 life compared to this boy's? His has been honest, 
 dutiful, and correct. And yours? What have you 
 been?" 
 
 The man was singularly bewildered, and said noth- 
 ing. I went on : " Who is most likely to be the thief, 
 you or he ? You had best go home and say the prayer 
 of a wiser man ' God be merciful to me, a fooL' "
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 225 
 
 " I want to know what that boy told you." 
 
 "That you will never know. Send me that lad's 
 father." 
 
 "I won't do it." 
 
 " Take care how you act in this case." 
 
 You called me a thief." 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Well, then, you look out, that >s all." He was 
 clearly foolish, as well as angry. "You think I stole 
 necklace. That's the kind of character doctor 
 you are ! " 
 
 " I said you were a thief. And now it is a man's 
 character, his honor, you are helping to steal, because 
 you have no sense, and come to a point on any obvious 
 fact." 
 
 "Oh, that 'sail, is it?" 
 
 The Winslows were well-known people, and I read- 
 ily found Mr. Winslow. He was a slow, precise, over- 
 accurate man of sixty. No imagination; horizons 
 
 ited ; undergoing in advance physical, moral, and 
 mental ossification. Of course, as a character doctor, I 
 was to him a queer, extra-social animal. I soon found 
 that I must tell him my whole story. 
 
 His astonishment was as large as his nature let it 
 be ; but as he knew my people, and conceded to the 
 class to which we belonged larger privileges than he 
 would admit for others, I was able to win his confi- 
 dence. 
 
 I then explained to him my conviction as to his 
 son's innocence. 
 
 " Oh, of course," he replied, " that is so. But, then, 
 the facts," and he began elaborately to describe 
 
 lim 
 V me
 
 226 CHAKACTEBISTICS. 
 
 them, ending with, " Of course it was n't he, but who 
 was it?" 
 
 I told him that the boy was being goaded by hints, 
 looks, doubts, half -belief s, and the detective's folly into 
 a form of mental disorder which would end in the 
 avowal of what he had never done. 
 
 He was puzzled and alarmed, but, on careful exam- 
 ination, nothing new came out. On my casually ask- 
 ing for his sick son, he said that he was an invalid 
 ^/ unable to walk ; had neurasthenia, and now, refusing 
 to see doctors, remained in bed. I was nearly at the 
 end of my resources ; I asked if I might see him, for, 
 after our talk, I had so won my way that I was al- 
 lowed to examine the safe, and to talk with the mother 
 and daughter. 
 
 Mr. Winslow said : " Miss Winslow will take you up. 
 He dislikes me to come in. He says my boots creak. 
 V/ He says some people's boots always creak." 
 
 Miss Helen went up with me. I was on her side, as 
 she knew. She said to me : " He may refuse to see 
 you. Why do you want to see him ? " 
 
 " Because," I said, " we are in the tangle of a mys- 
 tery, and he too is rather mysterious." 
 
 She laughed. "I see." Clearly she had imagina- 
 tive possibilities, and I like that. 
 
 I said, " I will go in alone." 
 
 " I would," she returned, firmly. 
 
 The room was in half light. I said as I went in : 
 " Mr. Winslow, I am a physician. Your father desires 
 me to see you. My name is West. Let me open the 
 windows." 
 
 " Oh, if I must, I must," he said, peevishly.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 227 
 
 The flood of light showed me a thin, apathetic man 
 of thirty. I sat down. 
 
 " Open your eyes." He obeyed. Then I went care- 
 fully into his case, and at the close he said : 
 
 " No, I can't walk or read j but I was better until 
 this necklace business. Every one bothers about it. 
 
 Aunt L says it is for my wife ; and so I say, it is 
 
 mine, and if I don't care, who else need care ? " 
 
 As I rose to go he said : " My legs hurt me. Now 
 you are here, just look at them." 
 
 I did so. There were on each leg bruises in the 
 same place, below the knees. Hesitating, I went on 
 to look at the feet. Then I said: "That will do. 
 What fire do you burn ? Oh, soft coal, I see. I will 
 think it over, and see you again." Down-stairs I found 
 Mr. Winslow. 
 
 " Well ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Your son says he cannot walk. On his soles are 
 marks of the black from the fire. On his legs are 
 two bruises ; one has a slight break of the skin. 
 Either he is untruthful, or he walks in his sleep." 
 
 " He did as a boy." 
 
 The result was that I had a watch set on the invalid. 
 After three nights he rose, lighted his candle, walked 
 into his brother's room, and with curious care searched 
 his clothes' pockets. At last he took a bundle of keys 
 from one of them, and went quietly down-stairs to the 
 / safe. He was quite unconscious of being watched, and 
 foolishly but deliberately tried key after key, small or 
 large, and at last went back to his bed, dropping the 
 keys on the way. 
 
 When I was told of all this, I was greatly puzzled,
 
 228 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 and regretted that the key of the safe had not been 
 left where he could get it. Saying that I was still 
 better satisfied of my young friend's innocence, I went 
 away, and before going home called at the steamer 
 agency to engage passage for the coming autumn. 
 As I entered I saw my detective go out of another 
 door. After settling for my berth, I asked if Mr. 
 Diggles was going to Europe. The clerk said, 
 "Who?" 
 
 I replied, " The man who just went out." 
 
 "Name of Stimpson," said the clerk. "He sails 
 next week. 
 
 The next day I sent for the man. He came early. 
 
 " Any news ? " he said, abruptly. 
 
 "No; I merely wanted to ask you a question or 
 two." 
 
 " All right. Go ahead." He exhibited no hostility. 
 
 " When did you search the safe ? " 
 
 "The third day after Mr. Winslow came home." 
 
 "You did it thoroughly?" 
 
 "I did. Mr. Winslow he had n't unrolled all the 
 bundles. He said it was no use, they was only deeds 
 and such. I done it thorough." 
 
 " And are you not at the end of your resources ? " 
 
 "No, sir. By this day month we shall have him. 
 He is a boy, and he '11 try to sell or pawn it. I 've got 
 an eye on him." 
 
 " But you sail next week." The man suddenly tilted 
 back his chair, and in a certain loosening of his feat- 
 ures I saw alarm and astonishment 
 
 "I yes business abroad." 
 
 " Name of Stimpson ? " I urged. As I spoke I rose.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 229 
 
 " Look here/' I said, " to-morrow you will go to the 
 house and ask leave to search that safe. The neck- 
 lace will be found the day after in a bundle of deeds." 
 
 " Are you crazy 1 " 
 
 " No j but you will be, and worse, if that necklace 
 is not found. Now, I know, and you have one day, 
 and no more. Remember, I know. It is this or ruin, 
 and you are watched." 
 
 He looked at me a moment and then went out with- 
 out a word, and did precisely what I had ordered him 
 to do. 
 
 " And the necklace ? " said Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Was found in a roll of deeds. My friend goes on 
 to say that his theory was that the sleep-walker took 
 the key, opened the safe, and who can say why? 
 removed the necklace from its case, and put it inside 
 a roll of old papers. On the detective's more thorough 
 search at his first inspection, he found it, and easily 
 contrived to pocket it." 
 
 " Meanwhile, we were set astray by the elder broth- 
 er's somnambulism, which, I confess, misled me in part. 
 The rest explains itself. 
 
 " The notes of the cases which follow are the last 
 I shall read to you, although there are others as 
 interesting. I find he has classified them under head- 
 ings." 
 
 Case 31 consults me. 
 
 X , at. 30. Male, good habits, fugitive ambitions, 
 
 intellect about No. 12 of my scale. Inexorably mate- 
 rialistic tendencies, with longings to see things more 
 spiritually. Want of imagination; general lack of 
 persistent energy ; hence constant efforts aborted by
 
 230 CHARACTEEISTICS. 
 
 incapacity for continued labor, and lack of the bribes 
 offered by imagination. Shifts responsibility on to 
 his ancestral inheritances. A life of self -excuses, but 
 says he is a failure. Advise the tonic of a desperate 
 love-affair with a woman of sense. He says the medi- 
 cine seems to be wisely ordered, but who is to be the 
 apothecary ? Prognosis bad. 
 
 " I think I shall call on that doctor," said St. Clair, 
 laughing. " I know an apothecary what next ? " 
 
 Case 47. 
 
 Mrs. B , set. 33. Not a strong nature, but mildly 
 
 disposed to do good, to attend to life's duties. No 
 tastes, no strong traits; morally anemic. Spoilt as 
 a child j indulged by a husband ; petted by fortune. 
 No intense maternal instincts, and relieved of the care 
 of her children. Is bored to the limit of endurance, 
 and is a li ttle pleased with her capacity for ennui ; re- 
 gards it as a distinction. A life without motives, and, 
 as a result, peevish discontentment. Her husband asks 
 advice. He is immensely rich. I advise poverty, 
 but he thinks that worse than ennui. There are no 
 moral tonics for these people. You shall and you 
 must are not in their drug-shops. That is the malaria 
 of excessive wealth. 
 
 Case 131. "This will interest you," I said, "in the 
 light of our recent talk. It is the last I shall trouble 
 you with." 
 
 L at thirty-five marries a woman of fortune and 
 
 attractions, an only child. By degrees she insists with 
 tears and entreaties on absorbing his life in her own. 
 He cannot leave her a day without difficulty ; has by 
 degrees given up his sports, his outdoor pursuits, and
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 231 
 
 at last is driven or decoyed into abandoning his busi- 
 ness, which is not a necessity, as she is rich and lav- 
 ishly generous. Her capacity for attachment is ab- 
 normally strong. Her case is one of jealousy carried 
 to the extent of hating a rival in his pursuits or his 
 tastes. She must be his life and adequate. This im- 
 plies vast belief in herself. Of other women she is 
 not jealous. Under this narrowing of existence he is 
 failing in health of mind and body, and thinks himself 
 a traitor to her. He is dissatisfied with a too merely 
 emotional life. The woman sometimes absorbs the 
 man; the man rarely captures the totality of the 
 woman. Either is unwholesome. He consults me. 
 I predict for him a sad failure unless he consents to 
 declare his independence and is willing to discipline 
 her into happiness. He will be unlikely to take my 
 advice. 
 
 At this point Clayborne broke in with a yawn. 
 " Really, my dear North," he said, " how much more of 
 this is there ? " 
 
 I laughed. " This is by no means all, but I shall 
 not ask you to hear more. There is material for a 
 dozen novels in these notes." 
 
 " That is an admirable reason for going no further. 
 I never read novels. I tried to once, but I found that 
 it made me desire to go beyond facts in my own 
 work." 
 
 "To go beyond facts?" said St. Clair. "It seems 
 to me that imagination controlled by reason ought to 
 be indispensable to the true historian." 
 
 " Oh, your picturesque historian ? We know him. 
 Good night, Mrs. Vincent." 
 16
 
 232 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 With this our evening ended. But as I went out 
 Mrs. Vincent said : " Come in to-morrow ; I want you 
 to help a friend of mine. It is and it is not a medical 
 question." 
 
 I said I would come, and, turning, noticed a queer 
 smile on the features of Vincent.
 
 XVL 
 
 Oil are good to come so early," said 
 our hostess. " Sit down." 
 " Is she old or young ? " 
 "I decline to say. You will be 
 amused and puzzled." 
 
 This time Mrs. Vincent was 
 mouse-colored, and clad in some stuff of silvery sheen 
 where it caught the light. The flowers were vivid 
 orchids, which looked like embroidered jokes or gro- 
 tesque floral caricatures. 
 
 " I want first," she said, " to talk a little about your 
 character doctor. Is not every true and clever physi- 
 cian more or less what he tries to be ? " 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And people confess to you ? " 
 "Ah, too much too much ! " 
 She was silent a moment, and then said : " I ought 
 to hesitate about putting burdens on one already 
 weighted heavily, but it so chances that a woman 
 indeed, women I esteem need help which you know 
 how to give. And oh, I meant to explain, but here 
 comes Mrs. Leigh." 
 
 As she spoke a large, handsome woman entered. 
 She was known to me by name, and, in fact, was one 
 of my kindred, but so far back as to give me no claim
 
 234 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 of distinct relationship. Nor had we ever met, because 
 she had been for many years in Europe. 
 
 After I had been presented, she and Mrs. Vincent 
 fell into talk, and thus gave me a chance to observe 
 that the newcomer was clearly a woman somewhat 
 peculiar and positive, who had seen much of many 
 societies, and was evidently of a not rare type of the 
 woman of the world. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Vincent said : "I promised to talk 
 to Dr. North of your difficulty, but perhaps, as he is 
 here, and you too, it were better you said to him di- 
 rectly what you want." 
 
 " I would rather have done so through you, my dear. 
 But, in fact, I am troubled. I distrust my own opin- 
 ions, and I want to be just to my daughter." 
 
 " I am at your service," I said. 
 
 " You do not know my daughter Alice ? Of course 
 you could not." 
 
 " Suppose you state your difficulty." 
 
 " Alice is twenty-four Do tell him ; my dear. My 
 opinion is worthless." 
 
 " Gladly," said Mrs. Vincent. " Alice is a woman of 
 unusual force of character. As life has gone on she 
 has acquired a strong belief that a woman of fortune 
 and intellect (for she is more than merely intelligent) 
 should have some distinct career. She has seen much 
 of the gay world, and it does not satisfy her cravings. 
 Like Hamlet, neither men nor women delight her. 
 And now, coming home to live, she has grown de- 
 pressed and unhappy. Occupations without definite 
 aims dissatisfy her, and while she performs every duty 
 to her home circle and to society, which she measurably
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 235 
 
 likes, she has a strong sense that these do not compe- 
 tently fill her life. No one knows better than I what 
 this means. I had once this disease, and pretty badty 
 the hunger for imperative duties." 
 
 "And you," I said, much interested "you were 
 cured?" 
 
 " Yes ; by marriage. It is what you call a heroic 
 remedy. But not all women marry, and Alice has so 
 far been hard, in fact impossible, to please. She has 
 my sympathy because I once did have ambitions for a 
 distinct career. They are lost now in the perfect 
 gratification which I have in seeing the growth and 
 increasing usefulness of my husband's life. It con- 
 tents me fully, but it might not have done so. I pity 
 profoundly the large-minded woman who, craving a 
 like satisfaction, finds too late that the man in whose 
 life she has merged her own is incapable of living up 
 to her ideals." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Leigh, " you are no doubt correct, 
 but Alice is Alice, and no one else, and Frederick Vin- 
 cents are not common, and " 
 
 " Go on, dear. Best to tell your own story." 
 
 " Oh, Alice says she can endure it no longer, and 
 now she proposes to really, Anne, it is awful. She 
 wants to study medicine, and, oh, you do not know 
 Alice. She is so determined. At last I promised to 
 inquire about it. It is too distressing. And what can 
 I do ? I am like a baby when she talks to me. She 
 is so obstinate, and then I get tired and say, ' Have it 
 your own way,' and after that we both cry, and in two 
 or three days it is all to be gone over again, just as I 
 think I am done with it. Marry her! If I only
 
 236 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 could. And now what do you advise?" said Mrs. 
 Leigh, turning to me. 
 
 I was a little puzzled, and hesitated. At last I said : 
 " Tell me first, Mrs. Vincent, what do you think of this 
 matter ? It is not to be settled by my own views. I 
 do not know Miss Leigh, and you do." 
 
 " Yes ; but I have tried to put you in possession of 
 her peculiarities. Would you say, let her do as she 
 desires, or would you be positive in refusal ? She will 
 yield, but she will hate it." 
 
 " Could I see her ? " I said. 
 
 " Yes ; she is dining out, but will be here very soon. 
 She is to call for her mother." 
 
 " If, my dear Anne, she knew that we had been dis- 
 cussing her she is capable, the dear child, of any- 
 thing." 
 
 " Even of a love-affair," said Mrs. Vincent, merrily. 
 
 " Of anything else but that. Men are delightful to 
 Alice until they become interested ; then, as she says, 
 she becomes disinterested." 
 
 "There is some truth in that," cried our hostess. 
 "The moment a man is interested he ceases to be 
 interesting to some women. If the position has in it 
 nothing ridiculous to a woman, then she is either in 
 danger or is a mere coquette." 
 
 " I do not profess to comprehend Alice," said Mrs. 
 Leigh. "The boys I can manage, and Maude; but 
 once when Alice was very little she said, ' Mama, was 
 the Centurion a woman ? ' Of course I said, ' No ; and 
 why do you ask so silly a question?' 'Because he 
 just said, "Do this," and "Go," and "Do that," and 
 never gave any reasons ; and that is the way you do.'
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 237 
 
 Of course I punished her, but that was useless. Once, 
 after I had put her on bread and water for a day, she 
 told me the Bible said that 'man shall not live by 
 bread alone.' So I told her she had water too. When 
 I came to let her out that evening, she said, ' I 'm so 
 sorry, mama $ I did not think about the water, and I 
 forgot I was a girl ; the Bible says a man.' Now we 
 never argue." 
 
 I caught Mrs. Vincent's eye for a moment. It was 
 intelligent and telegraphic. I began to feel curious 
 about this reasoning child, and the woman evolved out 
 of such a childhood. 
 
 " I can see," returned our hostess, " how difficult it 
 must have been to manage a being like that, and one 
 too, as I recall Alice, so affectionate and so sensitive." 
 
 "O my dear Anne, sensitive hardly expresses it. 
 My children have been brought up on system, and a 
 part of it has been absolute certainty of punishment. 
 But if I punished Ned, and he needed it pretty often, 
 Alice was in tears for a day, 'And, would I punish 
 her ? ' And one day she was sure that would hurt Ned 
 worse. Well, at last I took her at her word, and then 
 Ned was in a rage, and declared he would kill him- 
 self if I ever struck her again." 
 
 " Struck ! " said Mrs. Vincent. " But pardon me." 
 
 " Oh, they were mere children. I do not at all share 
 your views about education ; and then, dear, you have 
 no experience none." 
 
 " That is true," said Mrs. Vincent, quietly. 
 
 She was vastly tender about all little ones, as some 
 childless women are. Pausing a moment, she added : 
 " Our only excuse for talking so intimately of my dear
 
 238 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 Alice is because I want Dr. North to understand the 
 person for whom we seek his advice. Few people are 
 as little likely to misunderstand us as he." 
 
 " Indeed, Anne, if he can see through Alice, he will 
 be very clever." 
 
 "No one," I returned, "can easily apprehend charac- 
 ter from mere description, and you seem to me to have, 
 and to have had, a very complex nature to deal with." 
 
 " No ; she is simple," said Mrs. Vincent, " and, like 
 such people, very direct. Only, and you will pardon 
 me, Helen, Mrs. Leigh and her daughter are people 
 so different that it is not easy for them to agree in 
 opinion. In all lesser matters Alice yields. In larger 
 matters she is at times immovable, and," she added, 
 laughing, " as my dear Mrs. Leigh is also, and always 
 immovable " 
 
 " Oh," cried the mama, interrupting her, " excuse me, 
 dear Anne, but that is because I am systematic, and 
 system can never be cruel, because people know what 
 to expect. I heard Mr. Clayborne say that, and it 
 struck me as very profound." 
 
 " Be sure," I replied, not a little amused, " that I 
 shall regard all you say as a confidence. I must know 
 Miss Leigh personally, and better than your talk can 
 make me know her, before I advise you, and even then 
 I may decline to advise, or my advice may be of little 
 use, to her, at least." 
 
 "Too true," remarked Mrs. Leigh. "I know her 
 well, and my advice is of very little use." 
 
 " I hear the carriage," said Mrs. Vincent. " This very 
 original consultation had better end here. You were 
 at Baden, Helen, were you not ? "
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 239 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Did you meet the Falconbergs ? Vincent is very 
 much attached to them. You know he carried on a 
 suit for the German embassy when Count Falconberg 
 was Charge. Ah, my dear Alice, how late you are ! 
 The dinner must have been very pleasant. Where is 
 Edward ? My old friend Dr. Owen North, Miss Leigh." 
 
 Instantly I knew, as I rose to meet her, that she 
 understood that we had been talking of her. I read 
 with ease the language of her face. One has these 
 mysterious cognitions as to certain people, and even 
 the steadying discipline of society had as yet failed to 
 enable her to preserve that entire control of the feat- 
 ures which makes its life an easy masquerade. The 
 trace of annoyed surprise was gone as she said cor- 
 dially : " I feel that I ought to know you. We crossed 
 your path in Europe over and over years ago, and I 
 used to hear mama regretting that we had not met." 
 
 " It was my loss," I returned. 
 
 " And was the dinner pleasant ? Do tell us," said 
 Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Yes and no. Too long. All our dinners here are 
 too long. I exhausted one of my neighbors. He was 
 rather ponderous. I tried him on a variety of subjects, 
 but at last we hit, by good luck, on the stock-exchange. 
 It must be a queer sight, and when we women are 
 stock-brokers in the year 2000 ah, I should like to 
 see what it will be then. I know all about bulls, and 
 bears, and puts, and shorts, and margins, and " 
 
 " Alice ! " said Mrs. Leigh, severely. 
 
 " And the other man ? " said I. 
 
 " Ah, he was really a nice boy of twenty. He con-
 
 240 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 fided to me his ambitions. Do you not know, Dr. 
 North, the sort of fresh shrewdness a young fellow 
 like that has sometimes ? It is delightful, and such a 
 pleasant belief that he knows the world." 
 
 " That is like Alice. She is always losing her heart 
 to some boy in his teens," said the mama. 
 
 " She ought to know Mr. St. Clair," cried Mrs. Vin- 
 cent. " He is in his teens, and always will be. And 
 I must be a witch. Indeed, I uttered no spells, but 
 he always comes just at the moment one wants him, 
 unless you expect him at dinner." And so, amidst her 
 laughing remarks, she presented St. Clair to Miss Alice 
 and her astonished mama. 
 
 St. Clair was utterly regardless of the conventional 
 in many ways, and especially as to engagements. He 
 might or might not dine with you if he had promised 
 to do so, and these failures, due very often to facility 
 of f orgetfulness, were at times quite deliberate, and to 
 appearance selfish, or at least self -full He would re- 
 ceive a telegram and leave it unopened for a day, and 
 I have seen the drawer of his desk filled with unopened 
 letters. 
 
 Now he was in a long, dark-brown velvet jacket, and 
 a spotless, thin white flannel shirt, with a low collar 
 and a disheveled red necktie. As to his hands, they 
 were always perfectly cared for, white, and delicate. 
 The crown of brown, wilful curls over the merry eyes 
 went well with his picturesque disorder of dress, but I 
 could see that Mrs. Leigh set him down at once as a 
 person not of her world. She was as civilly cool as 
 her daughter was the reverse. He stood a moment 
 by Miss Alice in her evening dress, a rosy athlete, blue-
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 241 
 
 eyed, gay, happy, and picturesque, with long Vandyke 
 beard, soft mustache, and an indefinite, careless grace 
 in all his ways. The woman was, as to dress and out- 
 side manner, simply and charmingly conventional. I 
 have no art in describing faces. Hers was of a clear 
 white, but the richly tinted lips showed that this was 
 the natural hue of perfect health. As she stood, I saw 
 that this paleness was not constant. Little isles of 
 color came and went, and seemed to me to wander 
 about cheek and neck, as if to visit one lovely feature 
 after another. Yes, she was handsome ; that was clear 
 by the way St. Glair tranquilly regarded her. All 
 beauty of form bewildered him into forgetfulness of 
 surroundings. 
 
 As he was presented, St. Clair bowed to the matron, 
 shook Mrs. Vincent by both hands, and then, as I said, 
 turned a quiet gaze of delight on the young woman. 
 
 "I think we must have met before," he said. 
 
 "Indeed," she exclaimed. 
 
 "Yes; I am always sure of that about certain 
 people." 
 
 "That is one of St. Glair's fads," I said. "But as 
 to your table-companions. I know one of them. His 
 sole pleasure is in stock- gambling." 
 
 "Ah," cried Mrs. Vincent, "I can understand that, 
 and, indeed, all gambling propensities." 
 
 "Anne ! my dear Anne ! " said Mrs. Leigh. 
 
 "Yes; I should like to gamble if one did not have 
 to lose, which I should hate, or to win, which would 
 be worse." 
 
 "And to me it is incomprehensible," said Miss Alice. 
 ''1 dislike chance."
 
 242 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "What ! the dear god Chance ?" said St. Clair. I 
 wish I could shuffle life every morning like a pack of 
 cards." 
 
 She looked at him steadily. He was always in 
 earnest. Then she remarked : 
 
 "You like all games of chance?" 
 
 "Yes; but I never win. I want to think I shall win, 
 but I never want to win." 
 
 "And of course you do sometimes?" 
 
 "Yes, it is like making love. I think I want to win, 
 but I do not, and I am dreadfully afraid if I come 
 near to winning." 
 
 Miss Alice looked amused and puzzled. 
 
 "A rare fancy, I should say. And the money if 
 you do win ? Does it not annoy, embarrass ?" 
 
 "Oh, I give it away. I prefer to give it back to the 
 man; but I tried that once, and found that it was 
 looked upon as an insult. I had to explain, and it 
 was not very easy." 
 
 "I should think not," said I. "I once gambled in 
 stocks indirectly, and with a lucky result. A man lost 
 half of his fortune in X. Y. stock. It fell from 40 to 
 7 in a month. He became depressed and threatened 
 to kill himself. I did what I could, and assured him 
 that the stock was good and would rise again. I was 
 very young, Miss Leigh, and very sanguine. In a 
 month he came back and said he was himself again, 
 and much obliged for my advice." 
 
 "'What advice?' I said. 
 
 " 'Oh,' he cried, 'you told me the stock was good and 
 would rise, and as I knew you were a friend of the 
 president of the road I determined to act upon your
 
 CHAEACTERISTICS. 243 
 
 confidence, and so I bought at 7 and 9 all the stock I 
 could afford to cany. 7 
 
 "Without a word I left him, and, returning with the 
 morning paper, said, 'The stock is 37. Promise me to 
 sell at once.' He said, 'Of course.' Then I made him 
 pledge himself never again to meddle with stocks." 
 
 "And he kept his word ?" said Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 " Yes ; and made a dreadful amount of money." 
 
 "I like your making him promise not to gamble," 
 said Miss Leigh, gravely. "What a droll story ! " 
 
 Meanwhile Mrs. Vincent and the mother had been 
 chatting apart, and now the latter rose. "Come, 
 Alice," she said ; and then, with the utmost cordiality, 
 "And, Dr. North, let us see you soon, very soon, and 
 often. We are of the same blood, you know. Good 
 evening, Mr. St. Glair ; I trust we shall have the pleas- 
 ure of seeing you again." 
 
 St. Clair took no note of the difference in manner to 
 him and to me ; I do not think he saw it. He was 
 again absorbed in the study of Alice. 
 
 " Oh, with great pleasure," he returned. " And Fred 
 is in the study, Mrs. Vincent, you said ? I will join 
 him. Good night." 
 
 He went up-stairs, while I descended the staircase 
 with Mrs. Vincent's friends. I put them into their 
 carriage, and went back. 
 
 " Shall I need to apologize ?" said Mrs. Vincent, when 
 we were again seated. 
 
 "Indeed, no. What a remarkable girl ! And the 
 mother?" 
 
 "Oh, better than she seems. There is much sense 
 back of her views as to system in education, and
 
 244 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 although positive, cruelly tactless, capable, in a word, 
 of incredible social blunders, she is yet a lady, and, 
 moreover, a kindly, charitable woman. People like her. 
 She is handsome still, as you see. But she is not the 
 mama for Alice." 
 
 "I did not like her manner to St. Clair," I said. 
 
 "The only defense possible for him is to know him. 
 Imagine the effect of that jacket on Mrs. Leigh ! It 
 said Bohemia at once." 
 
 "And if so, what must be to her social nerves the 
 idea of Miss Dr. Alice, in fact ? Yes ; I shrink from 
 it myself," I continued, "and I am not sure that I am 
 wise." 
 
 "At least," returned Mrs. Vincent, "it cannot be 
 here a question of right or wrong. There is no wicked- 
 ness in it. She abandons no duty. The brothers are 
 old enough not to need her. The mother and she do 
 not agree. I mean that they look at life from diverse 
 points of view. Really, they both love and admire 
 each other. Only on large occasions do they approach 
 a quarrel, and Alice is as respectful then as she is de- 
 termined." 
 
 "Not obstinate. Mrs. Leigh is that, I should say." 
 
 " Her worst annoyances are what Fred calls Alice's 
 white mice. She has a curious collection of friends, 
 the socially lame, halt, and blind, who adore her, and 
 to pursue a duty is as much a temptation to Alice as 
 a pleasant bit of wickedness is to some other women. 
 You will like her. You are sure to like her." 
 
 " I do already." 
 
 " I knew you would. And do make St. Clair call. 
 He never will unless you make him."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 245 
 
 " I will try. I can at least leave his card." 
 
 "Yes; do. Next week, you know, we are all to 
 take tea at his studio. I am to matronize the party. 
 I want Alice to go, and her mother, but I will see to 
 that. Only he must call, and then a few words to 
 Mrs. Leigh will settle it. She does what I like, and 
 likes what I do, and is, therefore, a model to all my 
 friends." 
 
 u I have no need of the example, but I wish you had 
 not asked me to meddle in this doctor business." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " I hardly know." 
 
 " And yet, that is unusual with you. I mean, not 
 to be clear as to your reasons. I am sorry ; I " 
 
 "Please don't I am always at your service al- 
 ways. I will find a chance to talk to Miss Alice." 
 
 " Pray do ; but be careful. I want her to like you. 
 You know I insist on my friends liking one another. 
 And now you must go. I am tired. Fred is up- 
 stairs." 
 
 " No ; I must go home. Good night"
 
 xvn. 
 
 SAW none of these people for some 
 days. The Leighs were not at home 
 when I called, and my life went on 
 its usual course of busy hours. Then 
 I remembered Mrs. Vincent's re- 
 quest, and dropped in on St. Clair at 
 his studio. Asking him casually if he had called on 
 Mrs. Leigh, he said, " No," and to my surprise, " Would 
 I leave his card ? " I said, " Yes ; with pleasure," and 
 asked him at what hour was his afternoon tea. 
 
 " Jove ! " he exclaimed, " I forgot it. I will see Mrs. 
 Vincent. How do people remember things ? I want 
 to have that splendid young woman ; and the mama, 
 I suppose, is a sad necessity. How lucky that you 
 came in." 
 
 " Best to see Mrs. Vincent soon." 
 "I will." 
 
 "Now, at once. Change your dress," he was in 
 his blouse "and I will drop you there. And make 
 haste." 
 
 I did see him safely into Mrs. Vincent's house, know- 
 ing very well that it was as likely as not that he would 
 have forgotten the whole matter had I not reminded 
 hin? in time. Then I left my carriage and walked to
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 247 
 
 Mrs. Leigh's. As the door opened I met Miss Leigh 
 in the hall, dressed for the street. 
 
 " Oh," she said, " you are caught and must come in. 
 I am in no hurry to go out. I am sorry mama is not 
 at home." 
 
 " I am at least fortunate," I said, as we turned back 
 along the hall, " in finding you, and you will please to 
 be a trifle blind while I drop St. Glair's cards on the 
 table. Half a dozen friends are needed to perform 
 for him his social duties. He might call on you daily 
 for a week, and then not for six months." 
 
 "One must have to make large allowances for a 
 friend like that," she said, as we entered the drawing- 
 room. " But do you not think that that is a part of 
 the capacity for friendship ? I mean knowledge with 
 charity." 
 
 "Assuredly. And with all his shortcomings St. 
 Clair is a man to love. What he needs in life is some 
 woman as tender as she is resolute." 
 
 " Alas for the woman ! " 
 
 " No. I presuppose the one essential without which 
 the double life is inconceivable to me, at least. 
 However, this must be left to fate. Mrs. Vincent will 
 ask your mother and you to his studio next week. 
 We are to see his statues, and to have tea." 
 
 "But mama will never go," she returned, hastily. 
 "I beg pardon, she is engaged, I mean there will be 
 some engagement, and I should like to go. Why 
 do not all of you wear brown velvet coats ? " 
 
 " And have curly hair, and write verses, and carve 
 statues, and look like young Greek athletes! Ah, 
 Miss Leigh, there are drawbacks believe me, there 
 17
 
 248 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 are drawbacks. Now a dress-coat would have made 
 this afternoon tea seem so easy and so delightful to 
 a matronly kinswoman of mine." 
 
 " You see too much," she cried, laughing. " Yes j 
 so far as mama is concerned, that beautiful, worn 
 velvet jacket was fatal. But perhaps Mrs. Vincent 
 will make mama go. She has a way of smiling mama 
 into or out of anything." Then she paused a little 
 and, coloring, said: "Mama told me last night that 
 she had talked with you and Mrs. Vincent about me. 
 Mama never keeps a secret very long, unless you ask 
 her to tell it, and I was sure that I should hear of it 
 soon or late, for I knew at once the other night that I 
 had been under discussion. Frankly speaking, I did 
 not like it. Now, if you if you were were a girl, 
 would you have liked it ? " 
 
 I watched her with amusement and honest in- 
 
 " Oh, the delightful possibility of being a girl, and 
 of being discussed by you and Mrs. Vincent ! I think 
 I could stand it." 
 
 " Please do not laugh at me." 
 
 " I do not." 
 
 " But you do, and I am serious. I am not always 
 to be taken lightly. And men are so apt to insist 
 that a woman must be anything but serious." 
 
 "But every sermon has a text. About what are 
 you serious ? " 
 
 "You know. I of course mama told me, and, to 
 be plain, I would rather state my own case, even at 
 the risk of your thinking me a very singular young
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 249 
 
 " I might answer that to be unusual is not always 
 to be unpleasant." 
 
 " That is nicely put and kindly. May I go on ? " 
 
 "I wish you would. I have heard something of 
 this trouble of yours." 
 
 " Oh, it is not my trouble. People other people 
 take the rough material of one's views, plans, hopes, 
 and manufacture trouble out of them. But pardon 
 me. I interrupted you. Do you really want me to go 
 on?" 
 
 " Pray do." She paused, looked up at me, and then 
 down at her lap, and at last set wide eyes on me for a 
 moment and continued : 
 
 " I hesitate because I do not know how much to say. 
 Mrs. Vincent can tell you just what I am, the bad and 
 the good. Oh, I see she has done it already." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Well, I am twenty-four. I have more than enough 
 means. Also, I have active brains. A certain discon- 
 tentment with this life of bits and shreds troubles 
 me. I am told that I should amuse myself as others 
 do with music. I can play, but I have no real talent 
 or love for it. Sketch ! I can caricature hatefully 
 well; I loathe it. And at last mama suggests fancy 
 work, and Aunt Selina says, ' The poor, my dear.' If 
 I were free as to the last suggestion, I might find in 
 it a true career, but no young unmarried woman could 
 make of this a life not mama's daughter, at least. 
 What I need is connected work, something which 
 offers an enlarging life. I do not mean for ambition, 
 but as a definite means of development. You are go- 
 ing to say there is science, study."
 
 250 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 " I was," I answered. " You are dreadfully appre- 
 hensive as to one's ideas." 
 
 " Oh, it was what others have suggested ; but mere 
 acquirement of barren knowledge seems to me a poor 
 use to make of life." 
 
 " Yes ; that is true. I am at one with you there." 
 
 " I have thought it all over. I want to study medi- 
 cine, and practise it too. That is all. You can help 
 me. Be on my side. I I shall thank you so much. 
 And you will be my friend in this, will you not?" 
 These last sentences were spoken with some excite- 
 ment, and with a look of earnest anxiety. I knew as 
 she talked that this was not a woman to turn aside 
 from her purposes with ease. And what could I say ? 
 I, too, hesitated. She went on again, and now with a 
 pretty girl-like timidity which touched me. 
 
 " Perhaps I have said more than I should ; I may 
 have asked too much of you. Sometimes I seem to 
 myself to be a strong, effective woman, needing no 
 help, and competent to go my way. And then I find 
 I have troubled mama, and that hurts me, and then I 
 relent, and am like a weak child groping about for 
 help. Are all women like that ? I am stopped here, 
 and turned aside there, and told to consult this one or 
 that. It seems so hard to do what is right." 
 
 " No one knows that better than I do," I replied. "It 
 is not enough to want to do right. And now, as regards 
 your mother, I am not at all sure what to do or say. 
 Like you, I want to do right, and do not find it easy." 
 
 I felt that I did not wish to wound this gentle girl, 
 with her honest longings, and her despair as to the 
 meagerness of mere upper-class life its failures to
 
 CHARACTEEISTICS. 251 
 
 satisfy the large mind and larger heart. After an 
 awkward pause I said, " I should like to help you, and 
 I desire in so doing not to hurt you " ; and, having so 
 spoken, felt like a fool. 
 
 " But you must not mind that. It is not not as if 
 you had known me for years. Speak as you would to 
 a stranger, a patient." 
 
 " You have made it difficult." 
 
 "I? How?" 
 
 " No matter. I will do as you say. But remember, 
 I may be wrong, may have prejudices." 
 
 "Pray, go on." 
 
 " I think that every human being, man or woman, 
 is entitled to any career he or she may please to de- 
 sire. This is a mere human right." 
 
 "Oh, thank you." 
 
 "Wait a little. Whether the public will use the 
 person or not, is the business of the public. Should 
 you ask if personally I believe that women make as 
 good doctors as men of like education, I say no. 
 Should you ask me if I think it desirable that in the 
 interests of society in general women should follow 
 the same careers as men, I say no." 
 
 " And why ? " 
 
 " That is a serious question, or rather several ques- 
 tions, some of them not easily to be answered. I 
 would rather not discuss them." 
 
 "And is this all?" 
 
 " No ; and you will smile at my sequel. I never saw 
 a woman who did not lose something womanly in ac- 
 quiring the education of the physician. I hardly put 
 it delicately enough : a charm is lost."
 
 252 CHAEACTERISTICS. 
 
 " Oh, but that is of no moment." 
 
 " You cannot think that. You would lose the power 
 to know you had lost something. That is the real 
 evil Others would know it. Men, at least." 
 
 "Do you think this really important?" 
 
 "Yes, I do." 
 
 " Oh, there is mama, and I have not half done." 
 
 " Perhaps it is as well, Miss Leigh. You should ask 
 some one who is not a doctor. Every profession has 
 its prejudices, and I am constantly in fear of mine. 
 But, in fact, as to these, the best of us are like people 
 with cross pet dogs ; we may be puzzled to know what 
 to do with them, but we do not knock them on the 
 head." 
 
 " Oh, but how a nice frank statement like that com- 
 forts one. You will not forget that I have as yet said 
 no word in reply ? " 
 
 "No. I shall want to hear I shall very much 
 want to hear." 
 
 As I spoke, Mrs. Leigh entered, large, rosy, hand- 
 some, and smiling. She was a little blown from the 
 exertion of mounting the stairs. 
 
 " Good morning, Dr. North. I am glad to see you 
 very glad." 
 
 " Let me take your cloak, mama," said Miss Alice, as 
 I returned the mother's welcome and added that I was 
 on the wing, and had more than used up my time. 
 Mrs. Leigh was profusely sorry, but rang the bell, and 
 I left them. 
 
 For some good or bad reason the servant was not 
 in the hall, and as I went down I was aware that I 
 had left my hat in the drawing-room. As I went up
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 253 
 
 again to reclaim it, I heard Mrs. Leigh's voice in quick, 
 decisive, and rather high tones. I was seized at once 
 with a violent attack of what I may call the cough 
 social. The voice fell a little, and I went in, saying, 
 "I was careless enough to leave my hat, and rash 
 enough to come back after it." 
 
 " I am glad you have come back," said Mrs. Leigh. 
 " Do give me five minutes j I have been talking to my 
 daughter." 
 
 "I beg of you, mama Dr. North has an engage- 
 ment; please not to " 
 
 " It is perfectly useless, Alice. Every one is talking 
 about it. Mrs. Flint asked me if you were going to , 
 be a homeopath or a regular." 
 
 " Mama ! " 
 
 "And old Mr. Ashton asked me if he might send 
 for you when he had the gout, and that fool, his son, 
 talked about ' sweet girl graduates.' " 
 
 I had to choose swiftly between retreat or a declara- 
 tion in favor of the mother or the daughter, who stood 
 white and still before us, her hands clasped together 
 in front of her. 
 
 " Pardon me," I interposed. " I have really but a 
 moment ; and again a pardon, if I say that this is not 
 the best way to meet this question. You have flat- 
 tered me by asking me to share your counsels. I 
 must have time to think about it. Miss Leigh has 
 been most frank with me, and, my dear Mrs. Leigh, 
 speaking for myself, were I Miss Leigh, nothing would 
 harden me like the ridicule of such women as Mrs. 
 Flint. She is smart that is the word and ma- 
 licious, and so confident that she confuses people who
 
 254 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 do not know her combination of ill humor and inex- 
 actness." 
 
 " I did not quite understand her," said Mrs. Leigh. 
 " Do you think she could have meant to make fun of 
 Alice, of us, of me ? " 
 
 " Oh, I knew of course you would see through her. 
 I hope when Miss Leigh attends that hoary sinner 
 Ashton, she will give him some good old-fashioned 
 dose. May I beg to be called in consultation ? " 
 
 Miss Leigh smiled. Her hands unlocked. " Thank 
 you," she said. " And do let this matter rest, mama." 
 
 " Oh, of course. I wish other people would ; but I 
 could not expect Dr. North to agree entirely with Mrs. 
 Flint. She told me" 
 
 "Mama!" 
 
 "I think Dr. North ought to know how she talks 
 about him." 
 
 " Ah, I knew she would justify my character of her. 
 You have made me happy for the day. Good-by. 
 Good-by, Miss Leigh."
 
 XVITL 
 
 T. CLAIB, a day later, was in what 
 Vincent called the indefinite mood. 
 When in this state he wandered, or 
 rather drifted, whither the tide of ac- 
 cidental encounter took him. These 
 mental states were apt to be followed 
 by days of impassioned work with the pen or molding- 
 tool. But when idle, he would drop in upon Vincent 
 or Clayborne, meander about among books of law 
 or history, complain with childlike disappointment if 
 their owners could not go out with him, and at last 
 slip away silently to feast his eyes on the colors of the 
 piled-up fruit in the old market-sheds, or to walk for 
 miles in the country, have what he termed a debauch 
 of milk at a farm-house, and return home late at night. 
 About eleven in the morning he found himself (for 
 it was literally that) in Clayborne's study. The his- 
 torian looked around. " Take a pipe ? Cigars in the 
 case ; cigarettes in the drawer ; books on the table. I 
 am busy." 
 
 The final remark was quite useless. " So am I," re- 
 turned the poet. And this exasperated Clayborne into 
 attention. He shut a huge folio with such vigor as 
 to disturb the gathered dust of other lands, and said 
 savagely :
 
 256 CHARACTEEISTICS. 
 
 " Busy ! You don't know what it means." 
 
 "My dear fellow," returned St. Glair, "I am so 
 happy to-day. Don't moralize. Be glad some fellow 
 carries his Garden of Eden always with him. No ; 
 don't consider it affectation. You are a misery-mill j 
 I am a flower-press. And, really, grumble seems to 
 be your normal diet. Just now you think you are 
 unhappy because some other man has said you make 
 mistakes or come to wrong conclusions. It is a dis- 
 guised joy. You are not truly unhappy. As for me, 
 I do not care a cent what any man thinks of my 
 statues or my verses. I simply live. That is joy. I 
 am contented. Why not leave me to my happy fol- 
 lies ? North says I have never achieved moral equi- 
 librium, and that 's very fine, I dare say." 
 
 " I suppose," said Clayborne, after a moment's de- 
 liberation, " that moral equilibrium means serenity of 
 mind." 
 
 "Now is n't that a little feeble?" retorted the poet. 
 
 "I rather think you are correct," said Clayborne, 
 judicially. "I take it that serenity of mind is ac- 
 quired, and is a state of content intellectually pro- 
 cured. Whereas you never acquire anything I mean 
 through experience." 
 
 " Quite true, and how nice that is ! With you for 
 knowledge, Vincent for a conscience, Mrs. Vincent for 
 a confessor, and North by Q-eorge ! " he cried, rising, 
 " I wonder if he left a card for me. I asked him to. 
 You ought to see that woman." 
 
 " You are like a book without an index," said the 
 host " What are you after now ? What woman ? " 
 
 " Oh, her figure and serenity ! You should see her
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 257 
 
 when her face is at rest, and then when it smiles. 
 And her eyes ! Come and take a walk. It 's Miss 
 Leigh I mean." 
 
 "Oh, that girl, Mrs. Vincent's latest enthusiasm. 
 My dear boy, take care. I think I see you with Mrs. 
 Leigh for a mother-in-law. You will need no other 
 censor. It would be the thing of all others for 
 you." 
 
 " So says Mrs. Vincent. I have several people who 
 attend to my interests and doctor my morals. And 
 you will not walk ? Then I think I shall go and call 
 on the Leighs. I should immensely like to model that 
 hand." 
 
 " Best tell Mrs. Leigh so," said Clayborne, with a 
 grim smile. 
 
 " I think I shall," returned St. Glair, simply. "And 
 now you may demolish that critic ; my malediction on 
 him. Good-by." 
 
 After this he went away, and on the street bought 
 a lot of roses and went along smelling of them, until 
 of a sudden he was aware of Mrs. Vincent, who said 
 as they met, " I suppose these flowers are for me." 
 
 " If you like, I was going to call on Miss Leigh." 
 
 " And Mrs. Leigh, I trust," said Mrs. Vincent, de- 
 murely. 
 
 "And Mrs. Leigh," echoed he, with resignation. 
 "The stem of the rose." Then he added discon- 
 nectedly, " Clayborne knows them. I don't like that 
 woman. I did not know it until I got away the other 
 night." 
 
 "Oh, she is really nice. Don't nurse prejudices; 
 when they get their growth they become difficulties
 
 258 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 and embarrassments. And you see well, I want you 
 to like them. I mean the Leighs." 
 
 " I do. Is n't that girl superb ? Come with me. 
 If you don't, I will not go at all." 
 
 It thus happened that the two found Mrs. Leigh 
 at home and alone. 
 
 "I met Mr. St. Clair on the way to call on you," 
 said Mrs. Vincent. "And how are you all ? And my 
 dear Alice, is she visible ? " 
 
 "No; she is out as my Ned says, gone to visit 
 some of her social cripples." 
 
 St. Clair looked up. " What are social cripples ? " 
 
 "Oh social cripples." 
 
 " I think I must be one," said St. Clair. "And per- 
 haps Mrs. Vincent could persuade you to consider my 
 claims. I have some people coming to afternoon tea 
 at my studio." 
 
 " I fear that we are engaged," returned Mrs. Leigh. 
 "Really" 
 
 " But you do not know the date yet. How can you 
 be engaged ? n 
 
 " Oh, we shall be, I am sure." 
 
 "Not for my tea," said Mrs. Vincent. "This is 
 mine, you know. I permit Mr. St. Clair to lend me 
 his studio. We will talk it over later. I want your 
 advice as to some of the arrangements. And now, 
 about the children." After which there was talk be- 
 tween the two women, while St. Clair fell into a 
 reverie, or with mental disapproval considered the 
 furniture, until, at last, Mrs. Vincent rose, saying, 
 " And now Mr. St. Clair and I must go. I saw your 
 carriage at the door."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 259 
 
 "Good-by," said St. Glair, to her amusement and 
 annoyance. She was afraid to leave him, but never- 
 theless he stayed, and, as they said a word or two, 
 surveyed the pictures. Then, being alone with Mrs. 
 Leigh, who remained standing for a moment, he 
 said: 
 
 "Don't you think pictures are very embarrassing 
 things ? They are so like acquaintances so welcome 
 at first, and then after a while one gets tired of them. 
 Now here is this Corot with its ghosts of trees " 
 
 " I never care for Corot," said the hostess ; " and as 
 for acquaintances, I " 
 
 " Oh," he interrupted. " Pardon me, you were go- 
 ing to say that an acquaintance is a person with 
 whom we are really not acquainted. Language is 
 such a fraud. It ought all to be made over and 
 some other things, manners, for instance n 
 
 " I can imagine the need for that sometimes," said 
 Mrs. Leigh, severely. She felt as if some bad boy had 
 exploded a pack of fire-crackers under her august pet- 
 ticoats. 
 
 " Oh, I feel it," he went on, laughing. " And if one 
 could arrange an exchange of manners, it would illus- 
 trate the idea neatly. Now, if you and I could effect 
 such an exchange." 
 
 " Good Heavens I I prefer to keep my own," said 
 she, shocked out of conventional propriety, and amused 
 despite herself. 
 
 " But why not ? Then I know you would be sure 
 to say, ' Of course I shall come to your tea.' And you 
 will come, I know " ; and he looked at her with a wait- 
 ing, devoted expression which had been but too often
 
 260 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 serviceable. Even Mrs. Leigh relented a little. " We 
 shall see," she said. 
 
 <: Oh, you will come," he said. "And to think of it, 
 I once stood near you in Paris, and just as I asked to 
 be presented you went away." 
 
 " And where was that, pray ? " 
 
 " Oh, at the Comte St. Clair's, a far-away kinsman 
 of mine. You know or do not know that we were 
 Irish, and came to France long ago. My branch be- 
 came Huguenots, more 's the pity." 
 
 "Indeed. Why a pity?" 
 
 "It lacks picturesqueness. Once it had flavor of 
 romance. It has none now. I ought to have been a 
 Catholic." 
 
 "And what are you now, may I ask?" 
 
 " I am nothing." 
 
 " I am sorry to hear it." 
 
 "Oh, it has its conveniences. I feel that con- 
 stantly." 
 
 " I trust so, indeed." 
 
 As usual, he took little note of irrelevances, but 
 went on : "I often like to fit people with the religion 
 for which they were plainly meant. Really, as Clay- 
 borne says, or perhaps it was Vincent, the outward 
 forms of religion are their manners. Some are stately, 
 some common. But I have kept you. I must go." 
 
 Mrs. Leigh did not express regret, and he left her, 
 with what reflections I could well imagine when St. 
 Clair, in a mood of amused criticism, related this 
 astonishing interview to Mrs. Vincent and me. Mrs. 
 Vincent shook her fan at him. " She will never come 
 to your tea," she said. " Never."
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 261 
 
 " Yes, she will. The Count was useful." 
 
 " No ; you were never more mistaken. She is not 
 the least of a snob. There should be a milder word." 
 
 " I should fancy," said I, " that she must be the very 
 ideal of the unexpected. At least, if all I hear be 
 true." 
 
 " No and yes," said Mrs. Vincent. " The great world 
 has been of use to her. It is a valuable education to 
 some natures. I often think what she might have 
 been had she remained at home." 
 
 " I think I see," said I. " But certainly she is as 
 full of social surprises as it is possible for a decently 
 well-bred woman to be." 
 
 " She is like a rocking-chair," cried the poet. 
 
 " A what ? " we exclaimed, laughing. 
 
 " A rocking-chair. My hostess put one in my bed- 
 room last fall. I tried it once, and fell over on my 
 head. If I put a foot on it to lace a boot, it hit me on 
 the nose. It was always doing queer things. If I 
 hung clothes on it, it fell over, and if the window was 
 open, it rocked as if a ghost were making itself com- 
 fortable. Then it rocked on my toes, and mashed a 
 sleeve-button, and " 
 
 "Don't," cried Mrs. Vincent, quite helpless with 
 mirth. " I won't have my friends abused." And we 
 went away.
 
 J 
 
 T. GLAIR'S tea was postponed, and as 
 the weeks ran by, I often saw Miss 
 Leigh at Mrs. Vincent's, and now 
 and then at her own house. No more 
 was said by me as to her plans. I 
 less and less liked the subject, and 
 when she approached it I merely put the matter aside, 
 saying that it was too late to consider it this year be- 
 cause the college courses were half over, and would 
 she let it rest for a time? But at last Mrs. Leigh, 
 who was irrepressible, urged me to speak again to her 
 daughter, and, seeing that it was as well to make an 
 end of it, I put her off until I could talk once more 
 with Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 I learned, of course, that Miss Leigh's plan for a 
 fresh departure in life had become widely known 
 through her mother's freedom of talk, and I did what 
 I could to contradict the gossip. Yet, somehow, the 
 thing haunted me. I seemed to see this handsome, 
 high-minded girl with her exquisite neatness and deli- 
 cacies of sentiment and manner amidst the scenes and 
 work which belong to the life of the student of med- 
 icine. And was I not also a man essentially refined 
 and sensitive ? Had it hurt me ? I knew it had not. 
 But it is terribly true that a man may do and be that
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 263 
 
 which is for him inconsistent with his ideal of the 
 highest type of womanhood. He may puzzle himself 
 mad with the logic of the thing, and be beaten utterly 
 by its poetry. 
 
 At last I found leisure to see Mrs. Vincent. "Do 
 not forget St. Glair's tea," she said; "and come early. 
 It will be amusing. I really made him do it. And the 
 Leighs. Mrs. Leigh told me of your talk. Do you 
 like her?" 
 
 "Yes and no. May I speak? She did seem to me 
 hard and " 
 
 "Oh, only in talk. If one has any real trouble, she 
 is angelic. She likes you. But, then, she likes suc- 
 cess, as I do. Yes, strange as it may seem to you, she 
 would make an admirable mother-in-law." 
 
 "I should be pitiful of the man," said I. 
 
 "No. If he were morally weak she would rule him 
 for his good, because in all worldly ways, and in busi- 
 ness matters, no one is more shrewd ; and if he were 
 a man of eminence and force, she would give up once 
 for all. She has no real fight in her, none at all." 
 
 I smiled. 
 
 "Oh, you may laugh." 
 
 "I only smiled." 
 
 "Yes, I know." And she set her large eyes on me 
 watchfully. "Now, suppose by any chance our friend 
 St. Clair were to lose his heart to my friend Miss 
 Alice?" 
 
 "Impossible." 
 
 "Not at all. He comes here every day to talk about 
 her. Now, with Alice's good sense and efficiency, and 
 her mother's "
 
 264 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Pardon me, what?" 
 
 "Oh, her mother's desire to settle Alice, and then 
 Alice's fortune. Now do you not see how very wise 
 a thing it would be ?" 
 
 "Are you jesting?" I said, seriously. 
 
 "I ? Not at all. I lent Alice his last book, and she 
 is delighted with it. Yesterday she quoted the whole 
 of that poem of his about the storm. If he could only 
 hear her recite it, I I fancy he would well " 
 
 "May I be there to see ! " 
 
 "And he is so handsome," she returned. 
 
 "The dear fellow would make any woman hope- 
 lessly wretched in a year. If I were you (if you are 
 in earnest, which I doubt a little), I would meddle no 
 more with this matter. I never thought you less rea- 
 sonable." 
 
 "And I think I have annoyed you. Why, I cannot 
 quite see. Am I forgiven?" 
 
 "What is there to forgive? Let us talk about the 
 doctor matter. I told her what I thought." 
 
 "All?" 
 
 "No ; not all There are things one cannot discuss 
 fully. But I said I did not believe it was best either 
 for the sick or for society for women to be doctors ; 
 that, personally, women lose something of the natural 
 charm of their sex in giving themselves either to this 
 or to the other avocations until now in sole possession 
 of man." 
 
 "|And I am to think that you mean what you have 
 last said?" 
 
 "Yes; most honestly." 
 
 "My own mind is hardly clear about it. At all
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 265 
 
 events, it would not trouble Alice Leigh. At least, I 
 don't think it would." 
 
 "No ; nor any other woman, nor any woman doctor. 
 They fail to realize what they have lost. The man 
 who is sensitive to womanly ways sees it. It is worse 
 than nursing the sick, for even nursing makes some 
 women hard. Were you with us when we discussed 
 the influence of avocations upon men? Their effect 
 upon women is yet to be written." 
 
 "I think Alice will study medicine. What men 
 think of her will in no way disturb her. What the 
 one man thinks, or will think, may be quite another 
 thing. I believe I could stop her short by showing 
 her some duty as imperative. And you laughed at 
 me, too. But women have, over and over, given their 
 lives, and lovingly too, to reclaim a sot. Why were it 
 not a better task to keep straight a man of genius like 
 St. Clair ? If you fail to convince her " 
 
 "Fail ! I do not mean to try. Who cares whether 
 one pretty woman more or less studies medicine ? I 
 talked to her and to her mother because you desired 
 it, but, really, it is of no great moment." 
 
 Mrs. Vincent was playing with a paper-knife. Now 
 she put it down with a certain resoluteness in the small 
 action, and returned : "Of course ; that is all true, and 
 let us drop it. What is Alice to me or to you?" 
 
 There was a false ring in her phrase, and I said, 
 "You do not mean that." 
 
 "Nor you what you said just now. I don't under- 
 stand you, and we are both a trifle annoyed, and that 
 is the reason why you must go away. And remember 
 to be early at St. Glair's 5 we must make it a success."
 
 266 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "AndtheLeighsT 
 
 "They will comej and now go and repent of your 
 having been cross to Fred Vincent's wife." 
 
 I looked at her reproachfully. 
 
 "Oh, but you were, and you would have liked to be 
 still more unpleasant. Good-by." 
 
 At this I did go, and, passing a florist's shop, re- 
 pented in the form of a basket of lilies to my friend, 
 and ordered a bushel of cut roses to be sent to St. 
 Glair's on the Tuesday after.
 
 XX. 
 
 T was a brilliant snow-clad day near 
 to the dusk of early twilight as I 
 met Mrs. Vincent at the door of the 
 studio, a little before the hour set 
 for St. Glair's tea. 
 
 " The lilies were enough," she said ; 
 "but never, never be so bad to me again." 
 "Never. I promise." And we went in. 
 St. Clair had opened his stores of Eastern stuffs, and 
 all the dingy chairs and lounges, the camp-stools and 
 benches, in the molding-room were covered with bro- 
 cades, priests' robes, and superb Moorish rugs and 
 embroideries. Two of the statues, now finished in 
 marble, were uncovered, but not that of the Roman 
 lady striking with the cestus. Around this St. Clair 
 had wrapped a vast sheet of worn purple silk heavy 
 with gold fleurs-de-lis. I knew that he was proud of 
 this work, and I wondered a little why it was hidden, 
 but checked myself as I was about to speak. Whether 
 Mrs. Vincent noticed it I did not know. Few things 
 escaped her, but she too said nothing. 
 
 "Well," exclaimed St. Clair, "do you like it all? 
 Is n't it pretty ? And these flowers ? Who sent them ? 
 And what shall we do with them?" 
 
 "That is easy," cried Mrs. Vincent, and began to
 
 268 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 throw them on to the white marble bases of the 
 statues, and upon the chairs, and around the tent of 
 heavy crimson stuffs, within which St. Glair's athletic 
 figure of Saul leaned in profound dejection against 
 the tent-pole. On the inner walls of the tent, which 
 filled all the end of the studio, were Eastern weapons 
 and spears, swords and shields, of which he had a 
 curious collection. When we had finished, St. Clair 
 drew the folds of the tent together, and Clayborne and 
 Vincent presently came in. 
 
 "And you really have come," said St. Clair. 
 
 "I ?" said Clayborne. " Tea unlimited, and Mrs. Vin- 
 cent ? Of course I came." 
 
 "Why did you not uncover the Roman lady?" I 
 said, in an aside to the sculptor. 
 
 "I do not know. I did not" 
 
 "It is not the nude that troubled you?" 
 
 "Oh, no ! We come to be utterly indifferent as to 
 that even in the living, and wonder at the feelings of 
 others about it." 
 
 "Then why was it?" 
 
 "Would you uncover it ? You may." 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And why not?" 
 
 "1 do not know." 
 
 Then his guests began to drop in, men and women, 
 society folks, for every one liked him, and no one took 
 his social failings very seriously. There were half a 
 dozen artists too, and by and by, to my amusement, 
 Mrs. Leigh and her daughter. What Mrs. Vincent 
 had said to the elder woman I never knew, but she 
 was exceedingly affable to her host. She put up her
 
 CHARACTEEISTICS. 269 
 
 eye-glasses, and with a glance at St. Clair, who was 
 faultlessly dressed, began to admire everything and to 
 be largely gracious to everybody. As to St. Clair, he 
 was at his best. His Huguenot blood had long since 
 lost the gravity it brought out of persecution, and 
 there were only the French grace and ease along with 
 the individualized charm which made him always a 
 delightful companion. 
 
 Vincent and I, of course, did our best, and a happy 
 company wandered about and appropriated the roses, 
 drank St. Glair's Russian tea and Turkish coffee out 
 of tiny cups, and chattered around the statues, or rec- 
 ognized medallions of familiar faces. 
 
 Mrs. Leigh soon fell to my share. "Show me the 
 things," she said. "I had no idea of Mr. St. Glair's 
 force as a sculptor, and yet I remember De Yisne in 
 Paris spoke of him with great respect, oh, even with 
 enthusiasm. And what lovely stuffs ! Is n't he rich ?" 
 
 I glanced at the woman. "No; he is as wasteful 
 as a boy. He could easily make money. He does not 
 care to." 
 
 "What a pity. He needs some strong, sensible 
 woman." 
 
 It appeared to me that I had heard this before. 
 
 "He is not made for Benedict, the married man." 
 Then I repented. " It might depend upon the woman. 
 He is a dear old fellow, and amiable past belief." 
 
 " I have great faith in the capacity of women to 
 manage men." This, too, did not sound home-made, 
 and as I soon learned, Mrs. Leigh liked to repeat 
 phrases which pleased her. "And now," she said, "a 
 chair, and a cup of tea, and some time pray talk again
 
 270 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 to Alice about that fad of hers. An old doctor has so 
 much influence ; not that you are so very old either, 
 but, you see, as your cousin I can take liberties. 
 Thanks. Where does the man get his tea T I must 
 ask him." 
 
 Presently I got away, and found Miss Leigh talk- 
 ing with Clayborne. She was saying, "I have just 
 finished your book on the 'Influence of the Moor on 
 European Civilization.' We were in Spain two years 
 ago, and now I wish I had read it earlier." 
 
 "And you liked it?" inquired Clayborne. 
 
 "Liked it ? I liked it very much. I envied you the 
 power to do it, the pleasure of the search, the joy there 
 must be in such a review of historic or heroic lives. 
 You must have learned Arabic and Spanish." 
 
 "Yes ; that was easy enough. But I ought to tell 
 you that my friend North says my defect is that I am 
 not a worshiper of heroes." 
 
 "No ; I saw that sometimes you were cold, when I 
 wanted you to be warm. And Dr. North I should 
 scarcely take him for a worshiper of heroes. You 
 might improve under criticism," she added, smiling. 
 
 "I will remember next time," he said with rare 
 graciousness. 
 
 At this moment a woman asked him some absurd 
 question about the statue beside us. I took advantage 
 of it to call Miss Leigh's attention to a piece of em- 
 broidery, and began to wander with her to and fro. 
 
 "Tell me something," she said, "about the statues. 
 These Greeks. What a poem the group is ! " 
 
 "Yes. A Western city has ordered it for a memo- 
 rial of the dead it lost in the war."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 271 
 
 She looked at the group in silence, and said pres- 
 ently, " Did you know my elder brother, the one who 
 feH at Antietam?" 
 
 "Yes ; I knew him well. I may say he was of earth's 
 best." 
 
 She made no answer. Her eyes were full ; her face 
 flushed. I said nothing, but moved quietly away to 
 a corner as if to show her some rugs from Fez, and 
 talked volubly until, looking up, she said, "Thank you. 
 And now the statues. What is the one covered up?" 
 
 " It is a Roman lady. St. Clair does not uncover it." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 "He is not pleased with it." 
 
 " But I might be. I shall ask Trim. Here he comes." 
 
 "No; do not. It is disagreeable." 
 
 "But I want to see it," she continued. 
 
 "You will not, must not. Pardon me." 
 
 "Must not?" And she looked at me steadily a mo- 
 ment. Then she turned to St. Clair. I was annoyed. 
 I did not want her to see the sensual, cruel abandon- 
 ment of the woman to the brute man's pose. 
 
 "What is your covered statue?" she said. 
 
 "A woman aping a man. A woman gladiator." 
 
 "And Dr. North does not like women to imitate 
 men. If I want to see it, will you not show it?" 
 
 "And why not?" cried St. Clair, gaily. 
 
 "I am satisfied," she said. "I do not want to see 
 it," and then to me, aside, "Was I very wicked?" 
 
 "No ; I did not think you would persist. Be satis- 
 fied with your victory." 
 
 "I am. Be generous, and never remind me of my 
 weakness."
 
 272 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "It was strength, not weakness." 
 
 " I am half sorry already. Would you have thought 
 worse of me if I had persisted ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You are very frank." 
 
 "And you do not like that? If you had been my 
 my sister, I should have been annoyed with St. Clair 
 and much more imperative." 
 
 "You have no sister?" 
 
 "No ; I am alone in the world. Come, I shall re- 
 ward you. Ask St. Clair to open the tent." 
 
 "And your lordship permits that ?" 
 
 "Please don't, Miss Leigh." 
 
 She regarded me with a briefly attentive glance, but 
 said no more until we were beside the sculptor. 
 
 "I should like to see your tent," she said. 
 
 "You can ask me nothing I shall not be glad to do," 
 he returned. So saying, he cast loack the temVfolds, 
 as the crowd of laughing girls fell away a little. 
 
 "It is 'Saul in his Tent/ in his madness," I said. 
 
 "But, good gracious!" exclaimed Miss Primrose, 
 "it's a Jew!" 
 
 "And was he not a Jew?" said Miss Leigh. 
 
 "Oh, but in art! A Jew, you know. Why, the 
 painters don't dare to make Christ a Jew." 
 
 "But they should," said Alice Leigh. "A Prince of 
 the House of Judah. And this face is typical. And a 
 king too. One misses 'the ruby courageous of heart.' 
 If some one would only read us ' Saul.' " 
 
 We went on talking, not missing St. Clair. 
 
 "Hush!" said Miss Primrose, "what is that? Oh. 
 how too delicious a surprise ! ;; For now we heard the
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 273 
 
 sound of strange music, and St. Clair came from 
 behind the tent in sandals and a white burnoose. 
 Whether it was prearranged or not I do not know, 
 as he always declined to tell. But here was the boy 
 David, with a small, curious harp, his face all aglow 
 under the curling brown hair. The crowd fell back 
 surprised, and St. Clair dropped on one knee, and be- 
 gan to recite, or rather to chant, "Saul," with now and 
 then a strange accompaniment from the instrument. 
 The effect of the eager and strong young face matched 
 well the intensity of dramatic power that he threw into 
 the lines of that wonderful poem. As he ended, there 
 was silence, and then he cried out merrily to Miss 
 Leigh : " Was n't it absurd ? I was miles in the desert 
 already," and the applause was loud and long. As he 
 spoke, I watched Miss Leigh. She regarded him with 
 an intense interest, her face flushing. A few minutes 
 after it was over he came back to us in his own garb. 
 
 "How good it was that you liked it," he said to Miss 
 Leigh. 
 
 "And did I ? How do you know ?" 
 
 "I felt it. I saw. If you had not, I could not have 
 done it. You could always make me do things well." 
 
 "Indeed. You do me honor. You have made me 
 know that old friend better. But I see mama is sig- 
 naling. I must go. We dine out, and never shall I 
 venture on an afternoon tea again. It would spoil a 
 perfect memory. Good-by." 
 
 I stood an instant as if studying the " Saul." What 
 annoyed me? Every one went away laughing and 
 joyous. I heard Mrs. Leigh praising it all to St. Clair. 
 And then I went too.
 
 SAW the Leighs now and then, and 
 heard from St. Clair that he was mak- 
 ing a bas-relief of Miss Alice. This 
 he told me at the Vincents', where 
 were the Leighs and Miss Primrose, 
 whom I took in to dinner, and who 
 was, as Vincent confided to me, the final young per- 
 son selected for me by Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 "Is n't she charming?" said my hostess in a quiet 
 aside. Her dinner was prospering, and she now found 
 time to turn to me. "I knew you would like her." 
 
 "Like!" I said. "She is adorable. The prettiest 
 girl I know, and so intelligent, and so well, so full 
 of tact." I saw in Mrs. Vincent eyes signs of dis- 
 tressed failure. 
 
 " Fred has been talking. I never have a fair chance, 
 and you are getting old, too." 
 
 "Will she be like 'the rath primrose,' etc., think you ? 
 Oh, well, I will try again, but just now De Witt is 
 coaching her about pigeon-shooting." 
 
 "Look at St. Clair and my dear Alice. Was there 
 ever a more charming couple 1 Between us, now do 
 not you think really " 
 
 " I f " I ejaculated. " Do you sincerely want to marry 
 her to that dear fellow ? And you who care for both, 
 and know him."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 275 
 
 "You are possessed, I think, about our poet. He 
 wants just such a person to make him as staid as 
 well, as you, and I really cannot see why you are 
 called upon to interfere." 
 
 "Dear Mrs. Vincent, did I say I would interfere? 
 And how could I ? And what is she to me ? A mere 
 acquaintance, and he my friend." 
 
 "Very true ; but you can be so irritating sometimes. 
 I fancy Mrs. Leigh is quite hurt that you have not 
 been near them for so long. She says Alice talks 
 less of the doctor business j but then St. Clair gives 
 her little leisure. What between sittings, and visits, 
 and dinners, the man has become madly delighted with 
 society, and dance I thought they would never stop 
 at the last assembly." 
 
 It was all true. I rarely saw St. Clair. I asked him 
 one day if he were writing verse. He said no, he was 
 living poetry. After dinner I declined Vincent's cigar, 
 and went up to join the women. I made my peace 
 with Mrs. Leigh very easily. 
 
 "Ah," she said, "dear Alice is quite tranquil now- 
 adays ; and by the way, Doctor, we are of kin, you 
 know, and I may ask you, entirely in confidence, 
 you won't consider it a liberty, what kind of person 
 is Mr. St. Clair ? Of course he is a genius, and wears 
 strange clothes, but not always ; and occasionally does 
 surprise one." 
 
 "He is my friend." 
 
 "Oh, of course, and that is why I ask. You see, I 
 am alone, and have to be father and mother, and it is 
 always well to look ahead. It may come to nothing. 
 Are his habits good?"
 
 276 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Really," I said, "you must ask some one else." 
 
 "Oh, then, you mean he is n't a man you can talk 
 about." 
 
 "I could talk about him all night. He is to me as 
 a brother. Ah, Mrs. Vincent," I added "No; no 
 coffee," and, rising, gave her my seat. "Ask Mrs. 
 Vincent," I said, and strolled to the corner where Miss 
 Leigh was looking over some prints. 
 
 "You are a stranger of late," she said. "And all 
 that pleasant friendliness we began with alas ! it is 
 squandered, as they say in the South." 
 
 "I am a busy man," I said, "and Mrs. Vincent tells 
 me you are as busy a woman." And then, feeling cross 
 and vicious, I added : "And what has become of those 
 grave views of life ? Is it still so unsatisfying ?" 
 
 She regarded me with a trace of surprised curiosity, 
 and then said: "No; I am as I was, and some day 
 you will let me tell you my side. I listened pretty 
 patiently to yours. I suppose that you men who live 
 amidst life's most serious troubles get a little well, 
 stolid as to so small a thing as how a woman of your 
 society, a mere girl, is disturbed about her days, and 
 what to make of life, or whether just to let it alone 
 and drift." 
 
 "And is not happiness everything, and are not you 
 happy now?" 
 
 " Happy ? That is my temperament ; and what has 
 that to do with it?" 
 
 "Indeed," I said, "I do not know." 
 
 "Then why talk so?" she added, almost sharply. 
 "I do not understand you. You seemed so fair, and 
 now "
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 277 
 
 "How comes on the rilievo?" I said, abruptly turn- 
 ing the talk. 
 
 "Oh, well enough." 
 
 "And my friend, St. Clair; is he not charming?" 
 
 "I do not know. The phrase is rather strong. He 
 is interesting. I like him. You should have seen his 
 face when I told him I meant to be a doctor. He 
 looked at me a moment, and then said, Good heavens ! 
 and would I cut my hair short, and might he send for 
 me if he were ill, and would I be expensive as a medi- 
 cal attendant? He was certainly very amusing, but 
 it takes two to make a joke as well as a quarrel, and I 
 do not like to be laughed at by a man who " and she 
 paused. 
 
 "Well," I said, "who" 
 
 "In some ways I am more of a man than he. He is 
 undecided, easily led, and expects every one to indulge 
 him." 
 
 "I assure you that a more delightful friend no one 
 could have." 
 
 "Friend? Yes, certainly." 
 
 I looked at her. A little flush like a faint, rosy sun- 
 set cloud was slowly moving over her cheek. A signal 
 of something. Was it doubt, or annoyance, or what ? 
 I began to feel a renewed interest in the woman before 
 me. It faded when I ceased to see her. It grew up 
 again when we met and talked. As the idea crossed 
 my mind that Mrs. Vincent's schemes might this time 
 be successful I had a sense of discomfort which I did 
 not stay to analyze, but said at once : 
 
 "Are there not men who are incomplete without 
 women? I most honestly think that some noble-
 
 278 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 minded woman could be the complement of this man's 
 nature. She should be one fixed as to character, reso- 
 lute, tender, and absolutely conscientious. If she were 
 beautiful, and well, if she loved him, he would be at 
 his best always. It would be not the poor task of 
 saving a worthless man, but the nobler one of helping 
 one well worth the helping." 
 "Ah," she laughed : 
 
 " If he be not in word and deed 
 A Mng of nature's highest creed, 
 To be the chancellor of his soul 
 Were any but a happy r&le. 
 
 Some women love and learn. Some learn and, learn- 
 ing, love. It seems to me hard to understand how a 
 \/ woman could with knowledge aforethought undertake 
 such a task. Would you ?" 
 
 "Oh, I am not a woman." 
 
 "Well, it is a pretty problem. Imagine yourself 
 that woman." 
 
 "I cannot. But men and women may marry with 
 clear ideas of the imperfections of the being they 
 marry, believing that to love all things are possible." 
 
 "I see. But though one might love a man with a 
 bad temper, or morose, or despotic, one might with 
 more doubt face the qualities which come out of lower 
 forms of moral weakness. But how serious we are. 
 Why not invite Susan Primrose to the post of con- 
 science-bearer ? Ah, here come the men you deserted." 
 
 St. Clair joined us, and presently I took my de- 
 parture. 
 
 Mrs. Vincent detained me a moment. "Really,"
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 279 
 
 she said in an undertone, "I think our friend is well, 
 and my gentle Alice you laughed at me about it at 
 dinner, but now it is serious, I think, and how nice it 
 would be. If Mrs. Leigh speaks to you, do be careful." 
 
 "She has spoken," I said. 
 
 "And of course I know what you must have said." 
 
 " Said ! I referred her to you." 
 
 "Ah, indeed ! She must think that odd." 
 
 "I do not see why," I answered shortly. "But I am 
 rather tired of the subject. I must go. Grood night." 
 
 " One moment," she said. "I seem to have annoyed 
 you j I certainly do not want to do so. I am unlucky 
 of late. I can see no reason why you should object to 
 being asked questions as to your friend by Mrs. Leigh. 
 It is plain to us all that St. Clair is in love with Miss 
 Leigh, and what more natural than her mother's desire 
 to know something definite as to the man." 
 
 "And how can I tell her that St. Clair, with all his 
 fine qualities, is unfit to be a husband?" 
 
 "Then why shift the responsibility of an answer 
 upon me?" 
 
 "Because you think otherwise. I shall tell him ex- 
 actly what passed." 
 
 "Perhaps that is best. It may really be of use to 
 him. His character " 
 
 "Oh, confound his character ! I beg pardon, I did 
 not mean that ; I was rude. I must speak out frankly 
 to Mrs. Leigh, or not speak at all, and I prefer the 
 latter course. I would rather not discuss it further." 
 
 "Well, as you please. Good night. You are very 
 cross and most unreasonable." 
 
 19
 
 XXII. 
 
 HAD never before been so vexed 
 with Mrs. Vincent. She was apt to 
 meddle gently with the affairs of 
 other folks's hearts, and sometimes 
 to retreat bewildered or dismayed at 
 the consequences. Moreover, she was 
 subject to acute attacks of social remorse, and suf- 
 fered out of all proportion to the greatness of the 
 crime. I must say that I am not an easy quarreler. 
 I am troubled deeply by a cold phrase, or a hasty word, 
 and lie awake repentant upon the rack of self-exami- 
 nation. Therefore it was that our two notes of self- 
 accusation and apology crossed each other next day. 
 She said : 
 
 MY DEAR FRIEND : I was persistent, and perhaps yes, I 
 was unreasonable last night. I mean unreasonably persistent. 
 And it may be that I am quite wrong. Fred says I am, which 
 will perhaps comfort you. For although I hate to be wrong, 
 I hate more to be told I am, even by Fred. I do not under- 
 stand you, but that does not make me grieve less at having 
 annoyed or hurt you. As to Alice and St. Clair, I shall never 
 say another word, and if I were not afraid of a pledge, I would 
 vow never to be kind to man or woman again unless the man 
 is the friend to whom now I excuse myself. And if it only were 
 you. ANNE VINCENT.
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 281 
 
 There was also a package, which was a first edition 
 of "The Urn Burial/' and inside was written " I am so 
 sorry. 12.30P.M. A. V." 
 
 And as for me, I had written: "I was rude last 
 night. Pardon me." 
 
 Then, the day being Sunday, I sulked over my mis- 
 deeds, and went to see St. Clair. I found him idling 
 in his studio before the bas-relief of Miss Leigh's head. 
 
 "Oh, come in," he said. "Jolly cold, clear day, is n't 
 it? Had two hours on the ice at six this morning. 
 Is n't this a success ?" 
 
 It was, and I said so shortly. 
 
 "What 's the matter?" he queried of a sudden. 
 "You look as you do when I have been in mischief. 
 By all the gods, I have been a good boy of late. I 
 gave Clayborne money to invest for me last week. I 
 have n't been to a beer-garden for days. I have even 
 paid my dinner-calls, idiotic custom. What is it?" 
 
 "Nothing. I have to say something unpleasant." 
 
 "Then get it over. I loathe suspense, as the fellow 
 said when he was about to be hanged." 
 
 "Mrs. Leigh has asked me to give her some idea 
 of your character. Oh, confound it ! how stiff that 
 sounds. She thinks, as we all do, that you are in love 
 with Miss Alice, and, like a straightforward mama, 
 says, 'Is this a good man? Will he be the husband 
 she ought to have?'" 
 
 "Well, old man, what then?" 
 
 "Oh, simply this: Do you want to marry Miss 
 Leigh ? If so, I must go on. If not, you are doing 
 her a wrong, and I need say no more than that." 
 
 "Is n't she noble-looking?" he replied. "Just look
 
 282 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 at that head ; the color of the hair ; the tranquil kind- 
 liness of the face; and the proud prettiness of the 
 neck." 
 
 "Do you love her?" I said, abruptly. 
 
 "Oh, how do I know?" 
 
 "Are you really a child, St. Clair ? Yes or no. How 
 is it with you ? " 
 
 Then I looked from him steadily at the medallion. 
 I could not tell why it so touched me, but, as I looked, 
 my eyes filled. I was puzzled at my own causeless emo- 
 tion. Meanwhile, for this brief moment, he was silent, 
 and then his face, as I turned to it, took on a look I well 
 knew of peculiar sweetness as he said gently, "Would 
 you like me to love her?" 
 
 "No," I said. 
 
 "And why not ?" he went on, touching the clay here 
 and there. 
 
 "Because you would make a bad husband. You 
 would in a year break her heart. You would not want 
 to. She is a woman resolute, proud, and firm as to her 
 beliefs, and the duties to which they bind her. You 
 have no creed. You are amoral, not immoral. You 
 would hurt her all the time, and at last lose her love 
 and and " 
 
 "Her respect. Do Hose yours sometimes? Yes, I 
 know I do ; and you mean that you can fail to respect 
 me and yet cherish my friendship, but that with her 
 love must go with respect. Is that it?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, astonished. 
 
 "And you could not, would not, tell her mother all 
 this, and you came to say so to me?" 
 
 "That is it*
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 283 
 
 "Am I a bad boy?" 
 
 " Oh, don't," I said. " It all hurts me. I see trouble 
 ahead." 
 
 "And you like her. She is your friend, and so am 
 I. I would have been a weak fool under like circum- 
 stances, and praised you through thick and thin, right 
 or wrong. Pretty head, is n't it 1 Would you like a 
 copy of it ? I '11 send you one." 
 
 "My dear St. Clair, what are you talking about? 
 How can you trifle so? How do you suppose she 
 would like that, or Mrs. Leigh?" 
 
 "Hang Mrs. Leigh." 
 
 "With all my heart 5 but let us have no nonsense 
 about this matter I mean, as to this head. As to 
 the rest, I have done my duty as to a friend. Go on, 
 or stop. It does not concern me. I am free of re- 
 sponsibility." I was vexed with his indecision, and 
 dissatisfied with the role I was playing. 
 
 "And what do you advise? Now, really." 
 
 "How childish you are, St. Clair." I shrank from 
 saying : " Give her up. You are unfit for her. Women 
 do not resist you. You were made to please for the 
 hour, not the year." I went on at last quickly: "If 
 you are honestly in love, I have no more to say. Go 
 on, and God help her and you. Perhaps he may, and 
 time may show what a fool I have been." 
 
 "Frankly, Owen," he returned, "is it of me or of her 
 you think?" 
 
 "Of both." 
 
 "Of whom most?" 
 
 "Oh, what matters it? I have said enough." 
 
 " Too much or too li ttle. But do not think I am not
 
 284 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 thankful, and more thoughtful than you suppose. Let 
 us drop it. I hear that you may go to Charleston 
 about this yellow fever." 
 
 "Yes; I am asked to go South on a Government 
 commission to study the outbreak they have had. I 
 think I shall go. I saw it once before, and, for vari- 
 ous reasons, no one else is quite as well fitted for this 
 not over-pleasant task." 
 
 "It is risky." 
 
 "Very." 
 
 "I would n't go. What 's the use ?" 
 
 "It is a simple duty. I should like to go away for a 
 while, and it fits in nicely." 
 
 "Darn duty." 
 
 I laughed, "Ah, if darning duty mended matters, 
 how easy a place were this world to live in," and we 
 parted.
 
 xxin 
 
 iT I had said was true. I was out 
 of spirits. My work bored me, and, 
 as has been seen, I was peevish and 
 irritable. 
 
 The next evening I was at Mrs. 
 Leigh's. They were alone or rather 
 Miss Alice was for a time. 
 "Good evening," I said. "I am very busy, but I 
 have come in just for a little talk, and to say good-by." 
 " Yes ; Mr. St. Clair told us this morning. He thinks 
 it quite needless your going, I mean." 
 
 "Needless? He knows nothing at all about it. A 
 man of experience is wanted, and I, unmarried and 
 without ties, am of the otherwise available men the 
 most fit for it." 
 
 "But you have friends, and sometimes those ties are 
 strong." 
 "Yes, very." 
 
 "And is is the risk great? You have never had 
 the fever. Is there no one who has had it who can 
 go?" 
 
 "No one. And I want a change, too. At times life 
 
 wearies one. You ask why, and I cannot tell. A fresh 
 
 duty, and absence, winds one up, and we go on again." 
 
 "And is your life wearisome ? You, who live for
 
 286 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 others, who are dear to so many, the rich, the poor. 
 Ah, you smile, but you know we are friends, and I 
 manage to learn all about my friends." 
 
 A sudden impulse mastered me. "If you were I, 
 would you go?" 
 
 " Go ! n she exclaimed. "Without a doubt" 
 
 "And you advise me to go ?" 
 
 "I am only a girl," she replied. 
 
 "You are my friend." 
 
 "Thank you; would one say to a soldier, 'Stay at 
 home ? ' Yours is a nobler calling. I do not think the 
 world has bonds would hold you back." 
 
 "That was kindly said and true. But you overrate 
 me, I mean as to what you said a moment ago, 
 and to be overestimated always humiliates me. I shall 
 think of what you have said, and, please God, will come 
 home safe and happier." 
 
 "You ought to be happy. It seems strange to me 
 that you are not. You cannot be compassed about 
 with doubts as I am, and see duties you must not ac- 
 cept, or a path you may not tread." 
 
 "And are you still tormented?" 
 
 "And why not go on?" 
 
 "It may appear to you odd, but only one statement 
 of yours really disturbed my resolution." 
 
 "And that?" 
 
 "The idea that that a woman might lose in the 
 work I look to certain of those nameless graces, those 
 tendernesses, which seem to me so much of her honest 
 property." 
 
 "I think so, and I have seen you often. We have
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 287 
 
 come to be friends. Now, suppose that you promise 
 me you will not go on in this matter till I come back. 
 I have much to say about it, and no time in which to 
 say it. I leave to-morrow." 
 
 "To-morrow?" 
 
 "Yes; but one word more. If I never come back, 
 of course it releases you." 
 
 "It releases me ? It releases me ?" 
 
 " Yes. Ah, Mrs. Leigh, good evening," I said, rising. 
 "I came to say good-by." 
 
 "Yes; I saw it in the paper, and Mr. St. Clair told 
 us. I suppose it is not very dangerous, and then, if 
 it is, you are a doctor, and it is a matter of business 
 after all. If you see the Temples, remember me to 
 them. But they must have gone, of course." 
 
 "When do you return?" said Miss Alice, who had 
 been watching her mother with a grave face. 
 
 "In a month, I hope." 
 
 "If you see any nice feather fans," said Mrs. Leigh, 
 "do spend a few dollars for me. There are red ones, 
 really charming." 
 
 "Charming? What is?" said Mrs. Vincent, enter- 
 ing with her husband. "We missed your call, and 
 Fred and I have been to see you. You leave to-mor- 
 row, your note said. I do not call that charming." 
 
 "Oh, it was fans," said Mrs. Leigh. "Dr. North is 
 to bring me some nice feather fans." 
 
 "Indeed! Bring me nothing but yourself. I am 
 horribly troubled about you. It recalls our talk about 
 fear. Are you ever afraid of disease ?" 
 
 " I ? No yes. I have always had a slight, a vague 
 dread of this especial malady. I think I said so. I
 
 288 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 find that physicians often have some such single pet 
 fear." 
 
 "Like a soldier's," said Miss Leigh, looking up at 
 me. "That alone would make you go." Mrs. Vin- 
 cent glanced at her curiously. 
 
 "We won't talk of it," said Vincent. "Write soon 
 and as often as you can." 
 
 "Oh, not to me ! " said Mrs. Leigh. "Is n't it dan- 
 gerous?" 
 
 "No," I said, laughing. "And now good-by. And 
 this day month, Miss Alice. Good night."
 
 xxrv. 
 
 F my really perilous commission I 
 have nothing to say except that it 
 brought some empty honors, and 
 cost my colleague a sharp attack of 
 the fever. This detained me longer 
 in Charleston, and I got home early 
 in May, tired out with nursing and anxiety. I had 
 heard often from home, but, until a week before my 
 departure, nothing of moment. Clayborne from time 
 to time sent me large sums to be used among the poor 
 of the pest-stricken city. He wrote that of course it 
 was all due to bad hygiene and carelessness, but that 
 I might like to spend some of his spare cash, and thus 
 excused in his cynical way acts of unusual generosity. 
 A week before my return came a letter from Mrs. 
 Vincent. 
 
 Our friend St. Clair [she wrote] has been at his wicked worst 
 of late. He told Fred last month that he had been gambling 
 in stocks, and was in debt. The speculations, Fred says, were 
 simply absurd. I asked him why he did it, and he replied that 
 it amused him. I cannot make him out of late. I ought to say 
 that Mr. Clayborne at once paid some thousands for him, re- 
 marking that it was so comfortable to make a fool of one's self 
 now and then. I said that St. Clair puzzled me. He has shut 
 up his studio, declined recklessly to complete his contracts, and 
 really told Mrs. Leigh, to her disgust, that he could not finish 
 the relief of Alice's face, because work bored him. I do not 
 think he has been near the Leighs since you left. It is too an-
 
 290 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 noying ; I shall never try to help anybody again. I am furious 
 at the thought of how right you were. If you bring Mrs. Leigh 
 any fans I will never speak to you any more. 
 
 I reopen this letter to tell you an astonishing piece of news. 
 St. Clair came in on us to-day, and would we tell him when you 
 would be at home. Fred said, "Next week." Upon which he 
 was so sorry, because he was to sail for Europe in four days, 
 and gone he has. The new statue for Cleveland has to be cast 
 in Paris. I do not believe it. At first I suspected that Alice 
 had said "No," but this is not so, for, as I said, he has not been 
 near her, and the last time they were here they were on pleas- 
 ant terms enough. I am dying to ask Alice, but she is hardly the 
 girl to put questions to, and, besides however, you never ap- 
 preciated her duly, and I do not want to bore you. 
 
 She told me to-day that he had called before he left (his first 
 visit in a month) and that he did nothing but talk about you, 
 which amused me. 
 
 Fred sends his love, and I am as always, 
 
 Your friend, A. V. 
 
 P. S. I hope that St. Clair wrote to you, but I do not believe 
 he did. That man is capable of any virtue or any vice. Do 
 share with me my exasperation. 
 
 This letter gave me much to think over as I gladly 
 left the roses and jasmines of the luckless town, and 
 rolled away northward. I was annoyed at St. Clair 
 for the hundredth time, but it was like being vexed 
 with some charming, thoroughly spoiled girl, and of 
 course I wrote to him. 
 
 Arriving late I found a note from Mrs. Leigh, which 
 perplexed me. 
 
 She said : 
 
 I am so glad of your return, because I need you. We have 
 had Dr. Simpson since our return, but really he has not the 
 least respect for my judgment, and if I do not know the consti- 
 tutions of my own children, I should like to know who does or
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 291 
 
 can. Alice is not at all well. She does not know I send for 
 you, but do come soon. Of course, it is a drawback to have a 
 single man, but then you are a relative, and no longer young. ^ 
 [I was just thirty-seven.] Come soon, etc. 
 
 I dropped the note as I stood j picked it up ; read it 
 again, and went at once to Mrs. Vincent's, although it 
 was as late as 11 P. M. Mrs. Vincent had just left her 
 husband. After we had exchanged warm greetings, I 
 said, "Won't you ask Mrs. Vincent to come down- 
 stairs ? And, Fred, let me see her alone a moment ; I 
 want a little advice." 
 
 " Really," he said, "I ought to charge for these con- 
 sultations. St. Clair was at it last week. Mrs. Vincent 
 makes a good average for all easy-tongued women by 
 secretiveness quite exasperating." 
 
 "After the consultation," I said, "I will consider the 
 fee." 
 
 "It ought to be large. What do you get for being 
 rung up at midnight?" 
 
 "When you are through perhaps you will ask Mrs. 
 Vincent if she has gone to bed." 
 
 "She has not," cried Mrs. Vincent, entering. "I 
 heard your voice, and really, I only came down to say 
 how glad and thankful I am. You look tired, but 
 then it was a fine thing to do. I was proud of you. 
 I could not do it 5 my friend could, and oh, I liked 
 liked it well, and so did Fred. He has bored me to 
 death about you, and now you are back, and and I 
 thank God." 
 
 She had my two hands while she spoke, and was a 
 little tearful as she ended, being nothing if not enthu- 
 siastic as concerned her friends.
 
 292 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "I cannot weep," said Fred, "but you are very- 
 welcome." 
 
 "You men are horrid. I shall leave you." 
 
 "No ; it is Fred who will go, and you will stay." 
 
 "A consultation, Anne. You will find me in the 
 library." 
 
 "And now," said Mrs. Vincent, "this is altogether 
 too delightful. What can I do for you? It is so 
 pleasant to know that I can give you anything. But 
 tell me about Charleston. No, not now ; another time. 
 What is it that I can do ?" 
 
 Now that I was into this grave consultation, I be- 
 gan to distrust the doctor and myself. I reflected 
 that I had not enough considered the matter ; that, in 
 short, I was a f ooL As a result, I put off the fatal 
 moment. 
 
 "Presently we will talk," I said; "but first tell me 
 all about everybody all my friends." 
 
 "Mr. Clayborne has been as fidgety as a fish on a 
 bank. I think he loves you best of any one on earth 
 better even than Clayborne. What is your trick of 
 capturing people?" 
 
 "How can you ask? I am your friend; you must 
 know. And St. Clair ? Of all his crazes, this is the 
 queerest. To love a man who does everything you 
 don't expect, and nothing that you do expect alas! 
 it is hard on men, and on a woman harder. But I 
 suppose the fancy for Miss Leigh is over, or has it 
 gone to wreck ? How has it ended ?" 
 
 "How cool you are," she replied ; "and how easy to 
 call it a fancy, and what has come of it. You may 
 know as well as I."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 293 
 
 "No, no ; but I must not invite you to violate a pro- 
 fessional confidence." 
 
 " Indeed, it is useless." 
 
 "Oh, then you do know?" 
 
 "I did not say so. And is all this because you 
 came here to tell me something, and now repent a 
 little?" 
 
 "Good gracious ! what a woman ! How is Fred ?" 
 
 " Oh, very well. And if you wish to put off what 
 you have to say, I shall go to bed at once. I am " 
 
 "No ; it may as well be now as at any time." 
 
 "Ah, that is better." 
 
 "Read that." 
 
 "Ah, Mrs. Leigh wants your advice about Alice. I 
 am so glad. I advised her to send this very morning. 
 You know I cannot have you myself, but I want every 
 one else to have you, and now I shall be easy, quite 
 easy, about Alice. It is only that she is looking pale." 
 
 "But I do not mean to go. You know I am only 
 willing to go in consultation. I do not want practice. 
 I" 
 
 "But this ! Oh, this is different." 
 
 "Very. And you who got me into this scrape must 
 get me out of it. I do not know how you will do it, but 
 you must manage it, because I do not intend to go." 
 
 "You cannot mean that?" 
 
 "Yes. Tell Mrs. Leigh that I chanced in, and that 
 I do not take cases outside of my house. Anything 
 you like." 
 
 "But it is not true; and after all, it is I who ask 
 you to go, and imagine my making an excuse so ludi- 
 crous as that to a woman of the world like Mrs. Leigh.
 
 294 CHAKACTERISTICS. 
 
 I son. quite willing to do anything sane for you ; but 
 this! What is your real reason? You do have a 
 reason for most actions." 
 
 "Oh, I don't like that hard old woman. Surely one 
 may choose one's patients." 
 
 "Assuredly. But write and say so. Why come to 
 me?" 
 
 "Then I shall fall ill. I simply will not go." 
 
 "I am sorry; I am more than that and after I 
 took so much trouble. I am well, just a little hurt." 
 
 "But I would not annoy you for the world." 
 
 "Well, that is a strong phrase. Why do you ?" 
 
 "I cannot be Miss Leigh's physician." 
 
 "Ah, it is Alice then?" 
 
 "Yes ; it is Miss Leigh. Cannot you understand ?" 
 
 " I ? No. What do you mean ? " 
 
 "Mean ! Cannot you see that I love Alice Leigh ?" 
 
 "What a fool I am ! Oh, you dear, delightful man ! 
 The thing I have dreamed about. And now I see it 
 all. A11 T And how long has it been ? And does she 
 know?" 
 
 "I think I am sure not. And one favor I must 
 ask. It is that neither by word nor sign do you be- 
 tray me." 
 
 "And I must not help you?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "And as to Mrs. Leigh, you are quite too tired to 
 see patients. You are not well. You wished to leave 
 it to me to explain, rather than to have to say ab- 
 ruptly in a note that you cannot come. And that 
 was so nice of you. But you will dine here with Alice 
 to-morrow?"
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 295 
 
 "Indeed, I will not." 
 
 "But I must tell Fred?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "Then good night. I hate yon, and I am so glad." 
 
 When I went to see Mrs. Vincent it was only with 
 a sense of my own difficulties, and a desire to find a 
 way out, but with no clear idea of how it was to be 
 done. The note had of a sudden set me face to face 
 with a grave fact in my life. I cared deeply for a 
 woman, and had never meant to do so again. At first 
 this self-knowledge humiliated me, and seemed disloyal 
 to an ideal I had loved and lost. I am sure that most 
 deep affection is of gradual growth. I am as sure that 
 the discovery of it as something victorious over mem- 
 ory, prejudices, resolutions is often sudden and sur- 
 prising. It was so to me. I recoiled from the prac- 
 tical issue of becoming this woman's physician, and in 
 the recoil, and in the swift self-examination which fol- 
 lowed, I knew that I loved her. 
 
 I walked away but half pleased with myself. It 
 was plain that I had not dealt fairly as to my friend, 
 or perhaps with him, and yet I had meant to do so. I 
 had had, as the Indians say, two hearts about it, or, 
 as we say, had been half-hearted. I laughed as I 
 thought that half a heart had been an organ incom- 
 petent to carry on the nutrition either of love or 
 friendship. 
 
 At last I reached my home, and sat down with a 
 counseling cigar to think it all over. Emotion had 
 clouded my mind. Now it became more or less clear 
 to me. St. Clair had seen through me as I had not 
 seen through myself. My cigar went out. I relighted 
 20
 
 296 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 it. It was rank to the taste. I threw it away. It 
 was like some other things in life. 
 
 As I rose to go to bed I turned over the letters on the 
 table. There was one from the citizens of Charleston ; 
 warm thanks for a great service Alice Leigh would 
 like that. Beneath it was one from Paris in St. Glair's 
 well-known and careless hand. I read it as I stood : 
 
 DEAR OWEN: Sorry to have missed you. I am busy here with 
 my new studio and the statue group for Cleveland. I want you 
 to pay the arrears due for rent in my old den in Blank street, 
 and have what is worth keeping stowed somewhere. My remem- 
 brances to the Leighs. I left Miss Leigh's rilievo in the front 
 room. Keep it. I am not sure that the eyes are quite correct. 
 The upper lids drop straight, or rather in a gentle curve, from 
 the brows; it gives a look of great purity to the upper part 
 of the face ; the peculiarity is quite rare, but is to be seen in 
 Luini's frescos. In fact, the type is medieval. The slight for- 
 ward droop of the neck is pretty, but not classically perfect as 
 to form. Also, the head of my charming model is rather large 
 for the shoulders, which are a trifle out of proportion to the 
 weight of the head. 
 
 Write me soon and often. I shall not answer, but I shall in- 
 tend to do so. Love to the Vincents and to the historic giant 
 from your friend, VICTOR. 
 
 For a moment I stood in thought with the letter in 
 my hand. Then I read it again with care. Had St. 
 Clair deliberately sacrificed himself to me ? Was his 
 devotion to Alice Leigh only the expression of his 
 adoration of an unusual type of human beauty? I 
 had before seen attacks of this passionate idolatry. 
 Had he become satisfied that marriage was a contract 
 he could not honestly enter upon ? That would have 
 been unlike the man. I was exceedingly perplexed.
 
 XXY. 
 
 HE next day I called on Clayborne, 
 but found him absent, and toward 
 noon wrote to Mrs. Vincent that I 
 hoped to find her alone that evening. 
 The enigma of last night was no 
 clearer in the morning. A hasty 
 note bade me feel sure that she would be at home 
 about ten, and of course she would take care that we 
 should not be interrupted. After that, and until I 
 could talk to Mrs. Vincent, I resolutely put my prob- 
 lem in a corner, and tried to forget it. But despite 
 my control it turned every now and then like a bad 
 child and made faces at me, so that I had an uneasy 
 and very restless day. 
 
 I found Mrs. Vincent alone, and quickly saw that 
 this gracious actress was on for a large role, but just 
 what was not clear to me. The room had a rather 
 unusual look. The easy-chairs were not in their 
 places. A crimson mass of velvet heavy with Eastern 
 phantasies of color hung in stately folds over the far 
 end of the grand piano. I knew it well as one of St. 
 Glair's wildest and most extravagant purchases, the 
 fruitful text of sad sermons by the friend whom the 
 naughty poet called Rev. Dr. Clayborne. St. Clair had 
 sent it to Mrs. Vincent the night he left a royal
 
 298 CHARACTEEISTICS. 
 
 gift. I glanced from it with a full heart to the ro?es 
 which were everywhere in bowls and tall vases, each, 
 v/ /as I well knew, sedulously arranged as the woman's 
 perfect sense of harmony in color dictated. She her- 
 self was dressed with unusual splendor, a style not 
 after her ordinary habit, which rather inclined to a 
 certain extravagance as to stuffs, and to great sim- 
 plicity in outline and forms. Also, she wore two or 
 three jewels, and these especially flashed a warning to 
 me as to there being some surprise in store. 
 
 As I entered, the house rang with the triumphant 
 notes of a love-song of Schumann. 
 
 "Ah, this is good of you," she cried, rising. "And 
 now that we shall have a nice talk, I am so happy. 
 Did you hear how my piano was rejoicing with me 1" 
 
 That was so like her, and I said as much. 
 
 "Yes," she went on, as I looked about me ; "we are 
 en fete to-night. And you look so grave, Owen." Once 
 in a great while she used my first name, being, despite 
 our extreme and long intimacy, little apt to be familiar 
 in certain ways. 
 
 "Yes," I said; "I am as you say, because I am 
 troubled." 
 
 As I spoke, Vincent entered. "Ah, North," he cried, 
 "how welcome you are!" and cast a glance of faint 
 amusement over the room and his wife's costume. 
 "I have been away since morning, or I should have 
 called. I met Clayborne on the steps." 
 
 The historian carried a book and a stiff bouquet, 
 which he deposited on the table. "Here," he said, 
 "are the essays, pretty obvious stuff, and some 
 flowers."
 
 CHARACTEEISTICS. 299 
 
 Mrs. Vincent thanked him profusely. "So good of 
 you," she said. " What lovely gardenias ! " And pres- 
 ently she set one in her belt, saying, "A thousand 
 thanks." 
 
 "Why not one?" laughed Vincent. "Why is that 
 noun only plural ? It ought to have a definite value 
 one thank. Then one could grade one's gratitude. 
 Why not thirty-seven, or half a thank on occasions ?" 
 
 " Quite true, quite true," said Clayborne. " The nouns 
 which are only plural must be rare. Hum " and he 
 fell into a reverie. 
 
 " How absurd you are, Fred," remarked his wife. 
 
 "Well, the surroundings account for that. Do you 
 entertain Haroun al Raschid to-night, Anne?" 
 
 "I entertain myself," she replied, and I detected 
 a little ocular telegraphy meant for Vincent alone. 
 Then Clayborne looked up. 
 
 "I can recall no other," he said. "And in French 
 it is the same, and in Arabic. I must look it up." 
 
 "Mrs. Leigh told me to-day that you had been to 
 see her," said Mrs. Vincent. 
 
 "Yes j we are old acquaintances. You know I was 
 Leigh's executor. That girl must have a pretty fort- 
 une. There has been a long minority. Why did not 
 you marry her to St. Clair?" 
 
 "I did my best," returned Mrs. Vincent, gaily. "And 
 there is the mama. Now what could be more fitting 
 for you?" 
 
 " I ! What ! Me ! " cried Clayborne. 
 
 "You might let me mention it to the widow." 
 
 "Heavens ! " he exclaimed, "I believe you are capa- 
 ble of that, or or of anything. Let us go and look
 
 300 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 at the dictionaries, Vincent. Mrs. Leigh ! Ye gods of 
 sorrow ! n 
 
 "WeD, think it over," cried Mrs. Vincent, delighted, 
 as the historian rose. 
 
 "I leave you to your patient, Mrs. Vincent," said her 
 husband. "Is the case a bad one?" 
 
 "Prognosis favorable," returned the wife, laughing 
 and striking a few gay notes on the piano. "Diagno- 
 sis certain. Am I professionally correct, Dr. North?" 
 
 "I never interfere with other folks's cases," I said, 
 and we were alone again. 
 
 "And now," she said, "what is it? And do look 
 happier. Fred says I am crazy to-day, and you would 
 not let me tell him. But what is wrong ? Surely " 
 
 "Oh, everything is wrong," I said. "I have been a 
 fool, and I have helped to break up St. Glair's life, and 
 I must talk about it to some one." 
 
 "Of course. And perhaps I can help you. Only 
 women know women." 
 
 "It is not the woman, it is the man, that troubles 
 me. To have won a possible happiness at the cost of 
 a friend, I I" 
 
 "But perhaps the happiness is not possible," she 
 answered. 
 
 " That were no better. I should be doubly punished. 
 Do you think he loved her?" 
 
 "I do not know. St. Glair is seemingly so trans- 
 parent, and then of a sudden you become aware that 
 they are only surface reflections that reach you. There 
 are curious depths in that man's nature. Presently, as 
 Fred says, one is off soundings. I understand you, I 
 think, and I am sorry for you. And now what is it ?*
 
 CHAKACTERISTICS. 301 
 
 "Read this letter," I said. 
 
 As she read I saw a faint smile of pleased surprise 
 gather upon her face. She re-read it. Then slowly 
 she folded it up, gave it back to me, and took a per- 
 fect white rosebud from the jar near by, and put it on 
 the table beside me. I took it up mechanically. 
 
 "It is sweet," she said, "and pure, and there is no 
 canker at the core. The rose is my dear Alice, and 
 you may take her if you can, and without a pang." 
 
 I was accustomed to these little dramas, but this 
 was too much for me. 
 
 "What do you mean?" I asked. 
 
 "And you read that letter?" 
 
 "I did." 
 
 "Well," she said, "I never was more fully persuaded 
 as to the depth of folly, of incapacity, one may find in 
 a man." 
 
 "You are enigmatical." 
 
 "Am I indeed ? May I show that letter to Alice r 
 
 "What ! You must indeed think me a fool." 
 
 "I shall not answer you according to your folly. 
 And people say you are a student of character and 
 see through women ! It is past belief ; but trust a 
 woman's insight for once. Ah, certainly I am at home. 
 Show Miss Leigh up. Here comes the answer to my 
 enigma." 
 
 " O Mrs. Vincent ! This is one of your little" 
 
 "Hush ! Is n't this joyous?" And she struck the 
 keys again until the glad notes of the love-song rang 
 through my brain. 
 
 "My dear Alice, how good of you to come!" she 
 cried. "You must have left your dinner-party early.
 
 302 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 Why, it is only ten. Dr. North has just chanced in, 
 and now we shall have a quiet talk. You have not 
 seen Dr. North since he came back. My room is en 
 fete to welcome him." 
 
 "When you give me a chance I shall tell him how 
 glad all his friends are to see him safe back again." 
 Her words were quite formally spoken. 
 
 "It was worth the price, such as it was," I said, "to 
 come home and find one has been thought about." 
 Her formality affected me, and I struck automatically 
 the same note in reply. 
 
 "And now tell us about it," said Mrs. Vincent. 
 "You were detained by Dr. Roy's illness?" 
 
 "Yes; I had to be nurse and physician." 
 
 "Well, I want to hear it all everything; but par- 
 don me a moment, and talk of something else. I must 
 answer Susan Primrose and two invitations for Fred." 
 
 Upon which she retired to a desk in the corner, and 
 we fell into talk. At last I said, "I did not keep my 
 engagement. To-day month, I said when we parted, 
 and now it is " 
 
 "Nearly two," she replied. 
 
 "Oh, quite two," ejaculated our lady manager from 
 the corner, rising with notes in her hand. "Excuse 
 me, I so want to hear that I cannot write ; I have 
 made two horrid blunders, and I must ask Fred if he 
 will dine with the Carltons. I shall be back in ten 
 minutes," and she was gone. Then I began to under- 
 stand the drama, and was instantly on guard. At 
 the door she turned back. "Do make that man smile 
 a little, Alice. I found him too stupid for belief. I 
 turn him over to you. Half an hour have I spent in
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 303 
 
 trying to make him understand just the simplest thing 
 conceivable. You may be more fortunate, or well, 
 more clever." And she was gone. I could have 
 pinched her. 
 
 "And the problem, Dr. North?" said Miss Leigh. 
 
 "It was purely personal." 
 
 "And troublesome ? Mrs. Vincent has left me heir 
 to the talk I interrupted." 
 
 "Yes, very troublesome." 
 
 "I am sorry, and you look so tired. I can under- 
 stand that one might suffer long in mind and body 
 after what you have been through. Seriously, I do not 
 suppose Anne Vincent would have spoken so lightly 
 about anything that I might not talk of. You once 
 said that we were friends. Perhaps you do not know 
 by this time that I take life gravely, even its friend- 
 ships. Can I help you as a friend?" 
 
 "No," I said, grimly. 
 
 "Then pardon me. I did not mean to be indiscreet, 
 or or " 
 
 "You are not. You are only and always kind. 
 But Mrs. Vincent is sometimes carried away by her 
 moods." 
 
 "And you think we should always be responsible 
 for our moods? I wish I were. It is so pleasant to 
 coddle them, and I do try not to." Then her eyes 
 fell on the crimson and gold embroidery. "Have you 
 heard from Mr. St. Clair? He is very apropos of 
 moods, is n't he ? " 
 
 " Yes ; I had a letter to-day. He is in Paris." 
 
 " I wish I had his sense of irresponsibility," she re- 
 turned. " It must be so nice to have a heart and no
 
 304 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 conscience. You must miss him, or you will, I am 
 sure. Every one must." 
 
 "Yes, I shall I am fond of him." 
 
 "Anne says he will return in the autumn." 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "Do you think he knows?" 
 
 "Who can say?" 
 
 "I have been wanting so much to see you to talk 
 again of my plans. Do you not think " 
 
 "I don't think," I said. "I prefer not to discuss 
 the matter. Ask some one else. I am useless." 
 
 "How short you are with me. Don't you know 
 friends are for use?" 
 
 "I suppose so. Mine fail me at times." 
 
 "Now, do you mean?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Well, I must turn you over to Anne Vincent. I 
 don't wonder she considers you difficult." 
 
 "You are certainly the last person to whom I 
 should go." The situation was fast getting out of 
 my control. 
 
 "That is the worst of friendships between men and 
 women. Mama says they are impossible. There are 
 so many limitations. I wish some one would write a 
 book about friendships. There are so many about 
 about other things," 
 
 "Your mama is quite right," I said. "Friends 
 should be kept in their right places, and that is not 
 always easy. They take liberties. They suppose I 
 were to ask you an impertinent question?" 
 
 "I don't like the word the adjective." 
 
 "Well, un-pertinent."
 
 CHAEACTEEISTICS. 305 
 
 "That is better. I should try to answer it." But 
 she glanced uneasily at the door. 
 
 "Do you care for Mr. St. Clair?" 
 
 "Care?" 
 
 "No. Love him?" 
 
 "That is a question you have no right to ask." 
 
 "I am his friend." 
 
 "Then his friend is unwise, and permit me to 
 say" 
 
 "Stop," I said. "Do not hurt me more than you 
 must. What I ask profoundly concerns my life, 
 my" 
 
 "I would rather you said no more. I beg of you to 
 say no more." 
 
 "I cannot pause here. I must speak. If you love 
 him, I have been false to him. I have misunderstood. 
 I have trodden roughly on sacred ground. What I 
 thought it right to say to him I said without seeing 
 where I stood." 
 
 "But now," she said, "I must understand all this. 
 I confess I do not. You ask me if I love Mr. St. Clair, 
 your friend." 
 
 "That was what I said." 
 
 "And it was more, so much more, than you ought 
 to have said. But now I will answer you. I do not 
 think many women would I will. I do not. You 
 have gone to the limit of friendship, and perhaps be- 
 yond. And now please to ask Mrs. Vincent to come ; 
 I must go away. I had only a few minutes." 
 
 All this was said with unusual rapidity of speech, 
 and she rose as she spoke. 
 
 "One moment," I said.
 
 306 CHARACTERISTICS. 
 
 "Not one," she said with a nervous laugh, taking up 
 the bud I had left on the table and plucking it to 
 pieces leaf by leaf. "Oh, not a minute," she repeated. 
 "Please ring." 
 
 "Alice Leigh," I said, and, speaking, caught her 
 wrist, and felt as I did so the slight start of troubled 
 maidenhood, "let the poor rose alone. Try to think 
 it is my life you are busy with. What will you do 
 with it with me?" 
 
 As I spoke, she regarded me a moment with large 
 eyes, and then sat down as if suddenly weak, her fan 
 falling on the floor. Some strong emotion was troub- 
 ling the pure lines of her face. What was it ? Pity 
 or love ? Then, looking down, she said, as if to her- 
 self, "And is this the end?" 
 
 "Of what?" I said, faintly. 
 
 " Of me, of my life, of it. Why did you speak ? 
 Am I wrong ? Am I right ? Why were you so cruel 
 as to speak to speak now? You might have seen; 
 you might have known. I have duties before me ; I 
 have a life. I I am not fit for for anything else. 
 I mean to be. Oh, I wish I were not a woman. Then, 
 
 en I should know how to do what is best, what is 
 right." And upon this, to my bewilderment, she burst 
 into tears and sobbed like a child. 
 
 "Alice," I said, "I love you." 
 
 "I know, I know," she cried. " And the worst of it 
 is I I O Owen North, be very good to me. I 
 meant to have done so much." 
 
 "Are you sorry?" 
 
 " Yes. No ; a thousand times no." 
 
 " Oh, here is Anne Vincent."
 
 CHARACTERISTICS. 307 
 
 " My dear child," said that matron, " your fan is in 
 a dozen bits." 
 
 "And so is everything else, Anne Vincent every- 
 thing. Let me go." 
 
 And she ran out of the room, and left me to tell the 
 end of this story to my friend and hers. 
 
 THE END.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 
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