w ^* "^^ "^^^ ^^ ^M*"* ^*" "^*" ""•* "^^* ^^ fc '"** r "^^ ^■ r '^•" * r
 
 ■ 
 
 k
 
 LITT 
 
 I. To 
 
 LE 
 
 THE 
 
 JOURNEYS 
 
 Homes of Good Men 
 
 and Great 
 
 
 
 II. To 
 
 THE 
 
 Homes of American 
 
 Authors. 
 
 
 
 III. To 
 
 THE 
 
 Homes of Famous 
 
 Women. 
 
 
 
 IV. To 
 
 THE 
 
 Homes ok American 
 
 Statesmen. 
 
 
 
 V. To 
 
 THE 
 
 Homes of Eminent 
 
 Painters. 
 
 
 
 G. P. 
 
 PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 NEW YORK AND LONDON
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
 
 Copyright, 1897 
 
 BY 
 
 G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS 
 
 Vbc Knickerbocker pre**, new £«fk
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 
 1 
 
 PAGB 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING 1 
 
 2 
 
 MADAME GUYON 
 
 . . . 41 
 
 3 
 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU 
 
 . . . 79 
 
 4 
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE 
 
 . . 115 
 
 5 
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 
 
 . . 145 
 
 6 
 
 ROSA BONHEUR . . 
 
 . . 173 
 
 7 
 
 MADAME DE STAEL . 
 
 . . 213 
 
 8 
 
 
 . . 251 
 
 9 
 
 MARY LAMB . . . 
 
 . . . 289 
 
 10 
 
 JANE AUSTEN . . . 
 
 . . 323 
 
 11 
 
 EMPRESS JOSEPHINE 
 
 . . 355 
 
 12 
 
 MARY W. SHELLEY . . 
 
 . . 393
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 PAGB 
 
 PORTRAIT OF ELIZABETH BARRETT 
 
 BROWNING .... Frontispiece 
 From a steel engraving. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF MADAME GUYON . . 4* 
 
 From a steel engraving designed by Cheron 
 Pinae. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF HARRIET MARTINEAU 80 
 
 From an engraving designed by Miss M. 
 Gillies. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF CHARLOTTE BRONTE at 
 
 From an engraving designed by J. B. 
 Wandesforde. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF CHRISTINA ROSSETTI 146 
 
 From a drawing by her brother Dante 
 Gabriel Rossetti. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF ROSA BONHEUR . . '74 
 
 From the drawing by Soulange Ceissier. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF MADAME DE STAEL . "4 
 
 From an engraving designed by Gerard. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF ELIZABETH FRY . . 252 
 
 From a steel engraving from a painting by 
 C. K. Leslie, R.A. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF MARY LAMB . . 290 
 
 From an old engraving. 
 
 FACSIMILE LETTER OF MARY LAMB 298
 
 11 [lustrations 
 
 PACE 
 
 PORTRAITS OF CHARLES AND MARY 
 LAMB 306 
 
 From a rare print. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF JANE AUSTEN . . 3-4 
 
 From a steel engraving based on an original 
 family portrait. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF EMPRESS JOSEPHINE 356 
 
 Photographed from an original painting. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF MARY W. SHELLEY . 394 
 
 From an engraving.
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT 
 BROWNING
 
 I have been in the meadows all the day, 
 And gathered there the nosegay that you see ; 
 Singing within myself as bird or bee 
 When such do field-work on a morn of May. 
 
 hreparableness.
 
 FOREWORD 
 
 In every life where spirit and intellect 
 truly blossom there are a few persons and 
 a few events that stand out like fixed 
 stars. Of these I have endeavored to 
 speak. I have also tried to give a glimpse 
 (that was mine) of the environment that 
 played its part in the Evolution of a 
 Soul. 
 
 No attempt has been made to tell all 
 about the subject — there is more can be 
 said ! 
 
 E. H.
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT 
 BROWNING. 
 
 WRITERS of biography usually 
 begin their preachments with 
 the rather startling statement, 
 " The subject of this memoir was born " 
 . . . Here follows a date, name of 
 place and a cheerful little Mrs. Gamp 
 anecdote : this as preliminary to "launch- 
 ing forth," 
 
 It was the merry Andrew Lang, I be- 
 lieve, who filed a general protest against 
 these machine-made biographies, plead- 
 ing that it was perfectly safe to assume 
 the man was born ; and as for the time 
 and place it mattered little. But the 
 5
 
 £H3abetb JBarrett JBrowntng 
 
 merry man was wrong, for Time and Place 
 are often masters of Fate. 
 
 For myself I rather like the good old- 
 fashioned way of beginning at the be- 
 ginning. But I will not tell where aud 
 when Elizabeth Barrett was born, for 
 I do not know. And I am quite sure 
 that her husband did not know. The en- 
 cyclopaedias waver between London and 
 Herefordshire, just according as the 
 writers felt in their hearts that genius 
 should be produced in town or country. 
 One man with opinions well ossified on 
 this subject, having been challenged for 
 his statement that Mrs. Browning was 
 born at Hope End, rushed into print in a 
 letter to the Gazette with the counter- 
 check quarrelsome to the effect, "You 
 might as well expect throstles to build 
 nests on Fleet Street 'buses, as for folks 
 of genius to be born in a big city." As 
 apology for the man's ardor I will explain 
 that he was a believer in the Religion of 
 the East and held that spirits choose their 
 own time and place for materialization. 
 6
 
 jeit3abetb Barrett JBrownfiw 
 
 Mrs. Ritchie, authorized by Mr. Brown- 
 ing, declared Burn Hill, Durham, the 
 place, and March 6, 1809, the time. In 
 replv, Mr. John H. Ingram brings forth 
 a copy of the Tyne Mercury, for March 
 14, 1809, and points to this : 
 
 " In London, the wife of Edward M. 
 Barrett, of a daughter." 
 
 Mr. Browning then comes forward with 
 a fact that derricks cannot budge, i. e., 
 "Newspapers have ever had small regard 
 for truth." Then he adds, " My wife was 
 born March 6, 1806, at Carlton Hall, 
 Durham, the residence of her father's 
 brother." One might ha' thought that 
 would be the end on 't, but it was n't, for 
 Mr. Ingram came out with this sharp 
 rejoinder : " Carlton Hall was not in 
 Durham but in Yorkshire. And I am 
 authoritatively informed it did not be- 
 come the residence of Mr. S. Moultou 
 Barrett until some time after 1810. Mr. 
 Browning's latest suggestions in this mat- 
 ter cannot be accepted. In 1806, Mr. 
 Edward Barrett, not yet twenty years of 
 7
 
 £U3abetb JBarrett JSrowning 
 
 age, is scarcely likely to have already been 
 the father of the two children assigned 
 him." 
 
 And there the matter rests. Having 
 told this much I shall proceed to launch 
 forth. 
 
 The early years of Elizabeth Barrett's 
 life were spent at Hope End, near Led- 
 bury, Herefordshire. I visited the place 
 and thereby added not only one day, but 
 several to my life, for Ali counts not the 
 days spent in the chase. There is a de- 
 scription of Hope End written by an emi- 
 nent clergyman, to whom I was at once 
 attracted by his literary style. This gen- 
 tleman's diction contains so much clear- 
 ness, force, and elegance that I cannot 
 resist quoting him verbatim : " The resi- 
 dentiary buildings lie on the ascent of 
 the contiguous eminences, whose pro- 
 jecting parts and bending declivitives, 
 modelled by nature, display astonishing 
 harmoniousness. It contains an elegant 
 profusion of wood, disposed in the most 
 careless yet pleasing order ; much of the 
 S
 
 JElt3abetb .iBarrett JBrownmg 
 
 park and its scenery is in view of the 
 residence, from which vantage point it 
 presents a most agreeable appearance to 
 the enraptured beholder." So there you 
 have it ! 
 
 Here Elizabeth Barrett lived until she 
 was twenty. She never had a childhood 
 — 't was dropped out of her life in some 
 way, and a Greek grammar inlaid instead. 
 Of her mother we know little. She is 
 never quoted ; never referred to ; her 
 wishes were so whisperingly expressed 
 that they have not reached us. She 
 glides a pale shadow across the diary 
 pages. Her husband's will was to her 
 supreme ; his whim her conscience. We 
 know that she was sad, often ill, that 
 she bore eight children. She passed out 
 seemingly unwept, unhonored, and un- 
 sung, after a married existence of sixteen 
 years. 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett had the same number 
 
 of brothers and sisters that Shakespeare 
 
 had ; and we know no more of the seven 
 
 Barretts who were swallowed by oblivion 
 
 9
 
 3Eli3abetb .tBarrett Browning 
 
 than we do of the seven Shakespeares 
 that went not astray. 
 
 Edward Moulton Barrett had a sort of 
 fierce, passionate, jealous affection for his 
 daughter Elizabeth. He set himself the 
 task of educating her from her very baby- 
 hood. He was her constant companion, 
 her tutor, adviser, friend. When six 
 years old she studied Greek, and when 
 nine made translations in verse. Mr. 
 Barrett looked on this sort of thing with 
 much favor, and tightened his discipline, 
 reducing the little girl's hours for study to 
 a system as severe as the laws of Draco. 
 Of course the child's health broke. From 
 her thirteenth year she appears to us like 
 a beautiful spirit with an astral form ; or 
 she would, did we not perceive that this 
 beautiful form is being racked with pain. 
 No wonder some one has asked, " Where 
 then was the Society for the Preven- 
 tion of Cruelty to Children ? " 
 
 But this brave spirit did not much com- 
 plain. She had a will as strong as her 
 father's, and felt a Spartan pride in 
 10
 
 £li3abetb JSarrctt drowning 
 
 doing all that he asked and a little more. 
 She studied, wrote, translated, read, and 
 thought. And to spur her on and to 
 stimulate her, Mr. Barrett published 
 several volumes of her work — immature, 
 pedantic work — but still it had a certain 
 glow and gave promise of the things yet 
 to come. 
 
 One marked event in the life of Eliza- 
 beth Barrett occurred when Hugh Stuart 
 Boyd arrived at Hope End. He was a 
 fine sensitive soul ; a poet by nature and 
 a Greek scholar of repute. He came on 
 Mr. Barrett's invitation to take Mr. Bar- 
 rett's place as tutor. The young girl was 
 confined to her bed through the advice of 
 physicians ; Boyd was blind. 
 
 Here was at once a bond of sympathy. 
 No doubt this break in the monotony of 
 her life gave fresh courage to the fair 
 young woman. The gentle sightless poet 
 relaxed the severe hours of study. In- 
 stead of grim digging in musty tomes they 
 talked : he sat by her bedside holding 
 the thin hands (for the blind see by the 
 11
 
 Blfjabetb JBarrett Browning 
 
 sense of touch) and they talked for hours 
 —or were silent, which served as well. 
 Then she would read to the blind man 
 and he would recite to her, for he had 
 blind Homer's memory. She grew bet- 
 ter, and the doctors said that if she 
 had taken her medicine regularly and 
 not insisted on getting up and walking 
 about as guide for the blind man she 
 might have gotten entirely well. 
 
 In that fine poem Wine of Cypress, ad- 
 dressed to Boyd, we see how she acknowl- 
 edges his goodness. There is no wine 
 equal to the wine of friendship ; and love 
 is only friendship — plus something else. 
 There is nothing so hygienic as friend- 
 ship. 
 
 Hell is a separation, and Heaven is only 
 a going home to our friends. 
 
 Mr. Barrett's fortune was invested in 
 sugar plantations in Jamaica. Through 
 the emancipation of the blacks his for- 
 tune took to itself wings. He had to 
 give up his splendid country home — to 
 break old ties. It was decided that the 
 
 12
 
 Bltsabetb JSarrett ^Browning 
 
 family should move to London. Eliza- 
 beth had again taken to her bed. Four 
 men bore the mattress on which she lay 
 down the steps ; one man might have 
 carried her alone, for she weighed only 
 eighty-five pounds, so they say. 
 
 13
 
 Ii. 
 
 CRABB ROBINSON, who knew 
 everything and everybody, being 
 very much such a man as John 
 Kenyon, has left on record the fact that 
 Mr. Kenyon had a face like a Benedictine 
 monk, a wit that never lagged, a gener- 
 ous heart, and a tongue that ran like an 
 Alpine cascade. 
 
 A razor with which you cannot shave 
 may have better metal in it than one with 
 a perfect edge. One has been sharpened 
 and the other not. And I am very sure 
 that the men who write best do not 
 necessarily know the most ; fate has put 
 an edge on them — that 's all. A good 
 kick may start a stone rolling, when 
 otherwise it rests on the mountain side 
 for a generation. 
 
 Kenyon was one type of the men 
 14
 
 £Ii3abctb 3Barrctt JSrownfmi 
 
 who rest on the mountain side. He 
 dabbled in poetry, wrote book reviews, 
 collected rare editions, attended first 
 nights, spoke mysteriously of " stuff" he 
 was workiug on ; and sometimes confi- 
 dentially told his lady friends of his in- 
 tention to bring it out when he had gotten 
 it into shape, asking their advice as to 
 bindings, etc. 
 
 This kind of men rarely bring out their 
 stuff, for the reason that they never get 
 it into shape. When they refer to the 
 novel they have on the stocks they refer 
 to a novel they intend to write. It is yet 
 in the ink bottle. And there it remains — 
 all for the want of one good kick — but 
 perhaps it 's just as well. 
 
 Yet these friendly beings are very use- 
 ful members of society. They are brighter 
 companions and better talkers than the 
 men who exhaust themselves in creative 
 work and favor their friends at odd times, 
 with choice samples of literary irritability. 
 John Kenyou wrote a few bright little 
 things but his best work was in the en- 
 15
 
 BUsabetb JBarrett drowning 
 
 couragemeut lie gave to others. He 
 sought out all literary lious and tamed 
 them with his steady glance. They liked 
 his prattle and good cheer and he liked 
 them for many reasons. One of which 
 was because he could go away and tell 
 how he advised them about this, that, and 
 the other. Then he fed them too. 
 
 And so unrivalled was Kenyon in this 
 line that he won for himself the title of 
 The Feeder of Lions. Now John Kenyon, 
 rich, idle, bookish, and generous, saw in 
 the magazines certain fine little poems 
 by one Elizabeth Barrett. He also ascer- 
 tained that she had published several 
 books. Mr. Kenyon bought one of these 
 volumes and sent it by a messenger with 
 a little note to Miss Barrett telling how 
 much he had enjoyed it, and craved that 
 she would inscribe her name and his on 
 the fly-leaf and return by bearer. Of 
 course she complied with such a modest 
 request so gracefully expressed ; these 
 things are balm to poets' souls. Next, 
 Mr. Kenyon called to thank Miss Barrett 
 ro
 
 Elt3abctb JBarrett JBrowntng 
 
 for the autograph. Soon after he wrote 
 to inform her of a startling fact that he 
 had just discovered : they were kinsmen, 
 cousins or something — a little removed, 
 but cousins still. In a few weeks they 
 wrote letters back and forth beginning 
 thus : Dear Cousin. 
 
 And I am glad of this cousinly arrange- 
 ment between lonely young people. 
 They grasp at it ; and it gives an excuse 
 for a bit of closer relationship than could 
 otherwise exist with propriety. Goodness 
 me! is he not my cousin? of course he 
 may call as often as he chooses. It is his 
 right. 
 
 But let me explain here that at this 
 time Mr. Kenyon was not so very young 
 — that is he was not absurdly young : he 
 was fifty. But men who really love 
 books always have young hearts. Ken- 
 you's father left him a fortune, no troubles 
 had ever come his way and his was not 
 the temperament that searches them out. 
 He dressed young, looked young, acted 
 young, felt young. 
 
 17
 
 Bli^abctb .ISarrctt JSrownin^ 
 
 No doubt John Kenyon siucerely ad- 
 mired Elizabeth Barrett, and prized her 
 work. And while she read his mind a 
 deal more understandingly than he did 
 her poems, she was grateful for his kindly 
 attention and well-meant praise. He set 
 about to get her poems into better maga- 
 zines and find better publishers for her 
 work. He was not a gifted poet himself, 
 but to dance attendance on one afforded 
 a gratification to his artistic impulse. 
 He could not write sublime verse himself 
 but he could tell others how. So Miss 
 Barrett showed her poems to Mr. Kenyon 
 and Mr. Kenyon advised that the P's be 
 made bolder and the tails to the Q's be 
 lengthened. He also bought her a new 
 kind of MS. paper over which a quill pen 
 would glide with glee ; it was the kind 
 Byron used. But best of all Mr. Kenyon 
 brought his friends to call on Miss Bar- 
 rett ; and many of these friends were men 
 with good literary instincts. The meet- 
 ing with these strong minds was no doubt 
 a great help to the little lady, shut up
 
 Blisabetb .tSartctt .tSrowmmi 
 
 in a big house and living largely in 
 dreams. 
 
 Mary Russell Mitford was in London 
 about this time on a little visit and of 
 course was sought out by John Kenyon, 
 who took her sight-seeing. She was fifty 
 years old too ; she spoke of herself as an 
 old maid but did n't allow others to. 
 Friends always spoke of her as " Little 
 Miss Mitford," not because she was little 
 but because she acted so. Among other 
 beautiful sights Mr. Kenyon wished to 
 show gushing little Mary Mitford was a 
 Miss Barrett who wrote things. So to- 
 gether the} 7 called on Miss Barrett. 
 
 Little Miss Mitford looked at the pale 
 face in its frame of dark curls, lying back 
 among the pillows. Little Miss Mitford 
 bowed and said it was a fine day ; then 
 she went right over and kissed Miss Bar- 
 rett, and these two women held each 
 other's hands and talked until Mr. Ken- 
 yon twisted nervously and hinted that it 
 was time to go. 
 
 Miss Barrett had not been out for two 
 19
 
 £li3abctb 3Barrett JBrowning 
 
 months, but now these two insisted that 
 she should go with them. The carriage 
 was at the door, they would support her 
 very tenderly, Mr. Kenyon himself would 
 drive — so there could be no accidents and 
 they would bring her back the moment 
 she was tired. So they went, did these 
 three, and as Mr. Kenyon himself drove 
 there were no accidents. 
 
 I can imagine that James the coachman 
 gave up the reins that day with only an 
 inward protest, and after looking down 
 and smiling reassurance Mr. Kenyon 
 drove slowly towards the Park ; Little 
 Miss Mitford forgot her promise not to 
 talk incessantly ; and the *' dainty white 
 porcelain lady " brushed back the raven 
 curls from time to time and nodded indul- 
 gently. 
 
 Not long ago I called at Number 74 
 Gloucester Place, where the Barretts lived. 
 It is a plain, solid brick Louse, built just 
 like the ten thousand other brick houses 
 in London where well-to-do tradesmen 
 live. The people who now occupy the 
 20
 
 Elijabetb JBarrett ;J6rowntncj 
 
 house never beard of the Barretts and 
 surely do not belong to a Browning Club. 
 I was told tbat if I wanted to know any- 
 thing about the place I should apply to 
 the " Agent " whose name is 'Opkins 
 and whose office is in Clifford Court, off 
 Fleet Street. The house probably has 
 not changed in any degree in these fifty 
 years, since little Miss Mitford on one 
 side and Mr. Kenyon on the other, ten- 
 derly helped Miss Barrett down the steps 
 and into the carriage. 
 
 I lingered about Gloucester Place for 
 an hour, but finding that I was beiug fur- 
 tively shadowed by various servants, and 
 discovering further that a policeman had 
 been summoned to look after my case, I 
 moved on. 
 
 That night after the ride Miss Mitford 
 wrote a letter home and among other 
 things she said : " I called to-day at a 
 Mr. Barrett's. The eldest daughter is 
 about twenty-five. She has some spinal 
 affection, but she is a charming, sweet 
 young woman who reads Greek as I do 
 
 21
 
 J6li3abetb 36arrctt JSrownlng 
 
 French. She has published some trans- 
 lations from ^Eschylus and some striking 
 poems. She is a delightful creature, shy, 
 timid, and modest." 
 
 The next day Mr. Kenyon gave a little 
 dinner in honor of Miss Mitford, who was 
 the author of a great book called Our 
 Village. That night when Miss Mitford 
 wrote her usual letter to the folks down 
 in the country, telling how she was get- 
 ting along, she described this dinner 
 party. She says: "Wordsworth was 
 there — an adorable old man. Then there 
 was Walter Savage Landor too, as splen- 
 did a person as Mr. Kenyon himself, but 
 not so full of sweetness and sympathy. 
 But best of all, the charming Miss Barrett, 
 who translated the most difficult of the 
 Greek plays — Prometheus Bound. She 
 has written most exquisite poems, too, in 
 almost every modern style. She is so 
 sweet, and gentle, and so pretty that one 
 looks at her as if she were some bright 
 flower." 
 
 Then in another letter Miss Mitford
 
 J£ti3abetb Barrett .iSrowntna 
 
 adds : " She is of a slight, delicate figure, 
 with a shower of dark curls falling on 
 either side of a most expressive face ; 
 large tender eyes, richly fringed by dark 
 lashes ; a smile like a sunbeam and such 
 a look of youthfulness that I had some 
 difficulty in persuading a friend that she 
 was really the translator of sEschylns 
 and the author of the Essay on Mind." 
 
 When Miss Mitford went back home 
 she wrote Miss Barrett a letter 'most every 
 day. She addresses her as ' ' My Sweet 
 Love," "My Dearest Sweet," and " My 
 Sweetest Dear." She declares her to be 
 the best, gentlest, strongest, sanest, no- 
 blest, and most spiritual of all living 
 persons. And moreover she wrote these 
 things to others and published them in 
 reviews. She gave Elizabeth Barrett 
 much good advice and some not so good. 
 Among other things she says : ' ' Your 
 one fault, my dear, is obscurity. You 
 must be simple and plain. Think of the 
 stupidest person of your acquaintance, 
 and when you have made your words so 
 23
 
 JEli^abctb Barrett JBrownins 
 
 clear that you are sure lie will under- 
 stand you may venture to hope it will be 
 understood by others." 
 
 I hardly think that this advice caused 
 Miss Barrett to bring her lines down to 
 the level of the stupidest person she knew. 
 She continued to write just as she chose. 
 Yet she was grateful for Miss Mitford's 
 glowing friendship, and all the pretty 
 gush was accepted, although perhaps 
 with good large pinches of the Syracuse 
 product. 
 
 Of course there are foolish people who 
 assume that gushing women are shallow, 
 but this is jumping at conclusions. A 
 recent novel gives us a picture of " a tall 
 soldier," who, in camp, was very full of 
 brag and bluster. We are quite sure that 
 when the fight comes on this man with 
 the lubricated tongue will prove an arrant 
 coward ; we assume he will run at the 
 first smell of smoke. But we are wrong 
 — he stuck ; and when the flag was car- 
 ried down in the rush, he rescued it and 
 bore it bravely so far to the front that 
 24
 
 Elisabeth .IGarrett jfBrownina 
 
 when he came back he brought another — 
 the tawdry red flag of the enemy ! 
 
 I slip this in here just to warn hasty 
 folk against the assumption that talkative 
 people are necessarily vacant-minded. 
 Man has a many-sided nature, and like 
 the moon, reveals only certain phases at 
 certain times. And as there is one side 
 of the moon that is never revealed at all 
 to dwellers on the planet Earth, so mor- 
 tals may unconsciously conceal certain 
 phases of soul-stuff from each other. 
 
 Miss Barrett seems to have written 
 more letters and longer ones to Miss Mit- 
 ford than to any of her other correspond- 
 ents, save one. Yet she was aware of this 
 rather indiscreet woman's limitations and 
 wrote down to her understanding. 
 
 To Richard H. Home she wrote freely 
 and at her intellectual best. With this 
 all 'round gifted man she kept up a cor- 
 respondence for many years ; and her let- 
 ters now published in two stout volumes 
 afford a literary history of the time. At 
 the risk of being accused of lack of taste, 
 25
 
 Elisabeth .Barrett Xrownfng 
 
 I wish to say that these letters of Miss 
 Barrett's are a deal more interesting to 
 me than any of her long poems. They 
 reveal the many-sided qualities of the 
 writer, and show the workings of her 
 mind in various moods. Poetry is such 
 an exacting form that it never allows the 
 author to appear in dressing-gown and 
 slippers ; neither can he call over the 
 back fence to his neighbor without loss 
 of dignity. 
 
 Home was author, editor, and pub- 
 lisher. His middle name was Henry, 
 but following that peculiar penchant of 
 the ink-stained fraternity to play flim- 
 flam with their names, he changed the 
 Henry to Hengist ; so we now see it writ 
 thus : R. Hengist Home. 
 
 He found a market for Miss Barrett's 
 wares. More properly he insisted that 
 she should write certain things to fit cer- 
 tain publications in which he was inter- 
 ested. They collaborated in writing 
 several books. They met very seldom, 
 and their correspondence has a fine 
 26
 
 Bli^abetb JSarrctt JBrowntng 
 
 friendly flavor about it, tempered with 
 a disinterestedness that is unique. They 
 encourage each other, criticise each 
 other. They rail at each other in witty 
 quips and quirks, and at times the air is 
 so full of gibes that it looks as if a quar- 
 rel were appearing on the horizon — no 
 bigger than a man's hand — but the storm 
 always passes in a gentle shower of re- 
 freshing compliments. 
 
 Meantime dodging in and out we see 
 the handsome, gracious, and kindly John 
 Kenyon. 
 
 Much of the time Miss Barrett lived in 
 a darkened room, seeing no one but her 
 nurse, the physician, and her father. 
 Fortune had smiled again on Edward 
 Barrett — a legacy had come his way, and 
 although he no longer owned the black 
 men in Jamaica, yet they were again 
 working for him. Sugar-cane mills 
 ground slow, but small. 
 
 The brilliant daughter had blossomed 
 in intellect until she was beyond her 
 teacher. She was so far ahead that he 
 27
 
 Blijabctb Barrett drowning 
 
 called to her to wait for him. He could 
 read Greek ; she coirid compose iu it. 
 But she preferred her native tongue as 
 every scholar should. Now, Mr. Barrett 
 was jealous of the fame of his daughter. 
 The passion of father for daughter, of 
 mother for son — there is often something 
 very lover-like in it— a deal of whimsy ! 
 Miss Barrett's darkened room had been 
 illumined by a light that the gruff and 
 goodly merchant wist not of. Loneliness 
 and solitude and physical pain and heart- 
 hunger had taught her things that no 
 book recorded nor tutor knew. Her 
 father could not follow her ; her allu- 
 sions were obscure, he said, wilfully ob- 
 scure ; she was growing perverse. 
 
 Love is a pain at times. To ease the 
 hurt the lover would hurt the beloved. 
 He badgers her, pinches her, provokes 
 her. One step more and he may kill 
 her. 
 
 Edward Barrett's daughter, she of 
 the raven curls and gentle ways, was 
 reaching a point where her father's love 
 38
 
 Blisabetb Barrett JSrowntng 
 
 was not her life. A good way to drive 
 love away is to be jealous. He had seen 
 it coming years before ; he brooded over 
 it ; the calamity was upon him. Her 
 fame was growing : someone called her 
 the Shakespeare of women. First her 
 books had been published at her father's 
 expense ; next, editors were willing to 
 run their own risks, and now messengers 
 with bank-notes waited at the door and 
 begged to exchange the bank-notes for 
 MS. John Kenyon said, "I told you so," 
 but Edward Barrett scowled. He accused 
 her foolishly ; he attempted to dictate to 
 her — she must use this ink or that. 
 Why? Because he said so. He quar- 
 relled with her to ease the love-hurt that 
 was smarting in his heart. 
 
 Poor little pale-faced poet ! earthly 
 success has nothing left for thee ! Thy 
 thoughts, too great for speech, fall on 
 dull ears. Even thy father, for whom 
 thou first took up pen doth not under- 
 stand thee, and a mother's love thou hast 
 never known. And fame without love — 
 29
 
 j£U3abctb JBarrctt drowning 
 
 how barren ! Heaven is thy home. Let 
 slip thy thin, white hands on the thread 
 of life and glide gently out at ebb of tide 
 — out into the unknown. It cannot but 
 be better than this — God understands ! 
 Compose thy troubled spirit, give up thy 
 vain hopes. See ! thy youth is past, 
 little woman ; look closely ! there are 
 grey hairs in thy locks, thy face is 
 marked with lines of care, and have I 
 not seen signs of winter in thy veins ? 
 Earth holds naught for thee. Come, 
 take thy pen and write, just a last good- 
 bye, a tender farewell, such as thou alone 
 canst say. Then fold thy thin hands, 
 and make peace with all by passing out 
 and away, out and away — God under- 
 stands ! 
 
 30
 
 III. 
 
 ELIZABETH BARRETT was thirty- 
 seven, and Miss Mitford, up to 
 London from the country for a 
 couple of days, wrote home that she had 
 lost her winsome beauty. 
 
 John Kenyon had turned well into 
 sixty, but he carried his years in a jaunty 
 way. He wore a moss-rose bud in the 
 lapel of his well-fitting coat. His linen 
 was immaculate, and the only change 
 people saw in him was that he wore 
 spectacles in place of a monocle. 
 
 The physicians allowed Mr. Kenyon to 
 visit the Darkened Room whenever he 
 chose, for he never stayed so very long, 
 neither was he ever the bearer of bad 
 news. 
 
 Did the greatest poetess of the age (tem- 
 porarily slightly iudisposed) know one 
 31
 
 £li3abetb ^Barrett JBrowntng 
 
 Browning — Robert Browning, a writer 
 of verse ? Why, no ; she had never met 
 him, but of course she knew of him, and 
 had read everything he had written. He 
 had sent her one of his books once. He 
 surely was a man of brilliant parts — so 
 strong and far-seeing ! He lives in Italy, 
 with the monks, they say. What a pity 
 that English people do not better appre- 
 ciate him ! 
 
 "But he may succeed yet," said Mr. 
 Kenyon. " He is not old." 
 
 " Oh, of course such genius must some 
 day be recognized. But he may be gone 
 then — how old did you say he was? " 
 
 Mr. Kenyon had not said ; but he now 
 explained that Mr. Browning was thirty- 
 four, that is to say, just the age of him- 
 self, ahem ! Furthermore, Mr. Browning 
 did not live in Italy — that is, not now, for 
 at that present moment he was in Lon- 
 don. In fact, Mr. Kenyon had lunched 
 with him an hour before. The}' had 
 talked of Miss Barrett (for who else was 
 there among women worth talking of!) 
 32
 
 Bli3abctb Barrett JBrownfng 
 
 and Mr. Browning had expressed a wish 
 to see her. Mr. Keuyou had expressed a 
 wish that Mr. Browning should see her, 
 and now if Miss Barrett would express 
 a wish that Mr. Browning should call and 
 see her, why, Mr. Kenyou would fetch 
 him — doctors or no doctors. 
 
 And he fetched him. 
 
 And I 'm glad, are n't you ? 
 
 Now Robert Browning was not at all 
 of the typical poet type. In stature he 
 was rather short ; his frame was compact 
 and muscular. In his youth he had been 
 a wrestler — carrying away laurels of a 
 different sort from those which he was 
 to wear later. His features were inclined 
 to be heavy ; in repose his face was dull 
 and there was no fire in his glance. He 
 wore loose-fitting plain grey clothes, a 
 slouch hat, and thick-soled shoes. At 
 first look you would have said he was a 
 well-fed, well-to-do country squire. On 
 closer acquaintance you would have been 
 impressed with his dignity, his perfect 
 poise, and fine reserve. And did you 
 33
 
 TEli&beih JBarrett JSrownfng 
 
 come to know him well enough you 
 would have seen that beneath that seem- 
 ingly phlegmatic outside there was a 
 spiritual nature so sensitive and tender 
 that it responded to all the finer thrills 
 that play across the souls of men. Yet 
 if there ever was a man who did not 
 wear his heart upon his sleeve for daws 
 to peck at, it was Robert Browning. He 
 was clean, wholesome, manly, healthy 
 inside and out. He was master of self. 
 
 Of course the gentle reader is sure that 
 the next act will show a tender love 
 scene. And were I dealing with the 
 lives of Peter Smith and Martha the 
 milkmaid, the gentle reader might be 
 right. 
 
 But the love of Robert Browning and 
 Elizabeth Barrett is an instance of the 
 Divine Passion. Take off thy shoes, for 
 the place whereon thou staudest is holy 
 ground ! This man and woman had got- 
 ten well beyond the first flush of youth ; 
 there was a joining of intellect and soul 
 which approaches the ideal. I cannot 
 34
 
 Elizabeth Barrett ttrowning 
 
 imagine anything so preposterous as a 
 "proposal" passing between them; I 
 cannot conceive a condition of hesitancy 
 and timidity leading up to a dam-burst- 
 ing "avowal." They met, looked into 
 each other's eyes, and each there read 
 his fate : no coyness, no affectation, no 
 fencing — they loved. Each at once felt 
 a heart-rest in the other. Each had at 
 last found the other self. 
 
 That exquisite series of poems, Sonnets 
 from the Portuguese, written by Eliza- 
 beth Barrett before her marriage and pre- 
 sented to her husband afterward, were 
 all told to him over and over by the look 
 from her eyes, the pressure of her hands, 
 and in gentle words (or silence) that 
 knew neither shame nor embarrassment. 
 
 And now it seems to me that some- 
 where in these pages I said that friend- 
 ship was essentially hygienic. I wish to 
 make that remark again, and to put it in 
 italics. The Divine Passion implies the 
 most exalted form of friendship that man 
 can imagine. 
 
 35
 
 Bli3abetb Barrett JSrownfng 
 
 Elizabeth Barrett ran up the shades 
 and flung open the shutters. The sun- 
 light came dancing through the apart- 
 ment, flooding each dark corner and 
 driving out all the shadows that lurked 
 therein. It was no longer a darkened 
 room. 
 
 The doctor was indiguant : the nurse 
 resigned. 
 
 Miss Mitford wrote back to the country 
 that Miss Barrett was "really looking 
 better than she had for years." 
 
 As for poor Edward Moulton Barrett 
 — he raved. He tried to quarrel with 
 Robert Browning, and had there been 
 only a callow youth with whom to deal 
 Browning would have simply been kicked 
 down the steps, and that would have been 
 an end of it. But Browning had an even 
 pulse, a calm eye, and a temper that was 
 imperturbable. His will was quite as 
 strong as Mr. Barrett's. 
 
 And so it was just a plain runaway 
 match — the ideal thing after all. One 
 day when the father was out of the way 
 36
 
 ;6lt3abetb JBarrett ^Browning 
 
 they took a cab to Marlybone Parish 
 Church and were married. The bride 
 went home alone, and it was a week be- 
 fore her husband saw her ; because he 
 would not be a hypocrite and go ask for 
 her by her maiden name. And had he 
 gone, rung the bell and asked to see 
 Elizabeth Barrett Browning no one would 
 have known whom he wanted. At the 
 end of the week the bride stole down the 
 steps alone, leading her dog Flush by a 
 string, and met her lover-husband on the 
 corner. Next day they wrote back from 
 Calais, asking forgiveness and craving 
 blessings after the good old custom of 
 Gretna Green. But Edward Moulton 
 Barrett did not forgive — still, who cares ! 
 
 Yet we do care, too, for we regret that 
 this man, so strong and manly in many 
 ways, could not be reconciled to this ex- 
 alted love. Old men who nurse wrath 
 are pitiable sights. Why could not Mr. 
 Barrett have followed the example of 
 John Kenyon ? 
 
 Kenyon commands both our sympathy 
 37
 
 J6lt3at>etb .tSarrett JBrowning 
 
 and admiration. When the news came 
 to him that Robert Browning and Eliza- 
 beth Barrett were gone, it is said that he 
 sobbed like a youth to whom has come a 
 great, strange sorrow. For months he 
 was not known to smile, yet after a year 
 he visited the happy home in Florence. 
 When John Kenyou died he left by his 
 will fifty thousand dollars "to my be- 
 loved and loving friends, Robert Brown- 
 ing and Elizabeth Barrett, his wife." 
 
 The old-time novelists always left their 
 couples at the church door. It was not 
 safe to follow further — they wished to 
 make a pleasant story. It seems meet to 
 take our leave of the bride and groom 
 at the church : life often ends there. 
 However, it sometimes is the place 
 where life really begins. It was so 
 with Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Brown- 
 ing — they had merely existed before ; 
 now they began to live. 
 
 Much, very much has been written con- 
 cerning this ideal mating, and of the life 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Browning in Italy. But 
 3S
 
 j£It3abctb JBarrett JBrownincj 
 
 why should I write of the things of which 
 George William Curtis, Kate Field, An- 
 thony Trollope, and James T. Fields have 
 written ? No, we will leave the happy 
 pair at the altar, in Marlybone Parish 
 Church, and while the organ peals the 
 wedding-march we will tiptoe softly out. 
 
 39
 
 MADAME GUYON 
 
 41
 
 To me remains nor place nor time j 
 My country is in every clime ; 
 I can be calm and free from care, 
 On any shore, since God is there. 
 
 While place we seek or place we shun. 
 The soul finds happiness in none ; 
 But with a God to guide our way, 
 'T is equal joy to go or stay. 
 
 Could I be cast where thou art not, 
 That were indeed a dreadful lot ; 
 But regions none remote I call , 
 Secure of finding God in all. 
 
 God is Everywhere.
 
 1 1 k a n x i ; m a u 1 1 : ih > r v i e r i ;s. ' 
 
 !| A;v^,,;./ 1 r,/^.«, rt . / ;..,,wn- 
 
 MADAME GUYON.
 
 MADAME GUYON. 
 
 JEANNE MARIE BOUVIER sat one 
 day writing at her little oaken desk, 
 when her father approached and, 
 kissing her very gently on the forehead, 
 told her that he had arranged for her 
 marriage, and that her future husband 
 was soon to arrive. Jeanne's fingers lost 
 their cunning, the pen dropped ; she 
 arose to her feet, but her tongue was 
 dumb. 
 
 Jeanne Marie was only sixteen, but 
 you would have thought her twenty, for 
 she was tall and dignified — she was as 
 tall as her father : she was five feet nine. 
 She had a splendid length of limb, hips 
 43
 
 /IfcaDame Ouson 
 
 that gave only a suggestion of curve line, 
 a slender waist, shapely, well-poised neck, 
 and a head that might have made a Juno 
 envious. The face and brow were not 
 those of Venus — rather they belonged 
 to Minerva ; for the nose was large, the 
 chin full, and the mouth no pea's blos- 
 som. Her hair was light brown, but 
 when the sun shone on it people said it 
 was red. It was as generous in quantity 
 and unruly in habit as the westerly wind. 
 Her eyes were all colors, changing ac- 
 cording to her mood. Withal, she had 
 freckles, and no one was ever so rash as 
 to call her pretty. 
 
 Jeanne's father had not kissed her for 
 two years, for he was a very busy man : 
 he had no time for soft demonstration. 
 He was rich, he was religious, and he 
 was looked upon as a model citizen in 
 every way. 
 
 The daughter had grown like a sun- 
 flower, and her intellect had unfolded 
 as a moss-rose turns from bud to blossom. 
 This splendid girl had thought and 
 44
 
 Aatame Gut?on 
 
 studied and dreamed dreams. She had 
 imagined she heard a voice speaking to 
 her : Arise, Maiden, and prepare thee, 
 for I have a work for thee to do ! 
 
 Her wish and her prayer was to enter 
 a convent, and after consecrating her- 
 self to God in a way that would allow 
 of no turning back, to go forth and give 
 to men and women the messages that 
 had come to her. And these things 
 filled the heart of the worthy bourgeois 
 with alarm ; so he said to his wife one 
 day, " That girl will be a foot taller than I 
 am in a year, and even now, when I give 
 her advice, she opens her big eyes and 
 looks at me in a way that thins my words 
 to whey. She will get us into trouble 
 yet ! she may disgrace us. I think — I 
 think I '11 find her a husband." 
 
 Yet that would not have been a diffi- 
 cult task. She was loved by a score of 
 youths, but had never spoken to any of 
 them. They stood at corners and sighed 
 as she walked by ; and others, with relig- 
 ious bent, timed her hours for mass and 
 45
 
 Aa&ame Guvon 
 
 took positions in church from whence 
 they could see her kneel. Others still 
 patrolled the narrow street that led to 
 her home, with hopes that she might 
 pass that way, so that they might touch 
 the hem of her garment. 
 
 These things were naught to Jeanne 
 Marie. She had never yet seen a man 
 for whose intellect she did not have both 
 a pity and a contempt. 
 
 But Claude Bouvier did not pick a 
 husband for his daughter from among 
 the simple youths of the town. He wrote 
 to a bachelor friend, Jacques Guyon by 
 name, and told him he could have the 
 girl if he wanted her— that is, after 
 certain little preliminaries had been 
 arranged. 
 
 Now this Jacques Guyon had been at 
 the Bouvier residence on a visit three 
 months before, and had looked the lass 
 over stealthily with peculiar interest, and 
 had intimated that if Monsieur Bouvier 
 wished to get rid of her it could be 
 brought about. So after some weeks 
 46
 
 .flfta&ame Gu^on 
 
 had passed, Monsieur bethought him of 
 the offer of Jacques Guyon, and he con- 
 cluded that inasmuch as Guyon was rich 
 and respectable it would be a good match. 
 
 So he wrote to Guyon, and Guyon 
 replied he would come, probably within 
 a fortnight— just as soon as his rheuma- 
 tism got better. 
 
 Claude Bouvier read the letter, and, 
 walking into the next room, surprised 
 Jeanne Marie by kissing her tenderly on 
 her forehead — all as herein truthfully 
 recorded. 
 
 47
 
 II. 
 
 SO Jacques Guyou caine, came in his 
 carriage with two servants riding 
 on horseback in front and another 
 riding on horseback behind. Jeanne 
 Marie sat on the floor, tailor fashion, up 
 in her little room of the old stone house 
 and peeked out of the diamond-paned 
 gable window very cautiously ; and she 
 was sorely disappointed. 
 
 In some of her dreams (and these 
 dreams she thought were very bad) she 
 had pictured a lover coming alone on a 
 foam-flecked charger ; and as the steed 
 paused the rider leaped lightly from 
 saddle to ground, kissing his hand to 
 her as she peeked through the curtains. 
 For he discovered her when she hoped 
 he would not, bat she did not care much 
 if he did. 
 
 48
 
 Aadame <3u£on 
 
 But Monsieur Guyon's eyes did not 
 search the windows. He got out of the 
 carriage with difficulty and his breath 
 came wheezy and short as he mounted 
 the steps. His complexion was dusty 
 blue, his nose tinged with carmine, his 
 eyes watery, and his girth aldermanic. 
 He was growing old, and saddest of all 
 he was growing old rebelliously and 
 therefore ungracefully — dyeing his whisk- 
 ers purple. 
 
 That evening when Jeanne Marie was 
 introduced to Monsieur Guyon at dinner 
 she found him very polite and very gra- 
 cious. His breeches were real black vel- 
 vet and his stockings were silk, and the 
 buckles on his shoes polished silver and 
 the frill of his shirt was finest lace. His 
 conversation was directed mostly to 
 Jeanne's father, so Jeanne did not feel 
 nearly so uncomfortable as she had 
 expected. 
 
 The next day a notary came and long 
 papers were written out, and red and 
 green seals placed on them, and then 
 49
 
 dfcafcame ©upon 
 
 everybody held up bis rigbt band as tbe 
 notary mumbled something, and tben 
 tbey all signed tbeir names. Tbe room 
 seemed to be teetering up and down, and 
 it looked quite like rain. Monsieur 
 Bouvier stood on bis tiptoes and again 
 kissed bis daughter on the forehead and 
 Monsieur Guyon, taking her hand, lifted 
 the long slender fingers to his lips, and 
 told her that she would soon be a great 
 lady and tbe mistress of a splendid 
 mansion and have everything that one 
 needed to make one bappy. 
 
 And so they were married by a bishop, 
 with two priests and three curates to 
 assist. Tbe ceremony was held at the 
 great stone church ; and as the proces- 
 sion came out, the verger had a hard time 
 to keep tbe crowd back, so that the 
 little girls in white could go before and 
 strew flowers in their pathway. The 
 organ pealed, and the chimes clanged 
 and rang as if tbe tune and the times 
 were out of joint ; then other bells from 
 other parts of the old town answered, 
 50
 
 Aa&ame Ougon 
 
 and across the valley rang mellow and 
 soft the chapel bell of Moutargis Castle. 
 
 Jeanne was seated in the carriage — how 
 she got there she never knew ; by her 
 side sat Jacques Guyon. The postboys 
 were lashing their horses into a savage 
 run, like devils running away with the 
 souls of innocents, and behind clattered 
 the mounted liveried servant. People 
 on the sidewalks waved good-byes and 
 called God-bless-yous. Soon the sleepy 
 old town was left behind and the horses 
 slowed down to a lazy trot. Jeanne 
 looked back, like Lot's wife : only a 
 church spire could be seen. She hoped 
 that she might be turned into a pillar of 
 salt — but she- was n't. She crouched into 
 the corner of the seat and cried a good 
 honest cry. 
 
 Jacques Guyon smiled and muttered 
 to himself : "Her father said she was a 
 bit stubborn, but I '11 see that she gets 
 over it! " 
 
 And this was over three hundred years 
 ago. It doesn't seem like it, but it was. 
 5i
 
 m. 
 
 READ the lives of great men and 
 you will come to the conclusion 
 that it is harder to find a gentle- 
 man than a genius. While the clock 
 ticks off the seconds, count, within five 
 minutes, on your fingers if you can five 
 such gentlemen as Sir Philip Sidney ! 
 Of course I know before you speak that 
 Fenelon will be first on your tongue. 
 Fenelon, the low-voiced, the mild, the 
 sympathetic, the courtly, the gracious ! 
 Fenelon, favored by the gods with beauty 
 and far-reaching intellect ! Fdnelon who 
 knew the gold of silence. Fenelon on 
 whose lips dwelt grace, and who by the 
 magic of his words had but to speak to 
 be believed and be beloved. 
 
 When L,ouis the I/ittle made that most 
 audacious blunder which cost France 
 52
 
 dfca&ame Ougon 
 
 millions in treasure and untold loss in 
 men and women, F£nelon wrote to the 
 Prime Minister: "These Huguenots 
 have many virtues that must be acknow- 
 ledged and conserved. We must hold 
 them by mildness. We cannot produce 
 conformity by force. Converts made in 
 this manner are hypocrites. No power 
 is great enough to bind the mind — 
 thought forever escapes. Give civil 
 liberty to all, not by approving all re- 
 ligions, but by permitting in patience 
 what God allows." 
 
 " You shall go as missionary to these 
 renegades ! " was the answer — half ironi- 
 cal, half earnest. 
 
 " I will go only on one condition." 
 
 "And that is?" 
 
 " That from my province you withdraw 
 all armed men — all sign of compulsion 
 of every sort ! " 
 
 F£nelon was of noble blood, but his 
 
 sympathies were ever with the people. 
 
 The lowly, the weak, the oppressed, the 
 
 persecuted— these were ever the object of 
 
 53
 
 jflfca&ame ©ugon 
 
 his solicitude — these were first in his 
 rnind. 
 
 It was in prison that Fenelon first met 
 Madame Guyon. Fenelon was thirty- 
 seven, she was forty. He occasionally 
 preached at Montargis, and while there 
 had heard of her goodness, her piety, her 
 fervor, her resignation. He had small 
 sympathy for many of her peculiar views, 
 but now she was sick and in prison and 
 he went to her and admonished her to 
 hold fast and be of good cheer. 
 
 Twelve years before this Madame Guyon 
 had been left a widow. She was the 
 mother of five children — two were dead. 
 The others were placed under the care of 
 kind kinsmen ; and Madame Guyon went 
 forth to give her days to study and teach- 
 ing. This action of placing her children 
 partially in the care of others has been 
 harshly criticised . But there is one phase 
 of the subject that I have never seen 
 commented upon — and that is that a 
 mother's love for her offspring bears a 
 certain ratio to the love she bore their 
 54
 
 /fca£>ame ffiugon 
 
 father. Had Madame Guyon ever carried 
 in her arms a love-child, I carm Dt conceive 
 of her allowing this child to be cared 
 for by others — no matter how competent. 
 The favor that had greeted Madame 
 Guyon wherever she went was very great. 
 Her animation and devout enthusiasm 
 won her entrance into the homes of the 
 great and noble everywhere. She organ- 
 ized societies of women that met for 
 prayer and conversation on exalted 
 themes. The burden of her philosophy 
 was " Quietism " — the absolute submis- 
 sion of the human soul to the will of 
 God. Give up all, la}- aside striving, all 
 reaching out, all unrest, cease penance 
 and lie low in the Lord's hand. He 
 doeth all things well. Make life one 
 continual prayer for holiness — wholeness 
 — harmony ; and thus all good will come 
 to us — we attract the good ; we attract 
 God — He is our friend — His spirit dwells 
 with us. She taught of power through 
 repose, and told that you can never gain 
 peace by striving for it like fury. 
 55
 
 dfcafcame ©ugon 
 
 This philosophy, stretcliing out in 
 limitless ramifications, bearing on every 
 phase and condition of life, touched every- 
 where with mysticism, afforded endless 
 opportunity for thought. 
 
 It is the same philosophy that is being 
 expressed by thousands of prominent 
 men and women to-day. It embraced all 
 that is vital and best in our so-called " ad- 
 vanced thought " ; for in good sooth none 
 of our new " liberal sects " have anything 
 that has not been taught before in olden 
 time. 
 
 But Madame Guyon's success was too 
 great. The guardians of a dogmatic 
 religion are ever on the scent for heresy. 
 They are jealous, and fearful, and full of 
 alarm lest their "institution" shall top- 
 ple. Quietism was making head, and 
 throughout France the name of Madame 
 Guyon was becoming known. She went 
 from town to town, and from city to city, 
 and gave courses of lectures. Women 
 flocked to hear her, they organized clubs. 
 Preachers sometimes appeared and argued 
 56
 
 Aabxme (Bugon 
 
 with her, but by the high fervor of her 
 speech she quickly silenced them. Theu 
 they took revenge by thundering ser- 
 mons against her after she had gone. 
 As she travelled she left in her wake a 
 pyrotechnic display of elocutionary de- 
 nunciation. They dared her to come 
 back and fight it out. The air was full of 
 challenges. One prelate was good enough 
 to say : " This woman may teach prim- 
 itive Christianity — but if people find God 
 everywhere, what 's to become of us ! " 
 
 And although the theme is as great as 
 Fate and as serious as Death, one cannot 
 suppress a smile to think how the fear 
 of losing their job has ever caused men 
 to run violently to and fro and up and 
 down in the earth, crying peace, peace, 
 when there is no peace. 
 
 Now it was the denunciation and wild 
 demonstration of her fearing foes that 
 advertised the labors of Madame Guyon. 
 For strong people are not so much adver- 
 tised by their loving friends as by their 
 rabid enemies. 
 
 57
 
 dfta&ame (Bugon 
 
 This happened quite a while ago ; but 
 as mankind moves in a circle (and not 
 always a spiral, either) it might have 
 happened yesterday. Make the scene 
 Ohio : slip Bossuet out and Dr. Buckley 
 in ; coudense the virtues of Miss Willard 
 aud Miss Anthony into one, and let this 
 one stand for Madame Guyon ; call it 
 New Transcendentalism, dub the Madame 
 a New Woman, and there you have it ! 
 
 But with this difference — petitions to 
 the President of the United States to ar- 
 rest this female offender and shut her up 
 in the Chicago jail, indefinitely, after a 
 mock trial, would avail not. Yet perse- 
 cution has its compensation, and the 
 treatment that Madame Guyon received 
 emphasized the truths she taught and sent 
 them ringing through the schools and 
 salons and wherever thinking men gath- 
 ered themselves together. Yes, persecu- 
 tion has its compensation. In its state 
 of persecution a religion is pure, if ever ; 
 its decline begins when its prosperity 
 commences. Prosperous men are never 
 58
 
 Aadftfftc <$ugon 
 
 wise and seldom good. Woe unto you 
 when all men shall speak well of you. 
 
 Surely, persecution has its compensa- 
 tion ! When Madame Guyon was sick and 
 in prison was she not visited by Fenelon ? 
 Ah, 't was worth the cost. Sympathy is 
 the first attribute of love as well as its 
 last. And I am not sure but that sympa- 
 thy is love's own self, vitalized mayhap 
 by some divine actinic ray. Only a 
 thorn-crowned bleeding Christ could win 
 the adoration of a world. Only the souls 
 who have suffered are well loved. Thus 
 does Golgotha find its recompense. Hark 
 ye and take courage, ye who are in bonds ! 
 Gracious spirits, seen or unseen, will 
 minister to ye now, where otherwise they 
 would have passed without a sign ! 
 
 But from the day Fenelon met Madame 
 Guyon his fortune began to decline. 
 People looked at him askance. By a 
 grim chance he was made one of a com- 
 mittee of three to investigate the charges 
 brought against the woman. The court 
 took a year for its task. Fenelon read 
 59
 
 Aad&me ©ucon 
 
 everything that Madame Guyou had pub- 
 lished, conversed much with her, inquired 
 into her history and when asked for his 
 verdict said — I find no fault in her. 
 
 He talked with Madame de Maintenon, 
 and Madame de Maintenon talked with 
 the King, and the offender was released. 
 
 Soon Fenelon began to utter in his ser- 
 mons the truths that he had learned from 
 Madame Guyon. And he gave her due 
 credit. He explained that she was a good 
 Catholic — that she loved the Church — 
 that she lived up to all the Church taught, 
 and besides knowing all that churchmen 
 knew she knew many things beside. 
 
 Have a care, Archbishop of Cambrai ! 
 Enemies are upon thy track. Defend 
 not defenceless womanhood : knowest 
 thou not what they have said of her? 
 Speak what thou art taught and keep thy 
 inmost thoughts for thyself alone. Have 
 a care, Fenelon ! thy bishopric hangs by 
 a spider's thread. 
 
 The years kept slipping past as the 
 years will. Twelve summers had come, 
 60
 
 dfca&ame (Bugon 
 
 and twelve times had autumn leaves 
 known their time to fall. Madame Guyon 
 was again in prison. A stranger was 
 Archbishop of Cambrai : Fenelon no 
 longer a counsellor of kings — a tutor of 
 royalty. His voice was silenced, his pen 
 chained. He was allowed to retire to a 
 rural parish. There he lived with the 
 peasants — revered, beloved. The country 
 where he dwelt was battle scarred and 
 bleeding ; the smoke of devastation still 
 hung over it. Not a family but had 
 been robbed of its best. Death had 
 stalked rampant. Fenelon shared the 
 poverty of the people, their lowliness, 
 their sorrows. All the tragedy of their 
 life was his; he said to them, "I know 
 I know ! " 
 
 Twelve years of Madame Guyon 's life 
 were spent in prison. Toward the last 
 she was allowed to live in nominal free- 
 dom. But despotism, with savage leer 
 and stealthy step, saw that Fenelon was 
 kept far away. In those declining days, 
 when the shadows were lengthening to- 
 61
 
 /BbaDame ©ugon 
 
 ward the east, her time and talents were 
 given to teaching the simple rudiments 
 of knowledge to the peasantry, to allevi- 
 ating their material wants and minister- 
 ing to the sick . It was a forced retirement, 
 and yet it was a retirement every way in 
 accord with her desires. But in spite of 
 the persecution that followed her, and 
 the obloquy heaped upon her name, and 
 the bribe of pardon if she would but 
 recant, she never retracted nor wavered 
 in her inward or outward faith, even in 
 the estimation of a hair. The firm reti- 
 cence as to the supreme secrets of her 
 life, and her steadfast loyalty to that 
 which she believed was truth, must ever 
 command the affectionate admiration of 
 those who prize integrity of mind, who 
 hold fast to the divinity of love, and 
 believe in the things unseen which are 
 eternal. 
 
 62
 
 IV. 
 
 THE town of Montargis is one day's 
 bicycle journey from Paris. As 
 for the road, though one be a way- 
 faring man and from the States he could 
 not err therein. You simply follow the 
 Seine as if you were intent on discovering 
 its source, keeping to the beautiful high- 
 way that follows the winding stream. 
 And what a beautiful clear, clean bit of 
 water it is ! In Paris your washerwoman 
 takes your linen to the river, just as they 
 did in the days of Pharoah, and the bun- 
 dle comes back sweet as the breath of 
 June. Imagine the result of such reck- 
 lessness in Chicago ! 
 
 But as I rode out of Paris that bright 
 May-day it seemed Monday all along 
 the way ; for dames with baskets bal- 
 anced on their heads were making their 
 63
 
 .flftaDame ©ugon 
 
 way to the water-side, followed by 
 troops of barefoot or sabot-shod children. 
 There was one fine young woman with 
 a baby in her arms, and the innocent 
 first-born was busily taking its breakfast 
 as the mother walked calmly along, 
 bearing on her well-poised head the 
 family wash. And a mile farther on, as 
 if she had seen her rival and gone her 
 one better, was another woman with a 
 two-year-old cherub perched secure on 
 top of the gently swaying basket, proud 
 as a cardinal about to be consecrated. It 
 was a study in balancing that I have 
 never seen before or since ; and I only 
 ask those to believe it who know things 
 so true that they dare not tell them. As 
 the day wore on, I saw that the wash was 
 being completed, for the garments were 
 spread out on the greenest of green grass, 
 or on the bushes that lined the way. By 
 ten o'clock I was nearing Fontainebleau 
 and the clothes were nearly ready to take 
 in ; but not quite. For while waiting for 
 the warm sun and the gentle breeze to 
 04
 
 /fta&ame <5ueon 
 
 dry them, the thrifty dames, who were 
 French and make soup out of everything, 
 put in the time by laundering the chil- 
 dren. It seemed like that economic 
 stroke of good housewives who use the 
 soapy wash-water for scrubbing the 
 kitchen floor. There they were, dozens 
 of hopefuls on whom the fate of the 
 nation rested, creepers to ten-year-olds 
 being scrubbed and dipped, or playing 
 parlez-vous tag in lieu of towel, as inno- 
 cent of clothes as Carlyle's imaginary 
 House of Lords. 
 
 And so I passed off from the road that 
 traced the Seine to a road that kept com- 
 pany with the canal. I followed the tow- 
 path, even in spite of warnings that 't was 
 'gainst the law. It was a one-horse canal, 
 for many of the gaily painted boats were 
 drawn only by a single shaggy-limbed 
 Percheron. The boats were sharp-prowed 
 and narrow ; and on some were bare- 
 headed women knitting, and men carv- 
 ing curious things out of blocks of wood, 
 as they journeyed. And I said to myself 
 65
 
 flfta&ame (Bugon 
 
 if "it is the pace that kills" these peo- 
 ple are making a strong bid for immortal- 
 ity. I hailed the lazily moving craft, 
 waving my hat, and the slow-going tour- 
 ists called back cheerily. 
 
 By-aud-by I came to a great, wide plain 
 that stretched away like a tideless summer 
 sea. The wheat and lentils and pulse 
 were planted in long strips. In one place 
 I thought I could trace the good old 
 American flag (that you never really love 
 unless you are on a foreign shore) made 
 by alternate strips of millet and peas, 
 with a goodly patch of cabbages in the 
 corner for stars. But possibly this was 
 imagination, — for I had been thinking 
 that in a week it would be the Fourth of 
 July and I was far from home — in a land 
 where firecrackers are unknown. 
 
 Coming to a little rise of ground, I could 
 see, lying calm and quiet amid the world 
 of rich growing grain, the town of Mon- 
 targis. Across on the blue hillside was 
 Montargis Castle, framed in a mass of 
 foliage. I stopped to view the scene and 
 66
 
 dfca&ame (Sugon 
 
 the echo of vesper bells came pealing 
 gently over the miles, as the nodding 
 poppies at my feet bowed reverently in 
 the breeze. 
 
 Villages in France viewed from a dis- 
 tance seem so restful and idyllic. There 
 is no sound of strife, no trace of rivalry, 
 no vain pride ; only white houses — the 
 homes of good men and gentle women, 
 and cherub children ; and all of the 
 church steeples truly point to God. Yet 
 on closer view — but what of that ! 
 
 When I reached the town, the church 
 whose spire I had seen from the distance 
 beckoned me first. I turned off from the 
 wide thoroughfare, intending just to get 
 a glance at the outside of the building as 
 I passed. But' the great iron gates thrown 
 invitingly open, and a rusty, dusty dog 
 of Flanders lying in the entry waiting 
 for his master, told me that there was 
 service within. So I entered, passing 
 through the noiseless swinging door, 
 and into the dim twilight of the house of 
 prayer. A score of people were there, 
 67
 
 dfcafcame (Bugon 
 
 and standing in the aisle was a white- 
 robed priest. He was speaking, and his 
 voice came so gently, so sure withal, so 
 exquisitely modulated, that I paused and 
 leaning against a pillar, listened. I think 
 it was the first time I ever heard a preacher 
 speaking in a large church who did not 
 speak so loud that an echo chased his 
 sentences round and round the vaulted 
 dome and strangled the sense. The tone 
 was conversational and the manner so 
 free from canting conventionality that I 
 moved up closer to get a view of the face. 
 
 It was too dark to see well, but I came 
 under the spell of the man's earnest elo- 
 quence. The sacred .stillness, the falling 
 night, the odor from incense and banks 
 of flowers piled about the feet of an image 
 of the Holy Virgin — evidently brought by 
 the peasantry, having nothing else to 
 give — made a combination of melting 
 conditions that would have subdued a 
 heart of stone. 
 
 The preacher ceased to speak, and as he 
 raised his hands in benediction I involun- 
 68
 
 flfcafcame (Bugon 
 
 tarily, with the other worshippers, knelt 
 on the stone floor and bowed my head 
 in silent reverie. 
 
 Suddenly I was aroused by a crashing 
 noise at my elbow, and glancing round 
 saw that an old man near me had merely 
 dropped his cane. A heavy cudgel it was, 
 that falling on the stone flagging sent 
 a thundering reverberation through the 
 vaulted chambers. 
 
 The worshippers were slipping out, one 
 by one, and soon no one was left but the 
 old man of the cudgel and myself. He 
 wore wooden shoes, and was holding the 
 cord-wood fast between his knees, roll- 
 ing his hat nervously in his big hands. 
 " He \s a stranger, too," I said to myself, 
 " he is the man who owns the rusty dog 
 of Flanders, and he is waiting to give the 
 priest some message ! " 
 
 I leaned over towards my neighbor 
 and asked : ' ' The priest — what is his 
 name? " 
 
 "Father Francis, Monsieur!" and the 
 old man swayed back and forward in his 
 69
 
 dfcaDame ©uson 
 
 seat as if moved by some inward emo- 
 tion, still fingering his hat. 
 
 Just then the priest came out from 
 behind the altar, wearing a black robe 
 instead of the white one. He moved 
 down with a sort of quiet majesty straight 
 towards us. We arose as one man ; it was 
 as though someone had pressed a button. 
 
 Father Francis walked by me, bowing 
 slightly, and shook hands with my old 
 neighbor. They stood talking in an 
 undertone. 
 
 A last struggling ray of light from the 
 dying sun came in over the chancel and 
 flooded the great room for an instant. It 
 allowed me to get a good look at the face 
 of the priest. As I stood there staring at 
 him I heard him say to the old man as he 
 bade him good-bye, ' ' Yes, tell her I '11 
 be there in the morning." 
 
 Then he turned to me and I was still 
 staring. And as I stared I was repeating 
 to myself the words the people said when 
 Dante used to pass— "There is the man 
 who has been in hell ! " 
 70
 
 /Ibabame <3ug(Mt 
 
 " You are an Englishman ? " said Father 
 Francis to me pleasantly as he held out 
 his hand. 
 
 "Yes," I said, "lam an Englishman 
 — that is, no — an American ! " 
 
 I was wondering if he really heard me 
 make that Dante remark ; and anyway, 
 I had been rudely staring at him and lis- 
 tening with both ears to his conversation 
 with the old man. I tried to roll my hat, 
 and had I a cudgel I would surely have 
 dropped it ; and with it all I wondered if 
 
 4 
 
 the dog of Flanders waiting outside was 
 not getting impatient for me ! 
 
 "Oh, an American ! I 'm glad — I have 
 very dear friends in America ! " 
 
 Then I saw that Father Francis did not 
 look so much like the exiled Florentine 
 as I had thought, for his smile was win- 
 ning as that of a woman, the corners of 
 his mouth did not turn down, and the 
 nose had not the Roman curve. Dante 
 was an exile : this man was at home — 
 and would have been, anywhere. 
 
 He was tall, slender, and straight ; he 
 7i
 
 dlbaOame (Bugon 
 
 must have been sixty years old, but the 
 face in spite of its furrows was singularly 
 handsome. Grave, yet not depressed, it 
 showed such feminine delicacy of feeling, 
 such grace, such high intellect, that I 
 stood and gazed as I might at a statue in 
 bronze. But plain to see, he was a man 
 of sorrow and acquainted with grief. 
 The face spake of one to whom might 
 have come a great tribulation, and who 
 by accepting it had purchased redemption 
 for all time from all the petty troubles of 
 earth. 
 
 "You must stay here as long as you 
 wish, and you will come to our old church 
 again, I hope ! " said the Father. He 
 smiled, nodded his head and started to 
 leave me alone. 
 
 " Yes, yes, I '11 come again — I '11 come 
 in the morning, for I want to talk with 
 you about Madame Guyon — she was mar- 
 ried in this church they told me — is that 
 true?" I clutched a little. Here was 
 A man I could not afford to lose — one of 
 the Elect ! 
 
 72
 
 /Rai>ame (Bugon 
 
 "Oh, yes, that was a long time ago 
 though. Are you interested in Madame 
 Guyon ? I am glad — not to know Fene- 
 lon seems a misfortune. He used to 
 preach from that very pulpit, and Madame 
 was baptized at that font and confirmed 
 here. I have pictures of them both ; and 
 I have their books — one of the books is a 
 first edition. Do you care for such 
 things? " 
 
 When I was broke in London, in the 
 fall of Eighty-nine ! Do I care for such 
 things ? I cannot recall what I said, but 
 I remembered that this brown-skinned 
 priest with his liquid black eyes, and the 
 look of sorrow on his handsome face, 
 stood out before me like the picture of a 
 saint. 
 
 I made an engagement to meet him 
 the next morning, when he bethought 
 him of his promise to the old man of the 
 cudgel and wooden shoes. 
 
 " Come now then — come with me now. 
 My house is just next door ! " 
 
 And so we walked up the main aisle of 
 73
 
 the old church, around the altar where 
 Madame Guyon used to kneel, and by 
 a crooked little passage-way entered a 
 house fully as old as the church. A 
 woman who might have been as old as 
 the house was setting the table in a little 
 dining-room. She looked up at me 
 through brass-rimmed spectacles, and 
 without orders or any one saying a word 
 she whisked off the table-cloth, replaced 
 it with a snowy clean one, and put on 
 two plates instead of one. Then she 
 brought in toasted brown bread and tea, 
 and a steaming dish of lentils and fresh 
 picked berries in a basket all lined with 
 green leaves. 
 
 It was not a very sumptuous repast, 
 but 't was enough. Afterward I learned 
 that Father Francis was a vegetarian. 
 He did not tell me so, neither did he 
 apologize for absence of fermented drink, 
 nor for his failure to supply tobacco and 
 pipes. 
 
 Now I have heard that there be priests 
 who hold in their cowled heads choice 
 74
 
 flba&amc <3ut>on 
 
 recipes for spiced wines and who carry 
 hidden away in their hearts, all the mys- 
 teries of the chafing-dish ; but Father 
 Francis was not one of these. His form 
 was thin, but the bronze of his face was 
 the bronze that comes from red corpus- 
 cles, and the strongly corded neck and 
 calloused bony hands told of manly absti- 
 nence and exercise in the open air, and 
 sleep that follows peaceful thoughts — 
 knowing no chloral. 
 
 After the meal, Father Francis led the 
 way to his little study upstairs. He 
 showed me his books and read to me from 
 his one solitary " First Edition." Then 
 he unlocked a little drawer in an old 
 chiffonier and brought out a package all 
 wrapped in chamois. This parcel held 
 two minature portraits, one of Fenelou 
 and one of Madame Guyon. 
 
 "That picture of F£nelon belonged to 
 Madame Guyon. He had it painted for 
 her and sent it to her while she was in 
 prison at Vincennes. The other I bought 
 in Paris — I do not know its history." 
 75
 
 dfoa&ame ©u^on 
 
 The good priest bad work to do, and 
 let me know it very gently, thus : "You 
 have come a long way, brother, the road 
 was rough — I know you must be weary. 
 Come, I '11 show you to your room. " 
 
 He lighted a candle and took me to a 
 bedroom at the end of the hall. It was a 
 little room, very clean, but devoid of all 
 ornament, save a picture of the Madonna 
 and her Babe, that hung over the head 
 of the little iron bedstead. It was a 
 painting — not very good. I think Father 
 Francis painted it himself; the face of 
 the Holy Mother was very human — 
 divinely human — as motherhood should 
 be. 
 
 Father Francis was right : the way had 
 been rough and I was tired. 
 
 The treetops sang a cooiug lullaby and 
 the night winds sighed solemnly as they 
 wandered through the hallway and open 
 doors. It did not take me long to 
 go to sleep. Later the wind blew up 
 fresh and cool. I was too sleepy to get 
 up and hunt for more covering and yet 
 76
 
 dfcafcame (Bugdit 
 
 I was cold as I curled up in a knot and 
 dreamed I was first mate with Peary on 
 an expedition in search of the North Pole. 
 And the last I remember was a vision of 
 a grey-robed priest tiptoeing across the 
 stone floor ; of his throwing over me a 
 heavy blanket and then hastily tiptoeing 
 out again. 
 
 The matin bells, or the birds, or both, 
 awoke me early, but when I got down 
 stairs I found my host had preceded me. 
 His fine face looked fresh and strong, 
 and yet I wondered when he had slept. 
 
 After breakfast the old housekeeper 
 hovered near : " What is it, Margaret?" 
 said the Father, gently. 
 
 "You haven't forgotten your engage- 
 ment?" asked the woman, with just a 
 quaver of anxiety. 
 
 " Oh no, Margaret" ; then turning to 
 me, "Come, you shall go with me — we 
 will talk of Fenelon and Madame Guyon 
 as we walk. It is eight miles and back 
 but you will not mind the distance. Oh, 
 did n't I tell you where I 'm going ? You 
 77
 
 /Ifoa2>ame (Bugon 
 
 saw the old man at the church last night — 
 it is his daughter — she is dying — dying of 
 consumption. She has not been a good 
 girl. She went away to Paris, three years 
 ago, and her parents never heard from her. 
 We tried to find her but could not ; and 
 now she has come home of her own ac- 
 cord — come home to die. I baptized her 
 twenty years ago — how fast the time has 
 flown ! " 
 
 The priest took a stout staff from the 
 corner, and handing me its mate we 
 started away. Down the white, dusty 
 highway we went ; out on the stony road 
 where yesterday, as the darkness gath- 
 ered, trudged an old man in wooden 
 shoes — at his heels a dog of Flanders. 
 
 78
 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU 
 
 79
 
 You better live your best and act your best and 
 think your best to-day ; for to-day is the sure 
 preparation for to-morrow and all the other 
 to-morrows that follow. 
 
 Life's Uses. 
 
 So
 
 

 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 i. 
 
 1 BELIEVE it was Thackeray who once 
 expressed a regret that Harriet Mar- 
 tineau had not shown better judg- 
 ment in choosing her parents. 
 
 She was born into one of those big fami- 
 lies where there is not love enough to go 
 'round. The mother was a robustious 
 woman with a termagant temper ; she 
 was what you call " practical." She arose 
 each morning like Solomon's ideal wife 
 while it was yet dark, and proceeded to 
 set her house in order. She made the 
 children go to bed when they were not 
 sleepy and get up when they were. There 
 was no beauty sleep in that household, 
 81
 
 fjarrfet /l&artfneau 
 
 not even forty winks ; and did any mem- 
 ber prove recreant and require a douse of 
 cold water, not only did he get the douse 
 but he also heard quoted for a year and 
 a day that remark concerning the slug- 
 gard, " A little sleep, a little slumber, and 
 a little folding of the hands to sleep — so 
 shall thy poverty come as one that travel- 
 eth and thy want as an armed man." 
 
 This big, bustling amazon was never 
 known to weep but once, and that was 
 when L,ord Nelson died. To show any 
 emotion would have been to reveal a 
 weakness, and a caress would have been 
 proof positive of folly. Life was a stern 
 business and this earth journey a warfare. 
 She cooked, she swept, she scrubbed, she 
 sewed. 
 
 And although she withheld every loving 
 word and kept back all demonstration of 
 affection, yet her children were always 
 well cared for : they were well clothed, 
 they had plenty to eat, and a warm place 
 to sleep. And in times of sickness this 
 mother would send all others to rest and 
 
 32
 
 t>arriet dfcartineau 
 
 watch by the bedside until the shadows 
 stole away and the sunrise came again. 
 I wonder where you have lived all your 
 life if you never knew a woman like that? 
 
 In the morning as soon as the breakfast 
 things were done and the men folks had 
 gone to the cloth factory, Mrs. Martineau 
 would marshal her daughters in the sit- 
 ting-room to sew. And there they sewed 
 for four hours every forenoon for years 
 and years ; and as they sewed someone 
 would often read aloud to them, for Mrs. 
 Martineau believed in education — educa- 
 tion gotten on the wing. 
 
 Sewing machines and knitting ma- 
 chines have done more to emancipate 
 women than all the preachers. Think 
 of the days when every garment worn by 
 men, women, and children was made by 
 the never-resting hands of women ! 
 
 And as the girls in that thrifty Norwich 
 household sewed and listened to the 
 reader they occasionally spoke in mono- 
 tone of what was read — all save Harriet : 
 Harriet sewed. And the other girls 
 83
 
 "Ibarriet ASartfneatt 
 
 thought Harriet very dull, and her mother 
 was sure of it, and called her stupid and 
 sometimes shook her and railed at her, 
 endeavoring to arouse her out of her 
 lethargy. 
 
 Harriet has herself left on record some- 
 what of her feelings in those days. In 
 her child heart there was a great aching 
 void. Her life was wrong — the lives about 
 her were wrong — she did not know how, 
 and could not then trace the subject far 
 enough to tell why. She was a-hungered, 
 she longed for tenderness, for affection 
 and the close confidence that knows no 
 repulse. She wanted them all to throw 
 down their sewing for just five minutes, 
 and sit in the silence with folded hands. 
 She longed for her mother to hold her on 
 her lap so that she could pillow her head 
 on her shoulder with her arms about her 
 neck, and have a real good cry. Then all 
 her troubles and pains would be gone. 
 
 But the slim little girl never voiced 
 any of these foolish thoughts ; she knew 
 better. She choked back her tears and 
 84
 
 Ibarriet dfoartmeau 
 
 Jeaniug over her sewing tried hard to 
 be "good." 
 
 " She is so stupid that she never listens 
 to what one reads to her," said the mother 
 one day. 
 
 One of that family still lives. I saw 
 him not long ago and talked with him 
 face to face concerning some of the things 
 here written — Doctor James Martineau, 
 ninety two years old. 
 
 The others are all dead now — all are 
 gone. In the cemetery at Norwich is a 
 plain slate slab, ' ' To the memory of 
 Elizabeth Martineau, Mother of Harriet 
 Martineau." . . . And so she sleeps, 
 remembered for what ? as the mother 
 of a stupid little girl who tried hard to be 
 good, but did n't succeed very well, and 
 who did not listen when they read aloud. 
 
 85
 
 II. 
 
 IT seems sometimes that there is no 
 such thing as a New Year — it is only 
 the old year come back. These 
 folks about us — have they not lived be- 
 fore ? Surely they are the same creatures 
 that have peopled earth in the days 
 agone ; they are busy about the same 
 things, they chase after the same trifles, 
 they commit the same mistakes, and 
 blunder as men have always blundered. 
 
 Only last week a teacher in one of the 
 primary schools of Chicago reported to 
 her principal that a certain little boy in 
 her room was so hopelessly dull and per- 
 verse that she despaired of teaching him 
 anything. The child would sit with open 
 mouth and look at her as she would talk 
 to the class, and five minutes afterward 
 he could not or would not repeat three 
 words of what had been said. She had 
 scolded him, made him stand on the floor, 
 86
 
 tmrriet dfcarttneau 
 
 kept hitn in after school, and even whipped 
 him, but all in vain. The principal looked 
 into the case, scratched his head, stroked 
 his whiskers, coughed, and decided that 
 the public school funds should not be 
 wasted in trying to "learn imbeciles," 
 and so reported to the parents. He ad- 
 vised them to send the boy to a Home 
 for the Feeble Minded, sending the mes- 
 sage by an older brother. So the parents 
 took the child to the Home and asked 
 that he be admitted. The Matron took 
 the little boy on her lap, talked to him, 
 read to him, showed him pictures and 
 said to the astonished parents, "This 
 child has fully as much intelligence as 
 any of your, other children, perhaps more 
 — but he is deaf. ' ' 
 
 Harriet Martineau from her twelfth 
 year was very deaf and she was also 
 devoid of the senses of taste and of smell. 
 ' ' Oh, these are terrible tribulations to be- 
 fall a mortal ! " we exclaim with uplifted 
 hands. But on sober second thought I 
 am not sure that I know what is a tribula- 
 87
 
 ■fcaritet dfbartincatt 
 
 tion and what a blessing. I ' m not positive 
 I would know a blessing should I see it 
 coming up the street. For as I write it 
 conies to tne that the Great Big Black 
 Things that have loomed against the 
 horizon of my life, threatening to devour 
 me, simply loomed and nothing more. 
 They harmed me not. The things that 
 have really made me miss my train have 
 always been sweet, soft, pretty, pleasant 
 things of which I was not in the least 
 afraid. 
 
 Mother Nature is kind, and if she de- 
 prives us of one thing she gives us an- 
 other, and happiness seems to be meted 
 out to each and all in equal portions. 
 Harriet's afflictions caused her to turn her 
 mind to other things than those which 
 filled the hearts of girls her own age. 
 Society chatter held nothing for her, she 
 could not hear it if she would ; and she 
 ate the food that agreed with her, not that 
 which was merely pleasant to the taste. 
 She began to live in a world of thought 
 and ideas. The silence meant much.
 
 "Ibamet /fcarttneau 
 
 " The first requisite is that man should 
 be a good animal." I used to think that 
 Herbert Spencer in voicing this aphorism 
 struck twelve. But I am no longer en- 
 thusiastic about the remark. The seuses 
 of most dumb animals are far better 
 developed than those of man. Hounds 
 can trace footsteps over flat rocks, even 
 though a shower has fallen in the inter- 
 val ; cats can see in the dark ; rabbits hear 
 sounds that men never hear ; horses de- 
 tect an impurity in water that a chemical 
 analysis does not reveal, and homing 
 pigeons would gain nothing by carrying 
 a compass. And so I feel safe in saying 
 that if any man were so good and perfect 
 an animal that he had the hound's sense 
 of smell, the cat's eyesight, the rabbit's 
 sense of hearing, the horse's sense of 
 taste, and the homing pigeon's "locality " 
 he would not be one whit better prepared 
 to appreciate Kipling's "Dipsy Chanty," 
 and not a hair's breadth nearer a point 
 where he could write a poem to equal it. 
 
 No college professor can see so far as 
 89
 
 •foarnet Aartfneau 
 
 a Sioux Indian, neither can he hear so 
 well as a native African. There are rays 
 of light that no unaided human eye can 
 trace and there are sounds subtler than 
 human ear can detect. 
 
 These five bodily faculties that we are 
 pleased to call the senses were devel- 
 oped by savage man. He holds them in 
 common with the brute. And now that 
 man is becoming partially civilized he is 
 in danger of losing them. Faculties not 
 used are taken away. Dame Nature 
 seems to consider that anything you do 
 not utilize is not needed ; and as she is 
 averse to carrying dead freight she drops 
 it out. 
 
 But man can think, and the more he 
 thinks and the further he projects his 
 thought the less need he has for his phys- 
 ical senses. Homer's matchless vision 
 was the rich possession of a blind man ; 
 Milton never saw Paradise until he was 
 sightless, and Helen Keller knows a 
 world of things that were neither told her 
 in lectures nor read from books. The 
 90
 
 liarrtet Aartineau 
 
 far reaching iutellect often goes with a 
 singularly imperfect body, and these 
 things seem to point the truth that the 
 body is one thing and the soul another. 
 
 I make no argument for impoverished 
 vitality, nor do I plead the cause of those 
 who enjoy poor health. Yet how often 
 do we find that the confessional of a fam- 
 ily or a neighborhood is the bedside of 
 one who sees the green fields only as did 
 the Lady of vShalott by holding a look- 
 ing-glass so that it reflects the out-of- 
 doors. Let me carry that simile one step 
 further and say that the mirror of the 
 soul when kept free from fleck and stain 
 reveals the beauties of the universe. And 
 I am not sure but that the soul, freed from 
 the distractions of sense and the tram- 
 mels of flesh, glides away to a height 
 where things are observed for the first 
 time in their true proportions. 
 
 "The soul knows all things," says 
 Emerson, and knowledge is only a re- 
 membering. 
 
 ft
 
 III. 
 
 THE Martiueaus were Huguenots, a 
 stern sturdy stock that suffered 
 exile rather than forego the right 
 of free thought and free speech. These 
 are the people who are the salt of the 
 earth. And yet as I read history I see 
 that they are the people who have been 
 hunted with dogs and followed by armed 
 men carrying fagots. The driving of the 
 Huguenots from France came near bank- 
 rupting the land, and the flight of Jews 
 and Huguenots into England helped 
 largely to make that country the count- 
 ing-house of the world. Take the 
 Quakers, Puritans, Huguenots, and other 
 refugees from America and it is no longer 
 the land of the free or the home of the 
 brave. 
 
 Of the seven presidents who presided 
 92
 
 •foarcict dBartineau 
 
 over the deliberations of that first Conti- 
 nental Congress in Philadelphia, three 
 were Huguenots : Henry Laurens, John 
 Jay, and Elias Boudinot, and in the seats 
 there were Puritans not a few. 
 
 "By God, Sir, we cannot afford to per- 
 secute the Quakers," said a certain Amer- 
 ican a long while ago, "their religion 
 may be wrong, but the people who cling 
 to an idea are the only people we need. 
 If we must persecute let us persecute the 
 complacent." 
 
 Harriet Martineau had all the restless 
 independence of will that marked her 
 ancestry. She set herself to acquire 
 knowledge, and she did. When she was 
 twenty she spoke three languages and 
 could read in four. She knew history, 
 astronomy, physical science, and it crowd- 
 ed her teacher in mathematics very hard 
 to keep one lesson in advance of her. Be- 
 sides, she could sew and cook and ' ' keep 
 house." Yet it was all gathered by labor 
 and toil and lift. By taking thought 
 she had added cubits to her stature. 
 93
 
 •foavriet /Ifcartmeatt 
 
 But at twenty a great light suddenly 
 shone around her. Love came and re- 
 vealed the wonders of earth and heaven. 
 She had ever been of a religious nature, 
 but now her religion was vitalized and 
 spiritualized. Deity was no longer a 
 Being who dwelt at a great distance 
 among the stars, but the Divine life was 
 hers. It flowed through her, nourished 
 her and gave her strength. 
 
 Renan suggests that one reason why 
 religion remains on such a material plane 
 for many is because they have never 
 known a great and vitalizing love ; a love 
 where intellect, spirit, and sex finds its 
 perfect mate. Love is the great enlight- 
 ener. And in my own mind I am fully 
 persuaded that comparatively few mortals 
 ever experience this re-birth that a great 
 love gives. We grope our way through 
 life. Nature's first thought is for reproduc- 
 tion of the species ; she has so overloaded 
 physical passion that men and women 
 marry when the blood is warm and intel- 
 lect callow. Girls marry for life the first 
 94
 
 fmrict jflftartmcau 
 
 man that offers, and forever put behind 
 them the possibilities of a love that would 
 enable them to lift up their eyes to the 
 hills from whence cometh their help. 
 Very, very seldom do the years that 
 bring a calmer pulse reveal a mating of 
 mind and spirit. 
 
 When love came to Harriet she began 
 to write, her first book being a little 
 volume called Devotional Exercises. 
 These daily musings on Divine things 
 and these sweetly limpid prayers were 
 all written out first for herself and her 
 lover. But it came to her that what was 
 a help to them might be a help to others. 
 A publisher was found and the little work 
 had a large sale and found appreciative 
 readers for many years. 
 
 To-day, out under the trees, I read this 
 first book written by Miss Martineau. 
 How gently sweet and perfect are these 
 prayers asking for a clean heart and a 
 right spirit ! And yet at this time Har- 
 riet Martineau had gotten well beyond 
 the idea that God was a great big man 
 95
 
 Ibarrict dftartineau 
 
 who could be beseeched and moved to 
 alter his plans because some creature on 
 the planet Earth asked it. Her religion 
 was pure Theism, with no confounding 
 dogmas about who was to be saved and 
 who damned. The state of infants who 
 died uubaptized and of the heathen who 
 passed away without ever having heard 
 of Jesus did not trouble her. She already 
 accepted the truth of necessity ; believing 
 that every act of life was the result of a 
 cause. We do what we do, and are what 
 we are on account of impulses given us 
 by previous training, previous acts or 
 conditions under which we live and have 
 lived. 
 
 If then everything in this world hap- 
 pens because something else happened a 
 thousand years ago or yesterday, and the 
 result could not possibly be different from 
 what it is, why besiege Heaven with 
 prayers ? 
 
 The answer is simple. Prayer is an 
 emotional exercise ; an endeavor to bring 
 the will into a state of harmony with the 
 96
 
 Darriet dfcartineau 
 
 Diviue Will ; a rest and a composure that 
 gives strength by putting us in position 
 to partake of the strength of the Univer- 
 sal. The roan who prays to-day is as a 
 result stronger to-morrow, and thus is 
 prayer answered. By right thinking does 
 the race grow. An act is only a crystal- 
 lized thought ; and this young girl's little 
 book was designed as a help to right 
 thinking. The things it taught are so 
 simple that no man need go to a theolog- 
 ical seminary to learn them : the Silence 
 will tell him all if he will but listen and 
 incline his heart. 
 
 I,ove had indeed made Harriet's spirit 
 free. And to no woman can love mean 
 so much as to one who is aware that she 
 is physically deficient. Homely women 
 are apt to make the better wives, and in 
 all my earth-pilgrimage I never saw a 
 more devoted love — a diviner tenderness 
 than that which exists between a man of 
 my acquaintance, sound in every sense 
 and splendid in physique, and his wife 
 who has been blind from her birth. For 
 97
 
 Ibarrict /Iftartlneau 
 
 •weeks after I first met this couple there 
 rang in my ears that expression of Victor 
 Hugo's, "To be blind and to be loved — 
 what happier fate ! " 
 
 But Harriet's lover was poor in purse 
 and his family was likewise poor, and 
 the thrifty Martiueaus vigorously op- 
 posed the mating. In fact Harriet's 
 mother hooted at it and spoke of it with 
 scorn ; and Harriet answered not back 
 but hid her love away in her heart — bid- 
 ing the time when her lover should make 
 for himself a name and a place and have 
 money withal to command the respect 
 of even mill owners. 
 
 So the days passed, and the months 
 went by and three years counted them- 
 selves with the eternity that lies behind. 
 Harriet's lover had indeed proved him- 
 self worthy. He had worked his way 
 through college, had been graduated at 
 the Divinity School, and his high repu- 
 tation for character and his ability as a 
 speaker won for him at once a position 
 to which many older than he aspired. 
 98
 
 t>arrict Aartfneau 
 
 He became the pastor of the Unitarian 
 Church at Manchester — and this was no 
 small matter ! 
 
 Now Norwich, where the Martineaus 
 lived, is a long way from Manchester, 
 where Harriet's lover preached, or it 
 was then, in stage-coach times. It cost 
 money, too, to send letters. 
 
 And there was quite an interval once 
 when Harriet sent several letters, and 
 anxiously looked for one ; but none 
 arrived. 
 
 Then word came that the brilliant 
 young preacher was ill ; he wished to see 
 his betrothed. She started to go to him, 
 but her parents opposed such an unpre- 
 cedented thing. She hesitated, deferred 
 her visit — intending soon to go at all 
 hazards — hoping all the while to hear 
 better news. 
 
 Word came that Harriet's lover was 
 dead. 
 
 Soon after this the Martineau mills, 
 through various foolish speculations, got 
 into a bad way. Harriet's father found 
 99
 
 "foarriet /ftartmeau 
 
 himself with niore debts than he could 
 pay •, his endeavors to buffet the storm 
 broke his health — he gave up hope, lan- 
 guished, and died. 
 
 Mrs. Martineau and the family were 
 thus suddenly deprived of all means of 
 support. The boys were sent to work in 
 the mills and the two older girls, having 
 five sound senses each, found places where 
 they could do housework and put money 
 in their purses. 
 
 Harriet stayed at home and kept 
 house. She also studied, read, and wrote 
 a little — there was no other way ! 
 
 ioo
 
 IV. 
 
 SIX years passed and the name of 
 Harriet Martineau was recognized 
 as a power in the land. Her Il- 
 lustrations of Political Economyhad sold 
 well up in the hundred thousands. The 
 little stories were read by old and young, 
 rich and poor, learned and unlearned. 
 Sir Robert Peel had written Harriet a 
 personal letter of encouragement ; Lord 
 Brougham had paid for and given away 
 a thousand copies of the booklets ; Rich- 
 ard Cobden had publicly endorsed them ; 
 Coleridge had courted the author ; Flor- 
 ence Nightingale had sung her praises, 
 and the Czar of Russia had ordered that 
 " all the books of Harriet Martineau 
 found in. Russia shall be destroyed." 
 Besides, she had incurred the wrath of 
 King Philippe of France, who after first
 
 Ibarriet jfl&artfneau 
 
 lavishly praisiug her and ordering the it 
 lustrations translated into French, to be 
 used in the public schools, suddenly dis- 
 covered a hot chapter entitled " The 
 Error called the Divine Right of Kings," 
 and although Philippe was only a "citi- 
 zen-king" he made haste to recall his 
 kind words. 
 
 And I wish here to remark in paren- 
 theses, that the author who has not made 
 warm friends and then lost them in an 
 hour by writing things that did not agree 
 with the preconceived idea of these 
 friends, has either not written well or not 
 been read. Every preacher who preaches 
 ably has two doors to his church — one 
 where the people come in and another 
 through which he preaches them out. 
 And I do not see how any man, even 
 though he be divine, could expect or hope 
 to have as many as twelve disciples and 
 hold them for three years without being 
 doubted, denied, and betrayed. If you 
 have thoughts, and honestly speak your 
 mind, Golgotha for you is not far away. 
 
 102
 
 *>arriet /Rarttneau 
 
 Harriet Martineau was essentially an 
 agitator. She entered into life in its 
 fullest sense, and no phase of existence 
 escaped her keen and penetrating inves- 
 tigation. From writing books giving 
 minute directions to housemaids to 
 lengthy advice to prime ministers, her 
 work never lagged. She was widely 
 read, beloved, respected, feared, and 
 well hated. 
 
 When her political economy tales were 
 selling their best the Government sent 
 her word that on application she could 
 have a pension of two hundred pounds a 
 year for life. A pension of this kind 
 comes nominally as a reward for excel- 
 lent work or heroic service. But a pen- 
 sion may mean something else : it often 
 implies that the receiver shall not offend 
 nor affront the one that bestows it. 
 Could we trace the true inner history of 
 pensions granted by monarchies we would 
 find that they are usually diplomatic 
 moves. 
 
 Harriet made no response to the gen- 
 103
 
 •flbarriet flfcarttneau 
 
 erous offer of a life-long maintenance 
 from the State, but continued to work 
 away after her own methods. Yet the 
 offer of a pension did her good in one 
 way ; it suggested the wisdom of setting 
 aside a sum that would support her when 
 her earning powers were diminished. 
 From her two books written concerning 
 her trip to America she received the sum 
 of seven thousand five hundred dollars. 
 With this she purchased an insurance 
 policy in the form of a deferred annuity, 
 providing that from her fiftieth year to 
 her death she should receive the annual 
 sum of five hundred dollars. Now where 
 in all the realm of Grub Street do we find 
 a man who set this example of cool wis- 
 dom for this crippled woman? At this 
 time she was supporting her mother who 
 had become blind, and also a brother 
 who was a slave to drink. 
 
 Twenty-five years after the first offer 
 
 of pension the Government renewed the 
 
 proposition. But Harriet explained that 
 
 her needs were few and her wants sim- 
 
 104
 
 tmrriet Aartfheau 
 
 pie ; that she had enough anyway, and 
 besides, she could not consent to the pol- 
 icy of pensioning one class of persons 
 for well-doing and forgetting all the toil- 
 ers who have worked just as conscien- 
 tiously, but along lowly lines ; if she ever 
 did need aid she would do as other old 
 women were obliged to do, i. e., apply 
 to the parish. 
 
 I find that Miss Martineau records that 
 she wrote for the Daily London News 
 alone, sixteen hundred and forty-two 
 separate editorials. She also wrote over 
 two hundred magazine articles, and pub- 
 lished upwards of fifty books. Her work 
 was not classic, for it was written for the 
 times. That her influence for good on 
 the thought of the times was wide and 
 far-reaching all thoughtful men agree. 
 And he who influences the thought of 
 his times, influences all the times that 
 follow. He has made his impress on 
 eternity.. 
 
 105
 
 V. 
 
 OPINIONS may differ as to what 
 constitutes Harriet Martineau's 
 best work, but my view is that 
 her translation and condensation of 
 Auguste Comte's six volumes into two 
 will live when all of her other work is 
 forgotten. Comte's own writings were 
 filled with many repetitions and rhetori- 
 cal flounderings. He was more of a phi- 
 losopher than a writer. He had an idea 
 too big for him to express, but he ex- 
 pressed at it right bravely. Miss Mar- 
 tineau, trained writer and thinker, did 
 not translate verbally : she caught the 
 idea, and translated the thought rather 
 than the language. And so it has come 
 about that her work has been translated 
 literally back into French and is ac- 
 cepted as a text-book of Positivism, while 
 1 06
 
 fl.umct .^mtncui 
 
 the original books of the philosopher are 
 merely collected by museums and biblio- 
 philes as curiosities. 
 
 Comte taught that man passes through 
 three distinct mental stages in his devel- 
 opment. First, man attributes all phe- 
 nomena to a "Personal God," and to 
 this God he servilely prays. Second, he 
 believes in a " Supreme Essence," a 
 "Universal Principle" or a "First 
 Cause." and seeks to discover its hid- 
 ing-place. Third, he ceases to hutit out 
 the unknowable, and is content to live 
 and work for a positive present good, fully 
 believing that what is best to-day cannot 
 fail to bring the best results to-morrow. 
 
 Harriet had long considered that one 
 reason for the very slow advancement of 
 civilization was that men had ever busied 
 themselves with supernatural concerns, 
 and in fearsome endeavors to make 
 themselves secure for another world had 
 neglected this. Man had tried to make 
 peace with the skies instead of peace 
 with his neighbor. She also thought she 
 107
 
 Ibarrict /ifcarttneau 
 
 saw clearly that right living was one 
 thing, and a belief in theological dogma 
 another. That these things sometimes 
 go together she of course admitted, but 
 a belief in a "vicarious atonement" and 
 a "miraculous conception" she did not 
 believe made a man a gentler husband, 
 a better neighbor, or a more patriotic 
 citizen. Man does what he does because 
 he thinks at the moment it is the best 
 thing to do. And if you could make men 
 believe that peace, truth, honesty, and 
 industry were the best standards to adopt 
 — bringing the best results — all men 
 would adopt them. There are no such 
 things as reward and punishment, as 
 these terms are ordinarily used, there 
 are only good residts and bad results. 
 We sow, and reap what we have sown. 
 
 Miss Martineau had long believed 
 these things, but Comte proved them — 
 proved them in six ponderous tomes — 
 and she set herself the task to simplify 
 his philosophy. 
 
 There is one point of attraction that 
 108
 
 •fcarriet Aarttneau 
 
 Comte's thought had for Harriet Marti- 
 neau that I have never seen mentioned 
 in print — that is, his mental attitude on 
 the value of love in a well-ordered life. 
 
 In the springtime of his manhood, 
 Auguste Comte, sensitive, confiding, gen- 
 erous, loved a beautiful girl. She did not 
 share his intellectual ambitions, his di- 
 vine aspiration : she was only a beautiful 
 animal. Man proposes but is not always 
 accepted. She married another and 
 Comte was disconsolate — for a day. 
 
 He pondered the subject, read the lives 
 of various great men, talked with monks 
 and sundry friars grey, and after five 
 years wrote out at length the reasons 
 why a man in order to accomplish a far- 
 reaching and splendid work, must live 
 the life of a celibate. "To achieve," 
 said Comte, " you must be married to 
 your work." 
 
 Comte lived for some time content in 
 
 this philosophy, constantly strengthening 
 
 it and buttressing it against attack ; for 
 
 we believe a thing first and skirmish for 
 
 109
 
 "barrier, /flbartineau 
 
 our proof afterward. But when past 
 forty, and his hair was turning to silver 
 and crow's-feet were showing themselves 
 in his fine face, and when there was a 
 halt in his step and his laughter had died 
 away into a weary smile, he met a woman 
 whose nature was as finely sensitive and 
 as silkenly strong as his own. She had 
 intellect, aspiration, power. She was 
 gentle, and a womanly woman, withal ; 
 his best mood was matched by hers, she 
 sympathized with his highest ideal. 
 
 They loved and they married. 
 
 The crow's-feet disappeared from 
 Comte's face, the halt in his step was 
 gone, the laugh returned, and people 
 said that the silver in his hair was be- 
 coming. 
 
 Shortly after, Comte set himself to 
 work overhauling all of the foolish things 
 he had said about the necessity of celibacy. 
 He declared that a man without his mate 
 only stumbled his way through life. 
 There was the male man and the female 
 man, and only by working together could
 
 Tbarrict dfcartincau 
 
 these two souls hope to progress. It re 
 quires two to generate thought. Conite 
 felt sure that he was writing the final 
 word. He avowed that there was no 
 more to say. He declared that should 
 his wife go hence the fountains of his 
 soul would dry up ; his mind would 
 famish, and the light of his life would 
 go out in darkness. 
 
 The gods were envious of such love 
 as this. 
 
 Comte's mate passed away. 
 
 He was stricken dumb ; the calamity 
 was too great for speech or tears. 
 
 But five years after, he got down his 
 books and went over his manuscripts and 
 again revised his philosophy of what 
 constitutes the true condition for the 
 highest and purest thought. To have 
 known a great and exalted love and have 
 it fade from your grasp and flee as 
 shadow, living only in memory, is the 
 highest good, he wrote. A great sorrow 
 at one stroke, purchases a redemption 
 from all petty troubles , it sinks all trivial 
 in
 
 Datriet Aartlneau 
 
 annoyances into nothingness and grants 
 the man life-long freedom from all petty, 
 corroding cares. His feelings have been 
 sounded to their depths — the plummet 
 has touched bottom. Fate has done her 
 worst : she has brought him face to face 
 with the Supreme Calamity, and there- 
 after there is nothing cau inspire terror. 
 
 The memory of a great love can never 
 die from out the heart. It affords a bal- 
 last 'gainst all the storms that blow. 
 And although it lends an unutterable 
 sadness, it imparts an unspeakable peace. 
 
 A great love, even when fully possessed, 
 affords no complete gratification. There 
 is an essence in it that eludes all owner- 
 ship. Its highest use seems to be a puri- 
 fying impulse for nobler endeavor. It 
 says at the last, "Arise, and get thee 
 hence for this is not thy rest. ' ' 
 
 Where there is this haunting memory 
 of a great love lost there is always for- 
 giveness, charity, and a sympathy that 
 makes the man brother to all who en- 
 dure and suffer. The individual himself 
 
 1X2
 
 tmrriet dbartiiieau 
 
 is nothiug ; he has nothing to hope for, 
 nothing to gain, nothing to win, nothing 
 to lose ; for the first time and the last he 
 has a selflessness that is wide as the world 
 and wherein there is no room for the rec- 
 ollection of a wrong. In this memory of 
 a great love there is a nourishing source 
 of strength by which the possessor lives 
 aud works ; he is in communication with 
 elemental conditions. 
 
 Harriet Martineau was a life-long 
 widow of the heart. That first great 
 passion of her early womanhood, the 
 love that was lost, remained with her all 
 the days of her life : springing fresh 
 every morning, her last thought as she 
 closed her eyes at night. Other loves 
 came to her, attachments varying in 
 nature and degree, but in this supreme 
 love all was fused and absorbed. 
 
 In this love you get the secret of power. 
 
 A great love is a pain, yet it is a benison 
 
 and a benediction. If we carry any 
 
 possession from this world to another it 
 
 is the memory of a great love. For even 
 
 113
 
 Tbarcict /Rbartineau 
 
 in the last hour, when the coldness of 
 death shall creep into the stiffening limbs, 
 and the brain shall be stunned and the 
 thoughts stifled, there shall come to the 
 tongue a name, a name not mentioned 
 aloud for years — there shall come a name ; 
 and as the last flickering rays of life flare 
 up to go out on earth forever, the tongue 
 will speak this name that was long, long 
 ago burned into the soul by the passion 
 of a love that fadeth not away. 
 
 "4
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 »5
 
 I was not surprised when I went down into the 
 hall to see that a brilliant June morning had 
 succeeded to the tempest of the night, and to feel 
 through the open glass door the breathing of a 
 fresh and fragrant breeze. Nature must be glad- 
 some when I was so happy. A beggar woman 
 and her little boy, pale, ragged objects both, 
 were coming up the walk, and I ran down and 
 gave them all the money I happened to have in 
 my purse — some three or four shillings : good or 
 bad they must partake of my jubilee. The rooks 
 cawed and blither birds sung, but nothing was 
 so merry or so musical as my own rejoicing heart. 
 
 Jane Eyre. 
 
 116
 
 CHARLOTTE BRONTE. 
 
 i. 
 
 RUMOR has it that there be Ameri- 
 cans who are never happy unless 
 passing for Englishmen. And I 
 think I have discovered a like anomaly 
 on the part of the sons of Ireland — a wish 
 to pass for Frenchmen. On Continental 
 hotel registers the good honest name of 
 O'Brian often turns queer somersaults, 
 and more than once in "The States" 
 does the kingly prefix of O evolve itself 
 into Van or De, which perhaps is quite 
 proper seeing they all mean the same 
 thing. One cause of this tendency may 
 lie in the fact that St. Patrick was a na- 
 tive of France ; although St. Patrick may 
 117
 
 Cbarlotte JBronte 
 
 or may not have been chosen patron 
 saint on account of his nationality. But 
 the patron saint of Ireland being a French- 
 man, what more natural, and therefore 
 what more proper, than that the whole 
 Emerald Isle should slant toward the 
 people who love art and rabbit stew ! 
 Anyway, from the proud patronymic of 
 Patricius to plain Pat is quite a drop, and 
 my heart is with Paddy in his efforts to 
 get back. 
 
 When Patrick Prunty of County Down, 
 Ireland, shook off the shackles of environ- 
 ment, and mud of the peat bog, and went 
 across to England, presenting himself at 
 the gates of St. John's College, Cam- 
 bridge, asking for admittance, I am glad 
 he handed in his name as Mr. P. Bronte, 
 accent on the last syllable. 
 
 There is a gentle myth abroad that 
 preachers are " called," while other men 
 adopt a profession or get a job, but no 
 Protestant Episcopal clergyman I have 
 ever known, and I have known many, 
 ever made any such claim. They take 
 1x8
 
 (Jbarlotte JBronte 
 
 up the profession because it supplies 
 honors and a " living." Then they can 
 do good too, and all men want to do good. 
 So they hie them to a divinity school and 
 are taught the mysteries of theological 
 tierce and thrust ; and interviewing a 
 clerical tailor they are ready to accept 
 the honors and partake of the living. 
 After a careful study of the life of Patrick 
 Bronte I cannot find that his ambition 
 extended beyond the desirable things I 
 have named, that is to say inclusively, 
 honors and a living. 
 
 He was tall, athletic, dark, and surely 
 a fellow of force and ambition to set his 
 back on the old and boldly rap for admit- 
 tance at the gates of Cambridge. He was 
 a pretty good student too, although a bit 
 quarrelsome and sometimes mischievous 
 — throwing his force into quite unneces- 
 sary ways, as Irishmen are apt to do. He 
 fell in love, of course, and has not an 
 Irishman in love been likened to Vesuvius 
 in state of eruption ? We know of at 
 least one charming girl who refused to 
 119
 
 Cbarlotte ttrontl 
 
 marry him because he declined, unlike 
 Othello, to tell the story of his life. And 
 it was assumed that any man who would 
 not tell who "his folks" were, was a 
 rogue and a varlet and a vagrom at heart. 
 And all the while Monsieur Bronte had 
 nothing worse to conceal than that he 
 was from County Down and his name 
 Prunty. He would n't give in and tell 
 the story of his life to slow music and so 
 the girl wept and then stormed, and 
 finally Bronte stormed and went away, 
 and the girl and her parents were sure 
 that the Frenchman was a murderer 
 escaping justice. Fortunate, aye, thrice 
 fortunate is it for the world that neither 
 Bronte nor the girl wavered even in the 
 estimation of a hair. 
 
 Bronte got through school and came 
 out with tuppence worth of honors. 
 When thirty we find him established as 
 curate at the shabby little town of Harts- 
 head, in Yorkshire. Little Miss Bran- 
 well, from Penzance, came up there on a 
 visit to her uncle, and the Reverend 
 1 20
 
 Cbarlotte JBrcmte 
 
 Bronte at once fell violently in love with 
 her dainty form and gentle ways. I say 
 " violently " for that 's the kind of a man 
 Bronte was. Darwin says: "The faculty 
 of amativeness is not aroused excepting 
 by the unfamiliar." Girls who go away 
 visiting, wearing their best bib and tucker, 
 find lovers without fail. One third of all 
 marriages in the United States occur in 
 just this way : the bib and tucker being 
 sprung on the young man as a surprise, 
 dazzles and hypnotizes him into an avowal 
 and an engagement. 
 
 And so they were married — were Rev. 
 Patrick Bronte and Miss Maria Branwell. 
 He was big, bold, and dictatorial : she 
 was little, shy, and sensitive. The babies 
 came — one in less than a year, then a 
 year apart. The dainty little woman had 
 her troubles, we are sure of that. Her 
 voice comes to us only as a plaintive echo. 
 When she asked to have the bread passed 
 she always apologized. Once her aunt 
 sent her a present of a pretty silk dress, 
 for country clergymen's wives do not 
 121
 
 Cbartotte Bronte 
 
 have many luxuries, don't you know that? 
 and Patrick Bronte cut the dress into 
 strips before her eyes and then threw the 
 pieces, and the little slippers to match, 
 into the fireplace, to teach his wife humil- 
 ity. He used to practise with a pistol 
 and shoot in the house to steady the 
 lady's nerves, and occasionally he got 
 plain drunk. A man like Bronte in a lit- 
 tle town with a tired little wife, and with 
 inferior people, is a despot. He busies 
 himself with trifles, looks after foolish 
 details and the neighbors let him have 
 his own way and his wife has to, and the 
 result is that he becomes convinced in 
 his own mind that he is the people and 
 wisdom will die with him. 
 
 And yet Bronte wrote some pretty good 
 poetry and had faculties that rightly de- 
 veloped might have made him an excel- 
 lent man. He should have gone down 
 to London (or up, because it is South) 
 and there come into competition with 
 , men as strong as himself. Fate should 
 have seized him by the hair and bumped 
 
 122
 
 Cbarlotte JSronte 
 
 his head against stone walls and cuffed 
 him thoroughly and kicked him into line, 
 teaching him humility, then out of the 
 scrimmage we might have gotten a really 
 superior product. 
 
 Mrs. Bronte became a confirmed in- 
 valid. A man cannot always badger a 
 woman ; God is good — she dies. Little 
 Marja Branwell had been married eight 
 years ; when she passed out she left six 
 children, "all of a size," a neighbor 
 woman has written. Over her grave is 
 a tablet erected by her husband inform- 
 ing the wayfarer that "she has gone 
 to meet her Saviour." At the bottom is 
 this warning to all women : " Be ye also 
 ready ; for in such an hour as ye think 
 not the Son of Man cotneth." 
 
 Five of these motherless children were 
 girls and one a boy. As you stand there 
 in that stone church at Haworth reading 
 the inscription above Maria Branwell's 
 grave you can also read the death record 
 of the babes she left. The mother died 
 September 15, 1821 ; her oldest daughter 
 123
 
 Charlotte Bronte 
 
 Maria, May 6, 1825 ; Elizabeth, June 15, 
 1825 ; Patrick Branwell, September 24, 
 1848; Emily, Dec. 19, 1848; Anne, May 
 28, 1849 ! Charlotte, March 31, 1855. 
 
 Those whom the gods love die young : 
 the Rev. Patrick Bronte lived to be 
 eighty-five. 
 
 124
 
 IL 
 
 I GOT out of the train at Keighley, which 
 you must pronounce "Keethley," 
 and leaving my valise with the sta- 
 tion master started on foot for Hawortb, 
 four miles away. Keighley is a manufac- 
 turing town where various old mansions 
 have been turned into factories and where 
 new factories have sprung up, square, 
 spick-span trimmed stone buildings, with 
 fire-escapes and red tanks on top. 
 
 One of these old mansions I saw had 
 a fine copper roof that shone in the sun 
 like a monster Lake Superior agate. It 
 stands a bit back from the road, and on 
 one great gate post is a brass plate read- 
 ing " Cardigan Hall " and on the other a 
 sign "No admittance — apply at the Of- 
 fice." So I applied at the office, which is 
 evidently the ancient lodge, and asked if 
 Mr. Cardigan was in. Four clerks perched 
 
 I3 5
 
 Charlotte SBrontl 
 
 on high stools, crouching over big ledgers, 
 dropped their pens and turning on their 
 spiral seats looked at me with staring 
 eyes, and with mouths wide open. I 
 repeated the question and one of the 
 quartette, a wheezy little old man in 
 spectacles and whiskers on his neck, 
 clambered down from his elevated posi- 
 tion and ambled over near, walking 
 around me, eying me curiously. 
 
 " Go wan wi' yer wurruk, ye idlers ! " 
 he suddenly commanded the others. 
 And then he explained to me that Mr. 
 Cardigan was not in, neither was Mr. 
 Jackson. In fact Mr. Cardigan had not 
 been in for a hundred years — being dead. 
 But if I wanted to look at goods I could 
 be accommodated with bargains fully 
 five per cent below L,unnon market. The 
 little old man was in such serious earnest 
 that I felt it would be a sin to continue 
 a joke. I explained that I was only a 
 tourist in search of the picturesque, and 
 thereby did I drop ten points in the old 
 man's estimation. But this did I learn, 
 126
 
 Cbariotte JBronte 
 
 that Lord Cardigan has won deathless 
 fame by attaching his name to a knit 
 jacket, just as the name Jaeger will go 
 clattering down the corridors of time at- 
 tached to a "combination suit." 
 
 This splendid old mansion was once 
 the ancestral home of a branch of the 
 noble family of Cardigan. But things 
 got somewhat shuffled, through too many 
 hot suppers up to Loudon (being South), 
 and stacks of reds and stacks of blues 
 were drawn in towards the dealer, and so 
 the old mansion fell under the hammer 
 of the auctioneer. What an all-powerful 
 thing is an auctioneer's hammer ! And 
 now from the great parlors, and the 
 library, and the ' ' hall ' ' and the guest- 
 chambers echo the rattle of spinning 
 jennys and the dull booming of whirling 
 pulleys. And above the song of whirring 
 wheels came the songs of girls at their 
 work ; voices that alone might have been 
 harsh and discordant, but blending with 
 the monotone of the factory's roar were 
 really melodious. 
 
 137
 
 Cbarlottc JBrcmtc 
 
 ,: We cawu't keep the nasty thing 
 from singin'," said the old man apolo- 
 getically. 
 
 " Why should you ? " I asked. 
 
 " Huh, mon ! but they sing sacred 
 songs, and chauuts, and a' that, and say 
 all together from twenty rooms, a hun- 
 dred times a day, ' Aws ut wuz in th' be- 
 ginning uz now awn ever shawl be, worl' 
 wi'out end, Aamen.' It 's not right. I 
 've told Mr. Jackson. Listen now, did 
 n't I tell ye?" 
 
 "Then you are a Churchman ? " 
 
 And the old man wiped his glasses and 
 told me that he was a Churchman, al- 
 though an unworthy one, and had been 
 for fifty-four years, come Michaelmas. 
 Yes, he had always lived here, was born 
 only across the beck away — his father 
 was game-keeper for Lord Cardigan, and 
 afterwards agent. He had been to Ha- 
 worth many times, although not for ten 
 years. He knew the Rev. Patrick Bronte 
 well, for the Incumbent from Haworth 
 used to preach at Keighley once a year, 
 128
 
 Cbarlctte aSrcnte 
 
 aud sometimes twice. Bronte was a fine 
 man with a splendid voice for intoning ; 
 and very strict about keeping out all 
 heresies and such. He had a lot of trou- 
 ble, had Bronte : his wife died aud left 
 him eight or ten children, all smart, but 
 rather wild. They gave him a lot of 
 bother, especially the boy. One of the 
 girls married Mr. Bronte's curate, Mr. 
 Nicholls, a very decent kind of man who 
 comes to Keighley once a year, and al- 
 ways comes to the factory to ask how 
 things are going. 
 
 Yes, Mr. Nicholls' first wife died years 
 and years ago. She used to write things 
 — novels ; but no one should read novels ; 
 novels are stories that are not so — things 
 that never happened ; they tell of folks 
 that never was. 
 
 Having no argument to present in way 
 of rebuttal, I shook hands with the old 
 man and started away. He walked with 
 me to the road to put me on the right 
 way to Haworth. Looking back as I 
 reached the corner, I saw four " clarks" 
 129
 
 Cbarlotte JBronte 
 
 watching me intently from the office 
 windows, and from above the roar and 
 jangle of machinery was borne on the 
 summer breeze the sound of sacred song 
 — shrill feminine voices : 
 
 " Aws ut wuz in th' beginnin', uz now 
 awn ever shawl be, worl' wi'out end — 
 Aamen ! " 
 
 T3°
 
 ni. 
 
 AS one moves out of Keighley the 
 country becomes stony ; the trees 
 are left behind, and there rise on 
 all sides billow on billow of purple heath- 
 er. The way is rough as the Pilgrim's 
 Progress road to Paradise. These hillside 
 moors are filled with springs that high up 
 form rills, then brooks, then cascades or 
 " becks," and along the Haworth road, 
 wherever one of these hurrying, scurry- 
 ing, dancing -becks crosses the highway, 
 there is a factory devoted to keeping 
 alive the name of Cardigan. Next to the 
 factory is a " pub.," and publics and 
 factories checker themselves all along 
 the route. Mixed in with these are long 
 rows of tenement houses well built of 
 stone, and slate roofs, but with a grimy 
 air of desolation about them that surely
 
 Cbarlotte JSronte 
 
 drives their occupants to drink. To have 
 a home a man must build it himself. 
 Forty houses in a row, all alike, are not 
 homes at all. 
 
 I believe an observant man once wrote 
 of the hand being subdued to what it 
 works in. The man who wrote that 
 surely never tramped along the Haworth 
 road as the bell rang for twelve o'clock. 
 From out the factories poured a motley 
 mob of men, women, and children, not 
 only with hands dyed, but clothing, faces, 
 and heads as well. Girls with bright 
 green hair, and lemon-colored faces, 
 leered and jeered at me as they hastened 
 pell-mell with hats askew, and stockings 
 down, and dragging shawls, for home or 
 public house. Red and maroon children 
 ran, and bright scarlet men smoked stol- 
 idly, taking their time with genuine 
 grim Yorkshire sullen sourness. 
 
 " How far is it to Haworth ? " I asked 
 one such specimen. 
 
 " Ef ye pay th' siller for a double pot 
 a' 'arf and 'arf, hi might tell ye " ; and 
 132
 
 Cbarlotte JBronte 
 
 he jerked his thumb over his shoulder 
 toward a gin-shop near by. 
 
 " Very well," said I, "I '11 buy you a 
 double pot of 'arf and 'arf, this time." 
 
 The man seemed a bit surprised but no 
 smile came over his spattered rainbow 
 face as he led the way into the drink- 
 shop. The place was crowded with men 
 and women scrambling for penny sand- 
 wiches and drinks fermented and spirit- 
 ous. Some of these women had babies at 
 their breasts, the babies being brought 
 by appointment by older children who 
 stayed at home while the mothers worked. 
 And as the mothers gulped their triple 
 XXX, and swallowed hunks of black 
 bread, the little innocents dined. The 
 mothers were rather kindly disposed, 
 though, and occasionally allowed the 
 youngsters to take sips out of their foam- 
 ing glasses, or at least to drain them. 
 Suddenly a woman with purple hair spied 
 me out and called in falsetto : 
 
 " Ah, Sawndy McClure has caught a 
 
 133
 
 Cbarlotte JBronte 
 
 gen'l'mou. Why did n't I see 'im fust 
 an' 'arve 'im fer a pet? " 
 
 There was a guffaw at my expense and 
 'arf and 'arf as well, for all the party, or 
 else quarrel. As it was, my stout stick 
 probably saved me from the "personal 
 touch." I stayed until the factory bells 
 rang, and out my new-found friends scur- 
 ried for fear of being the fatal five min- 
 utes late and getting locked out. Some 
 of them shook my hand as they went 
 and others pounded me on the back for 
 luck, and several of the girls got my tag 
 and shouted " You 're it ! " 
 
 I used to think that Yorkshire folks 
 were hopelessly dull and sublimely 
 stupid; quarrelsome withal and pigheaded 
 to the thirty-second degree, but I have 
 partially come to the conclusion that their 
 glum ways often conceal a peculiar kind 
 of grim humor and beneath the tough 
 husk is considerable good nature. 
 
 The absence of large trees make it pos- 
 sible to see the village of Haworth several 
 miles away. It seems to cling to the 
 134
 
 Cbarlotte JSronte 
 
 stony hillside as if it feared being blown 
 into space. There is a hurrying, rushing 
 rill here, too, that turns a little woollen 
 mill. Then there is a "Black Bull" 
 tavern, with a stable }'ard at the side and 
 rows of houses on the one street, all very 
 straight up and down. One misses the 
 climbing roses of ideal merry England, 
 and the soft turf and spreading yews and 
 the flowering hedge-rows where throstles 
 and linnets play hide-and-seek the live- 
 long day. It is all cold grey stone, lichen 
 covered, and the houses do not invite 
 you to enter and the gardens bid no wel- 
 come, and only the great purple wastes 
 of moorland greet you as a friend and 
 brother. 
 
 Outside the Black Bull sits a solitary 
 hostler who feels it would be a weakness 
 to show any good humor. So he bottles 
 his curiosity and scowls from under red 
 bushy eyebrows. 
 
 Turning off the main street is a narrow 
 road leading to the church — square and 
 grey and cold. Next to it is the parson- 
 i35
 
 Cbarlotte JBronte 
 
 age, built of the same material, and be- 
 yond is the crowded city of tbe dead. 
 
 I plied the knocker at the parsonage 
 door and asked for the rector. He was 
 away at Kendal to attend a funeral, but his 
 wife was at home — a pleasant matronly 
 woman of near sixty with smooth white 
 hair. She came to the door knitting 
 furiously but from her regulation smile I 
 saw that visitors were not uncommon. 
 
 "You want to see the home of the 
 Brontes. That 's right, come right in. 
 This was the study of the Rev. Patrick 
 Bronte, Incumbent of this Parish for fifty 
 years. »»••.• 
 
 She sang her little song and knitted 
 and shifted the needles and measured the 
 foot, for the stocking was nearly done. 
 It was a blue stocking (although she 
 was n't) with a white toe ; and all the 
 time she led me from room to room tell- 
 ing me about the Brontes — how there 
 was the father, mother, and six children . 
 They all came together. The mother 
 died shortly and then two of the little 
 136
 
 Cbarlotte ftronte 
 
 girls died. That left three girls and 
 Branwell the boy. He was petted and 
 made too much of by his father and 
 everybody. He was the one that always 
 was going to do great things. He made 
 the girls wait on him and cuffed them if 
 they did n't, and if they did, and all the 
 time told of the things he was going to 
 do. But he never did them, for he spent 
 most of his time at the taverns. After a 
 while he died— died of the tremens. 
 
 The three Bronte girls, Emily, Char- 
 lotte, and Annie, wrote a novel apiece, and 
 never showed them to their father or any 
 one. They called 'emselves Currer, Ellis, 
 and Acton Bell, and their novels were the 
 greatest ever written — they wrote them 
 'emselves with no man to help. Their 
 father was awful mad about it, but when 
 the money began to come in he felt better. 
 Emily died when she was twenty-seven. 
 She was the brightest of them all ; then 
 Annie died and only Charlotte and the 
 old man were left. Charlotte married 
 her father's curate, but old Mr. Bronte 
 137
 
 Cbarlotte JBront^ 
 
 would n't go to the wedding : he went to 
 the Black Bull instead. Miss Wooler gave 
 the bride away — some one had to give her 
 away, you know. The bride was thirty- 
 eight. She died in less than a year, and 
 old Mr. Bronte and Charlotte's husband 
 lived here alone together. 
 
 This was Charlotte's room, this is the 
 desk where she wrote Jane Eyre — least- 
 wise they say it is. This is the chair she 
 sat in, and under that framed glass are 
 several sheets of her manuscript. The 
 writing is almost too small to read ; and 
 so fine and yet so perfect and neat ! She 
 was a wonderful tidy body, very small 
 and delicate and gentle, yet with a good 
 deal of her father's energy. 
 
 Here are letters she wrote : you can 
 look at them if you choose. This foot- 
 stool she made and covered herself. It is 
 filled with heather blossoms— just as she 
 left it. Those books were hers too— many 
 of them given to her by great authors. 
 See, there is Thackeray's name written by 
 himself and a letter from him pasted in- 
 138
 
 Cbarlotte JSronte 
 
 side the front cover. He was a big man 
 they say but he wrote very small, and 
 Charlotte wrote just like him, ouly better, 
 and now there are hundreds of folks write 
 like 'em both. Then here 's a book with 
 Miss Martiueau's name, and another from 
 Robert Browning — do you know who he 
 was? 
 
 Yes, the church is always open. Go 
 in and stay as long as you choose ; at the 
 door is a poor box and if you wish to put 
 something in you can do so — a sixpence 
 most visitors put in, or a shilling if you 
 insist on it. You know we are not a 
 rich parish — the wool all goes to Man- 
 chester now and the factory hands are 
 on half pay and times are scarce. You 
 will come again sometime, come when 
 the heather is in bloom, won't you ? 
 That 's right. Oh, stay ! the boxwood 
 there in the garden was planted by Char- 
 lotte's own hands — perhaps you would 
 like a sprig of it — there, I thought you 
 would ! 
 
 139
 
 IV. 
 
 ALL who write concerning the 
 Brontes dwell on the sadness and 
 the tragedy of their lives. They 
 picture Charlotte's earth-journey as one 
 devoid of happiness, lacking all that 
 sweetens and makes for satisfaction. 
 They forget that she wrote Jane Eyre 
 and that no person utterly miserable ever 
 did a great work, and I assume that they 
 know not of the wild, splendid, intoxi- 
 cating joy that follows a performance 
 well done. To be sure Jane Eyre is a 
 tragedy, but the author of a tragedy must 
 be greater than the plot — greater than 
 his puppets. He is their creator and his 
 life runs through and pervades theirs just 
 as the life of our Creator flows through 
 us. In Him we live and move and 
 have our being. And I submit that the 
 140
 
 Charlotte JBronte 
 
 writer of a tragedy is not east down or 
 undone at the time he pictures his heroic 
 situations and conjures forth his strut- 
 ting spirits. When the play ends and the 
 curtain falls on the fifth act there is still 
 one man alive and that is the author. He 
 may be gorged with crime and surfeited 
 with blood but there is a surging exulta- 
 tion in his veins as he views the ruin that 
 his brain has wrought. 
 
 Charlotte loved the great stretch of 
 purple moors, hill on hill fading away 
 into eternal mist. And the wild winds 
 that sighed and moaned at casements or 
 raged in sullen wrath, tugging at the roof, 
 were her friends. She loved them all 
 and thought of them as visiting spirits. 
 They were her proper ties, and no writer 
 who ever lived has made such splendid 
 use of winds and storm-clouds and driv- 
 ing rain as did Charlotte Bronte. Peo- 
 ple who point to the chasing angry clouds 
 and the swish of dripping rose bushes 
 blown against the cottage windows as 
 proof of Charlotte Bronte's chronic de-
 
 Cbarlottc Bronte 
 
 pression know not the eager joy of a storm 
 walk. And I am sure they never did as 
 one I know did last night : saddle a horse 
 at ten o'clock and gallop away into the 
 darkness ; splash, splash in the sighing, 
 moaning, bellowing, driving November 
 rain. There 's joy for you ! ye who toast 
 your feet on the fender and cultivate sick 
 headache around the base burner — there 's 
 a life that ye never guess ! 
 
 But Charlotte knew the clouds by night 
 and the swift-sailing moon that gave just 
 one peep out and disappeared. She knew 
 the rifts where the stars shone through, 
 and out alone in the breeze that blew 
 away her cares she lifted her voice in 
 thankfulness for the joy of mixing with 
 the elements, and that her spirit was one 
 with the boisterous winds of heaven. 
 
 People who live in beautiful quiet val- 
 leys, where roses bloom all the year 
 through are not necessarily happy. 
 Southern California — the Garden of 
 Eden of the world — evolves just as many 
 cases per capita of melancholia as bleak, 
 142
 
 Charlotte JBrontc 
 
 barren Maine. Wild, rocky, forbidding 
 Scotland has produced more genius to 
 the acre than beautiful England : and I 
 have found that sailor Jack, facing the 
 North Atlantic winter storms, year after 
 year, is a deal jollier companion than the 
 Florida cracker whose chief adversary is 
 mosquitos. 
 
 Charlotte Bronte wrote three great 
 books, Jane Eyre, Shirley, and Villette. 
 From the lonely, bleak parsonage on that 
 stony hillside she sent forth her swaying 
 filament of thought and lassoed the world. 
 She lived to know that she had won. 
 Money came to her, all she needed, hon- 
 ors, friends, and lavish praise. She was 
 the foremost woman author of her day. 
 Her name was on every tongue. She had 
 met the world in fair fight ; without pa- 
 trons, paid advocates, or influential friends 
 she made her way 10 the very front. Her 
 genius was acknowledged. She accom- 
 plished all that she set out to do and 
 more — far more. The great, the learned, 
 the titled, the proud ; all those who rev- 
 143
 
 Charlotte Bronte 
 
 erence the tender heart and far-reaching 
 mind acknowledged her as queen. 
 
 So why prate of her sorrows ! did she 
 not work them up into art ? Why weep 
 over her troubles when these were the 
 weapons with which she won ? Why sit 
 in sackcloth on account of her early death 
 when it is appointed of all men once to 
 die, and with her the grave was swallowed 
 up in victory ! 
 
 144
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTL 
 
 145
 
 My life is but a working day. 
 Whose tasks are set aright : 
 A while to work, a while to pray, 
 And then a quiet night. 
 And then, please God, a quiet night 
 Where Saints and Angels walk in white . 
 One dreamless sleep from work and sorrow, 
 But re-awakening on the morrow. 
 
 In Patience. 
 
 I 4 6
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI.
 
 CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. 
 
 AS a study in heredity, the Rossetti 
 family is most interesting. Ge- 
 nius seems so sporadic a stuff 
 that "vhen we find an outcrop along the 
 line of a whole family we are wont to 
 mark it on memory's chart in red. We 
 talk of the Herschels, of Renan and his 
 sister, of the Beechers, and the Fields, in 
 a sort of awe, mindful that Nature is par- 
 simonious in giving out transcendent tal- 
 ent and may never do the like again. So 
 who can forget the Rossettis — two broth- 
 ers, Dante Gabriel and William Michael 
 — and two sisters, Maria and Christina 
 — each of whom stands forth as far above 
 the ordinary, yet all strangely dependent 
 on one another ? 
 
 147
 
 Cbristina Iftossettt 
 
 The girls sing songs to the brothers, 
 and to each other, inscribing poems to 
 " rny loving sister " ; when Dante Ga- 
 briel, budding forth as artist, wishes 
 a model for a Madonna, he chooses 
 his sister Christina, and in his sketch 
 mantles the plain features with a divine 
 gentleness and heavenly splendor such 
 as only the loving heart can conjure 
 forth. In the last illness of Maria, 
 Christina watches away the long, lag- 
 ging hours of night, almost striving with 
 her brothers for the right of serving ; 
 and at Birchington-on-the-Sea, Dante 
 Gabriel waits for death, wearing out his 
 friends by insane suspicions, and only 
 the sister seems equal to ministering 
 to this mind diseased, plucking from 
 memory its rooted sorrow. 
 
 In a few years Christina passes out 
 and of the four, only William is left ; 
 and the task of his remaining years is to 
 put properly before the world the death- 
 less lives of his brother and sisters gone. 
 
 Gabriel Rossetti, father of the illustri- 
 148
 
 Cbristina TCossettf 
 
 ous four, was an Italian poet who wrote 
 patriotic hymns, and wrote them so well 
 that he was asked to sing them elsewhere 
 than in Italy. This edict of banishment 
 was followed by an order that the poet 
 be arrested and executed. The orders 
 of banishment and execution appear 
 quite Milesian viewed across the years, 
 but to Rossetti it was no joke. To keep 
 his head in its proper place and to pre- 
 serve his soul alive he departed one dark 
 night for England. He arrived penni- 
 less, with no luggage save his lyre, but 
 with muse intact. Yet it was an Italian 
 lyre, and therefore of small avail for 
 amusing Britons. Very naturally Ros- 
 setti made the acquaintance of other 
 refugees, and exile makes fast friends. 
 It is only in prosperity that we throw 
 our friends overboard. 
 
 He came to know the Polidori family 
 —Tuscan refugees — proud, intellectual, 
 and rich. He loved one of the daugh- 
 ters of Seignior Polidori, and she loved 
 him. He was forty and she was twenty- 
 149
 
 Cbristina "Rogsetti 
 
 three — but what of that ! A position 
 as Professor of Languages was secured 
 for him in King's College. He rented 
 the house No. 38 Charlotte Street, off 
 Portland Place, and there, on Febru- 
 ary 17, 1827, was born their first child, 
 Maria Francesca ; on May 12, 1828, was 
 born Dante Gabriel ; on September 25, 
 
 1829, William Michael ; on December 5, 
 
 1830, Christina Georgiana. The mother 
 of this quartette was a sturdy little 
 woman with a sparkling wit and rare 
 good sense. She used to remark that 
 her children were all of a size, and that 
 it was no more trouble to bring up 
 four than one, a suggestion thrown in 
 here gratis for the benefit of young mar- 
 ried folks in the hope that they will mark 
 and inwardly digest. In point of well- 
 ballasted, all 'round character, fit for 
 earth or heaven, none of the four Ros- 
 setti children was equal to his parents. 
 They all seem to have had nerves out- 
 side of their clothes. Perhaps this was 
 because they were brought up in I<on- 
 
 150
 
 Cbristina "Rossetti 
 
 don. A city is no place for children — 
 nor grown people either, I often think. 
 Birds and children belong in the coun- 
 try. Paved streets, stone sidewalks, 
 smoke-begrimed houses, signs reading 
 "Keep off the grass," prying policemen, 
 and zealous ash-box inspectors are in- 
 sulting things to greet the gaze of the 
 little immigrants fresh from God. Small 
 wonder is it, as they grow up, that they 
 take to drink and drugs, seeking in these 
 a respite from the rattle of wheels and 
 the never-ending cramp of unkind con- 
 dition. But Nature understands herself: 
 the second generation, city-bred, is im- 
 potent. 
 
 No pilgrim from "the States" should 
 visit the city of London without carry- 
 ing two books : a Baedeker's London 
 and Hutton's Literary Landmarks. The 
 chief advantage of the former is that it is 
 bound in flaming red, and carried in the 
 hand advertises the owner as an Ameri- 
 can, thus saving all formal introductions. 
 In the rustle, bustle, and tussle of Fleet 
 151
 
 Christina IRo&setti 
 
 Street, I have held up my book to a party 
 of Americans on the opposite sidewalk, 
 as a ship runs up her colors, and they 
 seeing the sign, in turn held up theirs in 
 merry greeting ; and we passed on our 
 way without a word, ships that pass in 
 the afternoon and greet each other in 
 passing. Now I have no desire to rival 
 the flamboyant Baedeker, nor to eclipse 
 my good friend Mr. Laurence Hutton. 
 But as I cannot find that either mentions 
 the name " Rossetti" I am going to set 
 down (not in malice) the places in Lon- 
 don that are closely connected with the 
 Rossetti family, nothing extenuating. 
 
 London is the finest city in the world 
 for the tourist who desires liberty as 
 wide as the wind, and who wishes to live 
 cheaply and live well. In New York, if 
 you want lodgings at a moderate price, 
 you must throttle your pride and forsake 
 respectability ; but they do things dif- 
 ferently in Lunnon, you know. From 
 Gray's Inn Road to Portland Place, and 
 from Oxford Street to Euston Road, there 
 152
 
 tfbristina IRcsscttt 
 
 is just about a square mile — a section, as 
 they say out West — of lodging-houses. 
 Once this part of London was given up 
 to the homes of the great and purse- 
 proud and all that. It is respectable yet, 
 and if you are going to be in London a 
 week you can get a good room in one 
 of these old-time mansions, and pay no 
 more for it than you would pay for a 
 room in an American hotel for one day. 
 And as for meals, your landlady will get 
 you anything you want and serve it for 
 you in the daintiest style, and you will 
 also find that a shilling and a little cour- 
 tesy will go a very long way in securing 
 creature comforts. American women in 
 London can live in this way just as well 
 as men. If you are a school ma'am from 
 Peoria, taking your vacation, follow my 
 advice and make your home in the " Bed- 
 ford District," within easy reach of Stop- 
 ford Brooke's chapel, and your London 
 visit will stand out forever as a bright 
 oasis in memory's desert waste. All of 
 which I put in here because Larry Hut- 
 153
 
 Cbrtstina IRossettf 
 
 ton forgot to mention it and Mein Herr 
 Baedeker did n't think it worth while. 
 
 When in London I usually get a room 
 near the British Museum for ten shil- 
 lings a week ; and when I want to go 
 anywhere I walk up to the Gower Street 
 Station, past the house where the mother 
 of Charles Dickens had her Young La- 
 dies' Establishment, and buying a ticket 
 at the "Booking-Office" am duly set 
 down near the desired objective point. 
 You can go anywhere by the " Metro- 
 politan," or if you prefer to take Mr. 
 Gladstone's advice, you climb to the top 
 of an Oxford Street bus, and if you sit 
 next the driver you have a directory, 
 guide, and familiar friend all at your ser- 
 vice. 
 
 Charlotte Street is a narrow little pas- 
 sage running just two squares, parallel 
 with Portland Place. The houses are 
 built in blocks of five (or more), of the 
 plainest of plain bricks. The location 
 is not far from the Gower Street Station 
 of the Metropolitan Railway, and only a 
 154
 
 Cbristfna IRossettl 
 
 few minutes' walk from the British Mu- 
 seum. Number 38 is the last but one on 
 the east side of the street. When I first 
 saw it there was a sign in the window, 
 "Apartments," and back of this fresh 
 cambric curtains. Then the window had 
 been cleaned, too, for a siugle day of neg- 
 lect in London tells its tale, as does 
 the record of crime on a rogue's face. I 
 paused and looked the place over with 
 interest. I noted that the brass plate 
 with the " No. 38" on it had been pol- 
 ished until it had been nearly polished 
 out of sight, like a machine-made sonnet 
 too much gone over. The steps had 
 been freshly sanded, and a little lemon- 
 tree nodding in one of the windows made 
 the rusty old house look quite inviting. 
 A stout little woman, with a big market- 
 basket, bumped into me and apologized. 
 It was I who should have apologized, for 
 I had stepped backwards to get a better 
 look at the upstairs windows. The stout 
 little woman set down her basket on the 
 steps, took a bunch of keys from a pocket 
 155
 
 Cbrtstina IRossetti 
 
 under her big white starched apron, se- 
 lected one, turned to me, smiled, and 
 asked: " Mebbe, Sir, you wasn't look- 
 ing for apartments, I dunno?" Then 
 she explained that the house was hers, 
 and that if I would step in she would 
 show me the rooms. There were two of 
 'em she could spare. The first floor front 
 was already let, and so was the front par- 
 lor — to a young barrister. Her husband 
 was a ticket taker at Eustou Station, and 
 did n't get much since last cut-down. 
 Would I care to pay as much as ten shil- 
 lings, and would I want breakfast? It 
 would only be ninepence, and I could 
 have either a chop or ham and eggs. 
 She looked after her boarders herself, 
 just as if they were her own folks, and 
 only took respectable single gentlemen 
 who came well recommended. She knew 
 I would like the room, and if ten shil- 
 lings was too much I could have the 
 back room for seven and six. 
 
 I thought the back room would answer ; 
 but explained that I was an American 
 156
 
 Cbdetina "Kcssettf 
 
 and was going to remain in London only 
 a short time. Of course the lady knew I 
 was an American, she knew it from my 
 hat and from my foreign accent and— 
 from the red book I had in my hand. 
 And did I know the Mclntyres that 
 lived in Michigan ? 
 
 I evaded the question by asking if she 
 knew the Rossettis who once lived in 
 this house. " Oh, yes, I know Mr. Will- 
 iam and Miss Christina. They came 
 here together a year ago, and told me 
 they were born here and that their brother 
 Dante and their sister too were born here. 
 I think they were all writin' folks, were 
 n't they ? Miss Rossetti anyway writes 
 poetry, I know that. One of my boarders 
 gave me one of her books for Christmas. 
 I '11 show it to you. You don't think 
 seven and six is too much for a room like 
 that, do you? " 
 
 I inwardly noted that the ceilings were 
 
 much lower than those of my room in 
 
 Russell .Square and that the furniture was 
 
 old and worn and that the room looked 
 
 157
 
 Christina "IRossetti 
 
 out on an army of sooty chimney pots, 
 but I explained that seven and six seemed 
 a very reasonable price, and that nine 
 pence for breakfast with ham and eggs 
 was cheap enough, provided the eggs 
 were strictly fresh. 
 
 So I paid one week's rent in advance on 
 the spot, and going back to Russell Square 
 told my landlady that I had found friends 
 in another part of the city and would not 
 return for two days. My sojourn at No. 
 38 Charlotte Street developed nothing 
 further than the meagre satisfaction of 
 sleeping for two nights in the room in 
 which Dante Gabriel Rossetti was born, 
 and making the acquaintance of the 
 worthy ticket taker who knew all four 
 of the Rossettis, as they had often passed 
 through his gate. 
 
 Professor Rossetti lived for twelve 
 3'ears at No. 38 Charlotte Street ; he then 
 moved to No. 50 in the next block, which 
 is a somewhat larger house. It was here 
 that Mazzini used to come. The house 
 has been made over somewhat and is now 
 158
 
 Cbristina IRossettf 
 
 used as an office by the Registrar of Vital 
 Statistics. This is the place where Dante 
 Gabriel and a young man named Holtnan 
 Hunt had a studio, and where another 
 young artist by the name of William 
 Morris came to visit them ; and here was 
 born The Germ, that queer little chip- 
 munk magazine in which first appeared 
 Hand and Soul and The Blessed Damo- 
 zcl, written by Dante Gabriel when eigh- 
 teen, the same age at which Bryant wrote 
 Thanatopsis. William Bell Scott used to 
 come here too. Scott was a great man in 
 his day. He had no hair on his head or 
 face, not even eyebrows. Every follicle 
 had grown aweary and quit. But Mr. 
 Scott was quite vain of the shape of his 
 head, for well he might be, since several 
 choice sonnets had been combed out of 
 it. Sometimes when the wine went round 
 and things grew merry, then sentimental, 
 then confidential, Scott would snatch off 
 his wig to display to the company his 
 fine phrenological development, and tell 
 a story about Nelson who too used to 
 159
 
 Christina IRcssetti 
 
 wear a wig just like his and after every 
 battle would take it off and hand it over 
 to his valet to have the bullets combed 
 out of it. 
 
 The elder Rossetti died in this house 
 and was carried to Christ Church in Wo- 
 burn Square, and thence to Highgate. 
 His excellent wife waited to see the genius 
 of her children blossom and acknowl- 
 edged. She followed thirty years later 
 and was buried in the same grave with 
 her husband, where later Christina was 
 to join them. 
 
 Frances Mary Polidori was born at 42 
 Broad Street, Golden Square, the same 
 street in which William Blake was born. 
 I found the street and found Golden 
 Square but could not locate the house. 
 The policeman on the beat declared that 
 no one by the name of Rossetti or Blake 
 was in business thereabouts ; and further 
 he never heard of Polly Dory. 
 
 William Michael Rossetti's home is one 
 iu a row of houses called St. Edmund's 
 Terrace. It is near the St. John's Road 
 160
 
 Gbrtetma IRossettf 
 
 Station, just a step from Regent's Park, 
 and faces the Middlesex Water Works. 
 It is a fine old house, built of stone I 
 should judge, stuccoed on the outside. 
 With a well-known critic I called there, 
 and found the master wearing a long 
 dressing-gown that came to his heels, a 
 pair of new carpet slippers and a black 
 plush cap, all so dusty that we guessed the 
 owner had been sifting ashes in the cellar. 
 He was most courteous and polite. He 
 worships at the shrine of Whitman, 
 Kmerson, and Thoreau, and regards Amer- 
 ica as the spot from whence must come 
 the world's intellectual hope. "Great 
 thoughts, like beautiful flowers, are pro- 
 duced by transplantation and the com- 
 mingling of many elements." These are 
 his words, and the fact that the Rossetti 
 genius is the result of transplanting need 
 not weigh in the scale as 'gainst the 
 truth of the remark. Shortly after this 
 call, at an Art Exhibition, I again met 
 William Michael Rossetti. I talked with 
 him some moments — long enough to dis- 
 161
 
 Gbristina tRoseettf 
 
 cover that be was not aware we had ever 
 met. This caused me to be rather less 
 in love with the Rossetti genius than I 
 was before. 
 
 The wife of Dante Gabriel Rossetti 
 died, aged twenty-nine, at 14 Chatham 
 Place, near Blackfriars Bridge. The re- 
 gion thereabouts has been changed by the 
 march of commerce, and if the original 
 house where the artist lived yet stands I 
 could not find it. It was here that the 
 Pre-Raphaelites made history — Madox 
 Brown, Burne-Jones, Ruskin, William 
 Morris, and the MacDonalds. Burne- 
 Jones married one of the MacDonald 
 daughters ; Mr. Poynter, now Director 
 of the National Gallery, another ; Mr. 
 Kipling still another — with Rudyard 
 Kipling as a result, followed in due 
 course by Mulvaney, Ortheris, and L,ea- 
 royd who are quite as immortal as the 
 rest. 
 
 At this time Professor Rossetti was 
 dead, and William Michael, Marie, Chris- 
 tina, and the widowed mother were living 
 162
 
 Cbristina IRossetti 
 
 at 166 Albany Street, fighting off various 
 hungry wolves that crouched around the 
 door. Albany Street is rather shabby 
 now, and was then, I suppose. At 112 
 Albany Street lives one Dixon who 
 takes marvellous photographs of animals 
 in the Zoological Gardens, with a pocket 
 camera, and then enlarges the pictures a 
 hundred times. These pictures go the 
 round world over and command big 
 prices. Mr. Dixon was taking for me, at 
 the National Gallery, the negatives from 
 which I made photogravures for my 
 Ruskin-Turner book. Mr. Dixon knows 
 more in an artistic and literary way than 
 any man in London (I believe), but he is 
 a modest gentleman and only emits his 
 facts under cross-examination or under 
 the spell of inspiration. Together we 
 visited the house 166 Albany Street. 
 
 It was vacant at the time and we rum- 
 maged through every room, with the 
 result that we concluded it makes very 
 little difference where genius is housed. 
 On one of the windows of a little bed- 
 163
 
 Christina IRogsettf 
 
 room we found the word "Christina" 
 cut with a diamond. When and by 
 whom it was done I do not know. 
 Surely the Rossettis had no diamonds 
 when they lived here. But Mr. Dixon 
 had a diamond and with his ring he cut 
 beneath the word just noted the name, 
 "Dante Gabriel Rossetti." I have re- 
 cently heard that the signature has been 
 identified as authentic by a man who 
 was familiar with the Rossettis' hand- 
 writing. 
 
 When tbe firm of Morris & Co., 
 Dealers in Art Fabrics, was gotten under 
 weigh, and Dante Gabriel had ceased to 
 argue details with that pre-eminently 
 sane man, William Morris, his finances 
 began to prosper. Morris directed and 
 utilized the energies of his partners. He 
 marshalled their virtues into a solid 
 phalanx and marched them on to victory. 
 No doubt but that genius usually requires 
 a keeper. But Morris was a genius him- 
 self and a giant in more ways than one, 
 for he ruled his own spirit, thus proving 
 164
 
 Cbrtstina "Rossettt 
 
 himself greater than one who taketh a 
 city. 
 
 In 1862, we find Dante Gabriel throw- 
 ing out the fact that his income was 
 equal to about ten thousand dollars a 
 year. He took the beautiful house No. 
 18 Cheyne Walk, Chelsea, near the little 
 street where lived a Scotchman by the 
 name of Thomas Carlyle, and iu the 
 same block where afterwards lived George 
 Eliot, and where she died. He wanted 
 his brother and sisters and his mother to 
 share his prosperity, and so he planned 
 that they should all come and live with 
 him ; and besides, Mr. Swinburne and 
 Mr. George Meredith were to come too. 
 It was to be one big happy family. But 
 the good old mother knew the human 
 heart better than her brilliant sou. She 
 has left on record these words: "Yes, 
 my children all have talent, great talent ; 
 I only wish they had a little common 
 sense ! " 
 
 So for the present she remained with 
 William, her daughters, and her two aged 
 165
 
 Cbristina IRossettf 
 
 unmarried sisters in the plain old house 
 in Albany Street. But Dante Gabriel 
 moved to Cheyne Walk, and began that 
 craze for collecting blue china that has 
 swept like a blight over the civilized 
 world. His collection was sold for $3,- 
 500.00 some years after — to pay his debts 
 — less than one half of what it cost him. 
 Yet when he had money he generously 
 divided it with the folks up in Albany 
 Street. But by and by William, too, got 
 to making money and the quarters at 
 No. 166 were abandoned for something 
 better. 
 
 William was married and had taken a 
 house of his own, I don't know where. 
 The rest of the household consisted of 
 the widow, Mrs. Rossetti, Miss Charlotte 
 Lydia Polidori, Miss Eliza Harriet Poli- 
 dori, Maria, and Christina — and seven 
 cats. And so we find this family of five 
 women living in peace and comfort with 
 their books and pictures and cats at No. 
 3oTorringtou Square in a drowsy, faded, 
 ebb-tide mansion. Maria was never 
 166
 
 Cbrtetfna IRossettf 
 
 strong ; she fell into a decline and passed 
 away. The management of the house- 
 hold then devolved on Christina. Her 
 burdens must have been heavy in those 
 days, or did she make them light by 
 cheerful doing ? She gave up society, 
 refused the thought of marriage and 
 joined that unorganized sisterhood of 
 mercy — the women who toil that others 
 may live. But she sang at her work, as 
 the womanly woman ever does. For al- 
 though a woman may hold no babe in her 
 arms, the lullaby leaps to her tongue, and 
 at eventide she sings songs to the chil- 
 dren of her brain — sweet idealization of 
 the principle of mother-love. 
 
 Christina Rossetti comes to us as one 
 of those splendid stars that are so far 
 away they are seen only at rare intervals. 
 She never posed as a " literary person " 
 — reading her productions at four- 
 o'clocks and winning high praise from 
 the unbonneted, and the discerning so- 
 ciety editor. She never even sought a 
 publisher. Her first volume of verses 
 i6 7
 
 Cbrfstina IRosscttf 
 
 was issued by her grandfather Polidori 
 unknown to her — printed by his own 
 labor when she was seventeen and pre- 
 sented to her. What a surprise it must 
 have been to this gentle girl to have one 
 of her own books placed in her hands ! 
 There seems to have been an almost holy 
 love in this proud man's heart for his 
 granddaughter. His love was blind, or 
 near-sighted at least, as love is apt to be 
 (and I am glad !) for some of the poems 
 in this little volume are sorry stuff. 
 Later, her brothers issued her work and 
 found market for it ; and once we find 
 Dante Gabriel almost quarrelling with 
 that worthy Manxman, Hall Caine, be- 
 cause the Manxman was compiling a 
 volume of the best English sonnets and 
 threatening to leave Christina Rossetti 
 out. 
 
 Christina had the faculty of seizing 
 beautiful moments, exalted feelings, sub- 
 lime emotions and working them up into 
 limpid song that comes echoing to us as 
 from across soft seas. In all of her lines 
 if>8
 
 Cbrfstina IRossettf 
 
 there is a half sobbing undertone — the 
 sweet minor chord that is ever present in 
 the songs of the Choir Invisible, whose 
 music is the gladness as well as the sad- 
 ness of the world. 
 
 I have a dear friend who is an amateur 
 photographic artist, which be it known 
 is quite a different thing from a kodak 
 fiend. The latter is continually snap- 
 ping a machine at incongruous things ; 
 he delights in catching people in absurd 
 postures ; he pictures the foolish, the ir- 
 relevant, the transient and the needless. 
 But what does my friend picture ? I '11 
 tell you. He catches pictures only of 
 beautiful objects : swaying stalks of 
 goldenrod, flights of thistle-down, lichen 
 on old stone walls, barks of trees, oak 
 leaves, bunches of acorns, single sprays 
 of apple-blossoms. Last spring he found 
 two robins building a nest in a cherry 
 tree : he placed his camera near them, 
 and attaching a fine wire to spring 
 the shutter, took a picture of Mr. and 
 Mrs. Robin-red-breast laying down the 
 169
 
 Cbristina IRosgettt 
 
 first coarse straws for their nest. Then 
 he took a picture every day for thirty 
 days of that nest ; from the time four 
 speckled eggs are shown until four wide 
 open mouths are held up hungrily for 
 dainty grubs. This series of photographs 
 forms an Epic of Creation. So if you ask 
 me to solve the question of whether pho- 
 tography is art I '11 answer, it all depends 
 upon what you picture, and how you 
 present it. 
 
 Christina Rossetti focused her thought 
 on the beautiful object and at the best 
 angle, so the picture she brings us is 
 nobly ordered and richly suggestive. 
 
 And so the days passed in study, writ- 
 ing, housework, and caring for old ladies 
 three. Dante Gabriel, talented, lovable, 
 erratic, had gotten into bad ways, as a 
 man will who turns night into day and 
 tries to get the start of God Almighty, 
 thinking he has found a substitute for 
 exercise and oxygen. Finally he was 
 taken to Birchington, on the Isle of 
 Thanet (where Octave found her name). 
 170
 
 Cbristtna "Kosscttt 
 
 He was mentally ill, to a point where he 
 had through his delusions driven away all 
 his old-time friends. Christina, aged fifty- 
 one, and the mother, aged eighty-two, 
 went to take care of him, and they did 
 for him with all the loving tenderness 
 what they might have done for a sick 
 baby ; but with this difference — they had 
 to fight his strength. Yet still there 
 were times when his mind was sweet and 
 gentle as in the days of old ; and toward 
 the last these periods of restful peace in- 
 creased, and there were hours when the 
 brother, sister, and aged mother held 
 sweet converse, almost as when children 
 they were taught at this mother's knee. 
 Dante Gabriel Rossetti died April 9, 1892. 
 His grave is in the old country church- 
 yard at Birchington. 
 
 Two years afterward the mother passed 
 out; in 1890, Eliza Polidori died, aged 
 eighty-seven ; and, in 1893, her sister 
 Charlotte joined her, aged eighty-four. 
 In Christ's Church, Woburn Square, you 
 can see memorial tablets to these fine 
 171
 
 Cbristina IRossetti 
 
 souls, and if you get acquainted with the 
 gentle old rector he will show you a pen- 
 dant star and crescent, set with diamonds, 
 given by the Sultan during the Crimean 
 war, "To Miss Charlotte L,ydia Polidori 
 for distinguished services as Nurse." 
 And he will also show you a silver coin- 
 muuion set marked with the names of 
 these three sisters followed by that of 
 "Christina Georgiana Rossetti." 
 
 And so they all went to their soul's 
 rest and left Christina alone in the big 
 house with its echoing halls — too big by 
 half for its lonely, simple-hearted mis- 
 tress and her pets. She felt that her 
 work was done, and feeling so, the end 
 soon came. She died December 29, 1894 
 — passing from a world that she had never 
 much loved, where she had lived a life 
 of sacrifice, suffering many partings, en- 
 during many pains. Glad to go, rejoic- 
 ing that the end was nigh, and soothed 
 by the thought that beyond lay a Future, 
 she fell asleep. 
 
 172
 
 ROSA BONHEUR. 
 
 173
 
 The boldness of her conceptions is sublime. 
 As a creative Artist I place her first among 
 women, living or dead. And if you ask me why 
 she thus towers above her fellows, by the majesty 
 of her work silencing every detractor, I will say 
 it is because she listens to God, and not to man. 
 She is true to self. 
 
 Victor Hugo. 
 
 174
 
 ROSA BONHEUR. 
 
 WHEN I arrive in Paris I always 
 go first to the Y. M. C. A. head- 
 quarters in the Rue de Treville 
 — that fine building erected and presented 
 to the Association by Banker Stokes of 
 New York. There 's a good table d'hdte 
 dinner there every day for a franc ; then 
 there are bath-rooms and writing- rooms 
 and reading-rooms, and all are yours if you 
 are a stranger. The polite secretary does 
 not look like a Christian : he has a very 
 tight hair-cut, a Van Dyke beard and lists 
 of lodgings that can be had for twenty, fif- 
 teen, or ten francs a week. Or should you 
 be an American Millionaire and be willing 
 175
 
 TRosa JBonbeur 
 
 to pay thirty francs a week the secretary 
 knows a nice Protestant lady who will 
 rent you her front parlor on the first floor 
 and serve you coffee each morning with- 
 out extra charge. 
 
 Not being a millionaire I decided, the 
 last time I was there, on a room at fifteen 
 francs a week on the fourth floor. A 
 bright young fellow was called up, duly 
 introduced, and we started out to inspect 
 the quarters. 
 
 The house we wanted was in a little 
 side street that leads off the Boulevard 
 Montmartre. It was a very narrow and 
 plain little street and I was a bit disap- 
 pointed. Yet it was not a shabby street 
 for there are none such in Paris ; all was 
 neat and clean, and as I caught sight of a 
 bird cage hanging in one of the windows 
 and a basket of ferns in another I was 
 reassured and rang the bell. 
 
 The landlady wore a white cap, a win- 
 ning smile, and a big white apron. A 
 bunch of keys dangling from her belt 
 gave the necessary look of authority. 
 176
 
 IRosa JBonbeur 
 
 She was delighted to see me — everybody 
 is glad to see you in Paris — and she would 
 feel especially honored if I would consent 
 to remain under her roof. She only 
 rented her rooms to those who were sent 
 to her by her friends, and among her few 
 dear friends none were so dear as Mon- 
 sieur ze Secretaire of ze Young Men 
 Christians. 
 
 And so I was shown the room — away 
 up and up and up a dark winding stairway 
 of stone steps with an iron balustrade. 
 It was a room about the size of a large 
 Jordan-Marsh dry goods box. The only 
 thing that tempted me to stay was the 
 fact that the one window was made up 
 of little diamond panes set in leaden sash, 
 and that this window looked out on a 
 little courtway where a dozen palms and 
 as many ferns grew lush and green in 
 green tubs and where in the centre a 
 fountain spurted. So a bargain was 
 struck and the landlady went down stairs 
 to find her husband to send him to the 
 Gare St. Lazare after my luggage. 
 177
 
 "Rosa asonbeur 
 
 What a relief it is to get settled in your 
 own room ! It is home and this is your 
 castle. You can do as you please here ; 
 can I not take miue ease in mine inn ? 
 
 I took off my coat and hung it on the 
 corner of the high bed post of the narrow 
 little bed and hung my collar and cuffs 
 on the floor ; and then leaned out of the 
 window indulging in a drowsy dream of 
 sweet content. 'T was a long dusty ride 
 from Dieppe, but who cares — I was now 
 settled, with rent paid for a week ! 
 
 All around the courtway were flower 
 boxes in the windows ; down below, the 
 fountain cheerfully bubbled and gurgled, 
 and from clear off in the unseen rumbled 
 the traffic of the great city. And coming 
 from somewhere, as I sat there, was the 
 shrill warble of a canary. I looked down 
 and around but could not see the feathered 
 songster, as the novelists always call a 
 bird. Then I followed the advice of the 
 Epworth I,eague and looked up, not 
 down, out, not in, and there directly over 
 my head hung the cage all tied up in 
 i 7 3
 
 IRosa asonbeur 
 
 chiffon (I think it was chiffon). I was 
 surprised, for I felt sure it could not be 
 possible there was a room higher than 
 mine — when I had come up nine stair- 
 ways ! Then I was more surprised, for 
 just as I looked up a woman looked down 
 and our eyes met. We both smiled a 
 foolish smile of surprise ; she dodged in 
 her head and I gazed at the houses oppo- 
 site with an interest quite unnecessary. 
 
 She was not a very young woman, nor 
 very pretty — in fact she was rather plain 
 but when she leaned out to feed her pet 
 and found a man looking up at her she 
 proved her divine femininity beyond 
 cavil. Was there ever a more womanly 
 action? And I said to myself, "She is 
 not handsome but God bless her, she is 
 human ! " 
 
 Details are tiresome — so suffice it to say 
 that next day the bird-cage was lowered 
 that I might divide my apple with Dickie 
 (for Dickie was very fond of apple). On 
 the second day when the cage was lowered 
 I not only fed Dickie but wrote a mes- 
 179
 
 TRosa 36onbeur 
 
 sage on the cuttle-fish. On the third day 
 there was a note twisted in the wires of 
 the cage inviting me up to tea. 
 And I went. 
 
 1 80
 
 II. 
 
 FOUR girls lived up there in one attic 
 room. Two of these girls were 
 Americans, one English and one 
 French. One of the American girls was 
 round and pink and twenty ; the other was 
 older. It was the older one that owned 
 the bird, and invited me up to tea. She 
 met me at the door and we shook hands 
 like old-time friends. I was introduced 
 to the trinity in a dignified manner and 
 we were soon chatting in a way that made 
 Dickie envious and he sang so loudly 
 that one of the girls covered the cage 
 with a black apron. 
 
 With four girls I felt perfectly safe, and 
 as for the girls there was not a shadow 
 of a doubt but that they were safe, for I 
 am a married man. I knew they must 
 be nice girls for they had birds and flower 
 181
 
 •Rosa JBonbeur 
 
 boxes. I knew they had flower boxes for 
 twice it so happened that they sprinkled 
 the flowers while I was leaning out of the 
 window wrapped in reverie. 
 
 This attic was the most curious room I 
 ever saw. It was large — running clear 
 across the house. It had four gable win- 
 dows and the ceiling sloped down on the 
 sides so there was danger of bumping 
 your head if you played pussy-wants- 
 a-corner. Each girl had a window that 
 she called her own, and the chintz cur- 
 tains, made of chiffon (I think it was 
 chiffon) were tied back with different 
 colored ribbons. This big room was di- 
 vided in the centre by a curtain made of 
 gunny-sack stuff and this curtain was 
 covered with pictures such as were never 
 seen on laud or sea. The walls were 
 papered with brown wrapping paper, 
 tacked up with brass-headed nails, and 
 this paper was covered with pictures 
 such as were never seen on sea or land. 
 
 The girls were all art students and 
 when they had nothing else to do they 
 182
 
 •Rosa JBonbcur 
 
 worked on the walls, I imagined, just as 
 the Israelites did in Jerusalem years ago. 
 One half of the attic was studio and this 
 was where the table was set. The other 
 half of the attic had curious chairs and 
 divans and four little iron beds enamelled 
 in white and gold, and each bed was so 
 smoothly made up that I asked what they \ 
 were for. White Pigeon said they were 
 bric-a-brac— that the Attic Philosophers 
 rolled themselves up in the rugs on the 
 floor when they wished to sleep, but I 
 have thought since that White Pigeon 
 was chaffing me. 
 
 White Pigeon was the one I saw that 
 first afternoon when I looked up, not 
 down, out,, not in. She was from White 
 Pigeon, Michigan, and from the very mo- 
 ment I told her I had a cousin living at 
 Coldwater who was a conductor on the 
 Lake Shore, we were as brother and sister. 
 White Pigeon was thirty or thirty-five 
 mebbe ; she had some grey hairs mixed 
 in with the brown and at times there was 
 a tinge of melancholy in her laugh and a 
 183
 
 IRcsa JSonbeur 
 
 sort of half minor key in her voice. I 
 think she had had a Past but I don't know 
 for sure. 
 
 Women under thirty seldom know 
 much, unless Fate has been kind and 
 cuffed them thoroughly, so the little 
 peach-blow Americaine did not interest 
 me. The peach-blow was all gone from 
 White Pigeon's cheek, but she was fairly 
 wise and reasonably good — I 'm certain 
 of that. She called herself a student and 
 spoke of her pictures as " studies," but 
 she had lived in Paris ten years. Peach- 
 blow was her pupil — sent over from Brad- 
 ford, Pennsylvania, where her father was 
 a "producer." White Pigeon told me 
 this after I had drunk five cups of tea 
 and the Anglaise and Soubrette were 
 doing the dishes. Peachblow the while 
 was petulantly taking the color out of a 
 canvas that was a false alarm. 
 
 White Pigeon had copied a Correggio 
 in the Louvre nine years before, and 
 sold the canvas to a rich wagon-maker 
 
 184
 
 IRcsa [Konbeur 
 
 from South Bend. Then orders came 
 from South Bend for six more copies of 
 Iyouvre master-pieces. It took a year to 
 complete the order and brought White 
 Pigeon a thousand dollars. She kept on 
 copying and occasionally received orders 
 from America, and when no orders came 
 pot-boilers were duly done and sent to 
 worthy Hebrews in St. L,ouis who hold 
 annual Art Receptions and sell at auction 
 paintings painted by distinguished artists 
 with unpronounceable names, who send 
 a little of their choice work to St. Louis, 
 because the people in St. Louis appreci- 
 ate really choice things. 
 
 "And the mural decorations — which 
 one of you did those ? " I remarked, as a 
 long pause came stealing in. 
 
 " Did you hear what Mr. Littlejourneys 
 asked?" called White Pigeon to the 
 others. 
 
 "No, what was it? " 
 
 "He wants to know which one of us 
 decorated the walls ! " 
 
 i«5
 
 IRosa JBonbeur 
 
 " Mr. Littlejourneys meant illumined 
 the walls," jerked Peaehblow, over her 
 shoulder. 
 
 Then Anglaise gravely brought a bat- 
 tered box of crayou and told me I must 
 make a picture somewhere on the wall or 
 ceiling — all the pictures were made by 
 visitors — no visitor was ever exempt. 
 
 I took the crayons and made a picture 
 such as was never seen on land or sea. 
 Having thus placed myself on record I 
 began to examine the other decorations. 
 There were heads and faces, and archi- 
 tectural scraps, trees and animals, and 
 bits of landscape and ships that pass 
 in the night. Most of the work was 
 decidedly sketchy, but some of the faces 
 were very good. 
 
 Suddenly my eye spied the form of a 
 sleeping dog, a great shaggy St. Bernard 
 with head outstretched on his paws, 
 sound asleep. I stopped and whistled. 
 
 The girls laughed. 
 
 " It is only the picture of a dog," said 
 Soubrette. 
 
 186
 
 IRosa JScnbeur 
 
 "I know, but you should pay dog-tax 
 on such a picture — did you draw it ? " I 
 asked White Pigeon. 
 
 "Did I! If I could draw like that 
 would I copy pictures in the Louvre? " 
 
 " Well, who drew it ? " 
 
 " Can't you guess ? " 
 
 " Of course I can guess. I am a 
 Yankee — I guess Rosa Bonheur." 
 
 " Well, you have guessed right." 
 
 " Stop joking and tell me who drew 
 the St. Bernard." 
 
 " Madame Rosalie, or Rosa Bonheur, 
 as you call her." 
 
 " But she never came here ! " 
 
 " Yes, she did — once. Soubrette is her 
 great grandniece, or something." 
 
 "Yes, and Madame Bonheur pays my 
 way and keeps me in the Ijcole des 
 Beaux Arts. I 'm not ashamed for Mon- 
 sieur Littlejourneys to know ! " said 
 Soubrette with a pretty pout; "I'm 
 from Lyons, and my mother and Ma- 
 dame Rosalie used to know each other 
 years ago." 
 
 187
 
 IRosa JSonbeur 
 
 "Will Madame Rosalie, as you call 
 her, ever come here agaiu ? " 
 
 " Perhaps." 
 
 "Then I '11 camp right here till she 
 comes ! " 
 
 " You might stay a year and then he 
 disappointed." 
 
 " Then can't we go to see her ? " 
 
 " Never : she does not see visitors." 
 
 " We might go visit her home." mused 
 Soubrette, after a pause. 
 
 " Yes, if she is away," said Auglaise. 
 
 "She's away now," said Soubrette, 
 " she went to Rouen yesterday." 
 
 " Well, when shall we go? " 
 
 "To-morrow." 
 
 188
 
 III. 
 
 AND so Soubrette could not think 
 of going when it looked so much 
 like rain, and Anglaise could 
 not think of going without Soubrette, 
 and Peachblow was getting nervous about 
 the coming examinations, and must study 
 as she knew she would just die if she 
 failed to pass. 
 
 " You will anyway — sometime ! " said 
 White Pigeon. 
 
 " Don't urge her ; she may change her 
 mind and go with you," dryly remarked 
 Anglaise with back towards us as she 
 dusted the mantel. 
 
 Then I expressed my regret that the 
 trinity could not go, and White Pigeon 
 expressed her regret because they had to 
 stay at home. And as we went down the 
 stairs together we chanted the Kyrie Klei- 
 189
 
 IRosa JSonbeut 
 
 son for our small sins, easing conscience 
 by the mutual confession that we were 
 arrant hypocrites. 
 
 "But still," mused White Pigeon, not 
 quite satisfied, " we really did not tell an 
 untruth — that is we did not deceive them 
 — they understood — I would n't tell a 
 real whopper, would you ? " 
 
 " I don't know— I think I did once." 
 
 "Tell me about it," said White Pigeon. 
 
 But I was saved, for just as we reached 
 the bottom stair there was a slight jin- 
 gling of keys, and the landlady came up 
 through the floor with a big lunch-basket. 
 She pushed the basket into my hands and 
 showering us with Lombard y French, 
 pushed us out of the door, and away we 
 went into the morning grey, the basket 
 carried between us. The basket had a 
 hinged cover, and out of one corner 
 emerged the tell-tale neck of a bottle. It 
 did not look just right ; suppose we 
 should meet someone from Coldwater ? 
 
 But we did not meet anyone from Cold- 
 water. And when we reached the rail- 
 
 IQO
 
 IRosa JBonbeur 
 
 way station we were quite lost in the 
 crowd, for there were dozens of picuic- 
 ers all carrying baskets, and from the 
 cover of each basket emerged the neck 
 of a bottle. We felt quite at home packed 
 away in a Classe Trois carriage with a 
 chattering party of six High-School bot- 
 anizing youngsters. When the guard 
 came to the window, touched his cap, 
 addressing me as Le Professeur, and 
 asked for the tickets for my family 
 they all laughed. 
 
 Fontainebleau was the fourth stop from 
 Paris. My family scampered out and 
 away and we followed leisurely after. 
 Fontainebleau is quite smug. There is 
 a fashionable hotel near the station be- 
 fore which a fine tall fellow in uniform 
 parades. He looked at our basket with 
 contempt, and we looked at him in pity. 
 Just beyond the hotel are smart shops 
 with windows filled with many-colored 
 trifles to tempt the tourist. The shops 
 gradually grew smaller and less gay, and 
 residences with high stone walls in front 
 191
 
 TRossa JBonbeur 
 
 took their places, and over these walls 
 roses nodded. Then there came a wide 
 stretch of pasture and the town of Fon- 
 tainebleau was left behind. 
 
 The sun came out and came out and 
 came out ; birds chirruped in the hedge- 
 rows and the daws in the high poplars 
 called and scolded. The mist still lin- 
 gered on the distant hills and we could 
 hear the tinkle of sheep-bells, and the 
 barking of a dog coming out of the noth- 
 ingness. 
 
 White Pigeon wore fiat-soled shoes and 
 measured off the paces with an easy 
 swing. We walked in silence, filled with 
 the rich quiet of country sounds and 
 country sights. What a relief to get 
 away from noisy, bustling, busy Paris. 
 God made the country ! 
 
 All at once the mists seemed to lift 
 from the long range of hills on the right 
 and revealed the dark background of 
 forest, broken here and there with jutting 
 rocks and beetling crags. We stopped 
 and sat down on the bank-side to view 
 192
 
 ■Rosa JBonbcur 
 
 the scene. Close up under the shadow 
 of the dark forest nestled a little white 
 village. Near it was the red tile roof of 
 an old mansion, half lost in the foliage. 
 All around this old mansion I could make 
 out a string of small buildings or addi- 
 tions to the original chateau. 
 
 I looked at White Pigeon and she 
 looked at me. 
 
 "Yes, that is the place ! " she said. 
 
 The sun's rays were growing warmer. 
 I took off my coat and tucked it through 
 the handle of the basket. White Pigeon 
 took off her jacket to keep it company, 
 and toting the basket, slung on my cane 
 between us, we moved on up the gently 
 winding way to the village of By. 
 Everybody was asleep at By, or else gone 
 on a journey. Soon we came to the old 
 massive moss-covered gate-posts that 
 marked the entrance to the mansion. A 
 chain was stretched across the entrance 
 and we crawled under. The driveway 
 was partially over-grown with grass, and 
 the place seemed to be taking care of 
 193
 
 IRcsa JBonbeur 
 
 itself. Half a dozen long-horned Bonnie 
 Brier Bush cows were grazing on the 
 lawn, their calves with them ; and evi- 
 dently these cows and calves were the 
 only mowiiig machines employed. On 
 this wide-stretching meadow were vari- 
 ous old trees ; one elm I saw had fallen 
 split through the centre, each part pros- 
 trate yet growing green. 
 
 Close up about the house there was an 
 irregular stone wall and an ornamental 
 iron gate with a pull-out Brugglesmith 
 bell to one side. We pulled the bell and 
 were answered by a big shaggy St. Ber- 
 nard that came barking and bouncing 
 around the corner. I thought at first our 
 time had come. But this giant of a dog 
 only approached within about ten feet 
 then lay down on the grass and rolled 
 over three times to show his good-will. 
 He got up with a fine cheery smile shown 
 in the wag of his tail, just as a little maid 
 unlocked the gate. 
 
 "Don't you know that dog?" asked 
 White Pigeon. 
 
 194
 
 "Rosa JBonbeur 
 
 " Certain ement — he is on the wall of 
 your room." 
 
 We were shown into a little reception 
 parlor, where we were welcomed by a tall, 
 handsome woman, about White Pigeon's 
 age. The woman kissed White Pigeon 
 on one cheek, and I afterwards asked 
 White Pigeon why she did n't turn to me 
 the other, and she said I was a fool. 
 
 Then the tall woman went to the door 
 and called up the stairway : 
 
 " Antoine, Antoine, guess who it is? 
 it 's White Pigeon ! " 
 
 A man came down the stairs three steps 
 at a time and took both of White Pigeon's 
 hands in his, after the hearty manner of 
 a gentleman, of France. Then I was in- 
 troduced. 
 
 Antoine looked at our lunch basket 
 with the funniest look I ever saw, and 
 asked what it was. 
 
 " launch " said White Pigeon, " I can- 
 not tell a lie ! " 
 
 Antoine made wild gesticulations of 
 displeasure, denouncing us in pantomine. 
 105
 
 "Rosa JBonbeur 
 
 But White Pigeon explained that we 
 only came on a quiet picnic in search of 
 ozone and had dropped in to make a little 
 call before we went on up to the forest. 
 But could we see the horses ? 
 
 Antoine would be most delighted to 
 show Monsieur Littlejourneys anything 
 that was within his power. In fact 
 everything hereabouts was the absolute 
 property of Monsieur Littlejourneys to 
 do with as he pleased. 
 
 He disappeared up the stairway to ex- 
 change his slippers for shoes and the tall 
 woman went in another direction for 
 her hat. I whispered to White Pigeon, 
 " Can't we see the studio ? " 
 
 " Are we from Chicago that we should 
 seek to prowl through a private house, 
 when the mistress is away ? — No, there 
 are partly finished canvases up there 
 that are sacred." 
 
 " Come this way," said Antoine. He 
 led us out through the library, then the 
 dining-room and through the kitchen. 
 
 It is a very comfortable old place, with 
 iq6
 
 IRosa .ISonbeur 
 
 no extra furniture — the French know 
 better than to burden themselves with 
 things. 
 
 The long line of brick stables seemed 
 made up of a beggarly array of empty 
 stalls. We stopped at a paddock and 
 Antoine opened the gate and said, 
 " There they are ! " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " The horses." 
 
 " But these are bronchos." 
 
 "Yes, I believe that is what you call 
 them. Monsieur Bill of Buffalo, New 
 York, sent them as a present to Madame 
 Rosalie when he was in Paris." 
 
 There they were — two ewe-necked ki- 
 uses — one a pinto with a wall eye ; the 
 other a dun with a black line down the 
 back. 
 
 I challenged Antoine to saddle them 
 aud we would ride. The tall lady took 
 it in dead earnest and throwing her arms 
 around Antoine's neck begged him not 
 to commit suicide. 
 
 197
 
 "Rosa JSSonbeur 
 
 " And the Percherons — where are 
 they?" 
 
 " Goodness ! we have no Perches." 
 
 "Those that served as models for the 
 ' Horse Fair,' I mean." 
 
 White Pigeon took me gently by the 
 sleeve, and turning to the others apolo- 
 gized for my ignorance, explaining that 
 I did not know the Marchi anx Chevaux 
 was painted over forty years ago, and 
 that the models were all Paris cart 
 horses. 
 
 Antoine called up a little old man who 
 led out two shaggy little cobs, and I 
 was told that these were the horses that 
 Madame drove. A roomy, old-fashioned 
 basket phaeton was backed out ; White 
 Pigeon and I stepped in to try it and 
 Antoine drew us once around the stable 
 yard. This is the only carriage Madame 
 uses. There were doves, and chickens, 
 and turkeys, and rabbits, and these 
 horses we had seen, with the cows on the 
 lawn, make up all the animals owned by 
 the greatest of living animal painters.
 
 1Rosa JBonbeur 
 
 Years ago Rosa Bonheur had a stable 
 full of horses and a kennel of dogs and a 
 park with deer. Many animals were sent 
 as presents. One man forwarded a lion, 
 and another a brace of tigers, but Madame 
 made haste to present them to the Zoo- 
 logical Garden at Paris, because the folks 
 at By would not venture out of their 
 houses — a report having been spread that 
 the lions were loose. 
 
 " An animal painter no more wants to 
 own the objects he paints than a land- 
 scape artist wishes a deed for the moun- 
 tain he is sketching," said Antoine. 
 
 "Or to marry his model," interposed 
 White Pigeon. 
 
 " If you .see your model too often you 
 will lose her," added the Tall Lady. 
 
 We bade our friends good-bye and 
 trudged on up the hillside to the storied 
 Forest of Fontainebleau. We sat down 
 on a log and watched the winding Seine 
 stretching away like a monstrous serpent, 
 away down across the meadow ; just at 
 our feet was the white village of By ; be- 
 199
 
 TRoea JBonbeur 
 
 yond was Thomeray, and off to the left 
 rose the spires of Fontainebleau. 
 
 " And who is this Antoine and who is 
 the Tall Lady ? " I asked, as White 
 Pigeon began to unpack the basket. 
 
 "It's quite a romance; are you sure 
 you want to hear it? " 
 
 11 1 must hear it." 
 
 And so between bites White Pigeon 
 told me the story. 
 
 The Tall L*ady is a niece of Madame 
 Rosalie's. She was married to an army 
 officer at Bordeaux when she was sixteen 
 years old. Her husband treated her 
 shamefully ; he beat her and forced her 
 to write begging letters and to borrow 
 money of her relatives and then he 
 would take this money and waste it 
 gambling and in drink. In short he 
 was a Brute. 
 
 Madame Rosalie accidently heard of 
 all this and one day went down to Bor- 
 deaux and took the Tall I^ady away from 
 the Brute and told him she would kill 
 him if he followed. 
 
 200
 
 1Rosa JBonbeur 
 
 " Did she paint a picture of the 
 Brute?" 
 
 " Keep quiet, please." 
 
 She told him she would kill him if he 
 followed, and although she is usually 
 very gentle T believe she would have kept 
 her word. Well, she brought the Tall 
 Lady with her to By and this old woman 
 and this young woman loved each other 
 very much. 
 
 Now Madame Rosalie had a butler and 
 combination man of business, by name 
 Jules Carmonne. He was a painter of 
 some ability and served Madame in many 
 ways right faithfully. Jules loved the 
 Tall Lady, or said he did, but she did not 
 care for him. He was near fifty and 
 asthmatic and had watery eyes. He 
 made things very uncomfortable for the 
 Tall Lady. 
 
 One night Jules came to Madame Rosa- 
 lie in great indignation and said he could 
 not consent to remain longer on account 
 of the way things were going on. What 
 was the trouble ? Trouble enough when 
 20 1 
 
 r
 
 iRosa SBonbeut 
 
 the Tall Lady was sneaking out of the 
 house after decent folks were in bed, to 
 meet a strange man down in the ever- 
 greens ! well I guess so ! ! 
 
 How did he kuow ? 
 
 Ah, he had followed her. Moreover 
 he had concealed himself in the ever- 
 greens and waited for them, to make sure. 
 
 Yes, and who was the man ? 
 
 A young rogue of a painter from Fon- 
 tainebleau named Antoine De Channe- 
 ville. 
 
 Madame Rosalie took Jules Carmonne 
 at his word. She said she was sorry he 
 could not stay but he might go if he 
 wished to, of course. And she paid him 
 his salary on the spot — with two months 
 more to the end of the year. 
 
 The next day Madame Rosalie drove 
 her team of shaggy ponies down to Fon- 
 tainebleau and called on the young rogue 
 of an artist. He came out bare-headed 
 and quaking to where she sat in the 
 phaeton waiting. She flecked the off 
 pony twice and told him that as Car- 
 202
 
 TRosa JBonbcur 
 
 monne had left her she must have a man 
 to help her. Would he come ? Aud she 
 named as salary a sum about five times 
 what he was then making. 
 
 Antoine De Channeville seized the 
 wheel of the phaeton for support, gasped 
 several gasps, and said he would come. 
 
 He was getting barely enough to eat 
 out of his work, anyway, although he 
 was a very worthy young fellow. 
 
 And he came. 
 
 He and the Tall Lady were married 
 about six months after. 
 
 "And about the Brute and — and the 
 divorce ! " 
 
 " Gracious goodness ! How do I know ? 
 I guess the Brute died or something ; any- 
 way, Antoine and the Tall Lady are man 
 and wife, and are devoted lovers besides. 
 They have served Madame Rosalie most 
 loyally for these fifteen years. They say 
 Madame has made her will and left 
 them the mansion and everything in it 
 for their own est own, with a tidy sum 
 beside to put on interest." 
 203
 
 IRosa ffionbeur 
 
 It was four o'clock when we got back 
 to the railroad station at Fontainebleau. 
 We missed the train we expected to take, 
 and had an hour to wait. White Pigeon 
 said she did not care so very much, and 
 I 'm sure I did n't. So we sat down in 
 the bright little waiting-room, and White 
 Pigeon told me many things about Ma- 
 dame Rosalie and her early life that I had 
 never known before. 
 
 204
 
 IV. 
 
 EARLY in the century there lived in 
 Bordeaux a struggling artist (art- 
 ists always struggle, you know) 
 by the name of Raymond Bonheur. He 
 found life a cruel thing, for bread was 
 high in price and short in weight, and 
 no one seemed to appreciate art except 
 the folks who had no money to buy. 
 But the poor can love as well as the rich, 
 and Raymond married. In his nervous 
 desire for success, Raymond Bonheur 
 said that if he could only have a son he 
 would teach him how to do it, and the 
 son would achieve the honors that the 
 world withheld from the father. 
 
 So the days came and went, and a 
 
 son was expected — a first-born — an heir. 
 
 There was n't anything to be heir to 
 
 except genius, but there was plenty of 
 
 205
 
 IRosa JSonbeur 
 
 that. The heir was to bear the name of 
 the father — Raymond Bonheur. Prayers 
 were offered and thanksgivings sung. 
 
 The days were fulfilled. The child was 
 born. 
 
 The heir was a girl. 
 
 Raymond Bonheur cursed wildly and 
 towsled his hair like a bouffe artist. He 
 swore he had been tricked, trapped, se- 
 duced, undone. He would have bought 
 strong drink, but he had no money, and 
 credit, like hope, was gone. 
 
 The little mother cried. 
 
 But the baby grew, although it was n't 
 a very big baby. They named her Rosa, 
 because the initial was the same as Ray- 
 mond, but they always called her Rosa- 
 lie. 
 
 Then in a year another baby came, and 
 that was a boy. In two years another, 
 but Raymond never forgave his wife that 
 first offence. He continued to struggle, 
 trying various styles of pictures and ever 
 hoping he would yet hit on what the pub- 
 lic desired. Mr. Vanderbilt had not yet 
 206
 
 ftoea JSonbcur 
 
 made his famous remark about the pub- 
 lic, and how could Raymond plagiarize 
 it in advance? 
 
 At last he got money enough to get to 
 Paris — ah, yes, Paris, Paris, there talent 
 is appreciated ! 
 
 In Paris another baby was born — it was 
 looked upon as a calamity. The poor 
 little mother of the four little shivering 
 Bonheurs ceased to struggle. She lay 
 quite still, and they covered her face 
 with a white sheet and talked in whis- 
 pers, and walked on tiptoe, for she was 
 dead. 
 
 When an artist cannot succeed he 
 begins to teach art — that is, he shows 
 others how. Raymond Bonheur put his 
 four children out among kinsmen in four 
 different places, and became drawing- 
 master in a private school. 
 
 Rosa Bonheur was ten years old : a 
 pug-nosed, square-faced little girl in a 
 linsey-woolsey dress, wooden shoon, with 
 a yellow braid hauging down her back 
 tied with shoe-string. She could draw 
 207
 
 IRosa JBonbeur 
 
 — all childreu can draw — and the first 
 things children draw are animals. Her 
 father had taught her a little and laughed 
 at her foolish little lions and tigers, all 
 duly labelled. 
 
 When twelve years of age the good 
 people with whom she lived said she 
 must learn dressmaking. She should 
 be an artist of the needle. But after 
 some months she rebelled and, making 
 her way across the city to where her 
 father was, demanded that he should 
 teach her drawing. Raymond Bonheur 
 had n't much will — this controversy 
 proved that — the child mastered, and the 
 father, who really was an accomplished 
 draughtsman, began giving daily lessons 
 to the girl. Soon they worked together 
 in the Louvre, copying pictures. 
 
 It was a queer thing to teach a girl 
 art — there were no women artists then. 
 People laughed to see a little girl with 
 a yellow braid mixing paints and help- 
 ing her father in the Louvre ; others 
 said it was n't right. 
 
 30$
 
 TRosa JSonbcur 
 
 " Let 's cut off the braid, and I '11 wear 
 boy's clothes and be a boy," said funny 
 little Rosalie. 
 
 Next day Raymond Bouheur had a 
 close-cropped boy in loose trousers and 
 blue blouse to help him. 
 
 The pictures they copied began to sell. 
 Buyers said the work was strong and 
 true. Prosperity came that way, and 
 Raymond Bonheur got his four children 
 together and rented three rooms in a 
 house at 157 Faubourg Saint Honore\ 
 
 Rosalie saw that her father had always 
 tried to please the public ; she would 
 please no one but herself. He had tried 
 many forms ; she would stick to one. 
 She would . paint animals and nothing 
 else. 
 
 When eighteen years old she painted 
 a picture of rabbits, for the Salon. The 
 next year she tried again. She made the 
 acquaintance of an honest old farmer at 
 Villiers and went to live in his house- 
 hold. She painted pictures of all the 
 live-stock he possessed, from rabbits to 
 209
 
 TRosa JBonbeur 
 
 a Norman stallion. One of the pictures 
 she then made was that of a favorite 
 Holland cow. A collector came down 
 from Paris and offered three hundred 
 francs for the picture. 
 
 "Merciful Jesus!'' said the pious 
 farmer ; ' ' say nothing, but get the money 
 quick. The live cow herself is n't worth 
 half that !" 
 
 The members of the Bonheur family 
 married, one by one, including the father. 
 Rosa did not marry : she painted. She 
 discarded all teachers, all schools ; she 
 did not even listen to the suggestions of 
 patrons, and even refused to make pict- 
 ures to order. And be it said to her 
 credit, she never has allowed a buyer to 
 dictate the subject. She followed her 
 own ideas in everything ; she wore men's 
 clothes, and does even unto this day. 
 
 When she was twenty-five the Salon 
 awarded her a gold medal. The Minis- 
 tere des Beaux Arts paid her three thou- 
 sand francs for her Labourge Nivernais. 
 
 Raymond Bonheur grew ill in 1849, 
 210
 
 "Rosa JBonbeur 
 
 but before he passed out he realized that 
 his daughter, then twenty-seven years 
 old, was on a level with the greatest 
 masters, living or dead. 
 
 She began The Horse Fair -when twen- 
 ty-eight. It was the largest canvas ever 
 attempted by an animal painter. It was 
 exhibited at the Salon in 1853, an< 3 all 
 the gabble of jealous competitors was 
 lost in the glorious admiration it ex- 
 cited. It became the rage of Paris. All 
 the honors the Salon could bestow were 
 heaped upon the young woman, and by 
 special decision all of her work hence- 
 forth was declared exempt from exami- 
 nation by the Jury of Admission. Rosa 
 Bonheur, five feet four, weighing 120 
 pounds, was bigger than the Salon. 
 
 But success did not cause her to swerve 
 a hair's-breadth from her manner of work 
 or life. She refused all social invitations, 
 and worked away after her own method as 
 industriously as ever. When a picture 
 was completed she set her price on it and 
 it was sold. 
 
 211
 
 IRosa JBonbeur 
 
 In i860 she bought this fine old house 
 at By, that she might work in quiet. 
 Society tried to follow her, and in 1864 
 the Emperor Napoleon and Princess Eu- 
 genie went to By, and the Princess pinned 
 to the blue blouse of Rosa Bonheur the 
 Cross of the Legion of Honor, the first 
 time, I believe, that the distinction was 
 ever conferred on a woman. 
 
 And now at seventy-four she is still in 
 love with life, and while taking a wo- 
 man's tender interest in all sweet and 
 gentle things, has yet an imagination 
 that in its strength and boldness is 
 splendidly masculine. 
 
 Rosa Bonheur has received all the hon- 
 ors that man can give. She is rich ; no 
 words of praise that tongue can utter can 
 add to her fame ; and she is beloved by 
 •11 who know her. 
 
 212
 
 MADAME DE STAEI 
 
 21
 
 Far from gaining assurance in meeting Buona- 
 parte oftener, he intimidated me daily more 
 and more. I confusedly felt that no emotion of 
 the heart could possibly take effect upon him. 
 He looks upon a human being as a fact or as a 
 thing, but not as a fellow-creature; Hedoes not 
 hate any more than he loves ; there is nothing 
 for him but himself ; all other beings are so 
 many ciphers. The force of his will lies in the 
 imperturbable calculation of his selfishness. 
 
 Reflections. 
 
 »J4
 
 s/loA* &/f«l£ /C-4&1
 
 MADAME DE STAEL 
 i. 
 
 FATE was very kind to Madame De 
 Stael. 
 
 She ran the gamut of life from 
 highest love to direst pain — from rosy 
 dawn to blackest night. Name if you 
 can another woman who touched life at 
 so many points ! Home, health, wealth, 
 strength, honors, affection, applause, 
 motherhood, loss, danger, death, defeat, 
 sacrifice, humiliation, illness, banish- 
 ment, imprisonment, escape. Again 
 comes hope — returning strength, wealth, 
 recognition, fame tempered by opposi- 
 tion, home, a few friends, and kindly 
 death — cool, all-enfolding death. 
 
 If Harriet Martineau showed poor 
 judgment in choosing her parents we 
 can lay no such charge to the account of 
 Madame De Stael. 
 
 215
 
 /IbaOame ®e StaSl 
 
 They called her " The Daughter of 
 Necker," and all through life she de- 
 lighted in the title. The courtier who 
 addressed her thus received a sunny 
 smile and a gentle love tap on his cheek 
 for pay. A splendid woman is usually 
 the daughter of her father, just as stroug 
 men have noble mothers. 
 
 Jacques Necker was born in Geneva 
 and went up to the city, like many 
 another country boy, to make his fortune. 
 He carried with him to Paris innocence, 
 health, high hope, and twenty francs in 
 silver. He found a place as porter or 
 "trotter" in a bank. Soon they made 
 him clerk. 
 
 A letter came one day from a correspond- 
 ent asking for a large loan and setting 
 forth a complex financial scheme in which 
 the bank was invited to join. M. Vernet, 
 the head of the establishment, was away 
 and young Necker took the matter in 
 hand. He made a detailed statement of 
 the scheme, computed probable losses, 
 weighed the pros and cons, and when 
 216
 
 /IfcaOame Be Stael 
 
 the employer returned, the plan, all 
 worked out, was on his desk, with young 
 Necker's advice that the loan be made. 
 
 ' ' You seem to know all about bank- 
 ing ? ' ' was the sarcastic remark of M. 
 Vernet. 
 
 " I do," was the proud answer. 
 
 " You know too much, I '11 just put 
 you back as porter." 
 
 The Genevese accepted the reduction 
 and went back as porter without repining. 
 A man of small sense would have re- 
 signed his situation at once, just as men 
 are ever forsaking Fortune when she is 
 about to smile ; witness Cato committing 
 suicide on the very eve of success. 
 
 There is always a demand for efficient 
 men, the market is never glutted ; the 
 cities are hungry for them — but the 
 trouble is few men are efficient. 
 
 "It was none of his business!" said 
 M. Vernet to his partner, trying to ease 
 conscience with reasons. 
 
 " Yes, but see how he accepted the 
 inevitable ! " 
 
 217
 
 /RaOamc S)e Stael 
 
 "Ah! true, he has two qualities that 
 are only the property of strong men : 
 confidence and resignation— I think — I 
 think I was hasty ! " 
 
 So young Necker was reinstated and in 
 six months was cashier ; in three years 
 a partner. 
 
 Not long after, he married Susanna 
 Curchod, a poor governess. But Mile. 
 Curchod was rich in mental endowment : 
 refined, gentle, spiritual, she was a true 
 mate to the high-minded Necker. She 
 was a Swiss too, and if you know how a 
 young man and a young woman, country 
 born, in a strange city are attracted to 
 each other you will better understand 
 this particular situation. 
 
 Some years before, Gibbon had loved 
 and courted the beautiful Mademoiselle 
 Curchod in her quiet home in the Jura 
 Mountains. They became engaged. 
 Gibbon wrote home, breaking the happy 
 news to his parents. 
 
 " Has the beautiful Curchod of whom 
 
 218
 
 /fcaDame De Stael 
 
 you sing, a large dowry ? " enquired the 
 mother. 
 
 " She has no dowry ! I cannot tell a 
 lie," was the meek answer. The mother 
 came on and extinguished the match in 
 short order. 
 
 Gibbon never married. But he frank- 
 ly tells us all about his love for Susanna 
 Curchod and relates how he visited her, 
 years after, in her splendid Paris home. 
 "She greeted me without embarrass- 
 ment," says Gibbon, resentfully, " and in 
 the evening Xecker left us together in 
 the parlor, bade me good-night, and 
 lighting a candle went off to bed ! '' 
 
 Gibbon, historiau aud philosopher, was 
 made of common clay (for authors are 
 made of clay) like plain mortals, and he 
 could not quite forgive Madame Necker 
 for not being embarrassed on meeting her 
 former lover, neither could he forgive 
 Necker for not being jealous. 
 
 But that only daughter of the Neckers, 
 Germaine, pleased Gibbon — pleased him 
 better than the mother, and Gibbon ex- 
 219
 
 dRaDame 2>e Stael 
 
 tended his stay in Paris and called often. 
 "She was a splendid creature," Gibbon 
 relates — "only seventeen, but a woman 
 grown, physically and mentally ; not 
 handsome but dazzling, brilliant, emo- 
 tional, sensitive, daring ! " 
 
 Gibbon was a bit of a romanticist, as all 
 historians are, and he no doubt thought 
 it would be a fine denouement to life's 
 play to capture the daughter of his old 
 sweetheart, and avenge himself on fate 
 and the unembarrassed Madame Necker 
 and the unpiqued husband, all at one fell 
 stroke— and she would not be dowerless 
 either. Ha, ha ! 
 
 But Gibbon forgot that he was past 
 forty, short in stature, and short of breath, 
 and " miles around," as Talleyrand put it. 
 
 "I quite like you," said the daring 
 daughter, as the eloquent Gibbon sat by 
 her side at a dinner. 
 
 " Why should n't you like me — I came 
 near being your papa ! " 
 
 " I know, and would I have looked like 
 you? " 
 
 220
 
 /fcadame ©e Stael 
 
 "Perhaps," 
 
 " What a calamity !" 
 
 Even then she possessed that same 
 babbling wit that was hers years later 
 when she sat at table with D' Alembert. 
 On one side of the great author was 
 Madame R6camier, famous for beauty 
 (andlaterfor a certain " Beauty-Cream "), 
 on the other the daughter of Necker. 
 
 " How fortunate ! " exclaimed D' Alem- 
 bert with rapture. " How fortunate ! I 
 sit between Wit and Beauty ! " 
 
 "Yes, and without possessing either," 
 said Wit. 
 
 No mistake, the girl's intellect was too 
 speedy even for Gibbon. She fenced all 
 'round him and over him, and he soon 
 discovered that she was icily gracious to 
 everyone, save her father alone. For 
 him she seemed to outpour all the lavish 
 love of her splendid womanhood. It was 
 unlike the usual calm affection of father 
 and daughter. It was a great and absorb- 
 ing love, of which even the mother was 
 jealous. 
 
 221
 
 dfta&ame 2>e Stael 
 
 " I can't just exactly make 'em out," 
 said Gibbon, and withdrew in good order. 
 
 Before Necker was forty he had accu- 
 mulated a fortune, and retired from busi- 
 ness to devote himself to literature and 
 the polite arts. " I have earned a rest," 
 he said, " besides I must have leisure to 
 educate my daughter." 
 
 Men are constantly "retiring" from 
 business, but someway the expected Ely- 
 sium of leisure forever eludes us. Necker 
 had written several good pamphlets and 
 showed the world that he had ability out- 
 side of money making. He was ap- 
 pointed Resident Minister of Geneva at 
 the Court of France. Soon after he be- 
 came President of the French East India 
 Co., because there was no one else with 
 mind broad enough to fill the place. His 
 house was the gathering place of many 
 eminent scholars and statesmen. Necker 
 was quiet and reserved ; his wife was 
 coldly brilliant, cultured, dignified, re- 
 ligious. The daughter made good every 
 deficiency in both. 
 
 222
 
 dftadame De Stael 
 
 She was tall, finely formed, but her 
 features were rather heavy, and in repose 
 there was a languor in her manner and a 
 blankness in her face. This seeming 
 dulness marks all great actors, but the 
 heaviness is only on the surface ; it often 
 covers a sleeping volcano. On recogniz- 
 ing an acquaintance Germaiue Necker's 
 face would be illumined, and her smile 
 would light a room. She could pro- 
 nounce a man's name so he would be 
 ready to throw himself at her feet, or over 
 a precipice for her. And she made it a rule 
 to know names and to speak them. Then 
 she could listen in a way that compli- 
 mented, and by a sigh, a nod, an exclama- 
 tion, bring out the best — such thoughts 
 as a man uever knew he had. She made 
 people surprise themselves with their 
 own genius ; thus proving that to make a 
 good impression means to make the man 
 pleased with himself. " Any man can be 
 brilliant with her," said a nettled com- 
 petitor, " but if she wishes, she can sink 
 all women in a room intocreepingthings." 
 223
 
 dftafcame Dc Stael 
 
 She knew how to compliment without 
 flattering ; her cordiality warmed like 
 wine, and her ready wit, repartee, and 
 ability to thaw all social ice, and lead 
 conversation along any line, were accom- 
 plishments which perhaps have never 
 been equalled. The women who " enter- 
 tain " often only depress ; they are so 
 glowing that everybody else feels himself 
 punk. And these people who are too 
 clever are very numerous ; they seem in- 
 wardly to fear rivals, and are intent on 
 working while it is called the day. 
 
 Over against these are the celebrities 
 who sit in a corner and smile knowingly 
 when they are expected to scintillate. 
 And the individual who talks too much 
 at one time is often painfully silent at 
 another — as if he had made New Year 
 resolves. But the daughter of Necker 
 entered into conversation with candor 
 and abandon ; she gave herself to others, 
 and knew whether they wished to talk 
 or listen. On occasion, she could mono- 
 polize conversation until she seemed 
 224
 
 /Iftafcame 5>e Stael 
 
 the only person in the room ; but all 
 talent was brighter for the added lustre 
 of her own. This simplicity, this utter 
 frankness, this complete absence of self- 
 consciousness was like the flight of a bird 
 that never doubts its power, simply be- 
 cause it never thinks of it. Yet continual 
 power produces arrogance, and the soul 
 unchecked finally believes in its own 
 omniscience. 
 
 Of course such a matrimonial prize as 
 the daughter of Necker was sought for, 
 even fought for. But the women who can 
 see clear through a man, like a Roent- 
 gen ray, do not invite soft demonstration. 
 They give passion a chill. Love demands 
 a little illusion ; it must be clothed in 
 mystery. And although we find evid- 
 ence that many youths stood in the 
 hallways and sighed, the daughter of 
 Necker never saw fit by a nod to bring 
 them to her feet. She was after bigger 
 game — she desired the admiration and 
 approbation of archbishops, cardinals, 
 generals, statesmen, great authors. 
 225
 
 /IftaDame ©e Stael 
 
 Germaine Necker had 110 conception of 
 what love is. Many women never have. 
 Had this fine young woman met a man 
 with intellect as clear, mind as vivid, and 
 heart as warm as her own, and had he 
 pierced her through with a wit as strong 
 and keen as she herself wielded, her pride 
 would have been broken and she might 
 have paused. Then they might have 
 looked into each other's eyes and lost self 
 there. And had she thus known love it 
 would have been a complete passion, for 
 the woman seemed capable of it. 
 
 A better pen than mine has written " a 
 woman's love is a dog's love." The dog 
 that craves naught else but the presence 
 of his master, who is faithful to the one 
 and whines out his life on that master's 
 grave, waiting for the caress that never 
 comes and the cheery voice that is never 
 heard — that 's the way a woman loves ! 
 A woman may admire, respect, revere, and 
 obey, but she does not love until a passion 
 seizes upon her that has in it the abandon 
 pi Niagara, Do you remember how Nancy 
 226
 
 /IftaDame 2>e Stael 
 
 Sikes crawls inch by inch to reach the 
 hand of Bill, and reaching it, tenderly 
 caresses the coarse fingers that a moment 
 before clutched her throat, and dies con- 
 tent ? That 's the love of woman ! The 
 prophet spoke of something "passing 
 the love of women," but the prophet was 
 wrong — there 's nothing does. 
 
 So Germain e Necker, the gracious, the 
 kindly, the charming, did not love. How- 
 ever, she married — married Baron De 
 Stael, the Swedish Ambassador. He was 
 thirty-seven, she was twenty. De Stael 
 was good-looking, polite, educated. He 
 always smiled at the right time, said 
 bright things in the right way, kept 
 silence when he should, and made no 
 enemies because he agreed with every- 
 body about everything. Stipulations were 
 made; a long agreement was drawn up ; 
 it was signed by the party of the first 
 part and duly executed by the party of 
 the second part ; sealed, witnessed, sworn 
 to, and the priest was summoned. 
 
 It was a happy marriage. The first three 
 227
 
 dfcafcame ~Bc Stael 
 
 years of married life were the happiest 
 Madame De Stael ever knew, she said 
 long afterward. 
 
 Possibly there are hasty people who 
 will imagine they detect tincture of iron 
 somewhere in these pages : these good peo- 
 ple will say, " Gracious me ! why not ? " 
 
 And so I will admit that these respect- 
 able, well arranged, and carefully planned 
 marriages are often happy and peaceful. 
 The couple may "raise" a large family 
 and slide through life and out of it with- 
 out a splash. I will also admit that love 
 does not necessarily imply happiness — 
 more often 't is a pain, a wild yearning, 
 and a vague unrest ; a haunting sense of 
 heart hunger that drives a man into ex- 
 ile repeating abstractedly the name of 
 "Beatrice ! Beatrice ! " 
 
 And so all the moral I will make now 
 is simply this : the individual who has 
 not known an all-absorbing love has not 
 the spiritual vision that is a passport to 
 Paradise. He forever yammers between 
 the worlds, fit neither for heaven nor hell. 
 228
 
 II. 
 
 NECKER retired from business that 
 he might enjoy peace ; his daugh- 
 ter married for the same reason. 
 It was stipulated that she should never be 
 separated from her father. She who stipu- 
 lates is lost — so far as love goes, but no 
 matter ! Married women in France are 
 greater lions in society than maidens can 
 possibly hope to be. The marriage cert- 
 ificate serves at once as a license for bril- 
 liancy, daring, splendor, and it is also a 
 badge of respectability. The marriage 
 certificate is a document that in all coun- 
 tries is ever taken care of by the woman 
 and never the man. And this document 
 is especially useful in France, as French 
 dames know. Frenchmen are afraid of 
 an unmarried woman — she means danger, 
 damages, a midnight marriage and other 
 22y
 
 /Ra&amc ©c Stael 
 
 awful things. An unmarried woman in 
 France cannot hope to be a social leader, 
 and to be a social leader was the one 
 ambition of Madame De Stael. 
 
 It was called the salon of Madame De 
 Stael now. Baron De Stael was known 
 as the husband of Madame De Stael. The 
 salon of Madame Necker was only a mat- 
 ter of reminiscence. The daughter of 
 Necker was greater than her father, and, 
 as for Madame Necker, she was a mere 
 figure in towering head-dress, point lace 
 and diamonds. Talleyrand summed up 
 the case when he said, "She is one of 
 those dear old things that have to be 
 tolerated." 
 
 Madame De Stael had a taste for litera- 
 ture from early womanhood. She wrote 
 beautiful little essays and read them aloud 
 to her company, and her manuscripts had 
 a circulation like unto her father's batik 
 notes. She had the faculty of absorbing 
 beautiful thoughts and sentiments, and 
 no woman ever expressed them in a more 
 graceful way. People said she was the 
 230
 
 /fcafcame 2>e Stael 
 
 greatest woman author of her day. " You 
 mean of all time," corrected Diderot. 
 They called her " the High Priestess of 
 Letters," "the Minerva of Poetry," 
 "Sappho Returned," and all that. Her 
 commendation meant success and her in- 
 difference failure. She knew politics too 
 and her hands were on all wires. Did she 
 wish to placate a minister, she invited 
 him to call, and once there he was as 
 putty in her hands. She skimmed the 
 surface of all languages, all arts, all his- 
 tory, but best of all she knew the human 
 heart. 
 
 Of course there was a realm of know- 
 ledge she wist not of — the initiates of 
 which never ventured within her scope. 
 She had nothing for them — they kept 
 away. But the proud, the vain, the am- 
 bitious, the ennui-ridden, the-people- 
 who-wish-to-be, and who are ever looking 
 for the strong man to give them help — 
 these thronged her parlors. 
 
 And when you have named these you 
 have named all those who are foremost in 
 231
 
 dfcafcame 2)e Stael 
 
 commerce, politics, art, education, phil- 
 anthropy, and religion. The world is 
 run by second-rate people. The best are 
 speedily crucified, or else never heard of 
 until long after they are dead. Madame 
 De Stael, in 1788, was queen of the people 
 who ran the world — at least the French 
 part of it. 
 
 But intellectual power like physical 
 strength endures but for a day. Giants 
 who have a giant's strength and use it 
 like a giant must be put down. If you 
 have intellectual power, hide it ! 
 
 Do thy daily work in thine own little 
 way and be content. The personal touch 
 repels as well as attracts. Thy presence 
 is a menace — thy existence an affront — 
 beware ! They are weaving a net for thy 
 feet and hear you not the echo of ham- 
 mering, as of men building a scaffold ? 
 
 Go read history ! thinkest thou that all 
 men are mortal save thee alone, and that 
 what has befallen others cannot happen 
 to thee ? The Devil has no title to this 
 property he now promises. Fool ! thou 
 232
 
 Aadame 2)e Stael 
 
 hast no more claim on Fate than they 
 who have gone before, and what has come 
 to others in like conditions must come to 
 thee. God himself cannot stay it ; it is 
 so written in the stars. Power to lead 
 men ! Pray that thy prayer shall ne'er 
 be granted — 't is to be carried to the top- 
 most pinnacle of Fame's temple tower 
 and there cast headlong upon the stones 
 beneath. Beware ! beware ! ! 
 
 233
 
 III. 
 
 MADAME DE STAEIv was of au 
 intensely religious nature 
 throughout her entire life ; such 
 characters swing between license and 
 ascetism. But the charge of atheism told 
 largely against her even among the so- 
 called liberals, for liberals are often very 
 illiberal. Maria Antoinette gathered her 
 skirts close about her and looked at the 
 " Minerva of Letters " with suspicion in 
 her big open eyes ; cabinet officers forgot 
 her requests to call, and when a famous 
 wit once coolly asked, "Who was that 
 Madame De Stael we used to read about ? " 
 people roared with laughter. 
 
 Necker, as Minister of Finance, had 
 saved the State from financial ruin ; then 
 been deposed and banished ; then re- 
 called. In September, 1790, he was again 
 234
 
 jffcaOame E>c Stael 
 
 compelled to flee. He escaped to Switzer- 
 land, disguised as a pedler. The daugh- 
 ter wished to accompany him but this was 
 impossible, for only a week before she 
 had given birth to her first child. 
 
 But favor came back and in the mad 
 tumult of the times the freedom and wit 
 and sparkle of her salon became a need 
 to the poets and philosophers, if city wits 
 can be so called. 
 
 Society shone as never before. In it 
 was the good nature of the mob. It was 
 no time to sit quietly at home and enjoy 
 a book — men and women must " go some- 
 where," they must "do something." 
 The women adopted the Greek costume 
 and appeared in simple white robes caught 
 at the shoulders with miniature stilettos, 
 Many men wore crepe on their arms in 
 pretended memory of friends who had 
 been kissed by Madame Guillotine. 
 There was fever in the air, fever in the 
 blood, and the passions held high carni- 
 val. In solitude danger depresses all save 
 the very strongest, but the mob (ever the 
 235
 
 Aa&ame s>c stael 
 
 symbol of weakness) is made up of women 
 — it is an effeminate thing. It laughs 
 hysterically at death and cries, " on with 
 the dance." Women represent the oppo- 
 site poles of virtue. 
 
 The fever continues : a "poverty party " 
 is given by Madame De Stael where men 
 dress in rags and women wear tattered 
 gowns that ill conceal their charms. 
 "We must get used to it," she said and 
 everybody laughed. Soon men in the 
 streets wear red night caps, women ap- 
 pear in night gowns, rich men wear 
 wooden shoes, and young men in gangs 
 of twelve parade the avenues at night 
 carrying heavy clubs, hurrahing for this 
 or that. 
 
 Yes, society in Paris was never so gay. 
 
 The salons were crowded and politics 
 was the theme. When the discussion 
 waxed too warm someone would start a 
 hymn and all would chime in until the 
 contestants were drowned out and in 
 token of submission joined in the chorus. 
 
 But Madame De Stael was very busy 
 236
 
 /fcaframe 2>e Stael 
 
 all these days. Her house was filled with 
 refugees, and she rau here and there for 
 passports and pardons, and beseeched 
 ministers and archbishops for interference 
 or assistance or amnesty or succor and all 
 of those things that great men can give 
 or bestow or effect or filch. And when 
 her smiles failed to win the wished-for 
 signature she still had tears that would 
 move a heart of brass. 
 
 About this time Baron De Stael fades 
 from our vision, leaving with Madame 
 three children. 
 
 "It was never anything but a mariage 
 de convenance anyway, what of it ! " and 
 Madame bursts into tears and throws her- 
 self into Farquar's arms. 
 
 "Compose yourself, my dear — you are 
 spoiling my gown," says the Duchesse. 
 
 " I stood him as long as I could," con- 
 tinued Madame. 
 
 " You mean he stood you as long as he 
 could." 
 
 "You naughty thing — why don't you 
 sympathize with me ? " 
 237
 
 /IbaDame ©c Stael 
 
 Then both women fall into a laughing 
 fit that is interrupted by the servant who 
 announces Benjamin Constant. 
 
 Constant came as near winning the love 
 of Madame De Stael as any man ever did. 
 He was politician, scholar, writer, orator, 
 courtier. But with it all he was a boor, 
 for when he had won the favor of Madame 
 De Stael he wrote a long letter to Madame 
 Charriere with whom he had lived for 
 several years in the greatest intimacy, 
 giving reasons why he had forsaken her 
 and ending with an ecstacy in praise of 
 the Stael. 
 
 If a man can do a thing more brutal than 
 to humiliate one woman at the expense 
 of another I do not know it. And with- 
 out entering any defence for the men who 
 love several women at one time, I wish 
 to make a clear distinction between the 
 men who bully and brutalize women for 
 their own gratification and the men who 
 find their highest pleasure in pleasing 
 women. The latter may not be a paragon, 
 yet as his desire is to give pleasure not 
 238
 
 /Ifta&ame 2>e Stael 
 
 corral it, he is a totally different being 
 from the man who deceives, badgers, 
 humiliates, and quarrels with one who 
 cannot defend herself, in order that he 
 may find an excuse for leaving her. 
 
 A good many of Constant's speeches 
 were written by Madame De Stael and 
 when they travelled together through Ger- 
 many he no doubt was a great help to her 
 in preparing the De V Allemagne . 
 
 But there was a little man approaching 
 from out the mist of obscurity who was to 
 play an important part in the life of 
 Madame De Stael. He had heard of her 
 wide-reaching influence and such an 
 influence he could not afford to forego — 
 it must be used to further his ends. 
 
 Yet the First Consul did not call on her, 
 and she did not call on the First Consul. 
 They played a waiting game. "If he 
 wishes to see me he knows that I am 
 home Thursdays ! " she said with a shrug. 
 
 " Yes, but a man in his position re- 
 verses the usual order, he does not make 
 the first call ! " 
 
 239
 
 dfcafcame S>c Stael 
 
 "Evidently!" said Madame, and the 
 subject dropped with a dull thud. 
 
 Word came from somewhere that Baron 
 De Stael was severely ill. The wife was 
 thrown into a tumult of emotion. She 
 must go to him at once — a wife's duty 
 was to her husband first of all. She left 
 everything and, hastening to his bedside, 
 there ministered to him tenderly. But 
 death claimed him. 
 
 The widow returned to Paris clothed 
 in deep mourning. Crepe was tied on 
 the door knocker and the salon was 
 closed. 
 
 The First Consul sent condolences. 
 
 "The First Consul is a joker," said 
 Dannion solemnly and took snuff. 
 
 In six weeks the salon was again opened. 
 Not long after, at a dinner, Napoleon and 
 Madame De Stael sat side by side. "Your 
 father was a great man," said Napoleon. 
 
 He had gotten in the first compliment 
 when she had planned otherwise. She 
 intended to march her charms in a pha- 
 lanx upon him, but he would not have it 
 240
 
 .flfcafcamc 2>e Stael 
 
 so. Her wit fell flat and her prettiest 
 smile only brought the remark, " If the 
 wind veers north it may rain." 
 
 They were rivals — that was the trouble ; 
 France was not big enough for both. 
 
 The Madame's book about Germany 
 had been duly announced, puffed, printed. 
 Ten thousand copies were issued and — 
 seized upon by Napoleon's agents and 
 burned. 
 
 "The edition is exhausted," cried 
 Madame as she smiled through her tears 
 and searched for her pocket handker- 
 chief. 
 
 The trouble with the book was that no- 
 where in it was Napoleon mentioned. 
 Had Napoleon never noticed the book 
 the author would have been wofully 
 sorry. As it was she was pleased, and 
 when the last guest had gone she and 
 Benjamin Constant laughed, shook hands, 
 and ordered lunch. 
 
 But it was not so funny when Fouche 
 called, apologized, coughed, and said the 
 air in Paris was bad. 
 341
 
 Aatame Be Stael 
 
 So Madame De Stael had to go — it was 
 Ten Years of Exile. In that book you 
 can read all about it. She retired to 
 Coppet, and all the griefs, persecutions, 
 disappointments, and heart-aches were 
 doubtless softened by the inward thought 
 of the distinction that was hers in being 
 the first woman banished by Napoleon 
 and of being the only woman he thor- 
 oughly feared. 
 
 When it came Napoleon's turn to go 
 and the departure for Elba was at hand, 
 it will be remembered he bade good-bye 
 personally to those who had served him 
 so faithfully. It was an affecting scene 
 when he kissed his generals and saluted 
 the swarthy grenadiers in the same way. 
 When told of it Madame picked a petal 
 or two from her bouquet and remarked : 
 " You see, my dears, the difference is this, 
 while Judas kissed but one the Little 
 Man kissed forty. . . ." 
 
 Napoleon was scarcely out of France 
 before Madame was back in Paris with 
 all her books and wit and beauty. An 
 242
 
 Aatatne ©c Staei 
 
 ovation was given the daughter of Nec- 
 ker such as Paris alone can give. 
 
 But Napoleon did not stay at Elba, at 
 least not according to any accounts I have 
 read. 
 
 When word came that he was marching 
 upon Paris, Madame hastily packed up 
 her MSS. and started in hot haste for 
 Coppet. 
 
 But when the eighty days had passed 
 and the bugaboo was safely on board the 
 Bellerophon she came back to the scenes 
 she loved so well and to what for her was 
 the only heaven — Paris. 
 
 She has been called a philosopher and 
 a literary light. But she was only socio- 
 literary. Her written philosophy does 
 not represent the things she felt were 
 true — simply those things she thought it 
 would be nice to say. She cultivated 
 literature only that she might shine. 
 Love, wealth, health, husband, children 
 — all were sacrificed that she might lead 
 society and win applause. No one ever 
 feared solitude more ; she must have those 
 243
 
 /ifcaDame 2)e Stael 
 
 about her who would minister to her van- 
 ity and upon whom she could shower her 
 wit. As a type her life is valuable, and in 
 these pages that traverse the entire circle 
 of feminine virtues and foibles she surely 
 must have a place. 
 
 In her last illness she was attended 
 daily by those faithful subjects who had 
 all along recognized her sovereignty — in 
 Society she was Queen. She surely won 
 her heart's desire, for to that bed from 
 which she was no more to rise courtiers 
 came and kneeling kissed her hand and 
 women by the score whom she had be- 
 friended paid her the tribute of their 
 tears. 
 
 She died in Paris aged fifty-one. 
 
 244
 
 IV. 
 
 WHEN you are in Switzerland 
 and take the little steamer 
 that plies on Lake Leman 
 from I w ausanne to Geneva, you will see 
 on the western shore a tiny village that 
 clings close around a chateau, like little 
 oysters around the parent shell. This 
 is the village of Coppet that you behold, 
 and the central building that seems to 
 be a part of the very landscape is the 
 Chateau de Necker. This was the home 
 of Madame De Stael and the place where 
 so many refugees sought safety. " Cop- 
 pet is hell in motion," said Napoleon. 
 " The woman who lives there has a pet- 
 ticoat full of arrows that could hit a man 
 were he seated on a rainbow. She com- 
 bines in her active head and strong 
 heart Rousseau and Mirabeau ; and then 
 245
 
 dfcadame De Stael 
 
 shields herself behind a shift and screams 
 if you approach. To attract attention to 
 herself she calls, ' Help, help ! ' " 
 
 The man who voiced these words was 
 surely fit rival to the chatelaine of this 
 vine-covered place of peace that lies 
 smiling an ironical smile in the sunshine 
 on yonder hillside. 
 
 Coppet bristles with history. 
 
 Could Coppet speak it must tell of 
 Voltaire and Rousseau who had knocked 
 at its gates ; of John Calvin ; of Mont- 
 morency ; of Hautville (for whom Victor 
 Hugo named a chateau) ; of Fanny Bur- 
 ney and Madame Recamier and Girardin 
 (pupil of Rousseau) and Lafayette and 
 hosts of others who are to us but names, 
 but who in their day were greatest among 
 all the sons of men. 
 
 Chief of all was the great Necker, who 
 himself planned and built the main edi- 
 fice that his daughter " might ever call it 
 home." Little did he know that it would 
 serve as her prison, and that from here 
 she would have to steal away in dis- 
 246
 
 /Ifcaframe ©e Stael 
 
 guise. But yet it was the place she called 
 home for full two decades. Here she 
 wrote and wept and laughed and sang : 
 hating the place when here, loving it 
 when away. Here she came when De 
 Stael had died, and here she brought her^ 
 children. Here she received the caresses 
 of Benjamin Constant, and here she won 
 the love of pale, handsome Rocco, and 
 here, "when past age," gave birth to 
 his child. Here and in Paris, in quick 
 turn, the tragedy and comedy of her life 
 were played ; and here she sleeps. 
 
 In the tourist season there are many 
 visitors at the chateau. A grave old 
 soldier, wearing on his breast the Cross 
 of the Legion of Honor, meets you at 
 the lodge and conducts you through the 
 halls, the salon, and library. There are 
 many family portraits, and mementos 
 without number, to bring back the past 
 that is gone forever. Inscribed copies 
 of books from Goethe and Schiller and 
 Schlegel and Byron are in the cases, and 
 on the walls are to be seen pictures of 
 247
 
 dfcaoame De Stael 
 
 Necker, Rocco, De Stael, and Albert the 
 first-born son, decapitated in a duel by a 
 swinging stroke from a German sabre 
 on account of a king and two aces held 
 in his sleeve. 
 
 Beneath the old chateau dances a 
 mountain brook, cold from the Jura ; in 
 the great courtway is a fountain and fish- 
 pond, and all around are flowering plants 
 and stately palms. All is quiet and or- 
 derly. No children play, no merry voices 
 call, no glad laughter echoes through 
 these courts. Even the birds have ceased 
 to sing. 
 
 The quaint chairs in the parlors are 
 pushed back with precision against the 
 wall, and the funereal silence that reigns 
 supreme seems to say that death yester- 
 day came, and an hour ago all the in- 
 mates of the gloomy mansion, save the 
 old soldier, followed the hearse afar and 
 have not yet returned. 
 
 We are conducted out through the gar 
 den, along gravel walks, across the well- 
 trimmed lawn, and before a high iron 
 248
 
 Aadame 2>e staei 
 
 gate, walled in on both sides with mas- 
 sive masonry, the old soldier stops, and 
 removes his cap. Standing with heads 
 uncovered, we are told that within rests 
 the dust of Madame De Stael, her par- 
 ents, her children, and her children's 
 children — four generations in all. 
 
 The steamer whistles at the wharf as 
 if to bring us back from dreams and 
 mould and death, and we hasten away, 
 walking needlessly fast, looking back 
 furtively to see if grim spectral shapes 
 are following after. None are seen, but 
 we do not breathe freely until aboard the 
 steamer and two short whistles are heard, 
 and the order is given to cast off. 
 
 We push off slowly from the stone pier, 
 and all is safe. 
 
 *49
 
 ELIZABETH FRY 
 
 251
 
 When thee builds a prison, thee had better 
 build with the thought ever in thy mind that 
 thee and thy children may occupy the cells. 
 — Report on Paris Prisons, Addressed to the King 
 of France. 
 
 7^1
 
 S-^c^ •• fi<^y
 
 ELIZABETH FRY. 
 i. 
 
 THE Mennonite, Dunkard, Shaker, 
 Oneida Communist, Mormon, and 
 Quaker are all one people, varying 
 only according to environment. They 
 are all Come-outers. 
 
 They turn to plain clothes, hard work, 
 religious thought, eschewing the pomps 
 and vanities of the world,— all for the 
 same reasons. Scratch anyone of them 
 and you will find the true type. The 
 monk of the Middle Ages was the same 
 man ; his peculiarity being an extreme 
 asceticism that caused him to count sex 
 a mistake on the part of God. And this 
 same question has been a stumbling-block 
 for ages to the type we now have under 
 the glass. A man who gives the question 
 of sex too much attention is very apt 
 253
 
 EIl3abetb 3fn? 
 
 either to have no wife at all or else four 
 or five. If a Franciscan friar of the olden 
 time happened to glance at a clothes line 
 on which, gaily waving in the wanton 
 winds, was a smock frock, he wore peas 
 in his sandals for a month and a day. 
 
 The Shaker does not count women out 
 because the founder of the sect was a 
 woman, but he is a complete celibate and 
 depends on Gentiles to populate the earth. 
 The Dunkard quotes St. Paul and marries 
 because he must, but regards romantic 
 love as a thing of which Deity is jealous, 
 and also a bit ashamed. The Oneida Com- 
 munity clung to the same thought, and 
 to obliterate selfishness held women in 
 common, tracing pedigree after the man- 
 ner of ancient Sparta, through the female 
 line, because there was no other way. 
 The Mormon incidentally and accident- 
 ally adopted polygamy. 
 
 The Quakers have for the best part 
 
 looked with disfavor on passionate love. 
 
 In the worship of Deity they separate 
 
 women from men. But all oscillations 
 
 254
 
 J6[t3abetb jfn> 
 
 are equalized by swingings to the other 
 side. The Quakers have often discarded 
 a distinctive marriage ceremony, thus 
 slanting toward natural selection. And 
 I might tell you of .how in one of the 
 South American states there is a band 
 of Friends who have discarded the rite 
 entirely, making marriage a private and 
 personal contract between the man and 
 woman — a sacred matter of conscience ; 
 and should the man and woman find after 
 a trial that their mating was a mistake 
 they are as free to separate as they were 
 to marry, and no obloquy is attached in 
 any event. Harriet Martineau, Quaker 
 in sympathy, although not in name, be- 
 ing an independent fighter armed with a 
 long squirrel rifle of marvellous range and 
 accuracy, pleaded strongly and boldly for 
 a law that would make divorce as free and 
 simple as marriage. Harriet once called 
 marriage a mouse-trap, and thereby sent 
 shivers of surprise and indignation up a 
 bishop's back. 
 
 But there is one thing among all these 
 255
 
 Elt3abetb jft£ 
 
 quasi-ascetic sects that has ever been in 
 advance of the great mass of humanity 
 from which they are detached parts : they 
 have given woman her rights, whereas, 
 the mass has always prated, and does 
 yet, mentioning it in statute law, that the 
 male has certain natural "rights," and 
 the women only such rights as are granted 
 her by the males. And the reason of this 
 wrong-headed attitude on part of the mob 
 is plain. It rules by force, whereas the 
 semi-ascetic sects decry force, using only 
 moral suasion , falling back on the Christ 
 doctrine of non-resistance. This has 
 given their women a chance to prove that 
 they have just as able minds as men, if 
 not better. 
 
 That these non-resistants are the salt of 
 the earth none who know them can deny. 
 It was the residents of the monasteries in 
 the Middle Ages who kept learning and 
 art from dying off the face of Europe. 
 They built such churches and performed 
 such splendid work in art that we are 
 hushed into silence before the dignity of 
 256
 
 Bltsabetb jfr» 
 
 the ruins of Melrose, Dryburgh, and Fur- 
 ness. There are no paupers among the 
 Quakers, a " criminal class " is a thing 
 no Mennonite understands, no Dunkard 
 is a drunkard, the Oneida Communists 
 were all well educated and in dollars 
 passing rich, while the Mormons have 
 accumulated wealth at the rate of over 
 eleven hundred dollars a man per year 
 which is more than three times as good a 
 record as can be shown by New York or 
 Pennsylvania. And further : until the 
 Gentiles bore down upon her, Utah had 
 no use for either prisons, asylums, or 
 almshouses. Until the Gentiles crowded 
 into Salt Lake City there was no " tender- 
 loin district," no " dangerous class," no 
 gambling " dives." Instead, there was 
 universal order, industry, sobriety. It is 
 well to recognize the fact that the quasi- 
 ascetic, possessed of a religious idea, per- 
 secuted to a point that holds him to his 
 work, is the best type of citizen the world 
 has ever known. Tobacco, strong drink, 
 and opium alternately lull and excite, 
 257
 
 jeit3abetb ffrg 
 
 soothe and elevate, but always destroy ; 
 yet they do not destroy our ascetic for he 
 knows them not. He does not deplete 
 himself by drugs, rivalry, strife, or anger. 
 He believes in co-operation not competi- 
 tion. He works and prays. He keeps a 
 good digestion, an even pulse, a clear 
 conscience ; and as man's true wants are 
 very few, our subject grows rich and has 
 not only ample supplies for himself but 
 is enabled to minister to others. He is 
 earth's good Samaritan. It was Tolstoi 
 and his daughter who started soup-houses 
 in Russia and kept famine at bay. Your 
 true monk never passed by on the other 
 side ; ah no ! the business of the old- 
 time priest was to do good. The Quaker 
 is his best descendant — he is the true 
 philanthropist. 
 
 If jeered and hooted and finally op- 
 pressed, these protesters will form a clan 
 or sect and adopt a distinctive garb and 
 speech. If persecuted, they will hold to- 
 gether, as cattle on the prairies huddle 
 against the storm. But if left alone the 
 25S
 
 J£lt3abetb ffrg 
 
 Law of Reversion to Type catches the 
 second generation, and the young men 
 and maidens secrete millinery, just a* 
 birds do a brilliant plumage, and the 
 strange sect merges into and is lost in the 
 mass. The Jews did not say, Go to, we 
 will be peculiar, but, as Mr. Zaugwill has 
 stated, they have remained a peculiar 
 people simply because they have been 
 proscribed . 
 
 The successful monk, grown rich and 
 feeling secure, turns voluptuary and be- 
 comes the very tiling that he renounced 
 in his monastic vows. Over-anxious 
 bicyclists run into the object they wish 
 to avoid. We are attracted to the thing 
 we despise ; and we despise it because it 
 attracts. A recognition of this principle 
 will make plain why so many temperance 
 fanatics are really drunkards trying hard 
 to keep sober. In us all is the germ of 
 the thing we hate ; we become like the 
 thing we hate ; we are the thing we hate. 
 Ex-Quakers in Philadelphia, I am told, 
 are very dressy people. But before a 
 259
 
 £li3abetb tfrg 
 
 woman becomes a genuine admitted non- 
 Quaker, the rough gray woollen dress 
 shades off by almost imperceptible de- 
 grees into a dainty silken lilac, whose 
 generous folds have a most peculiar and 
 seductive rustle ; the bonnet becomes 
 smaller, and pertly assumes a becoming 
 ruche, from under which steal forth dar- 
 ing winsome ringlets, while at the neck, 
 purest of cream-white kerchiefs jealously 
 conceal the charms that a mere worldly 
 woman might reveal. Then the demi- 
 monde, finding themselves neglected, 
 bribe the dressmakers and adopt the 
 costume. 
 
 Thus does civilization, like the cyclone, 
 move in spirals. 
 
 260
 
 II. 
 
 IN a sermou preached at the City Tem- 
 ple, June 18, 1896, Doctor Joseph Par- 
 ker said: "There it was — there! at 
 Sniithfield Market, a stone's throw from 
 here, that Ridley and Latimer were 
 burned. Over this spot the smoke of 
 martyr fires hovered. And I pray for a 
 time when they will hover again. Aye, 
 that is what we need ! the rack, the gal- 
 lows, chains, dungeons, fagots ! " 
 
 Yes, those are his words, and it was two 
 days before it came to me that Dr. Parker 
 knew just what he was talking about. 
 Persecution cannot stamp out virtue any 
 more than man's effort can obliterate 
 matter. Man changes the form of things 
 but he does not cancel their essence. 
 And this is as true of the unseen attrib- 
 utes of spirit as it is of the elements of 
 261
 
 Blisabetb JFrg 
 
 matter. Did the truths taught by Lati- 
 mer and Ridley go out with the flames 
 that crackled about their limbs ? and 
 were their names written for the last time 
 in smoke ? ' T were vain to ask. The 
 bishop, who instigated their persecution, 
 gave them certificates for immortality. 
 But the bishop did not know it — bishops 
 who persecute know not what they do. 
 
 Let us guess the result if Jesus had been 
 eminently successful, gathering about 
 him, with the years, the strong and influ- 
 ential men of Jerusalem ! Suppose he 
 had fallen asleep at last of old age, and, 
 full of honors, been carried to his own 
 tomb patterned after that of Joseph of 
 Arimathea, but richer far — what then ! 
 And if Socrates had apologized and had 
 not drunk of the hemlock, how about his 
 philosophy ? and would Plato have writ- 
 ten the Phcedo ? 
 
 No religion is pure except in its state of 
 
 poverty and persecution ; the good things 
 
 of earth are our corrupters. All life is from 
 
 the sun, but fruit too well loved of the 
 
 262
 
 Bli3abetb #r£ 
 
 sun falls first and rots. The religion that 
 is fostered by the state and upheld by a 
 standing army may be a pretty good relig- 
 ion, bnt it is not the Christ religion, call 
 you it "Christianity " never so loudly. 
 
 Martyr and persecutor are usually cut 
 off the same piece. They are the same 
 type of man ; and looking down the cen- 
 turies they seem to have shifted places 
 easily. As to which is persecutor and 
 which is martyr is only a question of tran- 
 sient power. They are constantly teach- 
 ing the trick to each other, just as scolding 
 parents have saucy children. They are 
 both good people ; their sincerity cannot 
 be doubted. Marcus Aurelius, the best 
 emperor Rome ever had, persecuted the 
 Christians ; while Caligula, Rome's worst 
 emperor, didn't know there were any 
 Christians in his dominion, and if he- had 
 known would not have cared. 
 
 The persecutor and martyr both be- 
 long to the cultus known as " Muscular 
 Christianity," the distinguishing feature 
 of which is a final appeal to force. We 
 263
 
 JSli3abetb jfrs 
 
 should respect it for the frankness of the 
 name in which it delights — Muscular 
 Christianity being a totally different 
 thing from Christianity, which smitten 
 turns the other cheek. 
 
 But the Quaker, best type of the non- 
 resistant quasi-ascetic, is the exception 
 that proves the rule ; he may be perse- 
 cuted, but he persecutes not again. He 
 is the best authenticated type living of 
 primitive Christian. That the religion of 
 Jesus was a purely reactionary movement, 
 suggested by the smug complacency and 
 voluptuous condition of the times, most 
 thinking men agree. Where rich Phar- 
 isees adopt a standard of life that can 
 only be maintained by devouring widows' 
 houses and oppressing the orphan, the 
 needs of the hour bring to the front a man 
 who will swing the pendulum to the other 
 side. When society plays tennis with 
 truth, and pitch and toss with all the ex- 
 pressions of love and friendship, certain 
 ones will confine their speech to yea, yea, 
 and nay, nay. When men utter loud 
 264
 
 BItjabetb fxy 
 
 prayers on street corners, someone will 
 suggest that the better way to pray is to 
 retire to your closet and shut the door. 
 When self appointed rulers wear purple 
 and scarlet and make broad their phylac- 
 teries, someone will suggest that honest 
 men had better adopt a simplicity of attire. 
 When a whole nation grows mad in its hot 
 endeavor to become rich and the Temple 
 of the Most High is cumbered by the seats 
 of money changers, already in some Gali- 
 lean village sits a youth, conscious of his 
 Divine kinship, plaiting a scourge of 
 cords. 
 
 The gray garb of the Quaker is only a 
 revulsion from a flutter of ribbons and a 
 towering headgear of hues that shame the 
 lily and rival the rainbow. Beau Brum- 
 mel, lifting his hat with great flourish to 
 nobility and standing hatless in the pres- 
 ence of illustrious nobodies, finds his 
 counterpart in William Penn, who was 
 horn with his hat on and uncovers to no 
 one. The height of Brummel's hat finds 
 place in the width of Penn's. 
 265
 
 J£li3abetb $vy 
 
 Quakerism is a protest against an idle, 
 vain, voluptuous, and selfish life. It is 
 the natural recoil from insincerity, vanity, 
 and gormandism which, growing glar- 
 ingly offensive, causes these certain men 
 and women to "come-out" and stand 
 firm for plain living and high thinking. 
 And were it not for this divine principle 
 in humanity that prompts individuals to 
 separate from the mass when sensuality 
 threatens to hold supreme sway, the race 
 would be snuffed out in hopeless night. 
 These men who come out effect their mis- 
 sion, not by making all men Come-outers, 
 but by imperceptibly changing the com- 
 plexion of the mass. They are the true 
 and literal Saviours of mankind. 
 
 266
 
 III. 
 
 NORWICH has several things to re- 
 commend it to the tourist, chief 
 of which is the cathedral. Great 
 massive, sullen structure — begun in the 
 Eleventh Century — it adheres more 
 closely to its Norman type than any 
 other building in England. 
 
 Within sound of the tolling bells of this 
 great cathedral, aye, almost within the 
 shadow of its turrets, was born, in 1780, 
 Elizabeth Gurney. Her line of ancestry 
 traced directly back to the de Gournays 
 who came with William the Conqueror, 
 and laid the foundations of this church 
 and England's civilization. To the sens- 
 itive, imaginative girl this sacred temple, 
 replete with history, fading off into 
 storied song and curious legend, meant 
 much. She hauuted its solemn transepts, 
 267
 
 Blijabetb ffrg 
 
 and followed with eager eyes the carved 
 bosses ou the ceiling, to see if the cherubs 
 pictured there were really alive. She 
 took children from the street and con- 
 ducted them thither, explaining that it 
 was her grandfather who laid the mortar 
 between the stones and reared the walls 
 and placed the splendid colored windows, 
 on which reflections of real angels were 
 to be seen and where Madonnas winked 
 when the wind was east. And the chil- 
 dren listened with open mouths and mar- 
 velled much, and this encouraged the pale 
 little girl with the wondering eyes, and 
 she led them to the tomb of Sir William 
 Boleyn, whose granddaughter, Anne 
 Boleyn, used often to come here and gar- 
 laud with flowers the grave above which 
 our toddlers talked in whispers, and 
 where, yesterday, I too stood. 
 
 And so Elizabeth grew in years and 
 in stature and in understanding ; and 
 although her parents were not members 
 of the Established Religion , yet a great 
 cathedral is greater than sect, and to her 
 268
 
 it was the true House of Prayer. It was 
 there that God listened to the prayers of 
 His children. She loved the place with 
 an idolatrous love and with all the splen- 
 did superstition of a child, and thither 
 she went to kneel and ask fulfilment of 
 her heart's desire. All the beauties of 
 ancient and innocent days moved radiant 
 and luminous in the azure of her mind. 
 But time crept on and a woman's pene- 
 trating comprehension came to her, and 
 the dreams of youth shifted off into the 
 realities of maturity, and she saw that 
 many who came to pray were careless, 
 frivolous people, and that the vergers did 
 their work without more reverence than 
 did the stablemen who cared for her 
 father's horses. And once when twilight 
 was veiling the choir, and all of the wor- 
 shippers had departed, she saw a curate 
 strike a match on the cloister wall, to 
 light his pipe, and then with the rector 
 laugh loudly, because the bishop had for- 
 gotten and read his Te Deum Laudamus 
 before his Gloria in Bxcelsis. 
 269
 
 Bli3at»etb jfig 
 
 By degrees it came to her that the lord 
 bishop of this holy place was in the em- 
 ploy of the state, and that the state 
 was master too of the army and the 
 police and the ships that sailed away 
 to New Zealand, carrying in their holds 
 women and children, who never came 
 back, and men who, like the lord bishop, 
 had forgotten this and done that when 
 they should have done the other. 
 
 Once in the streets of Norwich she saw 
 a dozen men with fetters rivetted to their 
 legs, all fastened to one clanking chain, 
 breaking stone in the drizzle of a winter 
 rain. And the thought came to her that 
 the rich ladies, wrapped in furs, who 
 rolled by in their carriages, going to the 
 cathedral to pray, were no more God's 
 children than these wretches breaking 
 stone from the darkness of a winter 
 morning until darkness settled over the 
 earth again at night. 
 
 She saw plainly the patent truth that 
 if some people wore gaudy and costly 
 raiment, others must dress in rags ; if 
 270
 
 some ate and drank more than they 
 needed, and wasted the good things of 
 earth, others must go hungry ; if some 
 never worked with their hands, others 
 must needs toil continuously. 
 
 The Gurneys were nominally Friends, 
 but they had gradually slipped away from 
 the directness of speech, the plainness of 
 dress, and the simplicity of the Quakers. 
 They were getting rich on government 
 contracts — and who wants to be ridiculous 
 anyway? So, with consternation, the 
 father and mother heard the avowal of 
 Elizabeth to adopt the extreme customs 
 of the Friends. They sought to dissuade 
 her. They pointed out the uselessness of 
 being singular, and the folly of adopting 
 a mode of life that makes you a laughing- 
 stock. But this eighteen-year-old girl 
 stood firm. She had resolved to live the 
 Christ-life and devote her energies to les- 
 sening the pains of earth. Life was too 
 short for frivolity ; no one could afford to 
 compromise with evil. %She became the 
 friend of children ; the champion of the 
 271
 
 Bli3abetb jfrg 
 
 unfortunate ; she sided with the weak ; 
 she was their friend and comforter. Her 
 life became a cry in favor of the op- 
 pressed, a defence of the down-trodden, 
 an exaltation of self-devotion, a prayer 
 for universal sympathy, liberty, and light. 
 She pleaded for the vicious, recognizing 
 that all are sinners and that those who do 
 unlawful acts are no more sinners in 
 the eyes of God than we who think 
 them. 
 
 The religious nature and sex-life are 
 closely akiu. The woman possessing a 
 high religious fervor is also capable of a 
 great and passionate love. But the Nor- 
 wich Friends did not believe in a passion- 
 ate love, excepting as the work of the 
 devil. Yet this they knew, that marriage 
 tames a woman as nothing else can. 
 They believed in religion of course, but 
 not an absorbing, fanatical religion ! 
 Elizabeth should get married — it would 
 cure her mental maladies : exaltation of 
 spirit in a girl is a dangerous thing any-^ 
 way. Nothing subdues like marriage. 
 272
 
 Blisabetb tfn? 
 
 It may uot be generally known, but 
 your religious ascetic is a great match- 
 maker. In all religious communities, 
 especially rural communities, men who 
 need wives need not advertise — there 
 are self-appointed committees of old 
 ladies who advise and look after such 
 matters closely. The immanence of sex 
 becomes vicarious, and that which once 
 dwelt in the flesh is now a thought : like 
 men-about-town, whose vices finally be- 
 come simply mental, so do these old 
 ladies carry on courtships by power of 
 attorney. 
 
 And so the old ladies found a worthy 
 Quaker man who would make a good 
 husband for Elizabeth. The man was 
 willing. He wrote a letter to her from 
 his home in London, addressing it to her 
 father. The letter was brief and business- 
 like. It described himself in modest but 
 accurate terms. He weighed ten stone 
 and was five feet eight inches high ; he 
 was a merchant with a goodly income; 
 and in disposition was all that was to be 
 273
 
 £U3abetb $vy 
 
 desired — at least he said so. His pedigree 
 was standard. 
 
 The Gurneys looked up this Mr. Fry, 
 merchant of London, and found all as 
 stated. He checked O. K. He was in- 
 vited to visit at Norwich ; he came, he 
 saw, and was conquered. He liked Eliza- 
 beth, and Elizabeth liked him — she surely 
 did or she would never have married him. 
 
 Elizabeth bore him twelve children. 
 Mr. Fry was certainly an excellent and 
 amiable man. I find it recorded, " he 
 never in any way hampered his wife's 
 philanthropic work," and with this testi- 
 monial to the excellence of Mr. Fry's 
 character we will excuse him from these 
 pages and speak only of his wife. 
 
 Contrary to expectations, Elizabeth was 
 not tamed by marriage. She looked after 
 her household with diligence ; but instead 
 of confining her " social duties " to fol- 
 lowing hotly after those in station above 
 her, she sought out those in the stratum 
 beneath. Soon after reaching Loudon 
 she began taking long walks alone. 
 374
 
 Blisabetb tfrg 
 
 watching the people, especially the beg- 
 gars. The lowly and the wretched inter- 
 ested her. She saw, girl though she was, 
 that beggardom and vice were twins. 
 
 In one of her daily walks, she noticed 
 on a certain corner a frowsled woman 
 holding a babe, and thrusting out a grimy 
 hand for alms, telling a woful tale of a 
 dead soldier husband to each passer by. 
 Elizabeth stopped and talked with the 
 woman. As the day was cold, she took 
 off her mittens and gave them to the 
 beggar, and went her way. The next 
 day she again saw the woman on the 
 same corner and again talked with her, 
 asking to see the baby held so closely 
 within the. tattered shawl. An intuitive 
 glance (mother herself or soon to be) 
 told her that this sickly babe was not the 
 child of the woman who held it. She 
 asked questions that the woman evaded. 
 Pressed further, the beggar grew abus- 
 ive, and took refuge in curses, with dire 
 threats of violence. Mrs. Fry withdrew, 
 and waiting for nightfall followed the 
 275
 
 Bli3abetb jfrg 
 
 woman : down a winding alley, past 
 rows of rotting tenements, into a cellar 
 below a gin-shop. There, in this one 
 squalid room, she found a dozen babies, 
 all tied fast in cribs or chairs, starving, 
 or dying of inattention. The woman, 
 taken by surprise, did not grow violent 
 this time : she fled, and Mrs. Fry, send- 
 ing for two women Friends, took charge 
 of the sufferers. 
 
 This sub-cellar nursery opened the 
 eyes of Mrs. Fry to the grim fact that 
 Fngland, professing to be Christian, 
 building costly churches, and maintain- 
 ing an immense army of paid priests, 
 was essentially barbaric. She set herself 
 to the task of doing what she could while 
 life lasted to lessen the horror of ignor- 
 ance and sin. 
 
 Newgate Prison then as now stood in 
 the centre of the city. It was necessary 
 to have it in a conspicuous place so that 
 all might see the result of wrong doing 
 and be good. Along the front of the 
 prison were strong iron gratings where 
 276
 
 Elizabeth ffrs 
 
 the prisoners crowded up to talk with 
 their friends. Through these gratings 
 the unhappy wretches called to strangers 
 for alms, and thrust out long wooden 
 spoons for contributions, that would en- 
 able them to pay their fines. There was 
 a woman's department, but if the men's 
 department was too full men and women 
 were herded together. 
 
 Mrs. Fry worked for her sex, so of these 
 I will speak. Women who had children 
 under seven years of age took them to 
 prison with them ; every week babes 
 were born there, so at one time in the 
 year 1826 we find there were one hundred 
 and ninety women and one hundred chil- 
 dren in Newgate. There was no bedding. 
 No clothing was supplied, and those who 
 had no friends outside to supply them 
 clothing were naked or nearly so, and 
 would have been entirely were it not for 
 that spark of divinity that causes the most 
 depraved of women to minister to each 
 other. Women hate only their successful 
 rivals. The lowest of women will assist 
 277
 
 Bli3abetb jfrs 
 
 each other when there is a dire emerg- 
 ency. 
 
 In this pen, awaiting trial, execution, 
 or transportation, were girls of twelve to 
 senile, helpless creatures of eighty. All 
 were thrust together. Hardened crim- 
 inals, besotted prostitutes, maid-servants 
 accused of stealing thimbles, married 
 women suspected of blasphemy, pure- 
 hearted, brave-natured girls who had 
 run away from brutal parents or more 
 brutal husbands, insane persons, — all 
 were herded together. All of the keep- 
 ers were men. Patrolling the walls were 
 armed guards who were ordered to shoot 
 all who tried to escape. These guards 
 were usually on good terms with the 
 women prisoners — hobnobbing at will. 
 When the mailed hand of government 
 had once thrust these women behind 
 iron bars, and relieved virtuous society 
 of their presence, it seemed to think it 
 had done its duty. Inside, no crime was 
 recognized save murder. These women 
 fought, overpowered the weak, stole from 
 278
 
 Etijabetb tfrg 
 
 and maltreated each other. Sometimes 
 certain ones would combine for self- 
 defence, forming factions. Once the 
 governor of the prison, bewigged, pow- 
 dered, lace-befrilled, ventured pompously 
 into the woman's department without his 
 usual armed guard ; fifty hags set upon 
 him. In a twinkling his clothing was 
 torn to shreds too small for carpet rags, 
 and in two minutes by the sand-glass, 
 when he got back to the bars, lustily 
 calling for help, he was as naked as a 
 cherub, even if not so innocent. 
 
 Visitors who ventured near to the grat- 
 ing were often asked to shake hands, and 
 if once a grip was gotten upon them the 
 man was -drawn up close, while long sin- 
 ewy fingers grabbed his watch, handker- 
 chief, neck-scarf, or hat — all was pulled 
 into the den. Sharp nail-marks on the 
 poor fellow's face told of the scrimmage, 
 and all the time the guards on the walls 
 and the spectators roared with laughter. 
 Oh, it was awfully funny ! 
 
 One woman whose shawl was snatched 
 279
 
 Blt3abetb ffrg 
 
 and sucked into the maelstrom com- 
 plained to the police, and was told that 
 folks inside of Newgate could not be ar- 
 rested, and that a good motto for outsiders 
 was to keep away from dangerous places. 
 
 Every morning at nine a curate read 
 prayers at the prisoners. The curate 
 stood well outside the grating ; while all 
 the time from inside loud cries of advice 
 were given and sundry remarks tendered 
 him concerning his personal appear- 
 ance. The frightful hilarity of the mob 
 saved these wretches from despair. But 
 the curate did his duty : he who has ears 
 to hear let him hear. 
 
 Waiting in the harbor were ships load- 
 ing their freight of sin, crime, and woe 
 for Botany Bay ; at Tyburn every week 
 women were hanged. Three hundred 
 offences were punishable by death ; but, 
 as in the West, where horse-stealing is 
 the supreme offence, most of the hang- 
 ings were for smuggling, forgery, or 
 shop-lifting. England being a nation v of 
 
 280
 
 Elizabeth jfrg 
 
 shop-keepers could not forgive offences 
 that might injure a haberdasher. 
 
 Little Mrs. Fry, in the plainest of 
 Quaker gray dress, with bonnet to match, 
 stood outside of Newgate and heard the 
 curate read prayers. She resolved to ask 
 the governor of the prison if she might 
 herself perform the office. The governor 
 was polite, but stated there was no pre- 
 cedent for such an important move — he 
 must have time to consider. Mrs. Fry 
 called again, and permission was granted, 
 with strict orders that she must not at- 
 tempt to proselyte, and further, she better 
 not get too near the grating. 
 
 Mrs. Fry gave the great man a bit of 
 fright by quietly explaining thus : " Sir, 
 if thee kindly allows me to pray with the 
 women I will go inside." 
 
 The governor asked her to say it again. 
 She did so, and a bright thought came to 
 the great man : he would grant her re- 
 quest, writing an order that she be al- 
 lowed to go inside the prison whenever 
 
 281
 
 J6li3abetb jfrg 
 
 3he desired. It would teach her a lesson 
 and save him from further importunity. 
 
 So little Mrs. Fry presented the order 
 and the gates were swung open, and the 
 iron quickly snapped behind her. She 
 spoke to the women, addressing the one 
 who seemed to be leader as sister, and 
 asked the others to follow her back into 
 the courtway away from the sound of the 
 street, so they could have prayers. They 
 followed dumbly. She knelt on the stone 
 pavement and prayed in silence. Then 
 she arose and read to them the 107th 
 Psalm. Again she prayed, asking the 
 others to kneel with her. A dozen 
 knelt. She arose and went her way amid 
 a hush of solemn silence. 
 
 Next day, when she came again, the 
 ribaldry ceased on her approach, and 
 after the religious service she remained 
 inside the walls an hour conversing with 
 those who wished to talk with her, going 
 to all the children that were sick and 
 ministering to them. 
 
 In a week she called all together and 
 282
 
 Blijabetb ffn> 
 
 proposed starting a school for the child- 
 ren. The mothers entered into the pro- 
 ject gladly. A governess, imprisoned 
 for theft, was elected teacher. A cell- 
 room was cleaned out, whitewashed, and 
 set apart for a school-room, with the per- 
 mission of the governor, who granted 
 the request, explaining, however, that 
 there was no precedent for such a thing. 
 The school prospered, and outside the 
 school-room door hungry-eyed women 
 listened furtively for scraps of knowl- 
 edge that might be tossed overboard. 
 
 Mrs. Fry next organized classes for 
 these older children, gray-haired, bowed 
 with sin — many of them. There were 
 twelve in each class, and they elected a 
 monitor from their numbers, agreeing 
 to obey her. Mrs. Fry brought cloth 
 from her husband's store, and the women 
 were taught to sew. The Governor in- 
 sisted that there was no precedent for it, 
 and the guards on the walls said that 
 every scrap of cloth would be stolen, but 
 the guards were wrong. 
 2S3
 
 JEli3abetb jfrg 
 
 The day was divided up into regular 
 hours for work and recreation. Other 
 good Quaker women from outside came 
 in to help ; and the tap-room kept by a 
 mercenary guard was done away with, 
 and an order established that no spirit- 
 uous liquors should be brought into New- 
 gate. The women agreed to keep away 
 from the grating on the street, except 
 when personal friends came ; to cease 
 begging ; to quit gambling. They were 
 given pay for their labor. A woman was 
 asked for as turnkey, instead of a man. 
 All guards were to be taken from the 
 walls that overlooked the women's de- 
 partment. The women were to be given 
 mats to sleep on, and blankets to cover 
 them when the weather was cold. The 
 governor was astonished ! He called a 
 council of the Lord Mayor and Alder- 
 men. They visited the prison, and found 
 for the first time that order had come out 
 of chaos at Newgate. 
 
 Mrs. Fry's requests were granted, and 
 
 284
 
 Bli3abetb #rg 
 
 this little woman awoke one morning to 
 find herself famous. 
 
 From Newgate she turned her attention 
 to other prisons ; she travelled through- 
 out England, Scotland, and Ireland visit- 
 ing prisons and asylums. She became 
 well feared by those in authority, for her 
 firm and gentle glance went straight to 
 every abuse. Often she was airily turned 
 away by some official clothed in a little 
 brief authority, but the man usually lived 
 to know his mistake. 
 
 She was invited by the French Govern- 
 ment to visit the prisons of Paris and 
 write a report, giving suggestions as to 
 what reforms should be made. She went 
 to Belgium, Holland, and Germany, 
 being received by kings and queens and 
 prime-ministers — as costume, her plain 
 gray dress always sufficing. She treated 
 royalty and unfortunates alike— simply 
 as equals. She kept constantly in her 
 mind the thought that all men are sin- 
 ners before God : there are no rich, no 
 poor ; no high, no low ; no bond, no 
 285
 
 i£li3abetb Jfrg 
 
 free. Conditions are transient, and 
 boldly did she say to the King of France 
 that he should build prisons with the 
 idea of reformation, not revenge, and 
 with the thought ever before him that he 
 himself or his children might occupy 
 these cells — so vain are human ambi- 
 tions. To Sir Robert Peel and his cab- 
 inet she read the story concerning the 
 gallows built by Haman. "You must 
 not shut out the sky from the prisoner ; 
 you must build no dark cells — your child- 
 ren may occupy them," she said. 
 
 John Howard and others had J.ent a 
 glimmering ray of truth through the fog 
 of ignorance concerning insanity. The 
 belief was growing that insane people 
 were really not possessed of devils after 
 all. Yet still, the cell system, strait- 
 jacket, and hand-cuffs were in great de- 
 mand. In no asylum were prisoners 
 allowed to eat at tables. Food was given 
 to each in tin-basins, without spoons, 
 knives, or forks. Glass-dishes and china 
 plates were considered especially danger 
 286
 
 £1(3 ibetb ffr\? 
 
 ous , they told of one man who in an in- 
 sane fit had cut his throat with a plate, 
 aud another who had swallowed a spoon. 
 
 Visiting an asylum at Worcester, Mrs. 
 Fry saw the inmates receive their tin 
 dishes, and, crouched on the floor, eating 
 like wild beasts. She asked the chief 
 warden for permission to try an experi- 
 ment. He dubiously granted it. With 
 the help of several of the inmates she 
 arranged a long table, covered it with 
 spotless linen brought by herself, placed 
 bouquets of wild flowers on the table, 
 and set it as she did at her own home. 
 Then she invited twenty of the patients 
 to dinner. They came, and a clergyman, 
 who was an inmate, was asked to say 
 grace. All sat down, and the dinner 
 passed off as quietly and pleasantly as 
 could be wished. 
 
 And these were the reforms she strove 
 for, and put into practical execution 
 everywhere. She asked that the word 
 asylum be dropped, and home or hos- 
 pital used instead. In visiting asylums, 
 287
 
 ;CU3abetb ffn> 
 
 by her presence she said to the troubled 
 spirits, Peace, be still ! For half a cent- 
 ury she toiled with an increasing energy 
 and a never-flagging animation. She 
 passed out full of honors, beloved as 
 woman was never yet loved — loved by 
 the unfortuuate, the deformed, the weak, 
 the vicious. She worked for a present 
 good, here and now, believing that we 
 can reach the future only through the 
 present. In penology nothing has been 
 added to her philosophy, and we have as 
 yet not nearly carried out her suggest- 
 ions. 
 
 Generations will come and go, nations 
 will rise, grow old, and die, kings and 
 rulers will be forgotten, but by so long 
 as love kisses the white lips of pain will 
 men remember the name of Elizabeth 
 Fry, Friend of Humanity. 
 
 288
 
 MARY LAMB 
 
 289
 
 Her education in youth was not much attended 
 to, and she happily missed all the train of female 
 garniture which passeth by the name of accom- 
 plishments. She was tumbled early, by accident 
 or providence, into a spacious closet of good old 
 English reading, without much selection or pro- 
 hibition, and browsed at will upon that fair and 
 wholesome pasturage. Had I twenty girls they 
 should be brought up exactly in this fashion. I 
 know not whether their chance in wedlock might 
 not be diminished by it, but I can answer for it 
 that it maketh (if worst comes to worst) most in- 
 comparable old maids. 
 
 Essays of Elia. 
 
 ago
 
 tS/larfZ{ tx^z^x/ cUa/xnAJi
 
 MARY LAMB. 
 
 i. 
 
 1SING the love of brother and sister. 
 For he who tells the tale of Charles 
 and Mary Lamb's life must tell of a 
 love that was an uplift to this brother and 
 sister in childhood, that sustained them 
 in the desolation of disaster, and was a 
 saving solace even when every hope 
 seemed gone and reason veiled her face. 
 This love caused the flowers of spring- 
 time to bloom for them again and again, 
 and attracted such a circle of admirers, 
 that as we read the records of their lives, 
 set forth in the letters they received and 
 wrote, we forget poverty, forget calam- 
 ity, and behold only the radiant, smiling 
 faces of loving, trusting, trustful friends. 
 291
 
 /ftarg Xamb 
 
 The mother of Charles and Mary Lamb 
 was a woman of fine natural endowment, 
 of spirit, and aspiration. She married a 
 man much older than herself. We know 
 but little about John Lamb ; we know 
 little of his habits, less of his ambitions, 
 nothing of his ancestry. Neither do we 
 care to. He was not good enough to at- 
 tract, nor bad enough to be interesting. 
 He called himself a scrivener, but in fact 
 he was a valet. He was neutral salts ; 
 and I say this just after having read his 
 son's amiable mention of him under 
 the guise of " Lovel," and with full 
 knowledge that " he danced well, was 
 a good judge of vintage, played the 
 harpsichord, and recited poetry on oc- 
 casion." 
 
 When a woman of spirit stands up be- 
 fore a priest and makes solemn promise 
 to live with a man who plays the harpsi- 
 chord and is a good judge of vintage, and 
 to love him until either he or she dies, 
 she sows the seeds of death and disorder. 
 Of course, I know that men and women 
 292
 
 /toan? Iamb 
 
 who make promises before priests know 
 not at th<: time what they do ; they find 
 out after *ards. 
 
 Aud sj they were married — were John 
 Lamb and Elizabeth Field ; and probably 
 very soon thereafter Elizabeth had a pre- 
 monition that this union only held in 
 store a glittering blade of steel for her 
 heart. For she grew ill and dispirited, 
 and John found companionship at the ale- 
 house, and came stumbling home asking 
 what the devil was the reason his wife 
 could n't meet him with a smile and a 
 kiss and a' that, as a dutiful wife should ! 
 
 Elizabeth began to live more and more 
 within herself. 
 
 We often hear foolish men taunt women 
 with inability to keep secrets. But women 
 who talk much often do keep secrets — 
 there are nooks in their hearts where the 
 sun never enters, and where those near- 
 est them are never allowed to look. More 
 lives are blasted by secrecy than frank- 
 ness — ay ! a thousand times. Why should 
 such a thing as a secret ever exist ? 'T is 
 293
 
 flfcars Xamb 
 
 preposterous, and is proof positive of 
 depravity. If you and I are to live to- 
 gether, my life must be open as the ether 
 and all my thoughts be yours. If I keep 
 back this and that, you will find it out 
 some day and suspect, with reason, that 
 I also keep back the other. Ananias and 
 Sapphira met death, not so much for sim- 
 ple untruthfulness as for keeping some- 
 thing back. 
 
 Elizabeth Lamb sought to protect her- 
 self against an unappreciative mate by 
 secrecy (perhaps she had to), and the 
 habit grew until she kept secrets as a 
 business, — she kept foolish little secrets. 
 Did she get a letter from her aunt, she 
 read it in suggestive silence and then put 
 it in her pocket. If visitors called she 
 never mentioned it, and when the child- 
 ren heard of it weeks afterward they 
 marvelled. 
 
 And so shy little Mary Lamb wondered 
 
 what is was her mother kept locked up 
 
 in the bottom drawer of the bureau, and 
 
 Mary was told that children must not ask 
 
 294
 
 /■bars lamb 
 
 questions — little girls should be seen and 
 not heard. 
 
 At night Mary would dream of the 
 things that were in that drawer, and 
 sometimes great big black things would 
 creep out through the keyhole and grow 
 bigger and bigger until they filled the 
 room so full that you could n't breathe, 
 and then little Mary would cry aloud and 
 scream, and her father would come with 
 a strap that was kept on a nail behind 
 the kitchen door and teach her better 
 than to wake everybody up in the middle 
 of the night. 
 
 Yet Mary loved her mother and sought 
 in many ways to meet her wishes, and all 
 the time her mother kept the bureau draw 
 locked, and away somewhere on a high 
 shelf were hidden all tenderness — all the 
 gentle loving words and the caresses 
 which children crave. 
 
 And little Mary's life seemed full of 
 troubles, and the world a grievous place 
 where everybody misunderstands every- 
 body else ; and at night-time she would 
 295
 
 ifcarg Xanib 
 
 often hide her face in the pillow and cry 
 herself to sleep. 
 
 But when she was ten years of age a 
 great joy came into her life — a baby 
 brother came ! And all the love in the 
 little girl's heart was poured out for the 
 puny baby boy. Babies are troublesome 
 things, anyway, where folks are awful 
 poor and where there are no servants 
 and the mother is not so very strong. 
 And so Mary became the baby's own little 
 foster-mother, and she carried him about, 
 and long before he could lisp a word she 
 had told him all the hopes and secrets of 
 her heart, and he cooed and laughed, and 
 lying on the floor, kicked his heels in the 
 air and treated hope and love and ambi- 
 tion alike. 
 
 I cannot find that Mar}- ever went to 
 school. She stayed at home and sewed, 
 did housework, and took care of the baby. 
 All her learning came by absorption. 
 When the boy was three years old she 
 taught him his letters, and did it so deftly 
 and well that he used to declare he could 
 2cj6
 
 rtfcarg Xamb 
 
 always read— and this is as it should be. 
 When seven years of age the boy was 
 sent to the Blue-Coat School. This was 
 brought about through the influence of 
 Mr. Salt, for whom John Lamb worked. 
 Mr. Salt was a Bencher, and be it known 
 a Bencher in England is not exactly the 
 same thing as a Bencher in America. Mr. 
 Salt took quite a notion to little Mary 
 Lamb, and once when she came to his 
 office with her father's dinner, the hon- 
 orable Bencher chucked her under the 
 chin, said she was a fine little girl, and 
 asked her if she liked to read. And when 
 she answered, "Oh, yes, sir!" and then 
 added "If you please!" the Bencher 
 laughed, and told her she was welcome 
 to take any book in his library. And so 
 we find she spent many happy hours in 
 the great man's library ; and it was 
 through her importunities that Mr. Salt 
 got banty Charles the scholarship in 
 Christ's Hospital School. 
 
 Now the Blue-Coat boys are a curiosity 
 to every sight-seer in London — and have 
 297
 
 flhnvv Xamb 
 
 been for these hundred years and more. 
 Their long-tailed blue coats, buckle shoes, 
 and absence of either hats or caps bring 
 the Yankee up with a halt. To conduct 
 an American around to the vicinity of 
 Christ's Hospital and let him discover a 
 "Blue-Coat" for himself is a sensation. 
 The costume is exactly the same as that 
 worn by Edward, "the Boy King," who 
 founded the school, and these youngsters, 
 like the birds, never grow old. You lean 
 against the high iron fence, and looking 
 through the bars watch the boys frolic 
 and play just as visitors looked in the 
 eighteenth century ; and I've never been 
 by Christ's Hospital yet when curious peo- 
 ple did not stand and stare. And one 
 thing the Blue-Coats seem to prove, and 
 that is that hats are quite superfluous. 
 One worthy man from Jamestown, New 
 York, was so impressed by these hatless 
 boys that he wrote a book proving that 
 the wearing of hats was what has kept 
 the race in bondage to ignorance all down 
 the ages. By statistics he proved that 
 29S
 
 ^1 
 
 n> 
 
 N? 
 
 
 4. 
 
 «N 
 
 
 kk' 
 
 >3 
 
 $
 
 < 
 
 •J 
 
 S5 
 •si 
 
 Si
 
 /fcary iamb 
 
 the Blue-Coats had attained distinction 
 quite out of ratio to their number, and 
 cited Coleridge, Leigh Hunt, Charles 
 Lamb, and many others as proof. This 
 man returned to Jamestown hatless and 
 had he not caught cold and been carried 
 off by pneumonia would have spread his 
 hatless gospel, rendering the name of 
 Knox the Hatter infamous, and causing 
 the word " Derby " to be henceforth a by- 
 word and a hissing. 
 
 When little Charles Lamb tucked the 
 tails of his long blue coat under his belt 
 and played leap-frog in the school yard 
 every morning at ten minutes after 
 'leven, his sister, wan, yellow, and 
 dreamy, used to come and watch him 
 through these self-same iron bars. She 
 would wave the corner of her rusty shawl 
 in loving token and he would answer 
 back and would have lifted his hat if he 
 had had one. When the bell rang and 
 the boys went pell-mell into the entry-way 
 Charles woidd linger and hold one hand 
 above his head as the stone wall swallowed 
 2 9 y
 
 •flfoarg Xamb 
 
 him, and the sister knowing that all was 
 well would hasten back to her work in 
 Little Queen Street, hard by, to wait for 
 the morrow when she could come again. 
 
 " Who is that girl always hanging 
 'round after you?" asked a tall, hand- 
 some boy, called Ajax, of little Charles 
 Lamb. 
 
 " Wh' why, don't you know — that, wh' 
 why that 's my sister Mary ! " 
 
 " How should I know when you have 
 never introduced me!" loftily replied 
 Ajax. a 
 
 And so the next day at ten minutes 
 after 'leven Charles and the mighty Ajax 
 came down to the fence and Charles had 
 to call to Mary not to run away, and 
 Charles introduced Ajax to Mary and they 
 shook hands through the fence. And the 
 next week Ajax, who was known in pri- 
 vate life as Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 
 called at the house in Little Queen Street 
 where the Lambs lived, and they all had 
 gin and water, and the elder Lamb played 
 the harpsichord, a second-hand one that 
 300
 
 flbar£ Xamb 
 
 had been presented by Mr. Salt, and re- 
 cited poetry, and Coleridge talked the 
 elder I/amb under the table and argued 
 the entire party into silence. Coleridge 
 was only seventeen then but a man grown 
 and already took snuff like a courtier, 
 tapping the lid of the box meditatively 
 and flashing a conundrum the while on 
 the admiring company. 
 
 Mary kept about as close run of the 
 Blue-Coat School as if she had been a 
 Blue-Coat herself. Still she felt it her 
 duty to keep one lesson in advance of her 
 brother just to know that he was progress- 
 ing well. 
 
 He continued to go to school until he 
 was fourteen, when he was set to work in 
 the South Sea Company's office, because 
 his income was needed to keep the family. 
 Mary Was educating the boy with the 
 help of Mr. Salt's library, for a boy as 
 fine as Charles must be educated, you 
 know. By and by the bubble burst and 
 young Lamb was transferred to the East 
 India Company's office and being pro- 
 301
 
 /Iftarg Xamb 
 
 moted was making nearly a hundred 
 pounds a year. 
 
 And Mary sewed and borrowed books 
 and toiled incessantly, but was ill at times. 
 People said her head was not just right — 
 she was overworked and nervous or some- 
 thing ! The father had lost his place on 
 account of too much gin and water — espe- 
 cially gin ; the mother was almost help- 
 less from paralysis, and in the family was 
 an aged maiden aunt to be cared for. The 
 only regular income was the salary of 
 Charles. There they lived in their pov- 
 erty and lowliness, hoping for better 
 things ! 
 
 Charles was working away over the 
 ledgers and used to come home fagged 
 and weary and Coleridge was far away, 
 and there was no boy to educate now and 
 only sick and foolish and quibbling peo- 
 ple on whom to strike fire. The dem- 
 nition grind did its work for Mary Lamb 
 as surely as it is to-day doing for count- 
 less farmer's wives in Iowa and Illinois. 
 
 Thus ran the years away. 
 302
 
 /Bars? Xamb 
 
 Mary Lamb, aged thirty-two, gentle, 
 intelligent, and wondrous kind, in sudden 
 frenzy seized a knife from the table and 
 with one thrust sank the blade into her 
 mother's heart. Charles Lamb, in an 
 adjoining room, hearing the commotion, 
 entered quickly and taking the knife from 
 his sister's hand, put his arm about her 
 and tenderly led her away. 
 
 Returning in a few moments, the 
 mother was dead. 
 
 Women often make shrill outcry at 
 sight of a mouse ; men curse roundly 
 when large, buzzing, blue-bottle flies dis- 
 turb their after-dinner nap ; but let occa- 
 sion come and the stuff of which heroes 
 are made is in us all. I think well of my 
 kind. 
 
 Charles Lamb made no outcry, he shed 
 no tears, he spoke no word of reproach. 
 He met each detail of that terrible issue 
 as coolly, calmly, and surely as if he had 
 been making entries in his journal. No 
 man ever loved his mother more, but she 
 was dead now — she was dead. Pie closed 
 303
 
 flftarg Xamb 
 
 the staring eyes, composed the stiffening 
 limbs, kept curious sight-seers at bay, 
 and all the time thought of what he could 
 do to protect the living — she who had 
 wrought this ruin. 
 
 Charles was twenty-one — a boy in feel- 
 ing and temperament, a frolicsome, heed- 
 less boy. In an hour he had become a 
 man. 
 
 It requires a subtler pen than mine to 
 trace the psychology of this tragedy ; but 
 let me say thus much, it had its birth in 
 love, in unrequited love ; and the out- 
 come of it was an increase of love. 
 
 O God ! how wonderful are thy works ! 
 Thou makest the rotting log to nourish 
 banks of violets, and from the stagnant 
 pool at thy word springs forth the lotus 
 that covers all with fragrance and beauty ! 
 
 304
 
 II. 
 
 COLERIDGE in his youth was bril- 
 liant, no one disputes that. He 
 dazzled Charles and Mary Lamb 
 from the very first. Even when a Blue- 
 Coat he could turn a pretty quatrain, 
 and when he went away to Cambridge 
 and once in a long while wrote a letter 
 down to "My Own C. L." it was a feast 
 for the sister too. Mary was different 
 from other girls, she did n't "have com- 
 pany," she was too honest and serious 
 and earnest for society — her ideals too 
 high. Coleridge, handsome, witty, philo- 
 sophic Coleridge was her ideal. She 
 loved him from afar. 
 
 How vain it is to ponder in our minds 
 the what-might-have-been ! Yet how can 
 we help wondering what would have been 
 the result had Coleridge wedded Mary 
 Lamb J In many ways it seems it would 
 305
 
 /Iftan? Xamb 
 
 have been au ideal mating, for Mary 
 Lamb's mental dowry made good Cole- 
 ridge's every deficiency, and his merits 
 equalized all that she lacked. He was 
 sprightly, head-strong, erratic, emo- 
 tional ; she was equally keen-witted, but 
 a conservative in her cast of mind. That 
 she was capable of a great and passionate 
 love there is no doubt, and he might 
 have been. Mary Lamb would have been 
 his anchor to win'ard, but as it was he 
 drifted straight onto the rocks. Her 
 mental troubles came from a lack of 
 responsibility — a rusting away of unused 
 powers in a dull, monotonous round of 
 commonplace. Had her heart found its 
 home I cannot conceive of her in any 
 other light than as a splendid earnest 
 woman — sane, well-poised, and doing a 
 work that only the strong can do. Cole- 
 ridge has left on record the statement that 
 she was the only woman he ever met 
 who had a "logical mind." That is to 
 say, the only woman who ever understood 
 him when he talked his bes';. 
 306
 
 ZJtuynJj, 
 
 Vv/rx/
 
 /Ran? Iamb 
 
 Coleridge made progress at the Blue- 
 Coat School : he became "Deputy Gre- 
 cian," or head scholar. This secured 
 him, a scholarship at Cambridge and 
 thither he went in search of honors. But 
 his revolutionary and Unitarian principles 
 did not serve him in good stead and he 
 was placed under the ban. 
 
 At the same time a youth by the name 
 of Robert Southey was having a like 
 experience at Oxford. Other youths had 
 tried in days agone to shake Cambridge 
 and Oxford out of their conservatism, and 
 the result was that the embryo revolu- 
 tionists speedily found themselves warned 
 off the campus. So through sympathy 
 Coleridge and Southey met. Coleridge 
 also brought along a young philosopher 
 and poet, who had also been a Blue-Coat, 
 by the name of Lovell. 
 
 These three young men talked philo- 
 sophy, and came to the conclusion that 
 the world was wrong. They said society 
 was founded on a false hypothesis — they 
 would better things. And so they planned 
 307
 
 /Ifcarg Xamb 
 
 packing up and away to America to found 
 an Ideal Community on the banks of the 
 Susquehanna. But hold ! a society with- 
 out women is founded on a false hypo- 
 thesis — that's so— what to do? Now in 
 America there are no women but Indian 
 squaws. 
 
 But resource did not fail them — Southey 
 thought of the Fricker family, a mile out 
 on the Bristol road. There were three 
 fine, strong, intelligent girls — what better 
 than to marry 'em ? The world should be 
 peopled from the best. The girls were 
 consulted and found willing to reorganize 
 society on the communal basis, and so 
 the threo poets married the three sisters 
 — more properly each of the three poets 
 married a sister. "Thank God," said 
 Lamb, " that there were not four of those 
 Fricker girls or I too would have been 
 bagged, and the world peopled from the 
 best!" 
 
 Southey got the only prize out of the 
 hazard ; Novell's wife was so-so, and 
 Coleridge drew a blank, or thought he 
 3o3
 
 Aar£ Xamb 
 
 did, which was the same thing ; for as a 
 man thinketh so is she. The thought of 
 a lifetime on the banks of the Susque- 
 hanna with a woman who was simply 
 pink and good, and who was never roused 
 into animation even by his wildest poetic 
 bursts, took all ambition out of him. 
 
 Funds were low and the immigration 
 scheme was temporarily pigeonholed. 
 After a short time Coleridge declared his 
 mind was getting mildewed and packed 
 off to London for mental oxygen and a 
 little visit, leaving his wife in Southey's 
 charge. 
 
 He was gone two years. 
 
 Lovell soon followed suit and Southey 
 had three sisters in his household, all 
 with babies. 
 
 In the meantime we find Southey in- 
 stalled at "Greta," just outside of the 
 interesting town of Keswick, where the 
 water comes down at Lodore. Southey 
 was a general : he knew that knowledge 
 consists in having a clerk who can find 
 the thing. He laid out research work 
 309
 
 jflftarp Xamb 
 
 and literary schemes enough for several 
 lifetimes, and the three sisters were hard 
 at it. It was a little community of their 
 own — all working for Southey, and glad 
 of it. Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy 
 lived at Grasmere, thirteen miles away, 
 and they used to visit b»ek and forth. 
 When you go to Keswick you should 
 tramp that thirteen miles — the man who 
 has n't tramped from Keswick to Gras- 
 mere has dropped something out of his 
 life. In merry jest, tipped with acid, 
 someone called them "The Lake Poets," 
 as if there were poets and lake poets. 
 And Lamb was spoken of as "a Lake 
 Poet by grace." Literary London 
 grinned, as we do when someone speaks 
 of the Sweet Singer of Michigan or the 
 Chicago Muse. But the term of con- 
 tempt stuck and, like the words, Metho- 
 dist, Quaker, and Philistine, soon ceased 
 to be a term of reproach and became 
 something of which to be proud. 
 
 There is a lead-pencil factory at Kes- 
 wick established in the year iSoo. Pen- 
 310
 
 flfcarg Xamb 
 
 oils are made there to-day exactly as they 
 were made then, and when you see the 
 factory you are willing to believe it. All 
 visitors at Keswick go to the Pencil Fac- 
 tory and buy pencils, such as Southey 
 used, and get their names stamped on 
 each pencil while they wait, without 
 extra charge. On the wall is a silhou- 
 ette picture of Southey, showing a need- 
 lessly large nose, and the gentlemanly 
 old proprietor will tell you that Dorothy 
 Wordsworth made the picture ; and then 
 he will show you a letter, written by 
 Charles Lamb, framed under glass, 
 wherein C. L. says all pencils are fairish 
 good but no pencils are so good as Kes- 
 wick pencils. 
 
 For a while, when times were hard, 
 Coleridge's wife worked here making 
 pencils, while her archangel husband (a 
 little damaged) went with Wordsworth to 
 study metaphysics at Gottingen. When 
 Coleridge came back and heard what his 
 wife had done he reproved her — gently 
 but firmly. Mrs. Ajax in a pencil factory 
 3ii
 
 flbars Xamb 
 
 wearing a check apron with a bib! — 
 huh!! 
 
 Southey had concluded that if Cole- 
 ridge and Lovell were good samples of 
 socialism he would stick to individualism. 
 So he joined the Church of England, 
 became a Monarchist, sang the praises of 
 royalty, got a pension, became Poet 
 Laureate, and rich — passing rich. 
 
 "Wh-wh-when he secured for himself 
 the services of three good women he 
 made a wise move," said C. L. 
 
 And all the time Coleridge and Lamb 
 were in correspondence ; and when Cole- 
 ridge was in London he kept close run 
 of the Lambs. The father and old aunt 
 had passed out and Charles and Mary 
 lived together in rooms. They seemed 
 to have moved very often — their record 
 followed them. When the other tenants 
 heard that "She's the one that killed 
 her mother," they ceased to let their 
 children play in the hallways, and the 
 landlord apologized, coughed, and raised 
 the rent. Poor Charles saw the point 
 312
 
 /Ifcan? Xamb 
 
 and did not argue it. He looked for 
 other lodgings and having found 'em 
 went home and said to Mary : " It's too 
 noisy here, Sister, — I can't stand it — we '11 
 have to go ! " 
 
 Charles was a literary man now : a 
 bookkeeper by day and a literary man by 
 night. He wrote to please his sister, and 
 all his jokes were for her. There is a 
 genuine vein of pathos in all true humor, 
 but think of the fear and the love and 
 the tenderness that are concealed in 
 Charles Lamb's work that was designed 
 only to fight off dread calamity ! And 
 Mary copied and read and revised for her 
 brother, and he told it all to her before 
 he wrote it, and together they discussed 
 it in detail. Charles studied mathematics, 
 just to keep his genius under, he declared. 
 Mary smiled and said it was n't necessary. 
 
 Coleridge used to drop in and the Stod- 
 darts, Hazlitts, Godwin, and Lovell too. 
 Then Southey was up in London and he 
 called and so did Wordsworth and Doro- 
 thy,for Coleridge had spread Lamb's fame. 
 313
 
 /IRarg Uamb 
 
 And Dorothy and Mary kissed each other 
 and held hands under the table, and 
 when Dorothy went back to Grasmere 
 she wrote many beautiful letters to Mary 
 and urged her to come and visit her — 
 yes, come to Grasmere and live. The 
 one point they held in common was a 
 love for Coleridge ; and as he belonged to 
 neither there was no room for jealousy. 
 The Fricker girls were all safely married, 
 but Charles and Mary could not think of 
 going — they needs must hide in a big 
 city. "I hate your damned throstles 
 and larks and bobolinks," said C. L., in 
 feigned contempt. "I sing the praises 
 of the ' Salutation and the Cat ' and a 
 snug fourth-floor back." 
 
 They could not leave Dondon, for over 
 them ever hung that black cloud of a 
 mind diseased. 
 
 "lean do nothing; think nothing. 
 Mary has another of her bad spells — we 
 saw it coming, and I took her away to a 
 place of safety," writes Charles to Cole» 
 ridge. 
 
 314
 
 Aars Xamb 
 
 One writer tells of seeing Charles and 
 Mary walking across Hampstead Heath, 
 hand in hand, both crying. They were 
 on the way to the asylum. 
 
 Fortunately these "illnesses" gave 
 warning and Charles would ask his em- 
 ployer leave for a " holiday," and stay at 
 home trying by gentle mirth and work 
 to divert the dread visitor of unreason. 
 
 After each illness, in a few weeks the 
 sister would be restored to her own, very 
 weak and her mind a blank as to what 
 had gone before. And so she never 
 remembered that supreme calamity. She 
 knew the deed had been done, but 
 Heaven had absolved her gentle spirit 
 from all participation in it. She often 
 talked of her mother, wrote of her, quoted 
 her, and that they should sometime be 
 again united was her firm faith. 
 
 The Tales from Shakespeare were 
 written at the suggestion of Godwin, 
 seconded by Charles. The idea that she 
 herself could write seemed never to have 
 occurred to Mary, until Charles swore 
 315
 
 .Man? lamb 
 
 with a needless oath that all the ideas he 
 ever had she supplied. 
 
 " Charles, dear, you 've been drinking 
 again ! " said Mary. But the Tales sold 
 and sold well ; fame came that way and 
 more money than the simple, plain home- 
 keeping bodies needed. So they started 
 a pension roll for sundry old ladies, and 
 to themselves played high and mighty 
 patron and figured, and talked and joked 
 over the blue tea-cups as to what they 
 should do with their money — five hun- 
 dred pounds a year ! Goodness gracious, 
 if the Bank of Englaud gets in a pinch 
 advise C. L,., at 34 Southampton Build- 
 ings, third floor, second turning to the 
 left but one. 
 
 A Mrs. Reynolds was one of the pen- 
 sioners, but no one knew it but Mrs. Rey- 
 nolds, and she never told. She was a 
 Lady of the Old School and used often to 
 dine with the Lambs and get her snuff 
 box filled. Her husband had been a ship- 
 captain or something, and when the tea 
 was strong she would take snuff and tell 
 316
 
 dfoarg Xamb 
 
 the visitors about him and swear she had 
 ever been true to his memory, though 
 God knows all good-looking and clever 
 widows are sorely tried in this scurvy 
 world ! Mrs. Reynolds met Thomas 
 Hood at a "Saturday Evening" at the 
 Lambs', and he was so taken with her 
 that he has told us "she looked like an 
 elderly wax doll in half mourning, and 
 when she spoke it was as if by an arti- 
 ficial process ; she always kept up the 
 gurgle and buzz until run down." 
 
 Mrs. Reynolds's sole claim to literary 
 distinction was the fact that she had 
 known Goldsmith and he had presented 
 her with an inscribed copy of The 
 Deserted Village. 
 
 But we all have a tender place in our 
 hearts for the elderly wax doll because 
 the Lambs were so gentle and patient 
 with her, and once a year went to High- 
 gate and put a shilling vase of flowers 
 over the grave of the Captain to whose 
 memory she was ever true. 
 
 These friendless old souls used to meet 
 3i7
 
 ■fl&arg Xamb 
 
 and mix at the Lambs' with those whose 
 names are now deathless. You cannot 
 write the history of English Letters and 
 leave the Lambs out. They were the 
 loved and loving friends of Southey, 
 Wordsworth, Coleridge, De Quincey, Jef- 
 fries, and Godwin. They won the recog- 
 nition of all who prize the far reaching 
 intellect — the subtle imagination. The 
 pathos and tenderness of their lives en- 
 twine us with tendrils that hold our 
 hearts in thrall. 
 
 They adopted a little girl, a beautiful 
 little girl by the name of Emma Isola. 
 And never was there child that was a 
 greater joy to parents than was Emma 
 Isola to Charles and Mary. Tbe wonder 
 is they did not spoil her with admiration, 
 and by laughing at all her foolish little 
 pranks. Mary set herself the task of ed- 
 ucating this little girl and formed a class 
 the better to do it — a class of three : 
 Emma Isola, William Hazlitt's son, and 
 Mary Victoria Novello. I met Mary 
 Victoria once ; she 's over eighty years of 
 3i8
 
 /Bars Xamt> 
 
 age now. Her form is a little bent, but 
 her eye is brigbt and her smile is the 
 smile of youth. Folks call her Mary 
 Cowden-Clarke. 
 
 And I want you to remember, dearie, 
 that it was Mary Lamb who introduced 
 the other Mary to Shakespeare, by read- 
 ing to her the MS. of the Tales. And 
 further, that it was the success of the 
 Tales that fired Mary Cowden-Clarke 
 with an ambition also to do a great 
 Shakespearian work. There may be a 
 question about the propriety of calling 
 the Tales a great work — their simplicity 
 seems to forbid it, — but the term is all 
 right when applied to that splendid life- 
 achievement, the Concordance, of which 
 Mary L,amb was the grandmother. 
 
 Emma Isola married Edward Moxon, 
 and the Moxon home was the home of 
 Mary I<amb whenever she wished to 
 make it so, to the day of her death. The 
 Moxous did good by stealth, and were 
 glad they never awoke and found it fame. 
 
 "What shall I do when Mary leaves 
 3i ( J
 
 /Bars Xamb 
 
 me, never to return ? " once said Charles 
 to Manning. But Mary lived for full 
 twenty years after Charles had gone, and 
 lived only in loving memory of him who 
 had devoted his life to her. She seemed 
 to exist just to talk of him and to garland 
 the grave in the little old churchyard at 
 Edmonton, where he sleeps. Words- 
 worth says : " A grave is a tranquillizing 
 object : resignation in time springs up 
 from it as naturally as wild flowers be- 
 spread the turf." Her work was to look 
 after the "pensioners " and carry out the 
 wishes of " my brother Charles." 
 
 But the pensioners were laid away to 
 rest, one after the other, and the gentle 
 Mary, grown old and feeble, became a 
 pensioner too, but, thanks to that divine 
 humanity that is found in English hearts, 
 she never knew it. To the last, she looked 
 after "the worthy poor," and carried 
 flowers once a year to the grave of the gal- 
 lant Captain Reynolds at Highgate, and 
 never tired of sounding the praises of 
 Charles and excusing the foibles of Cole- 
 320
 
 dRarg Xamb 
 
 ridge. She lived only in the past and its 
 loving memories were more than a ballast 
 'gainst the ills of the present. 
 
 And so she went down into the valley 
 and entered the great shadow, telling in 
 cheerful, broken musings of a brother's 
 love. 
 
 And then she was carried to the church- 
 yard at Edmonton. There she rests in 
 the grave with her brother. In life they 
 were never separated, and in death they 
 are not divided. 
 
 3«i
 
 JANE AUSTEN 
 
 3*3
 
 Delaford is a nice place I can tell you ; exactly 
 what I call a nice old-fashioned place, full of 
 comforts, quite shut in with great garden walls 
 that are covered with fruit trees and such a mul- 
 berry tree in the corner. Then there is a dove- 
 cote, some delightful fish ponds, and a very pretty 
 canal, and everything, in short, that one could 
 wish for ; and moreover it 's close to the church 
 and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike 
 road. 
 
 Sense and Sensibility. 
 
 324
 
 JANE AUSTEN. 
 
 i. 
 
 IT was at Cambridge, England, I met 
 him — a fine intelligent clergyman 
 he was, too. " He 's not a 'Varsity 
 man," said my new acquaintance, speak- 
 ing of Dr. Joseph Parker, the world's 
 greatest preacher. "If he were he 
 would n't do all these preposterous 
 things, you know." 
 
 "He's a little like Henry Irving," I 
 ventured apologetically. 
 
 "True, and what absurd mannerisms — 
 did you ever see the like ! Yes, one \s 
 from Yorkshire and the other from Corn- 
 wall, and both are Philistines." 
 
 He laughed at his joke and so did I, 
 for I always try to be polite. 
 325
 
 Sane Busten 
 
 So I went my way, and as I strolled it 
 came to me that my clerical friend was 
 right — a university course might have 
 taken all the individuality out of these 
 strong men and made of their geuius a 
 purely neutral decoction. 
 
 And when I thought further and con- 
 sidered how much learning has done to 
 banish wisdom, it was a satisfaction to 
 remember that Shakespeare at Oxford did 
 nothing beyond making the acquaintance 
 of an inn-keeper's wife. 
 
 It hardly seems possible that a Harvard 
 degree would have made a stronger man 
 of Abraham Lincoln ; or that Edison, 
 whose brain has wrought greater changes 
 than that of any other man of the cen- 
 tury, was the loser by not being versed 
 in physics as taught at Yale. 
 
 The L,aw of Compensation never rests, 
 and the men who are taught too much 
 from books are not taught by Deity. 
 Most education in the past has failed to 
 awaken in its subject a degree of intel- 
 lectual consciousness. It is the education 
 320
 
 3ane Busten 
 
 that the Jesuits served out to the Indian. 
 It made him peaceable but took all dig- 
 nity out of him. From a noble red man 
 he descended into a dirty Injun, who 
 signed away his heritage for rum. 
 
 The world's plan of education has 
 mostly been priestly — we have striven 
 to inculcate trust and reverence. We 
 have cited authorities and quoted pre- 
 cedents and given examples : it was a 
 matter of memory : while all the time the 
 whole spiritual acreage was left untilled. 
 
 A race educated in this way never ad- 
 vances, save as it is jolted out of its no- 
 tions by men with either a sublime 
 ignorance of, or an indifference to what 
 has been done and said. These men are 
 always called barbarians by their con- 
 temporaries : they are jeered and hooted. 
 They supply much mirth by their eccen- 
 tricities. After they are dead the world 
 sometimes canonizes them and carves on 
 their tombs the word " Savior." 
 
 Do I then plead the cause of ignorance ? 
 Well, yes, rather so. A little ignorance 
 327
 
 Jane Busten 
 
 is not a dangerous thing. A man who 
 reads too much — who accumulates too 
 many facts — gets his mind filled to the 
 point of saturation ; matters then crys- 
 tallize and his head becomes a solid thing 
 that refuses to let anything either in or 
 out. In his soul there is no guest-cham- 
 ber. His only hope for progress lies in 
 another incarnation. 
 
 And so a certain ignorance seems a 
 necessary equipment for the doing of a 
 great work. To live in a big city and 
 know what others are doing and saying ; 
 to meet the learned and powerful, and 
 hear their sermons and lectures ; to view 
 the unending shelves of vast libraries is 
 to be discouraged at the start. And thus 
 we find that genius is essentially rural — 
 a country product. Salons, soirees, 
 theatres, concerts, lectures, libraries, 
 produce a fine mediocrity that smiles at 
 the right time and bows when 't is 
 proper, but it is well to bear in mind that 
 George Eliot, Elizabeth Barrett, Char- 
 lotte Bronte, and Jane Austen were all 
 328
 
 Jane 2Uisten 
 
 country girls, with little companionship, 
 nourished on picked-up classics, having 
 a healthy ignorance of what the world 
 was saying and doing. 
 
 329
 
 n. 
 
 JANE AUSTEN lived a hundred years 
 ago. But when you tramp that 
 five miles from Overton , where the 
 railroad station is, to Steven ton, where 
 she was born, it does n't seem like it. 
 Rural England does not change much. 
 Great fleecy clouds roll lazily across the 
 blue, overhead, and the hedgerows are 
 full of twittering birds that you hear but 
 seldom see ; and tbe pastures contain 
 mild-faced cows that look at you with 
 wide-open eyes over the stone walls, and 
 in the towering elm trees that sway their 
 branches in the breeze crows hold a 
 noisy caucus. And it comes to you that 
 the clouds and the blue sky and the 
 hedgerows and the birds and the cows 
 and the crows are all just as Jane Austen 
 knew them — no change. These stone 
 330
 
 Jane Busten 
 
 walls stood here then and so did the low 
 slate-roofed barns and the whitewashed 
 cottages where the roses clamber over 
 the doors. 
 
 I paused in front of one of these snug, 
 homely, handsome pretty little cottages 
 and looked at the two exact rows of 
 flowers that lined the little walk leading 
 from gate to cottage door. The pathway 
 was made from coal ashes and the flower- 
 beds were marked ofFby pieces of broken 
 crockery set on edge. 'Twas an absent- 
 minded, impolite thing to do — to stand 
 leaning on a gate and critically exam- 
 ine the landscape gardening, evidently 
 an overworked woman's gardening, at 
 that. 
 
 As I leaned there the door opened and 
 a little woman with sleeves rolled up 
 appeared. I mumbled an apology, but 
 before I could articulate it she held 
 out a pair of scissors and said, " Perhaps, 
 sir, you 'd like to clip some of the flowers 
 — the roses over the door are best ! " 
 
 Three children hung to her skirts, 
 33i
 
 3ane Busten 
 
 peeking 'round faces from behind, and 
 quite accidentally disclosing a very neat 
 ankle. 
 
 I took the scissors and clipped three 
 splendid Jacqueminots and said it was a 
 beautiful day. She agreed with me and 
 added that she was just finishing her 
 churning and if I 'd wait a minute until 
 the butter came, she 'd give me a drink of 
 buttermilk. 
 
 I waited without urging and got the 
 buttermilk, and as the children had come 
 out from hiding I was minded to give 
 them a penny apiece. Two coppers were 
 all I could muster, so I gave the two 
 boys each a penny and the little girl a 
 shilling. The mother protested that she 
 had no change and that a bob was too 
 much for a little girl like that, but I" as- 
 sumed a Big-Bonanza air and explained 
 that I was from California where the 
 smallest change is a dollar. 
 
 " Go thank the gentleman, Jane." 
 
 " That 's right, Jane Austen, come here 
 and thank me ! " 
 
 332
 
 Sane Hasten 
 
 " How did you know her name was 
 Jane Austen— Jane Austen Humphreys ? " 
 
 "I did n't know — I only guessed." 
 
 Then little Mrs. Humphreys ceased 
 patting the butter and told me that she 
 named her baby girl for Jane Austen, who 
 used to live near here a long time ago. 
 Jane Austen was one of the greatest writers 
 that ever lived — the Rector said so. 
 The Rev. George Austen preached at 
 Steventon for years and years, and I 
 should go and see the church — the same 
 church where he preached and where 
 Jane Austen used to go. And anything 
 I wanted to know about Jane Austen's 
 books the Rector could tell for he was a 
 wonderful learned man was the Rector — 
 " Kiss the gentleman, Jane." 
 
 So I kissed Jane Austen's round, rosy 
 cheek and stroked the towsled heads of the 
 two boys by way of blessing, and started 
 for Steventon to interview the Rector 
 who was very wise. 
 
 And the clergyman who teaches his 
 people the history of their neighborhood, 
 333
 
 3ane Busten 
 
 and tells them of the excellent men and 
 women who once lived thereabouts, is 
 both wise and good. And the present 
 Rector at Steventon is both — I 'm sure of 
 that. 
 
 334
 
 m. 
 
 IT was a very happy family that lived 
 in the Rectory at Steventon from 
 1775 to 1801. There were five boys 
 and two girls, and the youngest girl's 
 name was Jane. Between her and James, 
 the oldest boy, lay a period of twelve 
 years of three hundred and sixty-five days 
 each, not to mention leap years. 
 
 The boys were sent away to be educated, 
 and when they came home at holiday 
 time they brought presents for the mother 
 and the girls and there was great rejoic- 
 ing. 
 
 James was sent to Oxford. The girls 
 were not sent away to be educated— it 
 was thought hardly worth while then to 
 educate women, and some folks still hold 
 to that belief. When the boys came 
 home, they were made to stand by the 
 335
 
 3ane Bueten 
 
 door jamb, and a mark was placed on the 
 casing, with a date, which showed how 
 much they had grown. And they were 
 catechized as to their knowledge and 
 cross-questioned and their books in- 
 spected ; and so we find one of the sisters 
 saying, once, that she knew all of the 
 things her brothers knew, and besides 
 that she knew all the things she knew 
 herself. 
 
 There were plenty of books in the li- 
 brary and the girls made use of them. 
 They would read to their father "because 
 his eyesight was bad," but I cannot help 
 thinking this a clever ruse on the part of 
 the good Rector. 
 
 I do not find that there were any se- 
 crets in that household, or that either 
 Mr. or Mrs. Austen ever said that child- 
 ren should be seen and not heard. It 
 was a little republic of letters — all their 
 own. Thrown in on themselves, for not 
 many of the yeomanry thereabouts could 
 read, there was developed a fine spirit of 
 comradeship among parents and children, 
 33<J
 
 5ane Busten 
 
 brothers and sisters, servants and visitors, 
 that is a joy to contemplate. Before the 
 days of railroads a "visitor" was more 
 of an institution than he is now. He 
 stayed longer and was more welcome ; 
 and the news he brought from distant 
 parts was eagerly asked for. Nowadays 
 we know all about everything, almost 
 before it happens, for yellow journalism 
 is so alert that it discounts futurity. 
 
 In the Austen household had lived and 
 died a son of Warren Hastings. The lad 
 had so won the love of the Austens that 
 they even spoke of him as their own ; 
 and this bond also linked them to the 
 great outside world of statecraft. The 
 things the elders discussed were the 
 properties too of the children. 
 
 Then once a year the Bishop came — 
 came in knee breeches, hob-nailed shoes, 
 and shovel hat, and the little church was 
 decked with greens. The Bishop came 
 from Paradise, little Jane used to think, 
 and once, to be polite, she asked him 
 how all the folks were in Heaven. Then 
 N 337
 
 Jane Busten 
 
 the other children giggled and the Bishop 
 spilt a whole cup of tea down the front 
 of his best coat, and coughed and choked 
 until he was very red in the face. 
 
 When Jane was ten years old there 
 came to live at the Rectory a daughter of 
 Mrs. Austen's sister. She came to them 
 direct from France. Her name was 
 Madame Fenillade. She was a widow 
 and only twenty-two. Once when little 
 Jane overheard one of the brothers say 
 that Monsieur Fenillade had kissed Ma- 
 damoiselle Guillotine, she asked what he 
 meant and they would not tell her. 
 
 Now Madame spoke French with grace 
 and fluency, and the girls thought it 
 queer that there should be two languages 
 — English and French — so they picked 
 up a few words of French, too, and at the 
 table would gravely say "Merci, Papa," 
 and " S' il vous plait, Mamma." Then Mr. 
 Austen proposed that at table no one 
 should speak anything but French. So 
 Madame told them what to call the sugar 
 and the salt and the bread, and no one 
 338
 
 3ane Busten 
 
 called anything except by its French 
 name. In two weeks each of the whole 
 dozen persons who sat at that board, as 
 well as the girl who waited on table, had 
 a bill-of-fare working capital of French. 
 In six months they could converse with 
 ease. 
 
 And science with all its ingenuity has 
 not yet pointed out a better way for ac- 
 quiring a new language, than the plan the 
 Austens adopted at Steventon Rectory. 
 We call it the " Berlitz Method " now. 
 
 Madame Fenillade's widowhood rested 
 lightly upon her, and she became quite 
 the life of the whole household. 
 
 One of the Austen bo3 7 s fell in love 
 with the French widow ; and surely it 
 would be a very stupid country boy that 
 would n't love a French widow like that ! 
 
 And they were married and lived hap- 
 pily ever afterward. 
 
 But before Madame married and moved 
 away she taught the girls charades, and 
 then little plays, and a theatrical per- 
 formance was given in the barn. 
 339
 
 3ane Husten 
 
 Then a play could not be found that 
 just suited, so Jaiie wrote one and Cassan- 
 dra helped, and Madame criticised and 
 the Rev. Mr. Austen suggested a few 
 changes. Then it was all rewritten. 
 And this was the first attempt at writing 
 for the public by Jane Austen. 
 
 % 4 
 
 340
 
 IV. 
 
 JANE AUSTEN wrote four great nov- 
 els. Pride and Prejudice was 
 begun when she was twenty and fin- 
 ished a year later. The old father started 
 a course of novel-reading on his own ac- 
 count in order to fit his mind to pass 
 judgment on his daughter's work. He 
 was sure it was good, but feared that love 
 had blinded his eyes and he wanted to 
 make sure. After six months' compar- 
 ison he wrote to a publisher explaining 
 that he had the MS. of a great novel that 
 would be parted with for a consideration. 
 He assured the publisher that the novel 
 was as excellent as any Miss Burney, 
 Miss Edgeworth, or anyone else ever 
 wrote. 
 
 Now publishers get letters like that 
 by every mail, and when Mr. Austen 
 341
 
 Jane Busten 
 
 received his reply it was so antarctic iu 
 sentiment that the MS. was stored away 
 in the garret where it lay for just eleven 
 years before it found a publisher. But 
 in the meantime Miss Austen had writ- 
 ten three other novels — not with much 
 hope that anyone would publish them, 
 but to please her father and the few 
 intimate friends who read and sighed 
 and smiled in quiet. 
 
 The year she was thirty years of age 
 her father died — died with no thought 
 that the world would yet endorse his 
 own loving estimate of his daughter's 
 worth. 
 
 After the father's death financial trou- 
 bles came and something had to be done 
 to fight off possible hungry wolves. The 
 MS. was hunted out, dusted, gone over, 
 and submitted to publishers. They 
 sniffed at it and sent it back. Finally 
 a man was found who was bold enough 
 to read. He liked it but would n't admit 
 the fact. Yet he decided to print it. 
 He did so. The reading world liked it 
 342
 
 5ane Susten 
 
 and said so, although not very loudly. 
 Slowly the work made head, and small- 
 sized London drafts were occasionally 
 sent by publishers to Miss Austen with 
 apologies because the amounts were not 
 larger. 
 
 Now in reference to writing books it 
 may not be amiss to explain that no one 
 ever said, " Now then, I '11 write a story ! " 
 and sitting down at table took up pen 
 and dipping it in ink, wrote. Stories 
 don't come that way. Stories take pos- 
 session of one — incident after incident — 
 and you write in order to get rid of 'em 
 — with a few other reasons mixed in, 
 for motives, like silver, are always found 
 mixed. Children play at keeping house : 
 and men and women who have loved 
 think of the things that have happened, 
 then imagine all the things that might 
 have happened, and from thinking it all 
 over to writing it out is but a step. You 
 begin one chapter and write it this fore- 
 noon, and do all you may to banish the 
 plot the next chapter is all in your head 
 343
 
 Jane Busten 
 
 before sundown. Next morning you 
 write chapter number two, to unload 
 it, and so the story spins itself out into 
 a book. All this if you live in the 
 country and have time to think and are 
 not broken in upon by too much work 
 and worry — save the worry of the ever 
 restless mind. Whether the story is 
 good or not depends upon what you 
 leave out. 
 
 The sculptor produces the beautiful 
 statue by chipping away such parts of 
 the marble block as are not needed. 
 
 Really happy people do not write 
 stories — they accumulate adipose tissue 
 and die at the top through fatty degen- 
 eration of the cerebrum. A certain dis- 
 appointment in life, a dissatisfaction 
 with environment, is necessary to stir 
 the imagination to a creative point. If 
 things are all to your taste you sit back 
 and enjoy them. You forget the flight 
 of time, the march of the seasons, your 
 future life, family, country — all, just as 
 Antony did in Egypt. A deadly, languor- 
 344
 
 3ane Busten 
 
 ous satisfaction comes over you. Pain, 
 disappointment, unrest, or a joy that 
 hurts, are the things that prick the mind 
 into activity. 
 
 Jane Austen lived in a little village. 
 She felt the narrowness of her life — the 
 inability of those beyond her own house- 
 hold to match her thoughts and emotions. 
 Love came that way — a short heart-rest, a 
 being understood, were hers. The gates 
 of Paradise swung ajar and she caught a 
 glimpse of the glories within, and sighed 
 and clasped her hands and bowed her 
 head in a prayer of thankfulness. 
 
 When she arose from her knees the 
 gates were closed ; the way was dark ; 
 she was alone — alone in a little quibbling, 
 carping village, where tired folks worked 
 and gossiped, ate, drank, slept. Her 
 home was pleasant, to be sure, but man 
 is a citizen of the world, not of a house. 
 
 Jane Austen began to write — to write 
 
 about these village people. Jane was 
 
 tall, and twenty — not very handsome, but 
 
 better, she was good-looking. She looked 
 
 345
 
 3ane Busten 
 
 good because she was. She was pious, 
 but not too pious. She used to go call- 
 ing among the parishioners, visiting the 
 sick, the lowly, the troubled. Then 
 when Great Folks came down from Lon- 
 don to "the Hall," she went with the 
 Rector to call on them too, for the Rector 
 was servant to all — his business was to 
 minister : he was a Minister. And the 
 Reverend George Austen was a bit proud 
 of his youngest daughter. She was just 
 as tall as he, and dignified and gentle : 
 and the clergyman chuckled quietly to 
 himself to see how she was the equal in 
 grace and intellect of any Fine Lady from 
 London town. 
 
 And although the good Rector prayed, 
 " From all vanity and pride of spirit, 
 good Lord, deliver us," it never occurred 
 to him that he was vain of his tall 
 daughter Jane, and I'm glad it didn't. 
 There is no more crazy bumble-bee gets 
 into a mortal's bonnet than the buzzing 
 thought that God is jealous of the affec- 
 tion we have for our loved ones. If we 
 346
 
 Sane austen 
 
 are ever damned, it will be because we 
 have too little love for our fellows, not 
 too much. 
 
 But, egad ! brother, it 's no small de- 
 light to be sixty and a little stooped and 
 a trifle rheumatic, and have your own 
 blessed daughter, sweet and stately, 
 comb your thinning grey locks, help you 
 on with your overcoat, find your cane, 
 and go trooping with you, hand in hand, 
 down the lane on merciful errand bent. 
 It 's a temptation to grow old and feign 
 sciatica ; and if you could only know 
 that, someday, like old King Lear, upon 
 your withered cheek would fall Cordelia's 
 tears, the thought would be a solace. 
 
 So Jane Austen began to write stories 
 about the simple folks she knew. She 
 wrote in the family sitting-room at a little 
 mahogany desk that she could shut up 
 quickly if prying neighbors came in to tell 
 their woes and ask questions about all 
 those sheets of paper ! And all she wrote 
 she read to her father and to her sister 
 Cassandra. 
 
 347
 
 5anc Busten 
 
 And they talked it all over together 
 and laughed and cried and joked over it. 
 The kind old minister thought it a good 
 mental drill for his girls to write and ex- 
 press their feelings. The two girls col- 
 laborated — that is to say one wrote and 
 the other looked on. Neither girl had 
 been "educated," except what their 
 father taught them. But to be born into 
 a bookish family, and inherit the hospi- 
 table mind and the receptive heart, is 
 better than to be sent to Harvard Annex. 
 
 Preachers, like other folks, sometimes 
 assume a virtue when they have it not. 
 But George Austen did n't pretend — he 
 was. And that 's the better plan, for no 
 man can deceive his children — they take 
 his exact measurement, whether others 
 ever do or not ; and the only way to win 
 and hold the love of a child (or a grown- 
 up) is to be frank and simple and honest. 
 I 've tried both schemes. 
 
 I cannot find that George Austen ever 
 claimed he was only a worm of the dust, 
 or pretended to be more or less than he 
 348
 
 3-ane austen 
 
 was, or to assume a knowledge that he did 
 not possess. He used to say, " My Dears, 
 I really do not know. But let 's keep the 
 windows open and light may yet come." 
 
 It was a busy family of plain average 
 people — not very rich, and not very poor. 
 There were difficulties to meet, and 
 troubles to share, and joys to divide. 
 
 Jane Austen was born in 1775; "Jane 
 Eyre " in 1816 — one year before Jane 
 Austen died. 
 
 Charlotte Bronte knew all about Jane 
 Austen, and her example fired Charlotte's 
 ambition. Both were daughters of coun- 
 try clergymen. Charlotte lived in the 
 north of England on the wild and treeless 
 moors, where the searching winds rattled 
 the panes and black-faced sheep bleated 
 piteously. Jane Austen lived in the rich 
 quiet of a prosperous farming country, 
 where bees made honey and larks nested. 
 The Rev. Patrick Bronte disciplined his 
 children : George Austen loved his. In 
 Steventon there is no "Black Bull"; 
 only a little dehorned inn, kept by a 
 349
 
 Jane Busten 
 
 woman who hatches canaries, and will 
 sell you a warranted singer for five shil- 
 lings, with no charge for the cage. At 
 Steventon no red-haired Yorkshiremen 
 offer to give fight or challenge you to a 
 drinking-bout. 
 
 The opposites of things are alike, and 
 that is why the world ties Jane Eyre and 
 Jane Austen in one bundle. Their meth- 
 ods of work were totally different : their 
 effects gotten in different ways. Char- 
 lotte Bronte fascinates by startling situa- 
 tions and highly colored lights that dance 
 and glow, leading you on in a mad chase. 
 There 's pain, unrest, tragedy in the air. 
 The pulse always is rapid and the tem- 
 perature high. 
 
 It is not so with Jane Austen. She is 
 an artist in her gentleness, and the world 
 is to-day recognizing this more and more. 
 The stage now works its spells by her 
 methods — without rant, cant, or fustian 
 — and as the years go by this must be so 
 more and more, for mankind's face is 
 turned toward truth. 
 350
 
 Jane Hustcn 
 
 To weave your spell out of common- 
 place events and brew a love-potion 
 from every-day materials is high art. 
 When Kipling takes three average sol- 
 diers of the line, ignorant, lying, swear- 
 ing, smoking, dog-fighting soldiers, who 
 can even run on occasion, and by tell- 
 ing of them hold a world in thrall — 
 that 's art ! In these soldiers three we 
 recognize something very much akin to 
 ourselves, for the thing that holds no 
 relationship to us does not interest us — 
 we cannot leave the personal equation 
 out. This fact is made plain in The 
 Black Riders, where the devils dancing 
 in Tophet look up and espying Steve 
 Crane, address him thus : " Brother ! " 
 
 Jane Austen's characters are all plain, 
 every-day folks. The work is always 
 quiet. There are no entangling situa- 
 tions, no mysteries, no surprises. 
 
 Now, to present a situation, an emo- 
 tion, so it will catch and hold the atten- 
 tion of others, is largely a knack — you 
 practise on the thing until you do it 
 351
 
 3ane Busten 
 
 well. This one thing I do. But the man 
 who does this thing is not intrinsically 
 any greater than those who appreciate 
 it — in fact they are all made of the same 
 kind of stuff. Kipling himself is quite a 
 commonplace person. He is neither 
 handsome nor magnetic. He is plain 
 and manly and would fit in anywhere. 
 If there was a trunk to be carried up- 
 stairs, or an ox to get out of a pit, 
 you 'd call on Kipling if he chanced that 
 way, and he 'd give you a lift as a matter 
 of course, and then go on whistling with 
 hands in his pockets. His art is a knack 
 practised to a point that gives facility. 
 
 Jane Austen was a commonplace per- 
 son. She swept, seved, worked, and did 
 the duty that lay nearest her. She wrote 
 because she liked to, and because it 
 gave pleasure to others. She wrote as 
 well as she could. She had no thought 
 of immortality, or that she was writing 
 for the ages — no more than Shakespeare 
 had. She never anticipated that Southey, 
 Coleridge, I/amb, Guizot, and Macaulay 
 352
 
 5ane austen 
 
 would hail her as a marvel of insight, 
 nor did she suspect that a woman as 
 great as George Eliot would declare her 
 work flawless. 
 
 But to-day strong men recognize her 
 books as rarely excellent, because they 
 show the divinity in all things, keep 
 close to the ground ; gently inculcate 
 the firm belief that simple people are as 
 necessary as great ones, that small things 
 are not necessarily unimportant, and that 
 nothing is really insignificant. It all rings 
 true. 
 
 And so I sing the praises of the aver- 
 age woman — the woman who does her 
 work, who is willing to be unknown, 
 who is modest and unaffected, who tries 
 to lessen the pains of earth, and to add 
 to its happiness. She is the true guard- 
 ian angel of mankind ! 
 
 No book published in Jane Austen's 
 lifetime bore her name on the title-page ; 
 she was never lionized by society ; she 
 was never two hundred miles from home ; 
 she died when forty -two years of age, and 
 353
 
 5ane Husten 
 
 it was sixty years before a biography was 
 attempted or asked for. She sleeps in 
 the cathedral at Winchester, and not so 
 very long ago a visitor, on asking the 
 verger to see her grave, was conducted 
 thither, and the verger asked, " Was she 
 anybody in particular? so many folks 
 ask where she 's buried, you know ! " 
 
 But this is changed now, for when the 
 verger took me to her grave and we 
 stood by that plain black marble slab, he 
 spoke intelligently of her life and work. 
 And many visitors now go to the cathe- 
 dral only because it is the resting-place 
 of Jane Austen, who lived a beautiful, 
 helpful life and produced great art, yet 
 knew it not. 
 
 354
 
 EMPRESS JOSEPHINE 
 
 355
 
 You have met General Bonaparte in ray house. 
 "Well— he it is who would supply a father's 
 place to the orphans of Alexander de Beau- 
 harnais, and a husband's to his widow. I ad- 
 mire the General's courage, the extent of his 
 information, for, on all subjects he talks equally 
 well, and the quickness of his judgment, which 
 enables him to seize the thoughts of others 
 almost before they are expressed ; but, I confess 
 it, I shrink from the despotism he seems desir- 
 ous of exercising over all who approach him. His 
 searching glance has something singular and 
 inexplicable, which imposes even on our Direct- 
 ors; judge if it may not intimidate a woman. 
 Even — what ought to please me— the force of a 
 passion, described with an energy that leaves not 
 a doubt of his sincerity, is precisely the cause 
 which arrests the consent I am often on the 
 point of pronouncing. 
 
 Letters of Josephine. 
 
 356
 
 
 ft
 
 EMPRESS JOSEPHINE. 
 
 IT was a great life, dearie, a great life ! 
 Charles Lamb used to study mathe- 
 matics to subdue his genius, and I '11 
 have to tinge truth with gray in order 
 to keep this little sketch from appearing 
 like a red Ruritania romance. 
 
 Josephine was born on an island in the 
 Caribbean Sea, a long way from France. 
 The Little Man was an islander too. 
 They started for France about the same 
 time, from different directions, each of 
 course totally unaware that the other 
 lived. They started on the order of that 
 joker Fate, in order to scramble conti- 
 nental politics, and make omelet of the 
 world's pretensions. 
 
 357
 
 Bmprese Josepbine 
 
 Josephine's father was Captain Tascher. 
 Do you know who Captain Tascher was ? 
 Very well, there is satisfaction then in 
 knowing that no one else does either. 
 He seems to have had no ancestors ; and 
 he left no successor save Josephine. 
 
 We know a little less of Josephine's 
 mother than we do of her father. She 
 was the daughter of a Frenchman whom 
 the world had plucked of both money 
 and courage, and he moved to the West 
 Indies to vegetate and brood on the 
 vanity of earthly ambitions. Young 
 Captain Tascher married the planter's 
 daughter in the year 1762. The next 
 year a daughter was born, and they called 
 her name Josephine. 
 
 Not long after her birth, Captain Tas- 
 cher thought to mend his prospects by 
 moving to one of the neighboring islands. 
 His wife went with him, but they left the 
 baby girl in the hands of a good old 
 aunt, until they could corral fortune and 
 make things secure for this world at 
 least. 
 
 358
 
 impress Josephine 
 
 They never came back, for they died and 
 were buried. 
 
 Josephine never had any recollection 
 of her parents. But the aunt was gentle 
 and kindly, and life was simple and cheap. 
 There was plenty to eat, and no clothing 
 to speak of was required, for the equator 
 was only a stone's throw away ; in fact 
 it was in sight of the house, as Josephine 
 herself has said. 
 
 There was a Catholic church near, but 
 no school. Yet Josephine learned to 
 read and write. She sang with the ne- 
 groes and danced and swam and played 
 leap-frog. When she was nine years old, 
 her aunt told her she must not play leap- 
 frog any more, but she should learn to 
 embroider and to play the harp and read 
 poetry. Then she would grow up and 
 be a fine lady. 
 
 And Josephine thought it a bit hard, 
 but said she would try. 
 
 She was tall and slender but not very 
 handsome. Her complexion was rather 
 yellow, her hands bony. But the years 
 359
 
 Bmpress Sosepbfne 
 
 brought grace, and even if her features 
 were not pretty she had one thing that 
 was better, a gentle voice. So far as I 
 know, no one ever gave her lessons in 
 voice culture either. Perhaps the voice 
 is the true index of the soul. Josephine's 
 voice was low, sweet, and so finely modu- 
 lated that when she spoke others would 
 pause to listen — not to the words, just to 
 the voice. 
 
 Occasionally visitors came to the island 
 and were received at the old rambling 
 mansion where Josephine's aunt lived. 
 From them the girl learned about the 
 great, outside world with its politics and 
 society and strife and rivalry ; and when 
 the visitor went away Josephine had 
 gotten from him all he knew. So the 
 young woman became wise without school 
 and learned without books. 
 
 A year after the memorable year of 
 1776, there came to the island, Vicomte 
 Alexander Beauharnais. He had come 
 direct from America, where he had fought 
 on the side of the Colonies against 
 360
 
 fimpreys Josephine 
 
 the British. He was full of republican 
 principles. Paradoxically, he was also 
 rich and idle and somewhat of an ad- 
 venturer. 
 
 He called at the old aunt's, Madame 
 Renaudin's, and called often. He fell vio- 
 lently in love with Josephine. I say vio- 
 lently, for that was the kind of man he 
 was. He was thirty, she was fifteen. 
 His voice was rough and guttural, so I do 
 not think he had much inward grace. 
 Josephine's fine instincts rebelled at 
 thought of accepting his proffered affec- 
 tion. She explained that she was be- 
 trothed to another, a neighboring youth 
 of about her own age, whose thoughts and 
 feelings matched hers. 
 
 Beauharnais said that was nothing to 
 him, and appealed to the old folks, dis- 
 playing his title, submitting an inventory 
 of his estate ; and the old folks agreed to 
 look into the matter. They did so and 
 explained to Josephine that she should 
 not longer hold out against the wishes of 
 those who had done so much for her. 
 361
 
 impress 3-osepbine 
 
 And so Josephine relented and they 
 were married, although it cannot truth- 
 fully be said they lived happily ever 
 afterward. They started for France on 
 their wedding tour. In six weeks they 
 arrived in Paris. Returned soldiers and 
 famed travellers are eagerly welcomed by 
 society ; especially is this so when the 
 traveller brings a Creole wife from the 
 equator. The couple supplied a new 
 thrill, and society in Paris is always eager 
 for a new thrill. 
 
 Vicomte Beauharnais and his wife 
 became quite the rage. It was expected 
 that the Creole lady would be beautiful 
 but dull ; instead, she was not so very 
 beautiful but very clever. She dropped 
 into all the graceful ways of polite society 
 intuitively. 
 
 In a year, domestic life slightly inter- 
 fered with society's claims — a son was 
 born. They called his name Eugene. 
 
 Two more years and a daughter was 
 born. They called her name Hortense. 
 
 Josephine was only twenty, but the 
 362
 
 JEmprcaS 5osepbiuc 
 
 tropics and social experience and mater- 
 nity had given ripeness to her life. She 
 became thoughtful and inclined rather to 
 stay at home with her babies than chase 
 fashion's butterflies. 
 
 Beauharnais chased fashion's butter- 
 flies, and caught them, too, for he came 
 home late and quarrelled with his wife — a 
 sure sign. 
 
 He drank a little, gamed more, sought 
 excitement, and talked politics needlessly 
 loud in underground cafes. 
 
 Men who are wofully lax in their mar- 
 riage relations are very apt to regard their 
 wives with suspicion. If Beauharnais had 
 been weighed in the balances he would 
 have been found wanton. He instituted 
 proceedings against Josephine for divorce. 
 
 And Josephine packed up a few scanty 
 effects and taking her two children started 
 for her old home in the West Indies. It 
 took all the money she had to pay pas- 
 sage. 
 
 It was the old, old story — a few years 
 of gay life in the great city, then cruelty 
 3^3
 
 impress 5osepbtne 
 
 too great for endurance, tears, shut white 
 lips, a firm resolve — and back to the old 
 farm where homely, loyal hearts await, 
 and outstretched arms welcome the sor- 
 rowful, yet glad return. 
 
 Beauharnais failed to get his divorce* 
 The court said "no cause for action." 
 He awoke, stared stupidly about, felt the 
 need of sympathy in his hour of undoing, 
 and looked for— Josephine. 
 
 She was gone. 
 
 He tried absinthe, gambling, hot dissi- 
 pation ; but he could not forget. He had 
 sent away his granary and storehouse ; 
 his wand of wealth and heart's desire. 
 Two ways opened for peace, only two : a 
 loaded pistol — or get her back. 
 
 First he would try to get her back, and 
 the pistol should be held in reserve in 
 case of failure. 
 
 Josephine forgave and came back ; for 
 a good woman forgives to seventy times 
 seven. 
 
 Beauharnais met her with all the ten- 
 derness a lover could command. The 
 3<J4
 
 JEmpress Uosepbinc 
 
 ceremony of marriage was again sacredly 
 solemnized. They retired to the country 
 and with their two children lived three 
 of the happiest months Josephine ever 
 knew ; at least Josephine said so, and the 
 fact that she made the same remark about 
 several other occasions is no reason for 
 doubting her sincerity. Then they moved 
 back to Paris. 
 
 Beauharnais sobered his ambitions, and 
 kept good hours. He was a soldier in the 
 employ of the king, but his sympathies 
 were with the people. He was a Republi- 
 can with a Royalist bias but some said he 
 was a Royalist with a Republican bias. 
 
 Josephine looked after her household, 
 educated her children, did much chari- 
 table work, and knew what was going on 
 in the state. 
 
 But those were troublous times. Mur- 
 der was in the air and revolution was 
 rife. That mob of a hundred thousand 
 women had tramped out to Versailles 
 and brought the king back to Paris. 
 He had been beheaded, and Marie Autoi- 
 305
 
 Empress Sosepbtne 
 
 nette had followed him. The people 
 were in power and Beauharnais had 
 labored to temper their wrath with 
 reason. He had even been Chairman 
 of the Third Convention. He called 
 himself Citizen. But the fact that he 
 was of noble birth was remembered, 
 and in September, of 1793, three men 
 called at his house. When Josephine 
 looked out of the window, she saw by 
 the wan light of the moon a file of sol- 
 diers standing stiff and motionless. 
 
 She knew the time had come. They 
 marched Citizen Beauharnais to the 
 Luxembourg. 
 
 In a few feverish months, they came 
 back for his wife. Her they placed in 
 the nunnery of the Carmelites — that 
 prison where, but a few months before, 
 a mob relieved the keepers of their 
 vigils by killing all their charges. 
 
 Robespierre was supreme. Now Robes- 
 pierre had come into power by undoing 
 Danton. Danton had helped lug in 
 the Revolution, but when he touched a 
 366
 
 Bmprees Sosepbine 
 
 match to the hay he did not really mean 
 to start a conflagration, only a bonfire. 
 
 He tried to dampen the blaze, and 
 Robespierre said he was a traitor and 
 led him to the guillotine. Robespierre 
 worked the guillotine until the bearings 
 grew hot. Still the people who rode in 
 the death-tumbril did not seem so very 
 miserable. Despair pushed far enough 
 completes the circle and becomes peace — 
 a peace like unto security. It is the last 
 stage : hope is gone, but the comforting 
 thought of heroic death and an eternal 
 sleep takes its place. 
 
 When Josephine at the nunnery of the 
 Carmelites received from the Luxem- 
 bourg prison a package containing a 
 generous lock of her husband's hair, she 
 knew it had been purchased from the 
 executioner. 
 
 Now the prison of the Carmelites was 
 unfortunately rather crowded. In fact 
 it was full to the roof-tile. Five ladies 
 were obliged to occupy one little cell. 
 One of these ladies in the cell with 
 367
 
 impress Soeepbtne 
 
 Josephine was Madame Foutenay. Now 
 Madame Foutenay was fondly loved by 
 Citizen Tallien, who was a member of 
 the Assembly over which Citizen Robes- 
 pierre presided. Citizen Tallien did not 
 explain his love for Madame to the public 
 because Madame chanced to be the wife 
 of another. So how could Robespierre 
 know that when he imprisoned Madame 
 he was touching the tenderest tie that 
 bound his friend Tallien to earth ? 
 
 Robespierre sent word to the prison 
 of the Carmelites that Madame Fontenay 
 and Madame Beauharnais should pre- 
 pare for death — they were guilty of plot- 
 ting against the people. 
 
 Now Tallien came daily to the prison 
 of the Carmelites, not to visit of course, 
 but to see that the prisoners were properly 
 restrained. A cabbage stalk was thrown 
 out of a cell window, and Tallien found 
 in the stalk a note from his lady-love to 
 this effect : " I am to die in two days ; to 
 save me you must overthrow Robes- 
 pierre." 
 
 , 363
 
 Empress Josepbine 
 
 The next day there was trouble when 
 the Convention met. Tallien got the 
 platform and denounced Robespierre in 
 a Cassius voice as a traitor — the arch 
 enemy of the people — a plotter for self. 
 To emphasize his remarks he brandished 
 a glittering dagger. Other orations fol- 
 lowed in like vein. All orders that 
 Robespierre had given out were abro- 
 gated by acclamation. Two days and 
 Robespierre was made to take a dose 
 of the medicine he had so often prescribed 
 for others. He was beheaded by Samson, 
 his own servant, July 15, 1794. 
 
 Immediately all "suspects" impris- 
 oned on his instigation were released. 
 
 Madame Fontenay and the widow 
 Beauharnais were free. Soon after this 
 Madame Fontenay became Madame Tal- 
 lien. Josephine got her children back 
 from the country, but her property 
 was gone and she was in sore straits. 
 But she had friends, yet none so 
 loyal and helpful as Citizen Tallien 
 and his wife. Their home was hers. 
 369
 
 ^Empress 3osepbine 
 
 And it was there she met a man 
 by the name of Barras, and there too 
 she met a man who was a friend of 
 Barras ; by name, Bonaparte — Napoleon 
 Bonaparte. Bonaparte was twenty-six. 
 He was five feet two inches high and 
 weighed one hundred and twenty pounds. 
 He was beardless and looked like a boy, 
 and at that time his face was illumined 
 by an eruption. 
 
 Out of employment and waiting for 
 something to turn up, he yet had a very 
 self-satisfied manner. 
 
 His peculiar way of listening to con- 
 versation — absorbing everything and 
 giving nothing out — made one uncom- 
 fortable. Josephine, seven years his 
 senior, did not like the youth. She had 
 had a wider experience and been better 
 brought up than he, and she let him 
 know it, but he did not seem especially 
 abashed. 
 
 37o
 
 II. 
 
 JUST what the French Revolution was 
 no one has yet told us. Read 
 " Carlyle " backward or forward 
 and it is grand : it puts your head in a 
 whirl of heroic intoxication, but it does 
 not explain the Revolution. Suspicion, 
 hate, tyranny, revenge, fear, mawkish 
 sentimentality, mad desire, were in the 
 air. One leader was deposed because 
 he did nothing, and his successor was 
 carried to the guillotine because he 
 did too much. Convention after con- 
 vention was dissolved and re-formed. 
 On the fourth of October, 1795, there 
 was a howl and a roar and a shriek 
 from forty thousand citizens of Paris. 
 No one knew just what they wanted — the 
 forty thousand did not explain. Perhaps 
 it was nothing — only the leaders who 
 37i
 
 jEmpress 3osepbine 
 
 wanted power. They demanded that the 
 Convention should be dissolved : certain 
 men must be put out and others put in. 
 
 The Convention convened and all the 
 members felt to see if their heads were in 
 proper place — tQ-morrow they might not 
 be. The room was crowded to suffoca- 
 tion. Spectators filled the windows, 
 perched on the gallery railing, climbed 
 and clung on the projecting parts of 
 columns. High up on one of these col- 
 umns sat the j'oung man, Bonaparte, 
 silent, unmoved, still waiting for some- 
 thing to turn up. 
 
 The Convention must protect itself, and 
 the call was for Barras. Barras had once 
 successfully parleyed with insurrection — 
 he must do so again. Barras turned 
 bluish-white, for he knew that to deal 
 with this mob successfully a man must be 
 blind and deaf to pity. He struggled to 
 his feet — he looked about helplessly — 
 the Convention silently waited to catch 
 the words of its savior. 
 
 High up on a column Barras spied the 
 372
 
 Empress Sosepbinc 
 
 lithe form of the artillery major, whom 
 he had seen, with face of bronze, deal out 
 grape and canister at Toulon. Barras 
 raised his hand and pointing at the young 
 officer cried, "There, there is the man 
 who can save you ! " 
 
 The Convention nominated the little 
 man by acclamation as commander of the 
 city's forces. He slid down from his 
 perch, took half an hour to ascertain 
 whether the soldiers were on the side of 
 the mob or against it — for it was, usually 
 a toss-up, — and decided to accept the 
 commandant. Next day the mob sur- 
 rounded the Tuileries in the name of 
 Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality. The 
 Terrorists entreated the soldiers to throw 
 down their arms, then they reviled and 
 cajoled and cursed and sang, and the 
 women as usual were in the vanguard. 
 Paris recognized the divine right of in- 
 surrection . Who dare shoot into such a 
 throng ! 
 
 The young artillery major dare. He 
 gave the word and red death mowed wide 
 373
 
 Empress Josephine 
 
 swaths, and the balls spat against the 
 walls and sang through the windows of 
 the Church of St. Roche where the mob 
 was centred. Again and again he fired. 
 It began at Four by the clock and at Six 
 all good people, and bad, had retired to 
 their homes, and Paris was law-abiding. 
 
 The Convention named Napoleon Gen- 
 eral of the Interior, and the French Re- 
 volution became from that moment 
 thing that was. 
 
 374
 
 III. 
 
 OF course no one in Paris was so 
 much talked of as the young 
 artillery officer. Josephine was 
 a bit proud that she had met him, and 
 possibly a little sorry that she had treated 
 him so coldly. He only wished to be 
 polite ! 
 
 Josephine was an honest woman, but 
 still, she was a woman. She desired to 
 be well thought of, and to be well thought 
 of by men in power. Her son Eugene 
 was fifteen, and she had ambitions for 
 him : and to this end she saw the need of 
 keeping in touch with the Powers. 
 Josephine was a politician and a diplomat, 
 for all women are diplomats. She ar- 
 rayed Eugene in his Sunday-best and 
 told him to go to the General of the In- 
 terior and explain that his name was 
 375
 
 Bmpress Josephine 
 
 Eugene Beauharnais, that his father was 
 the martyred patriot, General Beauhar- 
 nais, and that this beloved father's sword 
 was in the archives over which Provi- 
 dence had placed the General of the In- 
 terior. Furthermore, the son should re- 
 quest that the sword of his father be 
 given him so that it might be used in 
 defence of France if need be. 
 
 And it was so done. 
 
 The whole thing was needlessly melo- 
 dramatic, and Napoleon laughed. The 
 poetry of war was to him a joke. Buthe 
 stroked the youth's curls, asked after his 
 mother, and ordered his secretary to go 
 fetch that sword. 
 
 So the boy carried the sword home and 
 was very happy, and his mother was very 
 happy and proud of him, and she kissed 
 him on both cheeks and kissed the sword 
 and thought of the erring, yet generous 
 man who once had carried it. Then she 
 thought it would be but proper for her to 
 go and thank the man who had given the 
 sword back ; for had he not stroked her 
 376
 
 Empress Sosepbine 
 
 boy's curls and told him he was a fine 
 young fellow, and asked after his mother ! 
 
 So the next day she went to call on the 
 man who had so graciously given the 
 sword back. She was kept waiting a 
 little while in the ante-room, for Napo- 
 leon always kept people waiting — it was 
 a good scheme. When admitted to the 
 presence, the General of the Interior, in 
 simple corporal's dress, did not remember 
 her. Neither did he remember about 
 giving the sword back — at least he said 
 so. He was always a trifler with women, 
 though ; and it was so delicious to have 
 this tearful widow remove her veil and 
 explain, for gadzooks ! had she not several 
 times allowed the mercury to drop to 
 zero for his benefit ? 
 
 And so she explained, and gradually it 
 all came back to him — very slowly and 
 after cross-questioning — and then he was 
 so glad to see her. When she went away, 
 he accompanied her to the outer door, 
 bare-headed, and as they walked down 
 the long hallway she noted the fact that 
 377
 
 impress Joeepbfne 
 
 he was not so tall as she by three inches. 
 He shook hands with her as they parted 
 and said he would call on her when he 
 had gotten a bit over the rush. 
 
 Josephine went home in a glow. She 
 did not like the man — he had humiliated 
 her by making her explain who she was, 
 and his manner, too, was offensively 
 familiar. And yet he was a power, there 
 was no denying that, and to know men of 
 power is a satisfaction to any woman. 
 He was twenty years younger than 
 Beauharnais, the mourned — twenty years ! 
 Then Beauharnais was tall and had a 
 splendid beard and wore a dangling 
 sword. Beauharnais was of noble birth, 
 educated, experienced, but he was dead ; 
 and here was a beardless boy being called 
 the Chief Citizen of France. Well, well, 
 well! 
 
 She was both pleased and hurt — hurt to 
 think she had been humbled, and pleased 
 to think such attentions had been paid 
 her. In a few days the young general 
 called on the widow to crave forgiveness 
 378
 
 Empress 3osepbine 
 
 for not having recognized her when she 
 had called on him. It was very stupid in 
 him, very ! 
 
 She forgave him. 
 
 He complimented Eugene in terse, lav- 
 ish terms, and when he went away kissed 
 Hortense, who was thirteen and thought 
 herself too big to be kissed by a strange 
 man. But Napoleon said they all seemed 
 just like old friends. And seeming like 
 old friends he called often. 
 
 Josephine knew Paris and Parisian so- 
 ciety thoroughly. Fifteen years of close 
 contact in success and defeat with states- 
 men, soldiers, diplomats, artists, and lit- 
 erati had taught her much. It is probable 
 that she was the most gifted woman in 
 Paris. Now Napoleon learned by induc- 
 tion as Josephine had, and as all women 
 do, and as genius must, for life is short — 
 only dullards spend eight years at Oxford. 
 He absorbed Josephine as the devil-fish 
 does its prey. And to get every thought 
 and feeling that a good woman possesses 
 you must win her completest love. In 
 379
 
 Bmpress Sosepbine 
 
 this close contact she gives up all — unlike 
 Sapphira — holding nothing back. 
 
 Among educated people, people of 
 breeding and culture, Napoleon felt ill at 
 ease. With this woman at his side he 
 would be at home anywhere. And feel- 
 ing at once that he coidd win her only by 
 honorable marriage he decided to marry 
 her. He was ambitious. Has that been 
 remarked before ? Well, one cannot al- 
 ways be original — still I think the facts 
 bear out the statement. Josephine was 
 ambitious too, but someway in this part- 
 nership she felt that she would bring 
 more capital into the concern than he, 
 and she hesitated. 
 
 But power had given dignity to the Lit- 
 tle Man ; his face had taken on the cold 
 beauty of marble. Success was better 
 than sarsaparilla. Josephine was aware 
 of his growing power, and his persistency 
 was irresistible ; and so one evening 
 when he dropped in for a moment, her 
 manner told all. He just took her in his 
 arms, and kissing her very tenderly whis- 
 380
 
 JEmpress Josephine 
 
 pered, " My dear, together we will win," 
 and went his way. When he wished to 
 be, Napoleon was the ideal lover ; he was 
 master of that fine forbearance, flavored 
 with a dash of audacity, that women so ap- 
 preciate. He never wore love to a frazzle, 
 nor caressed the object of his affections 
 into fidgets ; neither did he let her starve, 
 although she might at times go hungry. 
 
 However, the fact remains that Jose- 
 phine married the man to get rid of him ; 
 but that 's a thing women are constantly 
 doing. 
 
 The ceremony was performed by a 
 Justice of the Peace, March 9, 1796. It 
 was just five months since the bride had 
 called to thank the groom for giving back 
 her husband's sword, and fifteen months 
 after this husband's death. Napoleon 
 was twenty-seven ; Josephine was thirty- 
 three, but the bridegroom swore he was 
 tweuty-eight and the lady twenty -nine. 
 As a fabricator he wins our admiration. 
 
 Twelve days after the marriage, Na- 
 poleon set out for Italy as Commander-in- 
 3S1
 
 Bmpress Josephine 
 
 chief of the army. To trace the brilliant 
 campaign of that year, when the tri-color 
 of France was carried from the Bay of 
 Biscay to the Adriatic Sea, is not my busi- 
 ness. Suffice it to say that it placed the 
 name of Bonaparte among the foremost 
 names of military leaders of all time. 
 But amid the restless movement of grim 
 war and the glamour of success he never 
 for a day forgot his Josephine. His let- 
 ters breathe a youthful lover's affection, 
 and all the fond desires of his life were 
 hers. Through her he also knew the 
 pulse and temperature of Paris — its form 
 and pressure. 
 
 It was a year before they saw each 
 other. She came on to Milan and met 
 him there. They settled in Montebello, 
 at a beautiful country seat, six miles from 
 the city. From there he conducted ne- 
 gotiations for peace, — and she presided 
 over the gay social circles of the ancient 
 capital. " I gain provinces ; you win 
 hearts," said Napoleon. It was a very 
 Napoleonic remark. 
 382
 
 Bmpress Josepbine 
 
 Napoleon had already had Eugene with 
 him, and together they had seen the glory 
 of battle. Now Hortense was sent for, 
 and they were made Napoleon's children 
 by adoption. These were days of glow- 
 ing sunshine and success and warm affec- 
 tion. 
 
 And so Napoleon with his family re- 
 turned to France amid bursts of applause, 
 proclaimed everywhere the Savior of the 
 State, its Protector, and all that. Civil 
 troubles had all vanished in the smoke of 
 war with foreign enemies. Prosperity 
 was everywhere, the fruits of conquest 
 had satisfied all, and the discontented 
 class had been drawn off into the army 
 and killed or else was now cheerfully 
 boozy with success. 
 
 Napoleon made allies of all powers he 
 could not easily undo, and proffered his 
 support — biding his time. Across the 
 English Channel he looked and stared 
 with envious eyes. Josephine had tasted 
 success and known defeat. Napoleon had 
 only tasted success. She begged that he 
 383
 
 Empress Josepbtne 
 
 would rest content and hold secure that 
 which he had gained. Success in its very 
 nature must be limited, she said. He 
 laughed and would not hear it. For the 
 first time she felt her influence over him 
 was waning. She had given her all ; he 
 greedily absorbed, and now had come to 
 believe in his own omniscience. He told 
 her that on a pinch he could get along 
 without her — within himself he held all 
 power. Then he kissed her hand in mock 
 gallantry and led her to the door, as he 
 would be alone. 
 
 When Napoleon started on the Egyp- 
 tian campaign, Josephine begged to go 
 with him ; other women went, dozens of 
 them. They seemed to look upon it as a 
 picnic party. But Napoleon, insisting 
 that absence makes the heart grow fonder, 
 said his wife should remain behind. 
 
 Josephine was too good and great for 
 the wife of such a man. She saw through 
 him. She understood him, and only hon- 
 est men are willing to be understood. 
 He was tired of her, for she no longer 
 334
 
 impress 3osepbine 
 
 ministered to his vanity. He had cap- 
 tured her, and now he was done with her. 
 Besides that, she sided with the peace 
 party, and this was intolerable. Still he 
 did not beat her with a stick ; he treated 
 her most graciously, and installing her at 
 beautiful Malmaison, provided her with 
 everything to make her happy. 
 
 And if " things " could make one 
 happy, she would have been. 
 
 And as for the Egyptian campaign, it 
 surely was a picnic party, or it was until 
 things got so serious that frolic was sup- 
 planted by fear. You can't frolic with 
 your hair on end like quills upon the 
 fretful porcupine. Napoleon did not 
 write to his wife. He frolicked. Occa- 
 sionally his secretary sent her a formal 
 letter of instruction, and when she at last 
 wrote him asking an explanation for such 
 strange silence, the Little Man answered 
 her with accusations of infidelity. 
 
 Josephine decided to secure a divorce 
 
 and there is pretty good proof that papers 
 
 were prepared ; and had the affair been 
 
 335
 
 £mprc0s 3osepbfnc 
 
 carried along, the courts would have at 
 once allowed the separation on statutory 
 grounds. However, the papers were de- 
 stroyed, and Josephine decided to live it 
 out. But Napoleon had heard of these 
 proposed divorce proceedings and was 
 furious. When he came back, it was with 
 the intention of immediate legal separa- 
 tion — in any event separation. 
 
 He came back and held out haugh- 
 tily for three days, addressing her as 
 " Madame," and refusing so much as to 
 shake hands. After the three days he 
 sued for peace and cried it out on his 
 knees with his head in her lap. It was 
 not genuine humility, only the humility 
 that follows debauch. Napoleon had 
 many kind impulses, but his mood was 
 selfish indifference to the rights or wishes 
 of others. He did not hold hate, yet the 
 thought of a divorce from Josephine was 
 palliated in his own mind by the thought 
 that she had first suggested it. "I took 
 her at her word," he once said to Bertram, 
 as if the thing were pricking him. 
 386
 
 Empress 5osepbine 
 
 And so matters moved on. There was 
 war, and rumors of war, alway ; but the 
 vanquished paid the expenses. It was 
 thought best that France should be ruled 
 by three consuls. Three men were 
 elected, with Napoleon as First Consul. 
 The First Consul bought off the Second 
 and Third Consuls and replaced them 
 with two wooden men from the Twenty- 
 first Ward. 
 
 Josephine worked for the glory of 
 France and for her husband : she was 
 diplomat and adviser. She placated ene- 
 mies and made friends. 
 
 France prospered, and in the wars the 
 foreigner usually not only paid the bills, 
 but a goodly tribute beside. Nothing is 
 so good as war to make peace at home. 
 An insurrectionist at home makes a splen- 
 did soldier abroad. Napoleon's battles 
 were won by the " dangerous class." 
 
 As the First Consul was Emperor in 
 
 fact, the wires were pulled, and ha was 
 
 made so in name. His wife was made 
 
 Empress: it must be so, as a breath of 
 
 3S7
 
 impress Josephine 
 
 disapproval might ruin the whole scheme. 
 Josephine was beloved by the people, and 
 the people must know that she was hon- 
 ored by her husband. With a woman's 
 intuition, Josephine saw the end — power 
 grows until it topples. She pleaded, 
 begged — it was of no avail, — the tide 
 swept her with it, but whither, whither ? 
 she kept asking. 
 
 Meantime Hortense had been married 
 to Louis, brother of Napoleon. In due 
 time Napoleon found himself a grand- 
 father. He both liked it and did n't. He 
 considered himself a youth and took a 
 pride in being occasionally mistaken for 
 a recruit, and here some newspaper had 
 called him "granddaddy," and people 
 had laughed ! He was not even a father, 
 except by law — not nature, — and that 's 
 no father at all for nature does not recog- 
 nize law. He joked with Josephine about 
 it, and she turned pale. 
 
 There is no subject on which men so 
 deceive themselves as concerning their 
 motives for doing certain things. On no 
 388
 
 Bmpress Josepbtne 
 
 subject do mortals so deceive themselves 
 as their motives for marriage. Their 
 acts may be all right, but the reasons 
 they give for doing them never are. Na- 
 poleon desired a new wife because he 
 wished a son to found a dynasty. 
 
 " You have Eugene ! " said Josephine. 
 
 " He 's my son by proxy," said Napo- 
 leon, with a weary smile. 
 
 All motives, like ores, are found mixed, 
 and counting the whole at one hundred, 
 Napoleon's desire for a sou after the flesh 
 should stand as ten — other reasons ninety. 
 All men wish to be thought young. Na- 
 poleon was forty, and his wife was forty- 
 seven. Talleyrand had spoken of them 
 as Old Mr. and Mrs. Bonaparte. 
 
 A man of forty is only a giddy youth, 
 according to his own estimate. Girls of 
 twenty are his playfellows. A man of 
 sixty, with a wife forty, and babies com- 
 ing, is not old — bless me ! But suppose 
 his wife is nearly seventy — what then ! 
 Napoleon must have a young wife. Then 
 by marrying Marie Louise, Austria could 
 389
 
 JEmpress Josepbtne 
 
 be held as friend : it was very necessary 
 to do this. Austria must be secured as 
 au ally at any cost — even at the cost of 
 Josephine. It was painful, but must be 
 done for the good of France. The State 
 should stand first in the mind of every 
 loyal, honest man : all else is secondary. 
 
 So Josephine was divorced, but was 
 provided with an annuity that was pre- 
 posterous in its lavish proportions. It 
 amounted to over half a million dollars a 
 year. 
 
 I once knew a man who, on getting 
 home from the club at two o'clock in the 
 morning, was reproached by his wife for 
 his shocking condition. He promptly 
 threw the lady over the banisters. Next 
 day he purchased her a diamond neck- 
 lace at the cost of a year's salary, but she 
 could not wear it out in society for a 
 month on account of her black eye. 
 
 Napolepn divorced Josephine that he 
 
 might be the father of a line of kings. 
 
 When he abdicated in 1815, he declared 
 
 his son, the child of Marie Louise, " Louis 
 
 390
 
 impress Sosepbfnc 
 
 II., Emperor of France," and the world 
 laughed. The son died before he had 
 fairly reached manhood's estate. Na- 
 poleon III., son of Hortense, Queen of 
 Holland, the grandson of Josephine, 
 reigned long and well as Emperor of 
 France. The Prince Imperial — a noble 
 youth, — great-grandson of Josephine, was 
 killed in Africa while fighting the battle 
 of the nation that undid Napoleon. 
 
 Josephine was a parent of kings : Na- 
 poleon was not. 
 
 When Bonaparte was banished to Elba, 
 and Marie Louise was nowhere to be 
 seen, Josephine wrote to him words of 
 consolation, offering to share his exile. 
 
 She died not long after — on the second 
 of June, 1814. 
 
 After viewing that gaudy tomb at the 
 Invalides, and thinking of the treasure in 
 tears and broken hearts that it took to 
 build it, it will rest you to go to the sim- 
 ple village church at Ruel, a half hour's 
 ride from the Arc de Triomphe, where 
 sleeps Josephine, Empress of France. 
 391
 
 MARY W. SHELLEY 
 
 393
 
 Shelley, beloved! the year has a new name 
 from any thou knowest. When spring arrives, 
 leaves that you never saw will shadow the 
 ground, and flowers you never beheld will star 
 it, and the grass will be of another growth. Thy 
 name is added to the list which makes the earth 
 bold in her age, and proud of what has been. 
 Time, with slow, but unwearied feet, guides her 
 to the goal that thou has reached ; and I, her un- 
 happy child, am advanced still nearer the hour 
 when my earthly dress shall repose near thine, 
 beneath the tomb of Cestius. 
 
 Journal of Mary Shelley. 
 
 394
 
 MARY W. SHELLEY.
 
 MARY W. SHELLEY. 
 
 WHEN Emerson borrowed from 
 Wordsworth that fine phrase 
 about plain living and high 
 thinking, no one was more astonished 
 than he that Whitman and Thoreau 
 should take him at his word. He was 
 decidedly curious about their experiment. 
 But he kept a safe distance between him- 
 self and the shirt-sleeved Walt ; and as 
 for Henry Thoreau — bless me ! Emerson 
 regarded him only as a fine savage, and 
 told him so. Of course Emerson loved 
 solitude, but it was the solitude of a li- 
 brary or an orchard, and not the solitude 
 of plain or wilderness. Emerson looked 
 395
 
 rtfcarg Tim. ©belles 
 
 upon Beautiful Truth as an honored guest. 
 He adored her, but it was with the adora- 
 tion of the intellect. He never got her 
 tag in jolly chase of comradery ; nor 
 did he converse with her, soft and low, 
 when only the moon peeked out from be- 
 hind the silvery clouds, and the night- 
 ingale listened. He never laid himself 
 open to damages. And when he threw a 
 bit of a bomb into Harvard Divinity 
 School it was the shrewdest bid for fame 
 that ever preacher made. 
 
 I said "shrewd" — that 's the word. 
 Emerson had the instincts of Connecti- 
 cut ; that peculiar development of men 
 who have eked out existence on a rocky 
 soil, banking their houses against grim 
 winter or grimmer savage foes. With this 
 Yankee shrewdness went a subtle and 
 sweeping imagination, and a fine appreci- 
 ation of the excellent things that men 
 have said and done. But he was never 
 so foolish as to imitate the heroic — he 
 simply admired it from afar. He advised 
 others to work their poetry up into life 
 396
 
 /ftarg W. Shelter 
 
 but he did not do so himself. He never 
 cast the bantling on the rocks, nor caused 
 him to be suckled with the she-wolf's teat. 
 He admired " abolition " from a distance. 
 When he went away from home it was 
 always with a return ticket. He has 
 summed up Friendship in an essay as no 
 man ever has, and yet there was a self- 
 protective aloofness in his friendship that 
 made icicles gather, as George William 
 Curtis has explained. 
 
 In no relation of his life was there a 
 complete abandon. His Essay on Self 
 Reliance is beef iron, and wine, and 
 Works and Days is a tonic for tired men ; 
 and yet I know that in spite of all his 
 pretty talk about living near to Nature's 
 heart he never ventured into the woods 
 outside of hallooing distance from the 
 house. He could neither ride a horse, 
 shoot, nor sail a boat — and being well 
 aware of it never tried. All of his 
 farming was done by proxy ; and when 
 he writes to Carlyle late in life, explain- 
 ing how he is worth forty thousand dol- 
 397
 
 /Hban? im. Sbelleg 
 
 lars, well secured by first mortgages, he 
 makes clear one half of his ambition. 
 
 And yet, I call him master, and will 
 match my admiration for him, 'gainst 
 that of any other, six nights and days to- 
 gether. But I summon him here only 
 to contrast his character with that of an- 
 other — another, who, like himself, was 
 twice married. 
 
 In his Essay on Love Emerson reveals 
 just an average sophomore insight ; and 
 in his work I do not find a mention or a 
 trace of influence exercised by either of 
 the two women whom he wedded, nor by 
 any other woman. Shelley was what he 
 was through the influence of the two wo- 
 men he married. 
 
 Shelley wrecked the life of one of these 
 women. She found surcease of sorrow 
 in death ; and when her body was found 
 in the Serpentine he had a premonition 
 that the hungry waves were waiting for 
 him too. But before her death and 
 through her death she pressed home to 
 him the bitterest sorrow that man can 
 398
 
 jfl&arg tan. ©belles 
 
 ever know : the combined knowledge 
 that he has mortally injured a human 
 soul and the sense of helplessness to 
 minister to its needs. Harriet Westbrook 
 said to Shelley, drink ye all of it. And 
 could he speak now he would say that 
 the bitterness of the potion was a forma- 
 tive influence as potent as that of the 
 gentle ministrations of Mary Wollstone- 
 craft, who broke over his head the pre- 
 cious vase of her heart's-love and wiped 
 his feet with the hairs of her lead. 
 
 In the poetic sweetness, gentleness, 
 lovableness, and beauty of their natures 
 Emerson and Shelley were very similar. 
 In a like environment they would have 
 done the same things. A pioneer an- 
 cestry with its struggle for material 
 existence would have given Shelley 
 caution ; and a noble patronymic, fostered 
 by the state, lax in its discipline, would 
 have made Emerson toss discretion to the 
 winds. 
 
 Emerson and Shelley were both apos- 
 tles of the good, the true, and the 
 399
 
 rtfcarg "Wa. SbclleE 
 
 beautiful. Oue rests at Sleepy Hollow, 
 his grave marked by a great rough-hewn 
 boulder, wbile overhead the wiuds sigh a 
 requiem through the pines. The ashes 
 of the other were laid beneath the moss- 
 grown wall of the Eternal City, and the 
 creeping vines and flowers, as if jealous 
 of the white, carveu marble, snuggle close 
 over the spot with their leaves and petals. 
 Yet both of these men achieved immor- 
 tality, for their thoughts live again in the 
 thoughts of the race, and their hopes and 
 aspirations mingle and are one with the 
 men and women of earth who think and 
 feel and dream. 
 
 400
 
 n 
 
 IT was Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin 
 who awoke in Shelley such a burst 
 of song that men yet listen to its 
 cadence. It was she who gave his soul 
 wings : her gentle spirit blending with his 
 made music that has enriched the world. 
 Without her he was fast beating out his life 
 against the bars of unkind condition, but 
 together they worked and sang. All of his 
 best lines were recited to her, all were 
 weighed in the critical balances of her 
 woman's judgment. She it was who first 
 wrote it out, and then gave it back. 
 Together they revised ; and after he had 
 passed on, she it was who collected the 
 scattered leaves, added the final word, 
 and gave us the book we call Shelley's 
 Poems. 
 Perhaps we might call all poetry the 
 401
 
 flfcarg Tim. ©belles 
 
 child of parents, but with Shelley's poems 
 this is literally true. 
 
 Mary Shelley delighted in the name, 
 Wollstoiiecraft. It was her mother's 
 name ; and was not Mary Wollstonecraft 
 the foremost intellectual woman of her 
 day ? a woman of purpose, forceful yet 
 gentle, appreciative, kind. 
 
 Mary Wollstonecraft was born in 1759; 
 and tiring of the dull monotony of a 
 country town went up to London when 
 yet a child and fought the world alone. 
 By her own efforts she grew learned ; 
 she had all science, all philosophy, all 
 history at her fingers' ends. She became 
 able to speak several languages, and by 
 her pen an income was secured that was 
 not only sufficient for herself but minis- 
 tered to the needs of an aged father and 
 mother and sisters as well. 
 
 Mary Wollstonecraft wrote one great 
 book (which is all anyone can write) : 
 A Vindication of the Rights of Woman. 
 It sums up all that has since been written 
 on the subject. Like an essay by Herbert 
 402
 
 flbarg "M. Sbelles 
 
 Spencer, it views the matter from every 
 side, anticipates every objection — ex- 
 hausts the subject. The literary style 
 of Mary Wollstonecraft's book is John- 
 sonese, but its thought forms the base of 
 all that has come after. It is the great- 
 great-grandmother of all woman's 
 clubs and these thousand efforts that 
 women are now putting forth along 
 economic, artistic and social lines. But 
 we have nearly lost sight of Mary Woll- 
 stonecraft. Can you name me, please, 
 your father's grandmother? Aye, I 
 thought not ; then tell me the name of the 
 man who is now Treasurer of the United 
 States ! 
 
 And so you see we do not know much 
 about other people after all. But Mary 
 Wollstonecraft pushed the question of 
 woman's freedom to its farthest limit ; 
 I told you that she exhausted the subject. 
 She prophesied a day when woman would 
 have economic freedom ; that is, be al- 
 lowed to work at any craft or trade for 
 which her genius fitted her and receive 
 403
 
 /fcars WL. Sbelles 
 
 a proper recompense. Woman would 
 also have social freedom : the right to 
 come and go alone — the privilege of 
 walking upon the street without the 
 company of a man — the right to study 
 and observe. Next, woman would have 
 political freedom : the right to record 
 her choice in matters of law-making. 
 And last she would yet have sex free- 
 dom : the right to bestow her love 
 without prying police and blundering 
 law interfering in the delicate relations 
 of married life. 
 
 To make herself understood Mary Woll- 
 stonecraft explained that society was 
 tainted with the thought that sex was 
 unclean ; but she held high the ideal 
 that this wonld yet pass away, and that 
 the idea of holding one's mate by 
 statute law would become abhorrent to 
 all good men and women. She declared 
 that the assumption that law could join 
 a man and woman in holy wedlock was 
 preposterous, and that the caging of one 
 person by another for a lifetime was 
 404
 
 /Ifoarg m. Sbclles 
 
 essentially barbaric. Only the love that 
 is free and spontaneous and that holds 
 its own by the purity, the sweetness, the 
 tenderness and the gentleness of its life 
 is divine. And further, she declared it 
 her belief that when a man had found 
 his true mate such a union would be for 
 life — it could not be otherwise. And the 
 man holding his mate by the excellence 
 that was in him instead of by the aid of 
 the law would be placed, lover-like, on 
 his good behavior, and be a stronger and 
 manlier being. Such a union, freed from 
 the petty, spying, and tyrannical re- 
 straints of present usage must come ere 
 the race could far advance. 
 
 Mary Wollstonecraft's book created a 
 sensation. It was widely read and hotly 
 denounced. A few upheld it : among 
 these was William Godwin. But the air 
 was so full of taunt and threat that Miss 
 Wollstonecraft thought best to leave 
 England for a time. She journeyed to 
 Paris and there wrote and translated for 
 certain English publishers. In Paris 
 405
 
 /Ifcarp XCl. Sbelles 
 
 she met Gilbert Irnlay, an American, 
 seemingly of very much the same temper- 
 ament as herself. She was thirty-six, he 
 was somewhat younger. They began 
 housekeeping on the ideal basis. In a 
 year a daughter was born to them. 
 When this baby was three months old 
 Imlay disappeared, leaving Mary penni- 
 less and friendless. 
 
 It was a terrible blow to this trusting 
 and gentle woman. But after a good cry 
 or two, philosophy came to her rescue 
 and she decided that to be deserted by 
 a man who did not love her was really not 
 so bad as to be tied to him for life. She 
 earned a little money and in a short time 
 started back for England with her babe 
 and scanty luggage — sorrowful yet brave 
 and unsubdued. She might have left 
 her babe behind, but she scorned the 
 thought. She would be honest and con- 
 ceal nothing. Right must win. 
 
 Now I am told that an unmarried 
 woman with a babe at her breast is not 
 received in England into the best society. 
 406
 
 flftars m. Sbelleg 
 
 The tale of Mary's misfortune had pre- 
 ceded her and literary London laughed 
 a hoarse guttural guffaw and society tit- 
 tered to think how this woman who had 
 written so smartly had tried some of her 
 own medicine and found it bitter. Pub- 
 lishers no longer wanted her work, old 
 friends failed to recognize her, and one 
 man to whom she applied for work brought 
 a rebuke upon his head, that lasted 
 him for years. 
 
 Godwin, philosopher, idealist, enthusi- 
 ast, and reformer, who made it his rule 
 to seek out those in trouble, found her 
 and told a needless lie by declaring he 
 had been commissioned by a certain 
 nameless publisher to get her to write 
 certain articles about this and that. 
 Then he emptied his pockets of all the 
 small change he had as an advance pay- 
 ment, and he had n't very much, and 
 started out to find the publisher who 
 would buy the prospective "hot stuff." 
 Fortunately he succeeded. 
 
 After a few weeks, Mr. Godwin, 
 407
 
 /fcarg m. SbellcE 
 
 bachelor, aged forty, found himself very 
 much in love with Mary Wollstonecraft 
 and her baby. Her absolute purity of 
 purpose, her frankness, honesty and 
 high ideals surpassed anything he had 
 ever dreamed of finding incarnated in 
 woman. He became her sincere lover ; 
 and she, the discarded, the forsaken, 
 reciprocated ; for it seems that the ten- 
 drils of affection, ruthlessly uprooted, 
 cling to the first object that presents 
 itself. 
 
 And so they were married ; yes, these 
 two who had so generously repudiated 
 the marriage tie were married March 29, 
 1797, at Old St. Pan eras Church, for they 
 had come to the sane conclusion that 
 to affront society was not wise. 
 
 On August 30, 1797 was born to them 
 a daughter. Then the mother died — 
 died did brave Mary Wollstonecraft, and 
 left behind a girl baby one week old. 
 And this baby, grown to womanhood, 
 became Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley. 
 
 408
 
 Ill 
 
 GODWIN wrote one great book : 
 Political Justice. It is a work 
 so high and noble in its outlook 
 that only a Utopia could ever realize its 
 ideals. When men are everywhere will- 
 ing to give to other men all the rights 
 they demand for themselves, and eo-oper- 
 ation takes the place of competition, then 
 will Godwin's philosophy be not too 
 great and good for daily food. Among 
 the many who read his book and thought 
 they saw in it the portent of a diviner 
 day was one Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
 
 And so it came to pass that about the 
 year 1813, this Percy Bysshe Shelley 
 called on Godwin who was living in a 
 rusty, musty tenement in Somerstown. 
 The young man was twenty : tall and 
 slender, with as handsome a face as was 
 409
 
 /ifcavE m. Sbelleg 
 
 ever given to mortal. The face was pale 
 as marble : the features almost feminine 
 in their delicacy : thin lips, straight nose, 
 good teeth, abundant, curling hair, and 
 eyes so dreamy aud sorrowful that women 
 on the street would often turn aud follow 
 the " angel soul garbed in human form." 
 
 This man Shelley was sick at heart } 
 bereft, perplexed, in sore straights, and to 
 whom should he turn for advice in this 
 time of undoing but to Godwin, the phi- 
 losopher ! Besides, Godwin had been the 
 husband of Mary Wollstonecraft, and the 
 splendid precepts of these two had nour- 
 ished into being all the latent excellence 
 of the youth. Yes, he would go to God- 
 win — Godwin, the Plato of England ! 
 
 And so he went to Godwiu. 
 
 Now this young man Shelley was of 
 noble blood. His grandfather was Sir 
 Bysshe Shelley, Bart., and worth near 
 three hundred thousand pounds, all of 
 which would some day come to our pale- 
 faced youth. But the youth was a repub- 
 lican — he believed in the brotherhood of 
 410
 
 dBarfi m. Sbellcg 
 
 man. He longed to benefit his fellows, 
 to lift them out of the bondage of fear, 
 and sin, and ignorance. After reading 
 Hume, and Godwin, and Wollstonecraft, 
 he had decided that Christianity as de- 
 fined by the Church of England was a 
 failure : it was only an organized fetich, 
 kept in place by the state, and devoid of 
 all that thrills to noble thinking and 
 noble doing. 
 
 And so young Shelley at Oxford had 
 written a pamphlet to this end, explain- 
 ing the matter to the world. 
 
 A copy being sent to the head-master 
 of the school, young Shelley was hustled 
 off the premises in short order and a note 
 sent to his father requesting that the lad 
 be well flogged and kept several goodly 
 leagues from Oxford. 
 
 Shelley the elder was furious that his 
 son should so disgrace the family name, 
 and demanded he should write another 
 pamphlet supporting the Church of Eng- 
 land and recanting all the heresy he had 
 uttered. Young Percy replied that con- 
 411
 
 flftarg THH. SbcllCB 
 
 science would not admit of his doing this. 
 The father said conscience be blanked: 
 and further vised almost the same words 
 that were used by Professor Jowett some 
 years later to a certain sceptical pupil. 
 
 Professor Jowett sent for the youth and 
 said, "Young man, I am told that you 
 say you cannot find God. Is this true ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the youth. 
 
 " Well, you will please find Him before 
 eight o'clock to-night or get out of this 
 college." 
 
 Shelley was not allowed to return borne, 
 and moreover his financial allowance was 
 cut off entirely. 
 
 And so he wandered up to London and 
 chewed the cud of bitter fancy, resolved 
 to starve before he would abate one jot or 
 tittle of what he thought was truth. And 
 he might have starved had not his sisters 
 sent him scanty sums of money from 
 time to time. The messenger who car- 
 ried the money to him was a young girl 
 by the name of Harriet Westbrook, round 
 and smooth and pink and sixteen. Percy 
 412
 
 flbarg 'Cd. Sbelleg 
 
 was nineteen. Harriet was the daughter 
 of an innkeeper and did not get along 
 very well at home. She told Percy about 
 it, and of course she knew his troubles, 
 and so they talked about it over the gate, 
 and mutually condoled with one another. 
 
 Soon after this Harriet had a fresh 
 quarrel with her folks ; and with the tears 
 yet on her pretty lashes ran straight to 
 Shelley's lodging and throwing herself 
 into his arms proposed that they cease to 
 fight unkind fate, and run away together 
 and be happy ever afterward. 
 
 And so they ran away. 
 
 Shelley's father instanced this as an- 
 other proof of depravity and said, "Let 
 'em go ! " The couple went to Scotland. 
 In a few months they came back from 
 Scotland, because no one can really be 
 happy away from home. Besides they 
 were out of money — and neither one had 
 ever earned any money — and as the 
 Westbrooks were willing to forgive, even 
 if the Shelleys were not, they came back. 
 But the Westbrooks were only willing to 
 413
 
 /lftarg m. Sbelteg 
 
 forgive in consideration of Percy and 
 Harriet being properly married by a 
 clergyman of the Church of England. 
 Now Shelley had not wavered in his 
 Godwin-Wollstonecraft theories, but he 
 was chivalrous and Harriet was tearful, 
 and so he gracefully waived all private 
 considerations and they were duly mar- 
 ried. It was a quiet wedding. 
 
 In a short time a baby was born. 
 
 Harriet was amiable, being healthy 
 and having very moderate sensibilities. 
 She had no opinion on any subject, and 
 in no degree sympathized with Shelley's 
 wild aspirations. She thought a title 
 would be nice, and urged that her hus- 
 band make peace by renouncing his "in- 
 fidelity." Literature was silly business 
 anyway, and folks should do as other 
 folks did. If the} 7 did n't, lawks-a-daisy ! 
 there was trouble ! ! 
 
 And so, with income cut off, banished 
 from home, from school, out of employ- 
 ment, with a wife who had no sympathy 
 with him— who could not understand him 
 414
 
 /fcarg TJCl. Sbcileg 
 
 — whose pitiful weakness stuug him and 
 wrung him, he thought of Godwin, the 
 philosopher : for at the last philosophy is 
 the cure for all our ills. 
 
 Godwin was glad to see Shelley — God- 
 win was glad to see anyone. Godwin 
 was fifty-five, bald, had a Socratic fore- 
 head, was smooth-cheeked, shabby, and 
 genteel. Yes, Godwin was the author 
 of Political yustice— but that was written 
 quite a while before, twenty years ! 
 
 One of the girls was sent out for a quart 
 of half-and-half, and the pale visitor cast 
 his eyes around this family room, that 
 served for dining-room, library, and par- 
 lor. Godwin had married again, — Shel- 
 ley had heard that, but he was a bit 
 shocked to find that the great man who 
 was once mate to Mary Wollstonecraft 
 had married a shrew. The sound of her 
 high-pitched voice convinced the visitor 
 at once that she was a very commonplace 
 person. 
 
 There were three girls and a boy in the 
 room, busy at sewing or reading. None 
 415
 
 d&arfi Id. Sbclles 
 
 of them were introduced, but the air of 
 the place was Bohemian, and the conver- 
 sation soon became general. All talked 
 except one of the girls : she sat reading, 
 and several times when the young man 
 glanced over her way she was looking at 
 him. Shelley stayed an hour, spending 
 a very pleasant time, but as he had no 
 opportunity of stating his case to the 
 philosopher he made an engagement to 
 call agaiu. 
 
 As he groped his way down stairs and 
 walked homewards he mused. The 
 widow Clairmont, whom Godwin had 
 married, was a worldling, that was sure ; 
 her daughter Jane was good-looking and 
 clever, but both she and Charles, the 
 boy, were the children of their mother — 
 he had picked them out intuitively. The 
 little young woman with brown eyes and 
 merry ways was Fanny Godwin, the first 
 child of Mary Wollstonecraft and adopted 
 daughter of Godwin. The tall slender 
 girl who was so very quiet was the daugh- 
 ter of Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft. 
 416
 
 /IbarE TIGl. Sbelleg 
 
 "Ye gods, -what a pedigree ! " said Shel- 
 ley. 
 
 The young man called again, and after 
 explaining his situation was advised to 
 go back home and make peace with his 
 wife and father at any cost of personal 
 intellectual qualms. Philosophy was all 
 right ; but life was one thing and philos- 
 ophy another. Live with Harriet as he 
 had vowed to do, — love was a good 
 deal glamour, anyway ; write poetry, of 
 course, if he felt like it, but keep it to 
 himself. The world was not to be moved 
 by enthusiastic youth. Godwin had tried 
 it — he had been an enthusiastic youth 
 himself, and that was why he now lived 
 in Somerstown instead of Piccadilly. 
 Move in the line of least resistance. 
 
 Shelley went away shocked and 
 stunned. Going by Old St. Pancras 
 Church he turned back to step in a mo- 
 ment and recover his scattered senses. 
 He walked through the cool, dim old 
 building, out into the churchyard, where 
 toppling moss-covered gray slabs marked 
 417
 
 dfoarE TNI. ©belles 
 
 the resting-places of the sleeping dead. 
 All seemed so cool and quiet and calm 
 there ! the dead are at rest : they have 
 no vexatious problems. 
 
 A few people were moving about, care- 
 lessly reading the inscriptions. The 
 young man unconsciously followed their 
 example ; he passed slowly along one of 
 the walks, scanning the stones. His 
 eye fell upon the word " Wollstonecraft," 
 marked on a plain little slate slab. He 
 paused and, leaning over, removed his 
 hat and read, and then glancing just 
 beyond, saw seated on the grass — 
 the tall girl. She held a book in her 
 hands, but she was looking at him very 
 soberly. Their eyes met, and they 
 .smiled just a little. The young man sat 
 down on the turf on the other side of the 
 grave from the girl, and they talked of 
 the woman by whose dust they watched : 
 and the young man found that the tall 
 girl was an Ancestor Worshipper and a 
 mystic, and moreover, had a flight of 
 soul that held him in awe. Besides, in 
 418
 
 dfoarg Id. Sbelleg 
 
 form and feature, she was rarely beauti- 
 ful. She was quiet, but she could talk. 
 
 The next day, as Percy Shelley strolled 
 through the churchyard of Old St. Pan- 
 eras, the tall girl was there again with 
 her book, in the same place.
 
 IV 
 
 WHEN Shelley made that first call 
 at the Godwins he was twenty. 
 The three girls he met were 
 fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen, respect- 
 ively. Mary being the youngest in years, 
 but the most mature, she would have 
 easily passed for the oldest. Now all 
 three of these girls were dazzled by the 
 beauty and grace and intellect of the 
 strange, pale-faced visitor. 
 
 He came to the house again and again 
 during the next few months. All the girls 
 loved him violently, for that 's the way 
 girls under eighteen often love. Mr. 
 Godwin discovered the fact that all of his 
 girls loved Shelley. They lost appetite 
 and were alternately in chills of fear and 
 fevers of ecstacy. Mr. Godwin, being a 
 kind man and a good, took occasion to 
 420
 
 /foarg Tim. Sbelleg 
 
 explain to them that Mr. Shelley was a 
 married man, and although it was true 
 that he did not live on good terms with 
 his wife, yet she was his lawful wife, and 
 marriage was a sacred obligation : of 
 course pure philosophy or poetic justice 
 took a different view, but in society the 
 marriage tie must not be held lightly. 
 In short Shelley was married and that 
 was all there was about it. 
 
 Shelley still continued to call, coming 
 via St. Pancras Church. In a few 
 months Mary confided to Jane that she 
 and Shelley were about to elope, and 
 Jane must make peace and explain mat- 
 ters after they were gone. 
 
 Jane cried and declared she would go 
 too — she would go or die : she would go 
 as servant, scullion — anything, but go 
 she would. Shelley was consulted, and 
 to prevent tragedy consented to Jane 
 going as maid to Mary, his well-be- 
 loved. 
 
 So the trinicy eloped. It being 
 Shelley's second elopement he took 
 421
 
 Aarp TKl. Sbelleg 
 
 the matter a little more coolly than did 
 the girls, who had never eloped before. 
 Having reached Dover, and while wait- 
 ing at a hotel for the boat, the landlord 
 suddenly appeared and breathlessly ex- 
 plained to Shelley, "a fat woman has 
 just arrived and swears that you have run 
 away with her girls ! " 
 
 It was Mrs. Godwin. 
 
 The party got out by the back way and 
 hired a small boat to take them to Calais. 
 They embarked in a storm, and after 
 beating about all night, came in sight of 
 France the next morning as the sun arose. 
 
 Godwin was very much grieved and 
 shocked to think that Shelley had broken 
 in upon established order and done this 
 thing. But Shelley had read Godwin's 
 book and simply taken the philosopher at 
 his word : ' ' The impulses of the human 
 heart are just and right ; they are greater 
 than law, and must be respected." 
 
 The runaways seemed to have had a 
 jolly time in France as long as their 
 money lasted. They bought a mule to 
 422
 
 flfcarg "M. Sbellcs 
 
 carry their luggage, and walked. Jane's 
 feet blistered, however, and they seated 
 her upon the luggage upon the mule, and 
 as the author of Queen Mab led the patient 
 beast Mary with a switch followed behind. 
 After somedaysShelley sprained his ankle, 
 and then it was his turn to ride while Mary 
 led the mule and Jane trudged after. 
 
 Thus they journeyed for six weeks, 
 writing poetry, discussing philosophy ; 
 loving, wild, free, and careless, until they 
 came to Switzerland. One morning they 
 counted their money and found they had 
 just enough to take them to England. 
 
 Arriving in London the Godwins were 
 not inclined to take them back, and so- 
 ciety in general looked upon them with 
 complete disfavor. 
 
 Shelley's father was now fully convinced 
 of his son's depravity, but doled out 
 enough money to prevent actual starva- 
 tion. Shelley began to perceive that any 
 man who sets himself against the estab- 
 lished order— the order that the world 
 has been thousands of years in building 
 423
 
 flftans "W. Sbelleu 
 
 up — will be ground into the dust. The 
 old world may be wrong but it cannot be 
 righted in a day, and so long as a man 
 chooses to live in society he must con- 
 form, in the maiu, to society usages. 
 These old ways that have done good 
 service all the years cannot be replaced 
 by the instantaneous process. If changed 
 at all they must change as man changes, 
 and man must change first. It is man 
 must be reformed, not custom. 
 
 Shelley and Mary Godwin were mates 
 if ever such existed. In a year Mary had 
 developed from a child into splendid 
 womanhood — a beautiful, superior, ear- 
 nest woman. By her own efforts, of 
 course aided by Shelley, for they were 
 partners in everything, she became 
 versed in the classics and delved deeply 
 into the literature of a time long past. 
 Unlike her mother, Mary Shelley could 
 do no great work alone. The sensitive- 
 ness and the delicacy of her nature pre- 
 cluded that self-reliant egoism which 
 can create. She wrote one book — Frank- 
 424
 
 /Bars m. Sbelleg 
 
 enstein — which in point of prophetic and 
 allegorical suggestion stamps the work as 
 classic : but it was written under the im- 
 mediate spell of Shelley's presence. 
 Shelley also could not work alone, and 
 without her the world's disfavor must 
 have whipped him into insanity and 
 death. 
 
 As it was they sought peace in love 
 and Italy, living near Lord Byron in great 
 intimacy and befriended by him in many 
 ways. 
 
 But peace was not for Shelley. Ca- 
 lamity was at the door. He could never 
 forget how he had lifted Harriet West- 
 brook into a position for which she was 
 not fitted and then left her to flounder 
 alone. And when word came that 
 Harriet had drowned herself, his cup of 
 woe was full. Shortly before this Fanny 
 Godwin had gone away with great delib- 
 eration, leaving an empty laudanum bottle 
 to tell the tale. 
 
 On December 30, 1816, Shelley and 
 Mary Godwin were married at St. Mil- 
 425
 
 jflBanj m. Sbelles 
 
 dred's Church, London. Both had now 
 fully concluded with Godwin that man 
 owes a duty to the unborn and to so- 
 ciety, and that to place one's self in op- 
 position to custom is at least very bad 
 policy. 
 
 But although Shelley had made society 
 tardy amends, society would not forgive ; 
 and in a long legal fight to obtain posses- 
 sion of his children, Ian the and Charles, 
 of whom Harriet was the mother, the 
 Court of Chancery decided against 
 Shelley, on the grounds that he was " an 
 unfit person, being an atheist and a re- 
 publican." 
 
 About this time was born little Allegra, 
 "the Dawn," child of Lord Byron and 
 Jane Clairmout. Then afterwards came 
 bickerings with Byron and threats of a 
 duel and all that. 
 
 Finally there was a struggle between 
 Byron and Miss Clairmout for the child : 
 but death solved the issue and the beauti- 
 ful little girl passed beyond the reach of 
 either. 
 
 426
 
 flbarg XUl. Sbetleg 
 
 And so we find Shelley's heart wrung 
 by the sorrows of others and by his own ; 
 and when Mary and he laid away in death 
 their bright boy William and their baby 
 girl, Clara, the fates seemed to have done 
 their worst. But man seems to have a 
 certain capacity for pain and beyond this 
 even God cannot go. 
 
 Shelley struggled on and with Mary's 
 belp continued to write. 
 
 Another babe was born and the world 
 grew brighter. They were now on the 
 shores of the Mediterranean with a little 
 group of enthusiasts who thought and 
 felt as they did. For the first time they 
 realized that, after all, they were a part of 
 the world, and linked to the human race — 
 not set off alone, despised, forsaken. 
 
 Then to join their little community 
 were coming Leigh Hunt and his wife — 
 Leigh Hunt, who had lain in prison for 
 the right of free thought and free speecb. 
 What a joy to greet and welcome such a 
 man to their home ! 
 
 And so Shelley, blithe and joyous, sailed 
 427
 
 /Iftarx? im. Sbellep 
 
 away to meet his friend. But Shelley 
 never came back to his wife and baby 
 boy. A few days after, the waves cast his 
 body up on the beach, and you know the 
 rest — how the faithful Trelawney and 
 Byron made the funeral pyre and reduced 
 the body to ashes. 
 
 Mary was twenty-six years old then. 
 She continued to live — to live only in the 
 memory of her Shelley and with the firm 
 thought in her mind that they would be 
 again united. She seemed to exist but 
 to care for her boy, and to do as best she 
 could the work that Shelley had left 
 undone. 
 
 The boy grew into a fine youth, and 
 was as devoted to his mother as she was 
 to him. The title of the estate with all 
 its vast wealth descended to him and to- 
 gether she lived out her days, tenderly 
 cared for to the last, dying in her son's 
 arms, aged fifty-four. 
 
 She has told us that the first sixteen years 
 of her^life were spent in waiting for her 
 Shelley, eight years she lived with him in 
 428 
 I 
 
 i
 
 dfcarc m. SbelleE 
 
 divitiest companionship, and twenty- 
 eight years she waited and worked to 
 prepare herself to rejoin him. 
 
 429
 
 SLtttle Sourness to tbe ibomes 
 of Eminent painters 
 
 Described by Elbert Hubbard. 
 
 The Series of 1899 comprises : 
 
 Michael Angelo, Rembrandt, Rubens, Meis- 
 sonier, Titian, Anthony Vandyck, Fortuny, 
 Ary Scheffer, Jean Frangois Millet, Joshua 
 Reynolds, Landseer, Gustave Dore. 
 
 Each number contains a portrait. 
 The price of the series of 12 numbers is 
 $ 1. 00, and for single copies 10 cents. 
 
 Little Journeys to the Homes of 
 
 Famous Women Amen .an Authors 
 
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 Eminent Painters 
 
 Each fully illustrated. 16 , gilt tops, 
 
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