liSifeiik TODAY gr-'3aMaia5K?iasB8aaaaMiSiEg-*;jgT! iTr ^ ^ 'a « 5 « aus3^ BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME FROM THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND THE GIFT OF Hcnrg W, Sage 1891 A-"^ oho o uhuA Cornell University Library arW8578 Human documents olin.anx 3 1924 031 471 620 Cornell University Library The original of this book is in the Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924031471620 BISMARCK IN 180+. From a photograph by Karl Hahn, Munich. (ScY /■age 25.) HUMAN DOCUMENTS PORTRAITS AND BIOGRAPHIES OF EMINENT MEN m ARTICLES BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, HERBERT SPENCER, PROFESSOR DRUMMOND, EDWARD EVER- ETT HALE, H. H. BOYESEN, GEN. HORACE PORTER, HAMLIN GARLAND, ROBERT BARR AND OTHERS WITH 275 ILLUSTRATIONS NEW YORK S. S. McCLURE, Limited 30 Lafayette Place 1895 INTRODUCTION- ]iv Sarah ( )itNK JkwI';- TO give to the world a collection of the successive portraits of a man is to tell his affairs openly, and so betray intimate personalities. We are often found quari-el- ling with the tone of the public press, be- cause it yields to what is called the public demand to be told both the private affairs of noteworthy persons and the trivial details and circumstances of those who are insignifi- cant. Some one has said that a sincere man willingly answers any questions, however personal, that are asked out of interest, but instantly resents those that have their im- pulse in curiosity ; and that one's instinct always detects the difference. This I take to be a wise rule of conduct ; but beyond lies the wider subject of our right to possess ourselves of personal information, although we have a \'ague remembrance, even in these days, of the belief of old-fashioned and decorous people, that subjects, not per- sons, are fitting material for conversation. But there is an honest interest, which is as noble a thing as curiosity is contempti- ble ; and it is in recognition of this, that Lowell writes in the largest way in his " Essa\' on Rousseau and the Sentimental- ists." " Yet our love of minute biographical de- tails," he says, " our desire to make our- selves spies upon the men of the past, seems so much of an instinct in us, that we must look for the spring of it in human nature, and that somewhat deeper than mere curi- osity or love of gossip." And more em- phatically in another paragraph : " The moment he undertakes to establish a rule of conduct, we ask at once hcnv far are his own life and deed in accordance with what he preaches ? " This I believe to be at the bottom of even our insatiate modern eagerness to know the best and the worst of our contemporaries ; ic is simply to find out how far their behavior squares with their words and position. We seldom stop to get the best point of view, either in friendly talk or in a sober effort, to notice the growth of character, or, in the widest way, to comprehend the traits and influence of a man whose life in any way affects our own. Now and then, in an old picture gallery, one comes upon the grouped portraits of a great soldier, or man of letters, or some fine lady whose character still lifts itself into view above the dead level of feminine con- formity which prevailed in her time. The blurred pastel, the cracked and dingy can- vas, the delicate brightness of a miniature which bears touching signs of wear — from these we piece together a whole life's his- tory. Here are the impersonal baby face ; the domineering glance of the schoolboy, lord of his dog and gun ; the wan-visaged student who was just beginning to confront the serried ranks of those successes which conspired to hinder him from his duty and the fulfilment of his dreams ; here is the mature man, with grave reticence of look and a proud sense of achievement ; and at last the older and vaguer face, blurred and pitifully conscious of fast waning powers. As the)' hang in a row they seem to bear mute witness to all the successes and failures of a life. This very day, perhaps, you chanced to open a drawer and take in your hand, for amusement's sake, some old family da- guerreotypes. It is easy enough to laugh at the stiff positions and droll costumes ; but suddenly you find an old likeness of yourself, and walk away with it, self-con- sciously, to the window, with a pretence of seeking a better light on the quick-reflect- ing, faintly impressed plate. Your earher, half-forgotten self confronts you seriously ; the youth whose hopes 3'ou have disap- pointed, or whose dreams you have turned into realities. You search the young face ; perhaps you even look deep into the eyes of your own babyhood to discover your dawning consciousness ; to answer back to yourself, as it were, from the known and discovered countries of that baby's future. 'I'here is a fascination in reading character backwards. You may or may not be able easily to revive early thoughts and impres- sions, but with an early portrait in vour hjnd they do revive again in spite of you ; they seem to be living in the pictured face to applaud or condemn you. In these old pictures e.-vist our former selves. They VI IN TROD UCTJON. instead of an effect ; but when childhood has passed, one of the things we are sure to have learned, is to read the sign-language of faces, and to take the messages they bring. Recognition of these things is sure to come to us more and more by living ; there is no such thing as turning our faces into unbetraying masks. A series of por- traits is a veritable Human Document, and the merest glance may discover the prog- ress of the man, the dwindled or developed personality, the history of a character. These sentences are written merely as suggestions, and from the point of view of morals ; there is also the point of view of heredity, and the curious resemblance be- tween those who belong to certain pro- fessions. Just what it is that makes us almost certain to recognize a doctor or a priest at first glance is too subtle a question for discussion here. Some one has said that we usually arrive, in time, at the oppo- site extreme to those preferences and opin- ions which we hold in early life. The man who breaks away from conventionalities, ends by returning to them, or out of narrow prejudices and restrictions grows towards a late and serene liberty. These changes show themselves in the face with amazing clearness, and it would seem also, that even individuality sways us only for a time ; that if we live far into the autumnal period of life we lose much of our individualitv of looks, and become more emphatically mem- bers of the family from which we spring. A man like Charles the First was already less himself than he was a Stuart ; we should not fail in instances of this sort, nor seek far afield. The return to the type compels us steadily ; at last it has its way. Verv old persons, and those who are dangerously ill, are often noticed to be curiously like their nearest of kin, and to have almost visibly ceased to be themselves. All time has been getting our lives readv to be lived, to be shaped as far as may be by our own wills, and furthered by that con- scious freedom that gives us to be ourselves. You may read all these in any Human Doc- ument—the look of race, the look of family, the look that is set like a seal by a man's occupation, the look of the spirit's free or hindered life, and success or failure in the pursuit of goodness — they are all plain to see. If we could read one human face aright, the history not only of the man, but of humanity itself, is written there. wear a mystical expression. They are still ourselves, but with unfathomable eyes star- ing back to us out of the strange remoteness of our outgrown youth. " .Surch- I Iiavc known licfurc I'hantonis of tllc sha])cs )"t: be — Ilaunturs of another shore ' LcaLfuei'ti,! Iiy anutlier sea." It is somehow far simpler and less start- ling to examine a series of portraits of some other face and figure than one's own. Per- haps it IS most interesting to take those of some person whom the whole world knows, and whose traits and experiences are some- what comprehended. You say to yourself, " This was Nelson before ever he fought one of his great sea battles ; this was Wash- ington, with only the faintest trace of his soldiering and the leisurely undemanding aspect of a countr}' gentleman ! " Human Documents — the phrase is Daudet's, and tells its own story, with no need of addi- tional attempts of suggestiveness. It would seem to be such an inevitable subject for sermon writing, that no one need be unfamiliar with warnings, lest our weakness and wickedness leave traces upon the countenance — awful, ineffaceable hiero- glyphics, that belong to the one universal primitive language of mankind. Who can- not read faces ? The merest savage, who comprehends no written language, glances at you to know if he may expect friendli- ness or enmity, with a quicker intelligence than your own. The lines that are written slowly and certainly by the pen of character, the deep mark that sorrow once left, or the light sign-manual of an unfading joy, there they are and will remain ; it is at length the aspect of the spiritual body itself, and be- longs to the unfolding and existence of life. \Ve have never formulated a science like palmistry on the larger scale that this char- acter-reading from the face would need ; but to say that we make our own faces, and, having made them, have made pieces of immortality, is t(j say what seems trite enough. A child turns with quick impa- tience and incredulity from the dull admo- nitions of his teachers, about goodness and good looks. To say, " Be good and you will be beautiful," is like giving him a stone for a lantern. Beauty seems an accident rather than an achievement, and a cause N..TE.— The abi;vei)aperori<;mally introduced series .)f portraits pul)!islied in MeCiaioi's i\I.^oA2lM.:. ;\s these por- traits form a large part of the contents ,,f tlie present volume, the paper may very apUy introduce it too, althouRh the author, in writing, did not have in contemplation the biographical studies with which the portraits are here combined — Editor. TABLE OF CONTENTS. A Day with Gladstone. H. W. Massingham .... Portraits of Gladstone ........ Portraits of Bismarck ........ Personal Traits of General Grant. General Horace Porter Portraits of General Grant Some Personal Recollections of General Sherman. S. H. M. B}'ers Professor John Tyndall. Herbert Spencer ... ... Mr. Dana of '' The Sun." Edward P. Mitchell ..... Portraits of Charles A. Dana ........ My First Book — "Treasure Island." Robert Louis Stevenson Portraits of Robert Louis Stevenson ....... An Afternoon with Oliver \^'ENDELL Holmes. Edward Everett Hale Portraits of Oliver Wendell Holmes ....... HowELLS AND BoYESEN. A Conversation. Recorded by Professor Boyesen Portraits of W. D. Howells . ... ..... Portraits of Professor H. H. Boyesen ....... 25 37 45 61 73 81 105 127 136 140 148 150 James Whitcomb Riley. A Conversation with Hamlin Garland. Recorded by Mr. Garland . . . . . . . . . .152 A Morning with Bret Harte. Henry J. W. Dam 165 viii TABLE OF CONTEKTS. '^ [■,\i:ic The Author op- "TRiLin." Robert H. Sherard . ...-.• '7^ A. CoNAX DovLF. AM) Roi!KRT P,AKR. A Conversation. Recorded by Mr. Barr 189 Eugene Fikld and H.\.mi.ix (iarland. A Conversation. Recorded by AJr. (larland 201 Portraits of Eugene Fiei.h .....,...• 210 Portraits of Dwight Evman Moody ......•■ -12 Mr. Moody: Some Lmpressions and Facts. Professor Henry Drummond 213 Portraits of Professor Henry Drummond ....... 232 PORTRAIIS OF CeORGK W. CaRLE ......... 235 Portraits of Alphonsk Daudet ......... 237 Alphonse Daudet at Home. Robert H. Sherard ...... 239 The articles and pictures in this volume are reproduced, lor the most part, from nunihers of McC'LtKh's Mag.azine between June, 1S9-;, and .May, 1S95. MR. (W-ADSTONE IN iSgi. AGE 8i Mr. Gladstone is standint,'^ in the Gnthic porchway of Sir Artliur Hayter's Imusc at Tinta^el. Cornwall. From a photot^^raph by Frederick Argall, Truro, Cornwall. Human Documents. A DAY WITH GLADSTONE. FROM THE MORNIXi; AT IIAWAKDEX T(.> THK OK COMMCiXS. EVEXIX(; AT THE HOUSE By H. W. Massixomam np the "London Chronicle. secret of Mr. Gladstone's ex- traordinar)' length of daj's and of the perfection of his un- varying health. It may be partly at- tributed to the re- markable longevity of the "J^ Gladstone family, a hardy Scottish stock with fewer weak shoots and branches than perhaps any of the ruling families of England. But it has depended mainly on Mr. Gladstone himself and on the undeviating regularity of his habits. Most English states- men have been either free livers or with a touch of the bon vivant in them. Pitt and Fox were men of the first character ; Melbourne, Palmerston,and Lord Beaconsfield were of the last. But Mr. Glad- stone is a man who has been guilty of no excesses, save perhaps in work. He rises at the same hour every day, uses the same fairly generous, but always carefully regulated, diet, goes to bed about the same hour, pursues the same round of work and intellectual and social pleasure. An extraordina- AM often asked rily varied life is accompanied by a certain what is the rigidity of personal habit I have never seen surpassed. The only change old age has witnessed has been that the House of Com- mons work has been curtailed, and that Mr. Gladstone has not of late years been seen MKS. W, E. GL-ADSTUNF. From a photof^raph by Barraud, London. This paper, written when Mr. Gladstone, still Prime Minister of England, was in the very hottest of the battle for Home Rule for Ireland, describes the round of his daily life at what is the most sijinificant and dramatic moment of all his long career.— Editor; HUM AX JKKUMEXTS. in tlic lldiiso after tlic dinnei' hmii-, which lasts fniiii ci.Li-lil till ten. except on nights when crucial divisions are expected. With the ap|3ruach of winter and its accompany- in_U- chills, to which he is extremely sus- ceptible, he seeks the blue skies and dry air of the Mediterranean coasts and of his beloved Itah-. With this exception his life goes on in its pleasant monotony. At Hawarden, of course, it is simpler and mcn-e j-iriN'ate than in London. In town to- dav Mr. Ciladstone avoids all large parties and great crushes and gather- ings where he may be expected to be either mobbed or bored or detained beyond his usual bed-time. HIS PERSON.-Vl.ITV. Personallv ^Ir. Ciladstone is an example of the most winning, the most delicate, and the most minute courtesy. He is a gentleman of the elder English school, and his man- ners are grand and urbane, always stately, never condescending, and genuinely modest. He affects even the dress of the old school, and I have seen him in the morning wear- ing an old black evening coat sucii as Professor Jowett still affects. The humblest passer-by in Piccadil- ly, raising his hat to Mr. Gladstone, is sure to get a sweeping salute in return. This courtliness is all the more remarkable because it accom- panies and adorns a very strong tem- per, a will of iron, and a habit of being regarded for the greater part of his lifetime as a personal force of unequalled magnitude, ^'et the most foolish, and periiaps (jne may add the most impertinent, of Mr. Gladstone's dinner-table questioners is siu'e of an elaborate reply, delivered with the air of a student in deferential talk with his master. 'I'o the cloth ^^^^ Mr. Gladstone shows a reverence that occasionally woos the observer to a smile. The callowest curate is sure of a respectful listener in the foremost Eng- lishman of the day. On the other hand, in private conversation the premier tloes not often brook contradiction. His tem|)er is high, and though, as (leorge Russell has said, it is under vigilant control, there ;ire subjects on which it is easy to arouse the old lion. Then the grand eyes flash, the torrent of brilliant monologue flows with stone angry. .\s to his relations with his family, t'he\- are very charming. It is a pleasure to' hear Herbert Gladstone — his youngest, and possibly his favorite son — spealTof "mv father.'' .\11 of them, sons and daughters, are absolutely devoted to his cause, wrapped up in his personality, and enthusiastic as to every side of his character. Of children Mr. (lladstone has always been fond, and he has more than one favorite among his grandchildren. GLAUSI'UNE SK'I riNG (.'U'l' I MIS .MUKNING W.\LK H.WVAKDICN. MR. i;L/\I)S'n)NF. S MORNINC. Mr. (iladstone's day begins about 7:,iO, after seven hours and a half of sound, (.Ireaniless sleep, which no disturbing crisis in pid)lic affairs was ever known to spoil. At Hawarden it usually opens witli a morn- ing walk to church, with which no kind of weather — hail, rain, snow, or frost — is ever allowed to interfere. In his rough slouch more raiiid sweep, and the dinner table is hat and gray Inverness cape, the old man breathless at the spectaide of Mr. ('dad- |)lods sturdilv to his devotions. To the A BAY WITH GLADSTONE. THE LIBRARY Al HAWAKDEN. rain, the danger of sitting in wet clotlies, and small troubles of this kind, he is abso- lutely impervious, and Airs. Gladstone's solicitude has never availed to change his lifelong custom in this respect. Breakfast over, working time commences. I am any subject but Ireland, of course except- often astonished at the manner in which ing his favorite excursions into the twin Mr. Gladstone manages to crowd his al- subjects of H(jmer and Christian theology, most endlessly varied occupations into the Enter the room when Mr. Gladstone is forenoon, for when he is in the country he has practically no other continuous and regular work- time. Yet int(i this space he has to con- dense his enormous c o r r e s p o n d en ce — for which, when no private secretary is available, he seeks the help of his sons and daughters — his political work, and his varied literar\" pursuits. The ex- planation of this ex- - treme orderliness of mind is probably to be found in his un- equalled habit of concentration on the business before him. As in matters of policy, so in all his pri\'ate habits, Mr. Gladstone thinks of one thing and of one thing only at a time. When Home Rule was up, he had no eyes or ears for THK GL.ADST(JNE KA.MILY. HI 'J/.-IA' IX^C^ 'MEXTS. reading;" a hruik : von mav nK^ve noisilv about tlie chamber, ransack the books on the shelves, stir the furniture, but never for one moment will the reader be cnnscious ot vour presence. At I'owning' Street, during' his earlier ministries, these hours of stud\' were often, I might sav nsuallv, pre- ceded bv the famous breakfast at which the celebratetl actor nr actress, the rising |30et, the well-knuwn artist, the diplomatist halting on his wav from one station of the kingdom to another, were welcome guests. Madame Bernhardt, Miss Ellen Terry, ever. Sir .\ndrew t'lark, Mr. Crladstone's favorite phvsician and intimate friend, has recommended that tree-felling be given over; aiul now Mr. CJladstone's recreation, in adilition to long walks, in which he still delights, is that of lopping branches off veterans wdiose trunks have fallen io vounger arms. AS A READER. Between the aftei'noon tea and dinner the statesman nsuallv retires again, and „^^^^^^\ml ^,W^.««^ LLNCH AT ]l.\\VAKnEN. Heur\' lr\-ing, .Madame Modjcska, all assisted at these pleasant feasts. gets through some of the lighter and more agreeable of his intellectual tasks. He reads rapitllv, antl I tiiink I shoulil sav that, especial!)- of late years, he docs a good ileal of skipping. If a book iloes not iLiterest him, he does not trouble to read it through. He uses a rough kind of mcnioria ieiliniia to enable him to mark passages with which he agrees, from wdiich he dis- sents, wdiich he desires toqualif)-, or which he reserves for future reference. I should say the books he reads most of are those l-IIS .\FTEKXO(:)N. Lunch with ^[r. filadstone is a very sim- ple meal, winch neitlier at Hawardcn nor Downing Sti-eet admits of much form or publicit\'. 'Idle afternoon which f(.illows is a verymuch broken and less regular ])criod. At Hawarden a portion of it is iisualh- spent out of doors. In the idd days it was devoted to the felling of smiie giant of the dealing with theology, always the hrst anil woods. \\'ithin the last few j'ears, how- favorite topic, and the history of Ire- A DAY WITH GLADSTONE. MR, GLADSTONE OX HIS WAV TO THE HOl'SE (>¥ COMMONS. land before and after the Act of Union. Indeed, everything dealing with that memorable period is greatly treasured. I re- member one hast\' glance over Mr. (rladstone's book table in his own house. In addition to the liberal week- ly, " The Speaker," and a few political pamphlets, there were, I should say, fifteen or twenty works on theology, none of them, so far as I could see, of first-rate importance. Of science ^Ir. Ciladstone knows little, and it cannot be said that his interest in it is keen. He belongs, in a word, to the old-fashioned O.^ford ecclesiastical school, using the controversial weap- ons which are to be found in the works of Pusey and of Hurrell Froude. In his read- ing, when a question of more minute and out-of-the-way scholarship arises, he appeals to his constant friend and as- sistant. Lord Acton, to whose profound learning he bows with a deference which is very touching to note. Mr. Gladstone's library is not what can be called a select or really first-rate collection. It comprises an undue proportion of theo- logical literature, of which he is a large and not over-discriminating buyer. I doubt, indeed, whether there is any larger private bookbuyer in England. All the booksellers send him their catalogues, es- pecially those of rare and curious books. I have seen many of these lists, with a brief order in I\Ir. Gladstone's own hand- writing on the flyleaf, with his tick against twenty or thirty volumes which he desires to buy. These usually range round classi- cal works, archeology, special periods of English history, and, above all, works rec- onciling the Biblical record with science. THE LIBRARY AT HAWARDEN JIR. GLAD- STONE AS A BUYER OF BOOKS. Of late, as is fairly well known, Mr. Glad- stone has built himself an octagonal iron house in Hawarden village, a mile and a half from the castle, for the storage of his specially valuable books and a collection of private papers which traverse a good many of the state secrets of the greater THE STAIRCASE, HAWARDEN CASTLE. . photograph by G. W. Webster, Chester, England. 8 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. part of the centnrv. The importance of sand or so arc now disti-ihnlcd j'^'^"'^';" these is oreat, and the chances ai-e that Ik- the little n-on house to wIih li '■ fore Mr." C.ladstone d.es thev ^dl all be ferred, and the Hawarden I'"''"'" " tie riouslv enono-h, Mr. Gladstone is ""t .'' ' e of then- them foi- ijroupetl and indexed in his upriu'ht, a . c i i crabbed, but perfectly plain handwrilm--. worshipper ol books for the sak ;v the way, a -real niany statements lune outward ad. W. Webster, Chester, England, HUMAN DOCUMENTS. one. You cannot easil}' turn Mr. Glad- stone into a train of ideas whicli does not interest him, but lie is a courteous and even eager listener ; antl if the subject is of general interest, he does not bear in it any more than the commaiuling part which the rest of the coiniiany in\-arial)ly ahuws him. His speaking voice is a little gruffer and less musical than his oratorical notes, which, in spite of the invading hoarseness, still at times ring out with their old clear- ness. As a rule he does not talk (ui poli- tics. On ecclesiastical matters he is a can meet an old friend or two, and see a young face which he may be interested in seeing. One habit of his is quite unvary- ing. '"He likes to walk home, and to walk himie alone. He declines escort, and slips awav for his quiet stroll under the stars, or even through the fog and mist, on a Lon- don winte'i-'s night. Midnight usually brings his busy, happy day to a close. "With sleeplessness he has never been at all bothereil, and at eighty-three his nights are as dreamless and untroubled as those c)f a bov of ten. IHK MOKNINCj-KUOrvl .^T 11A\V,\KUEN C.VSli.E. From a photograph by G. W. Webster, Chester, Enij^land. never wearied disputant. Poetry has also a singular charm for him, and no modern topic has interested him more keenly than the discussion as to Tennyson's successor to the laureateship. I remember that at a small dinner at which I recently met him, the conversation ran almost entirely on the two subjects of okl English hymns ami voung English poets. His favorite reli- gious poet is, I should sav, Cardinal New- man, and his favorite hymn, Tophulv's "Rock of Ages," of which his Latin ren- dering is to ni)- mind far stronger ami purer than the original English. ^Vhen he is in town, he dines out almost every dav, though, as I have said, he eschews formal and mixed gatherings, and affects the small and early dinner party at which he IN THE HOUSE. His afternoons when in town and during the season are, of ciuirse, given u]i ]irettv e-\clusivelv to public business ami the J-Iouse of ComiiKMis, which he usuallv reaches about f(nii' (j'clock. He goes b\" a side iloor straight to his private room, where he receives his colleagues, and hears of endless questions and motions, which fall like leaves in A'allombrosa ar(Uiiid the head of a prime minister. Probably steps will be taken to remove much of this irk- some and somewhat petty burden from the shoulders of the aged minister. P)Ut leader Mr. Gladstone must and will be at eighty- three, quite as fully as he was at sixty. Li- deed, the complaint of him always has been A DAY WITH GLADSTONE. that he does too much, both for his own health and the smooth manipulation of the great machine which, as was once re- marked, creaks and moves rather lumber- ingl}' under his masterful but over-minute guidance. During the last two or three years it has been custoniar_y for the ^Vhigs to so arrange that Mr. Crladstone speaks early in the evening. He is not always able to do this while the Home Rule Bill is under discussion, but I do not think he will ever again find it necessary to follow the entire course of a Parliamentary debate. He never needed to do as niLich listening from the Treasury Bench as he was wcuit to do in his hrst and second ministries. I do not think that any prime minister ever spent half as much time in the House of Commons as did Mr. Gladstone ; certainlv no one ever made one-tenth part as many speeches. Indeed, it requires all Mrs. Gladstone's vigilance to avert the physical strain consequent upon overwork. With this purpose she invariably watches him in the House of Commons, from a corner seat in the right hand of the Ladies' Cal- ler)', which is alwavs reserved for her and which I have never known her to miss occupying on an}' occasion of the slightest importance. SPEECH-M,\KING. I have before me two or three examples of notes of Mr. Gladstone's speeches ; one of them refers to one of the most import- ant of his addresses on the customs ques- tion. It was a long speech, extending, if I remember rightly, to considerably over an hour. Yet the memoranda consist purely of four or five sentences of two or three words apiece, written on a single sheet of note pajier, and no hint of the course of the oration is given. Occasion- ally, no doubt, especially in the case of the speech on the introduction of the Home Rule Bill, which was to my mind the finest Mr. Gladstone has ever delivered, the notes were rather more extensive than this, but as a rule they are extremely brief. When Mr. Gladstone addresses a great public meeting, the most elaborate pains are taken to insure his comfort. He can now only read the very largest print, and careful and delicate arrangements are made to provide him with lamps throwing the light on the desk or table near which he stands. Sir Andrew Clark observes the most jealous watchfulness over his patient. A curious instance of this occurred at Newcastle, when Mr. Cdadstone was delivering his address to the great liberal caucus which assembles as the annual meeting of the National Liberal Federation. Sir Andrew had insisted that the orator should confine himself in a speech lasting oiilv an hour. Fearing that his charge would forget all about his ])romise in the excitement of speaking, the phvsician slip|ied onto the platform and timed Mr. Gladstone, watch in hand. The houi- passed, but there was no pause in the torrent of wrirds. Sir Andrew was in despair. At last he pen- cilled a note to Mr. Morley, jjeseeching him to insist upon the speech ccunijig to an end. But Mr. Morley would not undertake the responsibilitv of cutting a great ora- tion, and the result was tliat Mr. (Uad- stone stole another half hour from time and his physician. The next da)' a friend of mine went breathlesslv up to Sir An- drew, and asked how the statesman had borne the additional strain. " He did not turn a hair," was the reply. Practically the only sign of physical failure which is apparent in recent speeches has been that the voice tends to break and die away after about an hour's exercise, and for a moment the sound of the curiously veiled notes and a glance at the marble pallor of the face gives one the impression that after all Mr. Gladstone is a very, very old man. But there is never anything like a total break- down. And no one is aware of the enor- mous stores of physical energ)- on which the prime minister can draw, who has not sat quite close to him, and measured the wonderful breadth of his shouldei's and heard his voice coming straight from his chest in great boujf^es of sound. Then you forget all about the heavv wrinkles in the white face, the scanty silver hair, and the patriarchal look of the figure before you. PORTRAITS OI' (^.LAllSTONE. MR. GLADSTONE was born at Liver- pool, December 29, 1809. He has been a member of the House of Commons almost continuously since 1832 ; and when he resi,a;ned the office of prime minister last year, on account of his advanced age, he was serving in it for the fourth time. His first iiremiiership extended from Decem- ber, 1868, to February, 187.4.; the second, from April, 1880, to June, 1885 ; the third, from February to August. 1S8O; and the fourth, from August, 1892, to March, 1894. Here are nearly thirteen \ears ; and as a prime minister retires the moment the country is not with him, thev tell in a word what a power Mr. Gladstone has been. It would be strange if, in a political career of upwards of sixty years, Mr. Gladstone had shown no changes of opinion. To several of the measures with which his name is particularly identified, as, for example. Home Rule for Ireland, he has come by slow and cautious degrees and with almost a complete turn on himself. He entered Par- liament, indeed, as a Conservative, and the first prime minister under whom he held office was Sir Robert Teel. It was not until 1851 that he parted companv com- pletely with the Conservatives. The next year, 1S32, he achieved one of the most lirilliant oratorical triuni])hs of his whole career, Tarliament was debating a budget |)resented by ISlr. Disraeli, and Disraeli made in defence of his measure a speech of such cleverness and power that friend and foe alike thought it to be unanswerable. .\t two o'clock in the morning Mr. (jladstone began a reply. Long before he finished he had completely dissipated the imj^ression left by Disraeli and had captured the House. GL.\DSru.Mi Al iUF.l. SliAKS til. A(.ii, Willi IIIN From a miniiiture. FURTRAITS OF GLADSTONE. 13 /t.-«^ y ffi .^ ^ y ' ^^ ' "^ ' < , '.. ^■,V^/<^*4r^/y Ld From a painting by George Hayter, reproduced by the kind permission of Sir Jolin Gladstone, Bart. This year Mr. Gladstone had just entered Lincoln's Inn as a student of law, and was serving his first months in Parliament, having received his first election in December, 1832. 14 4 HUM AX DOCUMF.XTS. MK. GLADSTONIC IN 1839. AGE 29. From a life portrait by Bradley. At this time Mr. Gladstone was of the Opposition in the Hous- of Commons, and acting under the leadership of Sir Robert Peel PORTRAITS OF GLADSTONE. IS ^ 4 ■^ ^ ^ AIK. uLAIi^^To^K I,\" 1S4I. AGK 31. From a photoj^Taph, by Fradclle iS: Vouni,'-, London, of a chalk drawini^- by W. B. Richmond. In 1S41 Mr. Glad- stone entered the cabinet as Vice-President of the Board of Trade and Master of the Mint. MR. GLADSTONE IN 1852. AGE 42. FroEQ a photograph by Samuel A. Walker, London. In 1852 Mr. Gladstone became for the first time Chancelln of the Exchequer, an otftce for which he has many times proved unequalled fitness. i6 HUMAX DOCUMENTS. M K. G[,AUST(.iKE IN 1659. AGE 49. From a photograph by Samuel A. Walker, London. This year, under Lord Palmerston. Mr Gladstone became a second time Chancellor of the Exchequer. ^^IC. GI.ADSTONF. IN 1865. -AGK 55. From a photograph by Samuel A. Walker, London. PORTRAITS OF GLADSTONE. 17 MR, GLADSTONE IN 1S65. AGE 55. From a photo;;raph by Frederick Hollyer, London, o/ a portrait painted by Sir G. F. Watts. It was the latter part of 1865, on the death of Lord Palmerston, that Mr. Gladstone first became leader of the House of Commons i8 HUM AX nOCl 'MKXTS. From a photograph by Samuel A. Walker, London. June iS, iSdO, Mr. (iladstone, then in 'lis tirst cxpcr'cncc as leader of the House of Commons, suffered defeat on a rcinrm bill, by the Tories under Disraeli, MK. GLADSTONE IN 1868. ACE': 58. From a phctopraph by Samuel A, Walker, London. In 1868 Mr. Gladstone secured the defeat of the Disraeli ministry on the disestablishment of the Irish Church, and him.self became prime minister for the first time. PORTRAJTS 01' GLADSTONE. 19 MR. GLADSTONE IN 1880. AGE 70. From a photograph by Samuel A. Walker, London. This year the Liberals recovered a lost majority in Parliament, Mr. Gladstone himself making:;- a famous campai8:n, and securing election by a famous majority, in Midlothian. Disraeli (now Lord Beaconsfield) and his cabinet resigned, and Mr. Gladstone acrain became prime minister. j'/i'M-i-v pocrj//-yTs. MK. CLADS'IfJNE AND HIS CIJANDSON (SON OF HIS ELDESI" SON, '1 1 1 IL LATK ^\". H . -GLADSTON F), iSqO. AGR 8o. From a portrait painicd by McClure Hamilton, and presented by the ladies of England. Scotland, Wales, and Ireland to Mrs. Gladstone as a souvenir of hers and Mr. Gladstone's golden wedding, celebrated the year before (i88y). PORTRAITS OF GLADSTONE. MfC. Gl.ADSTCNK IX 1890. AGE So. Alter a painting" by John Colin Forbes, R. C. A. Reproduced by the kind permission of Henry Craves & Co., London. HUM AX DOCUMEXTS. .■\iK. r,i.Aiis-rnNR A'l' 83, \\'irn iiis i;k' \\ iHi,\rGn'ri-:R nuK'nTin iiKhw. P'rom a photograph by Valentine &: Sons, Dundee, taken at Mawarden i.Mr. (ihulstone's eoiintry hnmel, October M, 189^ At this time Parliament was adjourned for a montli ur two aller luni;- and excited deiiates on the subject of Home Rule for Ireland. PORTRAITS OF GLADSTONE. 23 HE. GLADSTONE, HAVVARDEN, OCTOBER 13, 1893. ACE 83. From a photograph by Valentine & Sons, Dundee. 24 111 \U. LV DOC I'M' EN TS. '^iiv, >.i. \iiM(iM., iiwvAKDiCN, Aiii;i;si-, 1894. .\r.K 84. From u photo^rapli by k,il.iiisuii cV Tlioiiipsmi, Livcr|..)ol aiul llirkcnlifj PORTRAITS OF BISMARCK. PRINCE OTTO EDWARD LEOPOLD VON BISMARCK was born April i, 1815, of a very old and sturd)' German fam- ily. He was put early to school, attended several universities, and served his term in the army. His political life began in 1846, when he was elected a member of the diet of his province, Saxony. The next year he went to Berlin as a representative in the General Diet, and immediateh' attracted attention by the force and boldness of his speeches. In 1851 he began his diplomatic career as secretary to the Prussian member of the representative Assembly of German Sovereigns at Frankfort. He has been de- scribed at this time as " of very tall, stalwart, and imposing mien, with blue gray, pene- trating, fearless eyes ; of a bright, fresh countenance, with blond hair and beard." In 1859 he was sent as ambassador to Russia. In 1862 he was transferred to Paris ; but a few months later he was made minister of foreign affairs. He inaugu- rated his ministry by the summary dissolu- tion of the Prussian Chamber of Deputies, •"r^'-wsrspnin-'^ te\ '"'^• /t- W\S ^ ' //•^ F / / " f ' ' 5/ ^ i ' because it refused to pass the budget pro- posed by the throne, curtly informing the bod)- that the king's government would be obliged to do without its sanction. Five times the deputies were dismissed in this fashion. Bismarck was denounced on all sides ; but as his profound project, already conceived, of uniting the German states into a compact empire, with Prussia at the head, advanced, by one brilliant stroke of statesmanship after another, toward fulfil- ment, the early di.strust was forgotten, and he became, in spite of his apparent contempt for popular rights, a popular idol. The short, sharp war of 1866, terminating Austrian dominance in Ciermany, began a national progress, under Bismarck's sagacious and strong direction, which came to its consum- mation at the close of the war with France, when, on January 18, 1871, in the palace of the French kings, at Versailles, William I., King of Prussia, was proclaimed Emperor of united Germany. In i8go, differences with the present Emperor, William II, , led to Bismarck's retirement from public life. 131SMARCK l.N 1S34. AGE 19. Student in the University of Gtittingen. 3 185I. AGE 36. Diplomatist at Frankfort. From a photograph by A. Bockmann, Strasburg. JO -^0 JIl'MAX DOCUAIEATS. W i ■l•^ 1854. AGE 39. STrLI, SEK\'ING AT l-'KAN K I'UU l' I u_ 1866, Tllli VEAK UF THE WAR WITH AUSTRIA PORTRAITS OF BISMARCK. 27 BISMARCK' IN 1S71. AGE 56, From a photograph by Loescher & Petsch, Berlin. On January i8, 1871, the war with France having- been brought to a triumphant close, Bismarck had tlie satisfaction of seeing King William of Prussia crowned Emperor of united Germany in the palace of the French kings, at Versailles, himself becoming at the same time Chancellor of the German Empire. The formal treaty of peace with France was signed a month later. BUMAA^ nOCUMEN TS. BISMARCK IN 1871. AGE 56. fROCI.Ai;.H:,L. UILLIA.I I. liMliiKi iK. \ hi;-.AILLE^, JANUARY 18,1871. B1S.M\I;lK, I >; W H 1 I t IMldkM, :?TANUS JL'^T BEFORE THK TI-IRONE. FROM A PHOTOGRAl^H BY THE BERLIN PHOTOGRAPH COMl'ANV. PORTRAITS OF BTSMARCK. 29 BISMARCK IN' iSy/. AGE ^2. On ihe eve of the Congress of Berlin, wherein the European powers, largely under Bismarck's guidance, fixed the relations of Turkey. From a photograph by Loescher & Petsch, Berlin. // UMAX DOCUMENTS. [lISIVtARCK IN 1880. AI.E f>5. From a photog^raph by Ad. Braun & Co., Paris. 1883. AGK 68. From a photograph by Loescher and Pctsch, Berlin, AGK 70. From a photograph by Loescher and Petsch, Berhn. PORTRAITS OF BISMARCK. 31 BISMARCK IN 1885. AGE 70, From a photograph by Loescher & Petsch, BerUn. Bismarck's seventieth birthday was celebrated ■ as a great national event in Germany, as have been his succeeding birthdays. '% HUM. IX DOCUMENTS. F"rom a phuto^Taph taktn at Fricdriclisruh by A. Buckmann, Strasburg. BISM VR( k IN iFSf A( r 71. From a photograph by A. Bockmann, Liibeck lilSMARCK IN 1887. AGE 72. From a photograph by M, Ziesler, Berlin. PORTRAITS OF BISMARCK. 33 EMl'EKUR WILLIAM II, AND rKlNCIi LISMA kLk". From a photograph by M. Fiesler, Berlin. 1889. AGE 74. From a photograph by M. Fiesler, Berlin. 1S89. AGE 74. From a photograph by Jul. Braatz, Berlin- 34 HUMAN DOCUiURNTS. rUSMARCK IN 1890. AGK 7:^. In the spriaR of this year Bismarek's differences with William 11, culminated in a retirement from office, which was practically a dismissal, after a continuous cabinet service of nearly thirty years. This portrait was taken at Friedrichsruh two months after his resignation. From a photograph by A. Bockmann, Strasbnrg, PORTRAITS OF BISMARCK. 35 Bismarck: in 1890. age 75. From a copyright photograph owned by Strumper & Co., Hamburg-. BISMARCIC IN 1891. ACE 76. Greeted by a body of students at Kissingen. From a photograph by Pilartz. Kissingen ,^6 7/f 'J/. LV DOCUMEMS. I'.ISMAKTK IN I.S114, AGK 7O, From a photograph by Karl Hahn, Munich. PERSONAL TRAITS OF GENERAL GRANT. By General Horace I'(irti;k. [General Horace Porter served on General Grant's staff from the time Grant took command of the army in the East until the close of the war. He was also Grant's Assistant Secretary of War, and, through Grant's first term as President, his private secretary. — Editor.] THE recurrence of General Grant's birth- da}' never fails to recall to the minds of those who were associated with him the many admirable traits of his character. A number of these traits, if not absolutely peculiar to him, were more thoroughly de- veloped in his nature than in the natures of other men. His personal characteristics were always a source of interest to those who served ■with him, although he never seemed to be conscious of them himself. He had so little egotism in his nature that he never took into consideration any of his own peculiarities, and never seemed to feel that he possessed any qualities different from those common to all men. He always shrank from speaking of matters personal to himself, and evidently never analyzed his own mental powers. In his intercourse he did not appear to study to be reticent regarding himself ; he appeared rather to be unconscious of self. He was always calm and unemotional, yet deeply earnest in every work in which he engaged. While his men- tal qualities and the means by which he accomplished his purposes have been some- thing of a puzzle to philosophers, he was alwa3's natural in his manners and intensely human in everything he did. Among the many personal traits which might be mentioned, he possessed five attributes which were pronounced and con- spicuous, and stand out as salient points in his character. They were Truth, Courage, Modesty, Generosity, and Loyalty. He was, without exception, the most ab- solutely truthful man I ever encountered in General J. A. Rawlins, Chief of Staff. General Grant. Colonel Bowers. Assistant Adjutant-General. TAKEN AT CITY POINT HEADQUARTERS EARLY IN 1865. 38 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. F"rom a photograph by Pach Brothers. public or private life. This trait may be recognized in the frankness and honesty of expression in all his correspondence. He was not only truthful himself, but he had a horror of untruth in others. One day while sitting in his bedroom in the White House, where he had retired to write a message to Con- gress, a card was brought in by a servant. An offi- cer on duty at the time, seeing that the President did not want to be dis- turbed, remarked to the servant, "Say the Presi- dent is not in." General Grant overheard the re- mark, turned around suddenly in his chair, and cried out to the ser- vant, " Tell him no such thing. 1 don't lie myself, and I don't want any one to lie for me." When the President had before him for his action the famous Infla- tion Bill, a member of Congress urged him persistently to sign it When he had vetoed it, and it was found that the press and public every- where justified his action, the Congressman came out in a speech reciting how materially he had assisted in bringing about the veto. When the President read the report of the speech in the newspapers, he said, " How can So-and-so state publicly such an un- truth ! I do not see how he can ever look me in the face again." He liad a contempt for the man ever after. Even in ordinary conversation he would relate a simple inci- dent which happened in one of his walks upon the street, with all the accuracy of a translator of the new version of the Scriptures ; and if in telling the story he had said mistakenly, for instance, that he had met a man on the south side of the avenue, he would return to the subject hours after- ward to correct the error and state with .great particularity that it was on the north side of the avenue that the encounter had taken place. These corrections and con- stant efforts to be accurate in every state- ment he made once led a gentleman to say of him that he was " tediously ' truthful. It has often been a question of ethics in war- fare whether an officer is justifiable in put- ting his signature to a false report or a deceptive letter for the purpose of having it fall into the hands of the enemy, with a view to misleading him. It is very certain that General Grant would never have resorted to such a subterfuge, however important might have been the results to be attained. General Cirant possessed a rare and con- ICH, VIRGINIA. grant's HEADQUARTER.S IN MAY. 1864. PHOTOGKAl'H liV IIRADY. PERSONAL TRAITS OF GENERAL GRANT. 39 spicuous Courage, which, seen under all circumstan- ces, appeared never to varj'. It was not a courage in- spired by excitement ; it was a steady and patient courage in all the scenes in which it was displayed. It might be called, more ap- propriately, an unconscious- ness of danger. He seemed never to be aware of any danger to himself or to any person about him. His physical and moral courage were both of the same high order. To use an Ameri- canism, he was "clean grit." This characteristic early displayed itself in the nerve he exhibited, as a cadet at Was); Point, in breaking fractious horses in the rid- ing-hall. His courage was conspicuous in all the bat- tles m Mexico in which he was engaged, particularly in leading an attack against one of the gates of the City of Mexico, at the head of a dozen men whom he had called on to volunteer for the purpose. It showed itself at Belmont, in the gallant manner in which he led his troops, and in his remaining on shore in the retreat until he had seen all his men aboard the steamboats. At Donelson and Shiloh, and in many of the lights in the Virginia campaign, while he never posed for effect, or indulged in mock heroics, his exposure to danger when necessary, and his habitual indifference under fire, were constantly noticeable. He was one of the few men who never displayed the slightest nervous- ness in battle. Dodging bullets is by no means proof of a lack of courage. It pro- ceeds from a nervousness which is often ►purely physical, and is no more significant as a test of courage than the act of winking when something is thrown suddenly in one's face. It is entirely involuntary. Many a brave officer has been known to indulge in "jack-knifing" under fire, as it is called; that is, bending low or doubling up, when bullets were whistling by. In my own ex- perience I can recall only two persons who, throughout a rattling musketry fire, could sit in their saddles without moving a muscle or even winking an eye. One was a bugler in the regular cavalry, and the other was General Grant. The day the outer lines of Petersburg G1;.\Nt'S HE.\DQLAKTERS .\T C1T\' ruINT E.^RL\- l.N' 1S65. Photograph by Brady. were carried, and the troops were closing up upon the inner lines, the General halted near a house on a piece of elevated ground which overlooked the field. The position was un- der fire, and the enemy's batteries seemed to pay particular attention to the spot, no- ticing, perhaps, the group of officers col- lected there, and believing that some of the Union commanders were among them. The General was engaged in writing some de- spatches, and paid no attention whatever to the shots falling about him. Members of the staff remarked that the place was becom- ing a target, and suggested that he move to a less conspicuous position, but he seemed to pay no attention to the advice given. After he had finished his despatches, and taken another view of the enemy's works, he quietly mounted his horse and rode slowly to another part of the field, remarking to the officers about him, with a jocose twinkle in his eye, " Well, they do seem to have the range on us." During one of the fights in front of Pet- ersburg the telegraph-poles had been thrown down, and the twisted wires were scattered about upon the ground. While our troops were falling back before a vigorous attack made by the enemy, the General's horse caught his foot in a loop of the wire, and in the animal's efforts to free himself the coil became twisted still tighter. The enemy 40 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. [.EAN IIOUSI^ IN Al'ruMATTllX, SCRKENDER, .RANT AN I: I'RIL 9, l8 LEE MVi'V AM. THE ITilv.MS OF LEE S was moving up rapidly, delivering i\ heavy fire, and there was no time to be lost. The staff oificers began to wear anxious looks upon their faces, and became very apprelien- sive for the General's safety. He sat quietly in his saddle, giving directions to an orderly, and afterward to an officer who had dis- mounted, as they were struggling ner- vously to uncoil the wire, and kept cautioning them in a low, calm tone of voice not to hurt the horse's leg. Finally the foot was re- leased ; but none too quickly, as the enemy a few minutes later had gained possession of that part of the field. His moral courage was manifested in many instances. He took a grave responsi- bility in paroling the officers and men cap- tured at Vicksburg and sending them home, and persons who did not understand the situation subjected him to severe criticism. But he shouldered the entire responsibil- ity, and subseciuent events proved that he was entirely correct in the action lie had taken. ft was supposed at Appomattox that the terms he gave to Lee and his men might not be approved by the authorities at Wash- ington. But without consulting them. Gen- eral Grant assumed the entire responsibility. There was not a moment's hesitation. Even in trivial matters he never seemed to shrink from any act which he set out to perform. The following incident, though trifling in itself, illustrates this trait in his character. When we were in the heat of the political campaign in which he was a candidate for the Presidency a second time, and when there was the utmost violence in campaign meetings, and unparalleled abuse exchanged between members of the contest- ing parties, the President made many trips by rail in New Jersey, where he was resid- ing at his summer home at Elberon. He always travelled in an ordinary passenger- car, and mingled freely with all classes of people. On one of these trips he said to me : " I think I will go forward into the smoking- car and have a smoke." The car was filled with a rough class of men, several of them under the inlluence of liquor. The Presi- dent sat down in a seat next to one of the passengers. He was immediately recog- nized, and his neighbor, evidently for the purpose of " showing off," proceeded to make himself objectionably familiar. He took out a cigar, and turning to the Presi- dent cried : " I say, give us a light, neigh- bor," and reached out his hand, expecting the President to pass him the cigar which he was smoking. The President looked him in the eye calmly for a few seconds, and then pulled out a match-box, struck a match, and handed it to him. Those who had been looking on applauded the act, and PERSONAL TRAITS OF GEXERAL GRANT. 41 the smoker was silenced, and afterward became ver}- respectful. Even the valor of his martial deeds was surpassed by the superb courage displayed in the painful illness which preceded his death. Though suffering untold torture, he held death at arm's length with one hand, while with the other lie penned the most brilliant chapter in American history. His fortune had disappeared, his family was without support, and summoning to his aid all of his old-time fortitude, he sat through months of excruciating agony, laboring to finish the book which would be the means of saving those he loved best from want. He seemed to live entirely upon his wiil-power until the last lines were finished, and then yielded to the first foe to whom he had ever surrendered — Death. His extreme Modesty attracts attention in all of his speeches and letters, and es- pecially in his " Memoirs. " A distinguished literary critic once remarked that that book was the only autobiography he had ever read which was totally devoid of egotism. The General not only abstains from vaunt- ing himself, but seems to take pains to enumerate all the good qualities m which he is lacking ; and, while he describes in eu- logistic terms the persons who were asso- ciated with him, he records nothing which would seein to be in commendation of him- self. Although his mind was a great store- house of useful information, the result of constant reading and a retentive memory, he laid no claim to any knowledge he did not possess. He agreed with Addison that "pedantry in learning is like hypocrisy in religion, a form of kmiwledge without the power of it." He had a particular aversion to egotists and braggarts. I'hough fond of telling stories, and at times a most interest- ing riuoiitenr, he never related an anecdote which was at all off color, or which could be construed as an offence against modesty. His stories possessed the true geometrical requisites of excellence : they were never too long and never too broad. His unbounded generosity was at all times displayed towards both friends and foes. His unselfishness towards those who served with him is one of the chief secrets of their attachment to him, and the unquali- fied praise he gave them for their work was one of the main incentives to the efforts which they put forth. .After the successes . iiel th = Pirtei FROM A PHOTOGR.\PH TAKEN 1865 .^T BOSTUN, WHEN GRANT WAS KECEl\TNG I'LBLIC WELCOMES THROUGHOUT THE NORTH AKrEK THE CLOSE OF THE W.AR, HUMAN DOCUMEN TS. in the West, in writing to Sherman, he said : " What I want is to express my thanks to you and McPherson as the men to whom above all others I feel indebted for what- ever I have had of success. How far your advice and assistance have lieen of help to me, you know. How far your execution of whatever has been o'iven vou to do en- titles you ti) the reward I am receiving, 3'ou canncit know as well as I." After Sherman's successful march to tlie sea there was a rumor that Congress m- tended to create a lieutenant-generalship for him and give him the same grade as that of Grant. By this means he would have be- come eligible to the com- mand of the armv. Sherman wrote at once to his com- mander, saymg that lie had no part in the movement, and should certainly decline such a commission if offered to him. General Grant wrote him in reply one of the most manly letters ever penned, which contained the follow- ing words : " No one would be more pleased with yc>ur advancement than I ; and if you should be placed in my position, and I put subordi- nate, it would not change our relations in the least. I would make the same exer- tions to support you that you have ever done to support me, and I would do all in my power to make our cause win." When Sherman granted terms of surrender to Gen- eral Joe Johnston's army liK-v.-'i'--. huk^e ■• j which the government re- pudiated, and when Stanton denounced Sherman's conduct unsparingly, and Grant was ordered to Sherman's head- quarters by the President to conduct further operations there in person, the Cien- eral-in-chief went only as far as Raleigh. He reinained there in the background in- stead of going out to the front, so as not to appear to share the credit of receiving Johnston's trnal surrender upon terms ap- proved by the government. He left that honor solely to Sherman. He stood by him manfully when his motives were questioned and his patriotism unjustly assailed. After Sheridan had won his great victories, some one spoke in General Grant's presence in a manner which sought to belittle Sheridan and make it appear that he was only a hard hitter in battle and not an officer of brains. General Grant resented this with great warmth, and immediately took up the cud- gels in Sheridan's favor. He said ; " While Sheridan has a magnetic influence possessed bv few men in an engagement, and is seen to best advantage in battle, he does as much beforehand to contribute to victory as anv living commander. His plans are al- ways well matured, and in every movement he strikes with a definite purpose in view. No man is better fitted to command all the armies in the field. " General Grant's generosity to his foes will be remembered as long as the world con- .ikssissirn. Photojrraph by Brady. tinues to honor manly qualities. After the surrender at Vicksburg he issued a field order saying : " The paroled prisoners will be sent out of here to-morrow. Instruct the commands to be orderly and quiet as the prisoners pass, and to make no offensive re- marks." In his correspondence with Cieneral Lee, looking to the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia, he said : " I will meet you, or designate officers to meet any officers you may name, for the purpose of arranging definitely terms upon which the surrender of the Army of Northern Virginia will be received." He thus took jiains to relieve Cleneral Lee from the humiliation of making the surrender in person, in case PERSONAL TRAITS OF GENERAL GRANT. 45 that commander chose to designate another officer for the purpose. In this General Grant showed the same delicacy of feeling as that which actuated Washington when he spared Gornwallis from the necessity of surrendering his army in person at York- town. After the surrender at Appomattox our troops began to fire salutes. General Grant sent orders at once to have them stopped, using the following words : " The war is over, the rebels are our countrymen again, and the best sign of rejoicing after the Photograph by Brady. victory will be to abstain from all demon- strations in the field." When, two months after the close of the war, Lee made application in writing to have the privileges included in the Presi- dent's amnesty proclamation extended to him, General Grant promptly indorsed his letter as follows : " Respectfully forwarded through the Secretary of War to the Presi- already been found against them. In this emergency General Lee applied by letter to General Grant for protection, and he knew that such an application would not be in vain. General Grant put the most emphatic indorsement upon this letter, which con- tained the following language : '' In my opinion the officers and men paroled at Appomatto.\ Court House, and since upon the same terms given Lee, cannot be tried for treason so long as they observe the terms of their parole. . . . The action of Judge L^Tdcrwood in Norfolk has already had an injurious effect, and I would ask that he be or- dered to cjuash all indict- ments found against paroled prisoners of war, and to desist from further prosecution of them." It must be remem- bered that this action was tak- en when the country was still greatly excited by the events of the war and the assassi- nation of President Lincoln, and it required no little courage on the part of Gen- eral Grant to take so decided a stand in these matters. Perhaps the most pro- nounced trait in General Grant's character was that of unqualified Loyalty. He was loyal to every work and cause in which he was en- gaged : loyal to his friends, loyal to his family, loyal to his country, and loyal to his God. This characteristic pro- duced a reciprocal effect in those who served with him, and was one of the chief reasons why men became so loyally attached to him. It so dominated his entire nature that it some- times led him into error, and caused him to stand by friends who were no longer worthy of his friendship, and to trust those in whom his faith should not have been reposed. Yet it is a trait so noble that we do not stop to count the errors which may have resulted from it. It showed that he was proof against the influence of malicious LIHEK.N ILLlNulb dent, with the earnest recommendation that aspersions and slanders aimed at worthy the application of Cxcneral Robert E. Lee for amnesty and pardon may be granted him." Andrew Johnson was, however, at that time bent upon having all ex-Con- federate officers indicted for the crime of treason, whether they kept their paroles public life, or not, and a number of indictments had It has been men, and that he had the courage to stand as a barrier between them and their un- worthy detractors, and to let generous sentiments have a voice in an age in which the heart plays so small a part in well said that "the best 44 H I \MA ,\ DO CrMf:N TS. A KNltlOAL GlJAISr b I'A'l 1 1 1 teachers of humanity are the lives of great will afford a liberal education to American men." A close study of the traits which youth in the virtues which shoukl adorn the were most conspicuous in General Grant character of a man in public life. PORTRAITS OF GENERAL GRANT. L AS r.KE\'ET SECOND LIEUTEXANT. AGE 21, Taken in Cincinnati in 1S43, just after graduation from West Point. AS CAPTAIN WHILE STATIONED AT SACKETT S HARBOR, NEW YORK, 1S49. AUE 27. From a very small miniature. 46 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. GENKKAL Ckv^l' IX 'IIIIC AI'-ITMN i i [■' i86r. A(;e 39. ]->()m a photo^rapti loaned by Colonel Frederick D. fir.int. GENERAL GRANT IN I INING -IHE CAMl'AIGN' or THE WILDERNESS. AGE 42. Photograph by Brae' PORTRAITS OF GENERAL GRANT. 47 TAKEN" IN 1863 r.EFORE \'IC KSr;l.'RG. .AGE4I. From a defective negative. 48 // UMAX DOCUMENTS. PORTRAITS OF GENERAL GRANT. 49 EARLY IN 1865, NEAR THE CLOSE OF THE WAR. AGE 43, From a spoiled negative. 5° HUMAN DOCUMENTS. 1865. AGE 43. TAKEN BV GUTEKUNST, I'HILADELl'H I ,'\. ON GKANT S FlUST TRIP NORTH AFTER THE WAR. PORTRAITS OF GENERAL GRANT. 51 ^^^^ fp;^*' '^m wk 1 \ I i ^"^tfr'-iCT 1 mm Pk^ fe_-™ ^iSsBL m mg 1868. AGE 46. NOT LONG BEFORE GRANT's FIRST ELECTION AS PRESIDENT, 9. AGE 47. SOUN AF'l'FR GRANT S FIRST INAUGURATION AS rRESlDEWT. 5 52 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. r.y... AI.E 48. POR'J'RAITS OF GENERAL GRANT. S3 ABOUT 1872. AGE 50, Kurtz, photographer. New York. 54 54 // Crj/A N DOC UAIEN TS. PORTRAITS OF GEA^ERAL GRANT. 55 Iu70. AGE 54- 5(^5 HUMAAr DOCUATENTS. PORTRAITS OF GENERAL GRANT. 57 CENEKAL CKANT, MKS. GKANT, AND THEIR ELUE.T S.,N CLONEE EKEDEK.CK D. GRANT. on Grant's landms from the voyage around the ^vorld, September 22, 18 Taken by Taber at San Francisco ' HUMAN DOCUMENTS. lS8l. AGE 59. WHEN GRANT TuOK Ul' WIS lUCSlUliNCE IN NEW YORK. W. KURTZ, PHOTOGKAPHER. PORTRAITS OF GENERAL GRANT. 59 1882. AGE 60. Fredricks, photographer, New York. 6o HUMAN DOCUMENTS. GENERAL SHERMAN WHEN IN COMMAND OF THE MILITARY DIVISION OF THE .M ISSJSSIPf 1, 1866. AGE 46. SOME PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF GENERAL SHERMAN. By S. H. M. Byers. OW well I recall now the first time I ever heard the voice of General Sherman, It was night, in the woods by the banks of the Tennessee River. On looking over my half-faded war diary, I find this entry : " November 23, 1863. It bas rained all the day. The men have few rations, the animals no food at all. Thousands of horses and mules are lying dead in the muddy roads and in the woods. We are a few miles below Chattanooga, close to the river. The Rebels are on the other side. Everybody here e.\- pects a great battle. .Since noon our colonel got orders for us to be ready to ferry over the river at midnight — no baggage." It was very dark that night in the woods when our division slipped down to the water's edge and commenced entering the pontoons. "Be as quiet as possible, and step into the boats rapidly," I heard a voice say. The speaker was a tall man, wearing a long waterproof coat that covered him to his heels. He stood close beside me as he spoke, and one of the boys said in a low voice : " That is Sherman." It was the first time I had ever heard him speak. Though a great commander, at that moment leading many troops, still he was down there in the dark, personally at- tending to ever}' detail of getting us over the river. Shortly our rude boat, with thirty people aboard, pushed out into the dark water, and we were whirled around by the eddies, while expecting every moment a blaze of musketr}' in our faces from the other shore. But, somehow, we felt con- fident that all was well, for was not our great general himself close by, watching the movement ? In the battle that followed, our troops were successful. Sherman was everywhere along the front, personally directing every movement. He was sharing every danger, and the soldier's fear was that his general might be killed, and the battle lost in con- sequence. In the charge of the "Tunnel," I, with many comrades, fell into the enemy's hands, and was taken to Libbv Prison. Few of those captured with me ever gut back Xorth alive, and those who did are nearly all long since dead. Fifteen months of terrible e.xperience in the prisons of the South passed. More than once I had escaped, only to be retaken. At last, though, I did get away, and when 62 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. Sherman's armv, marching north through the Carolinas, captured Columbia, they fcnind me secreted in the garret of a negro's cabin in tlie town. It happenetl that, while I was a ]irisoner, I had written some verses in praise of the great campaign from Chattanooga to the ocean. The song found favor with my prison comrades. It also soon reached the soldiers in the North, and, before I knew it, it was being sung everywhere. It was " Sherman's March to the Sea," and the song soon gave its name to the campaign itself. As Sherman entered Columbia at noon that 17th of February, 1865, ridmg at the head of his sixty thousand victorious vet- erans, a soldier ran up to him, and told him the author of the song had escaped from prison, and was standing near by, on the steps of a house. He halted the wh(jle column, while he motioned to me to come out, and warmly shook my hand. "Tell all the prisoners who have es- caped," said he, " to come to me at camp to-night, I want to do something for all of them. They must be made comfort- able." The bands played, and the vast column again moved on amidst cheers for "IJilly" Sherman, "Johnny" Lo.gan, and other heroes of the line. I looked at the battle- worn fia.gs of the regiments. I had not seen loyal colors for about sixteen months. Perhaps I was weak, but I am sure I felt my eyes moisten and my heart b(nmd when I looked upon the very flag 1 had seen in the hot charge that day at Missionary Ridge. I did not go to the General's head- quarters that night. I was ashamed to go in all my rags. IJut I walked the streets and saw the city Ijurned to ashes, liut Sherman had not done this. Iater you will get a horse and all you need," he went on. That moment the cook, a great ebony- faced negro, came up, bowed very low, and announced supper. The General pushed me into the supper tent ahead of him. The well-uniformed staff officers were already there, assembled about a long rude table of boards. Every one of them held up his fork and stared at me. The General in- PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF GENERAL SHERMAN. 63 troduced me, adding some complimentary things. "And I want you all to know him," he said, " and after supper yow must hunt him up some clothes." " I have an extra coat," said Surgeon Moore. "And I a pair of trousers," said another. My wardrobe was to be renewed in no time. The bare anticipation of the fact restored my conlidence. The General seated me at his right hand, and bade me make no ceremony about proceeding to whatever was before me. The meal was simple. It was the ordinar)' army rations. that Sherman never could march or swim an army through the lower part of North Carolina in midwinter, but he was a com- mander who never stopped at such ol)Bta- cles as rivers and swamps when marching for a desired object. Here were rivers swollen into a dozen channels, dark swamps that seemed interminable, miles of roads that were lately bottomless, or often under three feet of ice-cold water. The bridges were destroyed everywhere. The narrow causeways, called roads by cour- tesy, if not submerged, were defended by the enemy's batteries. It rained almost constantly day and night, and the only SHERMAN BEKJRE ATLANTA, 1864. with a chicken or two added, which the cook had foraged that day on the march. I ventured to relate something of my ex- periences in prison. The General listened with the closest attention, and it seemed to me that from that moment he was my friend. It was the commencement of an attachment that lasted until his death, twent3'-five years. During the rest of that famous marching and wading through the Carolinas I was constantly at headquarters until we reached the Cape Fear River, And what a cam- paign that was, through swamps and woods and over bridgeless streams ! Joe Johnston's engineers had told their chief protection the army had was the little rub- ber blankets or shelter tents they carried on their backs in addition to their knap- sacks and several days' rations. There were not a half dozen complete tents in the army. Sherman himself oftenest slept under a tent " fly," under trees, or else in strav countrv churches. Through all the mud, swamp, forest, and water, the troops dragged two thousand wagons, besides ambulances and batteries. The horses and mules often floundered in the bottomless roads, became discouraged, gave out, and died. Then the men took their places, and dragged wagons and can- non for miles. Whole brigades worked 64 HUMAN DOCUiMENTS. sometimes day and night making tem|i()- cleverness and fleetness fed the army, and rary roadbeds from trees felled in the who left the regiments at daylight every swamps. The men were glad to sleep morning on foot, and at the close of each anywhere — in the mud, in the wonds, in the dav returned to camp on horseback and rain, at the roadside — anywhere, if only muleback, laden with supplies, he knew they could lie down withnut being shot at. often by name. Along with perfect disci- There is official I'ecord that one division of pline, e\'ery day showed some proof (jf his the troops on this teri-Jble march waded sympath_\- with the common soldiers. He through swamps and forded thirty-live riv- had his humorous side with them too. ers where the ice-cold water often reached When the arm_\- reached Ooldsborough, to the men's waists. The same di\'isiou, half the men were in rags. (Jne day a di- \yhile fioundering through the swam|is, \'ision was oixlcred to march past him in constructed fifteen miles of coriluroy review. 'I'he men were bare-legged and wagon road and one hundred and twenty- ragged, some of them almost hatless. two miles of side road for the troops. "Only look at the poor fellows with There were no quartermaster's trains, so their bare legs," said an officer at the the troops were nearly destitute of cloth- Cleneral's side, sympathizingly. ing. 'I'housands of the army were shoe- " Splendid legs," cried the (leneral, with less before the campaign was half over. a twinkle in his eye, "s|5lendid legs. Would One night Shernuui and his stall lodged give both of mine for any one of them." in a little deserted church they found in On the march and in the camp Sher- the woods. I recall h(.)W the General him- man's life was simplicity itself. He had self woidd not sleep i-iw the bit of carpet few brilliantly uniformed and useless aids on the pulpit platform. about him. 'I'hc simple tent "fly" was " Keep that for some of vou young fel- his usual headquarters, and under it all his lows who are not well," he said laughingly, military family ate together. His de- as he stretched himself out on a long hard spatches he wrote mostly with his own bench till morning. hand. He had little use for clerks. But He shared all the privations and hard- Dayton, his adjutant-general, was better ships of the common soldier. He slept in than a regiment of clerks. When we his uniform every night of the whole cam- halted somewhere in the woods for the paign. Sometimes we did not get into a night, the General was the busiest man in camp till midnight. I think every man in the army. AVhile others slept, his little the army knew the General's face, and camp-fire was burning, and often in the thousandsspoke with him personally. The long vigils of the night I have seen a tall familiarity of the troops at times was amus- form walking up and down b)- that fire, ing. Sometimes we got a little behind the army " Don't ride too fast, General," they with our night camp, or too far in front, would cry out, seeing his horse plunging and then the staff officers and the order- along iir the mire at the roadside, as he lies would buckle on their pistols, and we tried to pass some division. " I'retty slip- remained awake all night. Sherman him- pery going. Uncle iiilly ; pretty slippery self slept but little. He did not seem to going." Or, "Say, Cleneral, kin yuu teil need sleep, and I have known him to stay us is this the road to Richmond ? " but two hours in bed many anight. In later Every soldier of his arm)- had taken on years a slight asthma made much sleep the enthusiasm of the (ieneral himself, impossible for him. After the war, when They would go anywhere that he might I was at his home in St. Louis, he seldom point to. Often as he ap|ii'oaclied some retii-ed till tweK'e or one o'clock. It was regiment, a wild huzza would be given, and often as late, too, on this march, taken up and repeated by the troops a mile It was a singularh- impressive sight to ahead. Instinct seemed to tell the hoys, see this solitary ligm-e walking there by when there wasaiiy loud shouting anywhere the llickeriug camp-fire while the army whatever, that Uncle Billy was cfuiiing, and slept. If a gun went off somewhere in the they joined in the cheers till the woods distance, or if an unusual noise were heard, rang. It was a common thing for the he would instantly call one of us to go and General to stop his horse and s])eak words find out what it meant. He paid small of encouragement or praise to some sub- attention to apiiearances ; to dress almost ordinate officer or ijriyate soldier strug- none. gling at the roadside. He seemed to kncjw "There is going to be a battle to-day, the faces and even the names of hundreds sure," said Colonel Audenreid, of the staff, of his troops. E\-en the foragers, whose one morning before daylight. PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF GENERAL SHERMAN. CS From a photograph by Brady. " How do you know ?" asked a comrade, the saddle. When noon came we dis- "Why, don't you see? The General's mounted at the roadside, sat down on a up there by the fire putting on a clean col- log or on the grass, and hatl a sinrple lar. The sign's dead sure." lunch, washed down with water from the A battle did take place that day, and swamp, or something strrmger from a flask Cheraw, with forty cannon, fell into our that was ever the General's companion ; hands. It was more a run than a battle. for he was a soldier, and was livincr a sol- Daylight usually saw us all ready for dier's life. 66 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. When we reached the Cape Fear River, I told him what Stonewall Jackson said in the Carolina?, we found there (at Fa- as to not taking prisoners, yetteville) a splendid ai'senal, built in " I'erhaps he was right," said the General, former times by the United States. Now "It seems cruel; but if there were no it was used for making arms to destroy (piarter given, most men would keep out the Government. Sherman burned it to of war. Rebellions would be few and the ground ; but first he took me all short." through the building and explained its ^Vhile we were eating, a whistle blew. It complicated machinery and apparatus. I was from a little tugboat that had steamed was astonished that any one but a mechan- its way up the swollen and dangerous river ical engineer could know all about such from Wilmington. It passed the enemy thino-s. hidden on either bank. It was the first "Why, of course, one must learn every- sound from the North heard since the thing," he said to me. " I picked this thing army left the ocean. No one in all the up at leisure liours. One must never let North knew where Sherman's army was. a chance to learn something be lost. I Rumors brought from the South said it say this to young men always," he con- was " floundering and j^erishing in the tmued. "No matter if the thing don't swamps of the Carolinas." That day the seem to be of much use at the time. Who Cieneral directed me to board this tugboat, knows how soon it may be wanted? No run down the river in the night, and carry matter how far away from one's calling it despatches to General (jrant in front of may seem, all knowledge, however gained, Richmond, and to President Lincoln at is of use ; sometimes of great use. Why," Washington. he went on, "once when I captured a town "Don't say much about how we are in Alabama, I found the telegraph wire in doing down here," said the General, as he perfect order. The enemy had forgotten put his arm about me and said farewell it or had run away too quick to cut it. that evening down at the river bank. My operator was not with me. I called to "Don't tell them in the North we are cut- know if any soldier in the bodvguard could ting any great swath here. Just say we work an instrument. are taking care of whatever is getting in "' I can,' said a beardless private. front of us. And be careful your boat " He had picked up a knowledge of the don't get knocked to the bottom of the thing, 'just for fuLi,' he said. I set him at river before daylight." work. Important news was going over Our little craft was covered nearly all the wire from Lee. That boy caught the over with cotton bales. The river was message. I had it signalled back of my verv wide and out of its banks ever)-where ; lines to be repeated to General Grant in the night was dark, ^^'hatever the enemy Virginia. Perhaps it helped to save a bat- may have thought of the little puffs of tie. Anyway, that voung man won ]iro- steam far out on the tlark, rapid water, we motion. Learning a little thing once when got down to the sea unharmed. A fleet chance offered, afterward gave him the op- ocean steamer at tmce carried me to A'ir- portunity of his life. ginia. (Irant was in a little log cabin at " ^Vhen I was a young man stationetl in Cit\- Point, and when an officer was an- Georgia," he continued, "my comrades at nounced with despatches from Sherman, the military post spent their Sundays play- he was delighted. He took me into a ing cards and visiting. I siient mine in back room, read the letters I ripped out of riding or walkiLig o\'er the hills of the ni\' clothing, ami asked me manv questions, neighborhood. I learned the topogi'aphy TJien General ( )rd entered, of the country. It was no use to me then. " Look here," said (leneral Grant, de- Later, I led an aiany through that region, lighted as a child. " Look here, ( )rd, at and the knowledge of the country I had the news from Sherman. He has beaten gained there as a )dung fellow helped me even the swamps of the Carolinas." to win a dozen victories," " 1 am so glad," said Ord, rattling his We went from the arsenal back to the big spurs ; "1 am so glad, I was getting breakfast table in an adjoining house, a little imeasv," " This arsenal has cost a mint of mone_\'," "I not a bit," said Grant. "1 knew he said, "but it nnist burn. It is time to Sherman, I knew m\- man. I knew my commence hurting these fellows. They man," he gravely continued, almost to must find out that war is war ; and the himself. more terrible it is made, the sooner it is Rawlins, the adjutant-general, was called over." in to rejoice with the others. Then a PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF GENERAL SHERMAN. ('1 From a photo^^raph by Brady. leave of absence was made out for me to go North to m)' home, where I had been but eight days during the whole war, and now mv months of painful imprisonment had undermined my health. When next I saw General Sherman it was at my own house in Switzerland, after the war had closed. He was making his grand tour of Europe, and came out of his way to visit me. I was then a consul at Zurich. For days we talked the old times over. All the militarv men in Switzerland wanted to see the great American captain. A company of them were invited to an e.xcursion up the lake. Then it was learned that nearly all of them had been students of Sherman's campaigns for months. It was a novel sight to see them under the awning of the steamer, surrounding Sherman, while with pencil and maps in hand he traced 68 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. for them all the strategic lines of " The March to the Sea." A high officer begged as a souvenir the map that Sherman's hand had traced. "It shall be an heirloom in my family," he declai-ed. The lake pleased the Cleneral. "Still," said he, " it. is no prettier than the lakes at Madison, Wisconsin. It looks like them, but they are our own ; they are American." He ajipreciated beautiful scenes and dwelt upon them almost with the love of a poet. "I am glad vdu saw San Remo," he wrote me. "Vividly I recall the ride t(j Clenoa, the gorgeous scenery of the sea and shore, of sheltered vales and olive- far up the lake, at the time of his visit. It was two miles from the boat landing at the village, and I could get no fit car- riage to take him up. " Let me walk," said he. "_ Don't rob me of the only opportunity I have had to use my feet in Europe." All the villagers hung out flags, and the peasants, who knew from the town papers that he was coming, stood at the roadsides with bared heads. Then a com- pany of village cadets marched up the hill to our house to do him honor. He spoke to them in English. They did not understand a word, but gave a grand hurrah, and then marched down again. When Sherman went to live in Wash- From a photograph by Mora. clad hills, with the snow-capped Apen- nines behind. Washington," he said, " is to my mind the handsomest city in the world, not excepting Paris ; and the Po- tomac, when walled in and its shores in grass-plots, may some day approximate to the Rhine in loveliness." It rained a little the morning he was starting from Zurich to the St. Gothard Pass for Italy, and threatened storm. My wife tried to induce him to wait for better weather. "No, that I never do," said he. "If it is raining when I start, it is sure to clear up on the way ; and that's when we like the weather to be good. No, I would rather start in a storm than not." We lived in Bocken, a country house ington it seemed as if every soldier who came there felt bound to call on him. Everyman of them was received as an old friend and companion. Dav in, day out, the bell would ring, and, " It's a soldier," the maid would announce. "Let him in," the General would an- swer. No matter what he was engaged upon, or who was in the room, the worthy and the unworthy alike went off with his bless- ing, and, if need be, his aid. He kept open accounts at shoe-stores, where every needy soldier calling on him could get shoes at his expense. One of his bene- ficiaries, at least, did not withhold due ex- pressions of gratitude. A young colored man, who wore a big scarlet necktie and PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OE GENERAL SHERMAN. 69 twirled in one hand a silk hat and in the other a fancy cane, calling, said : " Yes, J\Ir. Sherman, I wants to thank 3^ou very much for the place you done got for me in the department. I likes the place. Yes, Mr. Sherman. And I wants to thank God for you very much, and I hopes you'll get to heaven just sure. Fact is, I just know you will." " That's all right," said the General, glancing over the top of the newspaper he was reading, "only you look out that you don't get to the other place." Sherman loved young people — associ- ated with them all his life. There was no frolic he could not take part in with them. Boys, not less than girls, liked him and his happy ways. He made the sun shine for them. If he kissed the girls, the girls kissed him. Once I saw him at Berne when he was boarding the train for Paris. Every Amer- ican girl who happened to be in the town came to see him off. Not one of them had ever seen him before, but every one of them kissed him ; so did some of their mothers. Women like real heroes in this world. In 1874 he moved up town to Fifteenth Street, and almost next door to Mr. Blaine. Sometimes in the hot summer evenings the two sat on the stone walk out in front of Sherman's house till late in the night, talking about everything except politics. I was often an interested listener. Sher- man called Blaine the " Great Premier." " He has a great genius for running things," said he, " and parties ; likes to make friends, and has got lots of them ; knows how to make enemies too. Can't keep all his promises — makes too many ; forgets them. That's politics. He is a great man, though, a statesman, spite of shortcomings." Speaking of Blaine's bitter enemies, he once said : " All saccessful men are hated by somebody." Sometimes those hot summer evenings, in Fifteenth Street, he held quasi-recep- tions out in front of the house, so many people came to see him. Everybody felt at liberty to call, or, if he saw friends passing under the gaslight, he bade them sit down and chat. Inside the house his hospitality was boundless. There was never any end to guests. He kept open house, as it were. The table was always spread, and unex- pected guests sat down daily. I wondered at the time how his salary, though large, ever paid his expenses. His private office was a little room down in the basement. Who in Washington can ever forget the little tin sign on the win- dow bel(jw, bearing the simple words : " Office of General Suerm.vn." " Not the great Sherman ! " many a passer-by has exclaimed, as he halted and looked down at the window, hoping possi- bly for a single glimpse of the man him- self. He always chose these modest basements for his own office, whether in Washington, St. Louis, or New York. The furnishing was no less modest. A plain desk, his familiar chair, seats for a few friends by the little open fireplace, a fine engraving of General Grant, an occasional battle scene, a big photograph of Sheridan, and some cases and shelves filled with his books, war maps, and valuable correspond- ence. Sim|ile as it seemed, all was sys- tematized. The Government allowed him one clerk, Mr. Barrett, whose whole time was spent in classifying and indexing papers and letters as valuable as any in all America. Sherman had for twenty-five years corresponded with many notable people — Lincoln, Chase, Grant, Sheridan, all the heroes of the war times, civil or military, besides hundreds of private indi- viduals. It is in these latter letters, scat- tered among friends everywhere, that is best seen the spark of nature's fire that, next to his deeds, most marks Sherman as a man of genius. He wrote as he talked, sometimes at random, but always brill- iantly. Often late in the night, as he walked up and down the little room among the letters of the great men he had known, it seemed as if he might be in com- munion with their spirits. They were nearly all dead ; he had outlived most of the heroes of the war North or South, and seemed at times like one who had been in the world, seen its glories and its follies, and was ready himself to depart. " Some night as I come home from the theatre or a dinner," he once said, " a chill will catch me. I will have a cold, be un- well a day, and then " It all happened, at last, just as his im- agination had foreseen it. After he removed to St. Louis, where he had a tjuiet house at 912 Garrison Avenue, the office was in the simple basement as before. The same tin sign was on the window. All seemed as before ; nothing changed. Almost every night, after other friends had left, we sat in his room and talked or read. I had been invited to his house at this time for the purpose of 7= HUJrAX DOCl'MEXTS. editing certain of his letters for tlie " Xortli sav. "I almost think it impossible for an American Review." editor to tell the truth. If this country is " Here are mv ke"\'S," he said one night, ever given over to socialism, communism, throwing them on my elesk. " There are and the devil, the newspapers will be to all my papers and letters. Von will fnid blame for it. The chief trouble of my life things there that will interest ]ieople." has been in dealing with newspapers. Thev And I dill : but I did not regard it as want sensaticuis — something that will sell", right. i\o\' mx'self at liliertv, to print manv If the\' make sad a hundred or a thousand of the letters at the time. hearts, it is of no concern to them." " Before "\'ou moved out of Atlanta, Tien- For professional politicians he had as eral," I once asked, "what did vou think little regard as for the newspapers. W(juld be the effect of vour marching that "Pint there are newspapers and newspa- arm\' down to the ocean?" pers,"said he : " pcditicians and politicians ; "I thought it wiuild end the war," he but statesmen are scarce as hens' teeth. Xo answered cpiicklv. " It was to put me be- .Vmerican can help interesting himself in hnid Lee's armv so soon as I shoukl turn piditics. That belongs to a republic, north tci the Carolinas. You have the let- Everv man's a ruler here whether he ter there that Lee once wrote, saving it knows an\-thing about it or not ; and all was easv for him to see that unless mv parties are about alike." plans Were interrupted he would lie coin- r>ut he had everv cimfidence in our gov- pelled to leave Richmond. I had scarcelv ernmeiit. reached the Roanoke River when lie com- " Thanks to the Union soldiers." said he, menced slipping out of Richmond, and the " the Ship of Slate is in port, and it don't whole CLUifedcracv suddenlv came to an matter much who's President. But parties end." are necessarv. Xo single man can run this Cleneral Cirant realized to the full the government without a united part\- to help tremendous importance of Sherman's last him. .Again," he said, "our national strength movements. is tested by the political hurricanes which "That was a campaign," said he, " the pass over us everv four ^'ears, and bv such like of which is not rea^l of in tlie past his- transitions as took place wdien the govern- tory. " ment passed from Garfield to Arthur. Xe.\t I looked over hundreds of Sherman's week the Democrats will meet and nominate papers. When I found anything that spe- Jeff Davis, Cleveland, or some other fellow ; ciall}- interested me, I mentioned it to him. but it don't matter who is captain — the Then he dropped his book, and talked by ship's in. Anyway, our best Presidents the hour, relating to me the incidents, and are usually accidents." speaking of noted men whom he had Sherman's own name was alwavs being known. These were the times « hen it was proposed for President, but he had no de- most worth while to hear Sherman talk. sire for the office. \\'hile I busied myself with the letters, " Mv consent never \\\\\ be obtained," he was deep in ^\'alter Scott, cu' l>ickens, said he. "It is entirely out of the ipies- or Robert Burns. A cop_\- of Burns lay on tion. I don't want the Presidenc\' and his desk constantly. Certain of Dickens's will not ha\-e it, I recall too well the e.\- novels he read once every year. I have periences of Jackson, Harrison, 'I'avlor, forgotten which the}- were. He was a C.rant, Hayes, C.arfield — all soldiers— to constant reader of gciod books, and I think be tempted by the siren voice of flattery." he knew Burns almost by heart. He was \\ heu m 1884 it was insisted that "he also fond of music, and went much to the should run, and he was told it was a dutv, opera. Army songs always pleased him, and that " no man dare reftise a call of tlie and there was one commencing, " did fel- people," he answered sternly : " Xo politi- lo\v, you've pla\-ed out )-our time," he cal [larty con\-ention is thekeeper of the could not hear too i.fteii. United 'States ; and if reallv nominated I "It IS the whole and true history of a would decline in such language as would soldier's lite and sorrows," he would say. do both the convention and mVself harm." He hated the newspapers, yet through Xo matter how early the (Seneral was necessity, almost, he read them every out of bed those mornings in St. Louis, it morning, making running comments on was hard to get him to breakfast if once he what they said. It there were funny had commenced reading or writing down in things in them, or spicy, he read them the basement. To remedv this, his wife had aloud, for he was a lover of a good joke. the newspapers put on the breakfast table. " But there's none of it true," he would Mrs. Sherman always called him " Cump." PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS OF GENERAL SHERMAN. 71 That was his name with her before he was eminent, and I am sure he lilted it, with all the love and familiarity it conveyed, far more than any of the titles given him by Presidents and legislatures. In fact, he gave little regard to titles alone. " Lieutenant A is again off looking up his ancestors," he once said to me, "just as if ancestors or titles made a man. I suppose I had some military talent to start with, but it was work, not ancestors. instantly pulled the metal badge from his own breast and pinned it on my coat. That badge is on my desk while I write these recollections. Once he took me to see " Buffalo Rill " at the fair grounds. A crippled soldier we met on the way begged for help, and he so nearly emptied his pocket-book to the man, he had to borrow money to get us into the show. The show delighted him as it might have delighted a little child. He called for GE.NEKAL SHERMAN lA luoi. .\u£ L From a photograph by Sarony. and study, and forever work, that brought me my success." His nature was generous and unselfish in the extreme. One night at St. Louis he was invited to speak at the presenta- tion of a new flag to Ransom Post. When I came down stairs to accompany him, he stood in the parlor dressed and wait- ing. " Where's your badge ? " he said to me. "Why, General, I have none here." " Have none ? Take this," he said, and Colonel Cody (" Buffalo Bill ") to bebrought to him that he might shake hands with him. He had known him many years before. "That man's a genius," said he, when Cody went back to the ring. "He puts his life into his show, and Cody believes in himself." Not every warrior can shed a tear. Sherman's heart was as tender as a child's. I have seen those thin, compressed lips tremble, and the brown eyes moisten, at the recital of a wrong. He had two sides 72 HLfMAN DOCUMENTS. to his nature. In war he had all the ele- ments of the stern soldier ; he could he resolute, hut not pitiless, (lallantry ami chivalry were pails of his nature. In peace he was a student, a tjracious ,t;'entle- nian ; the man whom women ami children loved. Mis kindness sim|ilv knew no hounds. l''or a conipanion-in-arms, no matter what his rank, he had abiding' re- gard. "Sherman reconmiends evervbodv for jilace," said a department chief to me one day. " Now which one can he want ap- pointed ? " " He wants them all appointed," I re- plied. His tall form, his genial manners, hut abo\-e all the story of his great deeds, made him a constantly noticeable figiu'e whereyer he went. His face was as famil- iar to Americans as the face of Washing- ton or Lincoln. He always seemed to me younger than he really was. He had to the last a buoyancy of spirits that usually belongs only to youth. I never saw him speak to a voimg person without smiling ; and as to his ways toward women, he was a Bayard of the IJayards. 'I'he term chivalrous belonged to him by birtli- right. 1 recall how, after a noon dinner party at Berne once, a lady, not a young or a beautiful one, had started up the stairs alone. A dozen young fellows loitering there allowed her to go unnoticed. I'he General, at the salon door, got a glimpse of her half way up to the landing. In long strides he boinided instantly up the stairs, and hail her arm before she knew it. Her smile re))aid him as it reljuked the rest. l)espite reports to the contrary, lie was as chivalrous toward w(unen and children in the South as he was toward his f)wn peojile, and prote(;led them as fully. I recall vividly how once on the march in the Carolinas he caused a young staff officer to be led out befiu'e the ti'oops, his sword broken in two and his shoulder- straps cut from his shoidders, because he had permitted some of his men to rob a Southern woman of her jewelry. "I am a thief," were the words he pla- carded over the head of another soldier, wh(^ had stolen a woman's finger-ring. AV'ith this inscription alxive his head, the culprit stood on top of a barrel by a bridge while the whole armv filed jiast him. He was always making little speeches. He had to ; it was demanded of him. He was no oi-atoi', but he said original things, llis words A\ere crisp, to the point, and never to be forgotten. A\'hen the family were preparing to re- move from St. Ijouis to New York, Sher- man saiil : " I must see people ; I must talk." He loved St. I.(iuis, but there was only one New Vork. 1 l.)egged a trifle from his little room before he went — that room in which I had so often, late into the night, sat alone with him and listened to the magic of his talk. He took a bronze paper-weight from his desk. "It is the image of America's greatest captain," he said, and gave me a little fig- ure of General Grant that had been on his desk for manv years. (ieneral Sherman's appreciation of Grant knew no bounds. " He was the one level-headed man among us all," he said one night. In New York I was with him again from time to time. Again his office was in the basement. The same furniture, the same pictures, the little open fireplace, the same man, the same talk. Advancing years changed his features a little, l)ut not his spirits. His hair was gray, but his eyes were bright as ever. Then came a tla\- when I went into the little basement in Seventy-first Street only to find the chaii- of the Great Captain for- ever vacant. His body lay in its coffin in a darkened room np-stairs. It w as clad in the full iniiformof a ccunmanding general. The commander of an opposing army helped bear it to the tomb ; and never was the grief of a nation more sincere. PROFESSOR JOHN TYNDALL \iv IIkrhf.kt Spencer. luHN TYNDALL LL.D., F.R.S. A INIONG the various ]tenalties entailed -^~*- by ill-health, a not infrequent one is the inabilit}? to pay the last honors to a valued friend ; and sometimes another is the undue postponement of such tribute to his memory as remains possible. Of both these evils I have just had experience. It was, I think, in 1852 that Professor Tyndall gave at the Royal Institution the lecture by which he won his spurs : prov- ing, as he then did, to Faraday himself, that he had been wrong in denving dia- magnetic polarity. I was present at that lecture ; and when introduced to him ver}' shortly after it, there commenced one of those friendships which enter into the fabric of life and leave their marks. Though both had pronounced opinions about most things, and though neither had much reticence, the forty years which have elapsed since we first met witnessed no interruption of our cordial relations. In- deed, during recent years of invalid life suffered by both of us, the warmth of nature characteristic of hinr has had in- creased opportunity for manifesting itself. A letter from him, dated November 25th, inquiring my impressions concerning the climate of this place (St. Leonard's), raised the hope that something more than inter- course by correspondence would follow ; but before I received a response to my reply there came the news of the sad catastrophe. I need not dwell on the more cons])icu- ous of Professor Tyndall's intellectual traits, for these are familiar to multitudes of readers. His copiousness of illustra- tion, his closeness of reasoning, and his lucidity of statement have been suffi- cientlv emphasized bv others. Here I will remark onlv on certain powers of thought, not (|uite so obvious, whicli have had much to do with his successes. Of these the chief is " the scientific use of the imagination." He has himself insisted upon the need for this, and his own career exemplifies it. There prevail, almost uni- versally, very erroneous ideas concerning the nature of imagination. Superstitious peoples, whose folk-lore is full of tales of fairies and the like, are said to be imagina- tive ; while nobody ascribes imagination to the inventor of a new machine, ^^'ere this conception of imagination the true one, it would imply that, whereas children and savages are largely endowed with it, and whereas it is displaved in a high degree b\' ])oets of the first order, it is deficient in those having intermediate types of mind. But, as rightly conceived, im- agination is the power of mental represen- tation, and is measured by the vividness and truth of this representation. So con- ceived, it is seen to distinguish not poets only, but men of science ; for in them, too, " imagination bodies forth the forms [and actions] of things unknown." It does this in an equal, and sometimes even in a higher degree ; for, strange as the asser- tion will seem to most, it is nevertheless true that the mathematician who discloses to us some previouslv unknown order of space-relations, does so by a greater effort of imagination than is implied by any poetic creation. The difference lies in the fact that, whereas the imagination of the poet is exercised upon objects of human interest and his ideas glow with emotion, the imagination of the mathematician is exercised upon things utterly remote from human interest, and which excite no emo- tion : the contrasted appreciations of their respective powers being due to the circum- stance that whereas people at large can follow, to a greater or less extent, the imaginations of the poet, the imaginations of the mathematician lie in a field inacces- 74 HUM AM DOLL WI/'lATS. r'Ri)!.l..->SiiR T\'NUALL, IN 1^72, A'S VISIT '1"U ,\i\lEI>;lCA ia,,l,,,t,, |ih liy Mora, Bruadway, New York. sible tij tlieiii, and practically non-exist- ent. This constrnctive imagination (for we ai-e not coiicenied with mere reminiscent iiiiaginat i(iii), here resulting in the crea- tions of the poet and there in the dis- coveries ol the man of science, is the high- est of lumian facidties. \Vith this faculty Professor 'I'viulall was largely endowed. In common \\ith successful in\-estigators in general, he displa\ed it in forming true conceptions of ]ih\'sical processes pre- \iousl\' misinter|ii-eted or uninterpreted ; and, again, in cmiceiving modes by which the actual relations of the phenomena coidd be demonstrated ; and, again, in devising lit appliances to this end. JSut to a much g|-cater extent than usual, he dis- playetl consti'uctive imaginatiiui in other lields. He was an excellent ex|)ositor; and good ex|iosilion ini|ilics nuich con- sti-ucti\'e imagination. A |)rerei|uisite is the foiuning of tiaie ieleas of the mental states of those who are to be taught ; and a further |irerequisitc is the imagining of metliods by which, ix'ginning with conce|i- lions they possess, there may be l)uilt u|) in their minds the conceptions tliey do not possess. r)f constructive imagination as displayed in this sphere, men at large ap- ])ear to be almost devoid ; as witness the absurd systems of teaching which in past times, and in large measui"e at present, have stupefied, and still stupefy, children by presenting abstract ideas before they I'rijm a plioUj^^rapli by Ivingsbury tS: Notcutt, London. have any concrete ideas fi'inii which they can be drawui. Whether as lecturer ur writer, Professor 'l'\ ndal I caret iil 1\- avoided this vicious ])racl ice. In one further wa\' was his constructive imagination e\em]dilicd. \\ hen at (^ueeii- «'ood ('ollcgc he not oiiU' took care to set forth truths in such wavs anil in such order that the c unprchensicm of them de- velo|icd natnralU" in the nunds of those he taught — he did more: he practised those minds themsel\"es in conslriictive imagina- tion, lie so presented his problems as to exercise their powers of investigation. He did not, like most teaidiers, make his pupils mere passi\e recipients, but made them acti\'c cx|)huers. Asthesi- facts impl\-. Professor 'I'yndall's thoughls were not limited to physics and allied sciciu'cs, bill passed into JISV- idiidogN" ; and though this was not (Uie of his topics, il was a siibiect of interest to him. I.cd as he uas to make excursions into the science of iniiul, he was led also into llial indclerniinale region through which this sciiuice passes into the science of being; if wi- can call that a science of which the issue is nescience. Me was much more conscious than physicists usually are that every physical inquiry, pursued to the end, brings us down to metaphysics, and lea\'es us face to face with an insoluble problem. Snndr\' proposi- tions which physicists include as lying with- in their domain do not belong to physics riiOFESSOJi [OHN TYXDALL. 75 at all, but are concerned with our coy^ni- tions of matter and force — a fact clearlv shown by the controversy at present ,u;oing" on about the f andanientals of dynamics. But in liim the consciousness that here there exists a door whicli, tliough open, science cannot pass throngli, if not always present, was ever ready to emerge. Not improbably his early familiarity with theo- logical questions, given him by the contro- versy between Catholicism and Protestant- ism, which occupied his mind much during youth, may have had to do with this. But whatever its cause, the fact, as proved In- various spoken and written words, was a belief that the known is surrounded Ijv an unknown, which he recognized as some- thing more than a negation. Men of science may be divided into two classes, of which the tuie, well exemplified in Fara- day, keeping their science and their reH- gion absolutely separate, are untroubled by any incongruities between them ; and the other of which, occupying themselves exclusively with the facts of science, never ask what implications they have. Be it trilobite or be it double star, their thought 1'Kl>FESSOR 1\NUAT,1, in ibQO. .AOE. 70. From a photograph by Fradelle & Voung, London. about it is much like the thought of Peter Bell about the primrose. Tvndall did not belong to either class ; ancl of the last I have heard him speak with implied scorn. Being thus not simp]\' a specialist but in considerable measure a generalist, will- ingly giving some attention to the or- ganic sciences, if not largely acquainted \\'ith them, and awake t(j "the humanities," if not in the collegiate sense, yet in a wider sense — Tyndall was an interesting companion ; beneficially interesting to those with brains in a normal state, but to me iniurioush' interesting, as bein.g too exciting. 'I'wice I had experience (if this. ^\'hen, after an injury received while l)ath- ing in a Swiss mountain stream, he was laid up for sfime time and, on getting back to England, remained at Folkestone, I went do\\'n to spend a few davs with him. "Do you believe in matter?" was a cpies- tion which he prijpounded just as we were about to bill one another good-night after a day's continuous talking. Ever since a nervous breakdown in 1855, over m\' second book, talking has told upon me just as much as working, and has had to be kejit within narrow limits ; so that persistence in this kind of thing was out of the question, and I had to abridge my staw ( )nce more the like hap]5ened when, after the meeting of the British .\ssociation at Liverpool, we ad- journed to the Lakes. (lossiji, which ma)' he carried on witliout much intellectual tax, formed Init a small element in our conversa- tion. There was almost unceasing discussion as we rambled along the shores of Windermere, or walked up to R)'dal JNIount (leaving our names in the visitors' book), or as we were being rowed along (iras- mere, or when climbing Loughrig on our way back. Tvndall's intel- lectual vivacity gave me no rest ; and after two utterly sleepless nights I had to fly. I do not think that on these oc- casions, or on any occasion, poli- tics formed one of our topics. Whether this abstention resulted bv accident or whether from per- ception that we should disagree. I cannot say — possibly the last. Our respective leanings mav be in part inferred from our respective attitudes towards Carlyle. To me, profoundly averse to autocrac\', Carlyle's political doctrines had 76 li UMAN DOCUMF.N TS. ^^**' :'(^^\^pf^; 'If' ItFESSnK T\NDALL S liNGll ever been i"e]iu,L;"nant. Much as I dul, ami still do, admire his marvel- k)iis style and the \'ig"or, if iKit the tiaith, of his till 111 gilt — so niiich so that I alwaN's enjo\- any \\i'iting of his, however nuu'h I disagree with it — intereourse with him Soon proved impracti- cable. Twice or thrice, in 1851-52, I was taken to see him b\- Mr. (\. 11. Lewes ; but 1 soon fotind that the alterna- tives were — listening in silence to his dogmas, sometimes absurti, or getting into a hot argu- ment with him, which ended in our glaring at one another ; and as I did not like either alternative I ceased to go. liberty. Lacking them, we are on the way ^^'ith Tyndall, however, the case seems to back to the rule of the strong hand in the have been different — possibi)' becatise of shape of the bureaucratic despotism of a greater tolerance of his political creed and socialist organization, and then of the niili- his advocacy of [lersonal government. The tary despotism which must follow it; if, rule of the strong handwas'not, 1 fanc\', indeed, some social crash does not bring- as repellant to 'i'vndall as to nie ; anil, in- this last upon us more (piickl\-. Had we deed, 1 suspect that, had occasion offeretl, recently compared notes, I fancy that he would not have been reluctant to exer- Tyndall and I should have found ourselves else such rule himself. Though his sym- differing l)nt little in our views concerning pathies were such as made him anxious for the proximate social state, if not of the others' welfare, they did not take the direc- ultimate social state. tion of anxiet\' for others' freedom as the In the sketch he has recently given of means to their welfare ; aiul hence he was, our late frieiul, wdio was one of the sfnall I suppose, not in pronounced antagonism group known as the "X Club," Professor with Carlyle on these matters, lint diver- Huxley has given some account of that gent as our beliefs and sentiments were in body, h'urther particulars may not unfitly earlier days, there has been in recent days be added ; one of which may come better mutual approximation. yV conversation from me than from him. The impression with him some years since made it mani- that the club exercised inlluence in the fest that personal experience had greatly scientific world (not wholly without basis, shaken the faith he previously had in I think) was naturally produced by such public administrations, and made him look knowdedge as there eventually arose of its with more favor on the view of state func- compi)sition. k'or it contained four presi- tions held by me. On the other hand, m\' dents of the Jh'itish Association, three faith in free iustitntiiuis, originalh' strong presidents of the Royal Society, and among (though always joinetl with the belief that its members wdu) had not fdled these the maintenance and success of them is a highest posts there were presidents of the question of |)opular character), has in these later years been greatly decreased b\' the conviction that the fit character is not possessed by any people, nor is likely to 1)6 |K)ssessed for ages to come. A na- C'ollege of Surgeons, the Matheinatical Society, the Chemical Society, etc. Out of the nine I was the only one who was fellow of no society and had presided over nothing. I speak in the past tense, for tion of wdiich the legislators vote as they now, unhappily, the number of members is are bid and of which the workers surren- reduced to five, and of these only three der their rights of selling their labor as are in goi)d health. There has been no they please, has neither the ideas nor the meeting for the past year, and it seems sentiments needed for the maintenance of scarcely likely that there will ever he PROFESSOR JOHN TYNDALL_ 77 another. But the detail of most interest "X" is that I may mention a fact which^ which Professor Huxley has not given, to not a few, will be surprising;' and per- concerns a certain supplementary meeting haps instructive. \Ve sometimes cari'ied which, for many years, took place after with us to our picnic a volume of verse, the close of our session. This lasted from which was duly utilized after the repast. October in each year to June in the next ; On one occasion, while we reclined under and toward the close of June we had a the trees of Windsor Forest, Huxlc)- read gathering in the country t(.) which the to us Tennyson's " CRnone," and on another married members brought their wives, occasion we listened to Tyndall's I'eading raising the number on some occasions to of Mrs. Browning's ]")oem, " Lady Geral- fifteen. Our programme was to leave dine's Courtship." The vast majority of town earlv on Saturdav afternoon, in time people suppose that science and poetry for a ramble or a boating excursion before are antagonistic. Here is a fact which dinner ; to have on the Sunday a picnic in may, perhaps, cause some of them t\' iunii nus, out of what iis cnplieiiiisticalU- calk-d " party loyalty," or would lia\'c riulra\'- nred to bribe each scclioii of tlir fk-c- ti)rate X^y aJ captainliiiii measures, or would haye hesitated to protect life aud pro|iert\' fur fear of losinrr yotes. What he saw rio'ht to do he would ha\-e doue, regardless of proximate consei|ueuees. 'I'iie ortlinary tests of ij-euerosity ai'e very defective. As rig'htly measured, geuerosity is great in pi'oportion to the amount of self-ck-nial entailed ; and whei'e ample means are |iossessed large gifts often entail no self-denial. Far more self- denial may be involved in tiie perform- ance, on another's behalf, of sonu' act which requires time and laboi'. in atldi- tiiin to generosit\' under its ordinar}' form, which I'l'ofessor 'I'viulall displayed in un- usual degree, he displayed it inider a less comuKHi form. lie was I'eady !<> take much troul)le to help friends. I ha\'e had personal e.xperience of this. Though he had always in hand some in\-cst igal ion of great inlei'cst to him, and llujugh, as 1 ha\'e heard him say, when he had bcnl his mind to a subject he could not willi an\' facility break olf and i"esume il again, )'et, when I haye sought his scienlilic aid — in- finanation oi' ci"itical o[)inion — I never foiiiKJ the slightest reluctance to give me his nntlivided attention. Much more markedly, however, was this kind of generosity shown in another dii-cction. Many men, while they are eager for a|)pi-e- i-iati(Ui, manifcsl lillle or no ap|irccialii)n of others, and still less go mil of tlu'ir wa\' to e\|iress i(. Willi 'Ikudall it was not thus: he w.is eager In iccogui/.c achieyt'mcut. Nolably in llic case nl k'araday, antl less nolabU, ihougli slill conspi(aiousl\', in many cases, Ik' has bc- stowi'd mui'h lab(U' and sacrifu'cd nianv wtx'ks in selling" foi'lh olhei's' merils. H was cvidenlh- a pleasure lo him lo dilate on Ihe claims of fellow-wnrkei-s. Ilul lluu'c was .1 (k'riwil i\'e form of lliis generosiU' calling for slill gi'calcr eulogy. lie \\'as not conlent willi e\pi-essiug a|)- precialion ol those whose merits were I'ccogni/.ed, hul he spent enei'g\' unspar- ingl)' in drawMig |)ublic altenlion lo ihose whose merits were unrccdgnized ; anil lime alter time, in ch.'impioning ihe causes of such, he was regardless of thcant.ago- msms he aiauised and the e\'ils In: bi'ought on hinisi'll. 'I'liis chi\alrous defcuce ol the neglected and the ill-used has been, 1 think, l)\' few, if an\', so often repeated, I ha\-e nu'sclf nuire than once benclited h\' his deteianinal ion, (|iMtt' s|)ont aucouslv shown, that justice should Ix' done in the apportionment of i-rcdit ; and I ha\c\vith admiralion watched likeacti(His of his in other cases— a-ascs in which lo cmisidei'a- tion ol nal ion.ilily oi- of creed intei'fercd in the least with his insistence lUi eqiiita- hle disti'ibution of luuiors. In thus undertaking to (i'>"ht foi' those rjiOF£sso/^ /o/iy tyxdall. 79 wli.i were unfairly ilealt with, he disphi\-eJ tion. l^iit t(ir tliis (lefiaiue nl nature in anotlier (.lireetion tliat \"er\' eonspieuou^ tlicre niiyiit have been nian\- more \ears trait which, as displaxed ni his Al|iine of scientil'ic ex|ihirati()n, pleasurable lo teats, has niaLle hmi to nianv persuns chiellv known — I mean eoura^'e, passing verv often into daring. And here let me, in closing this sketch, indicate certain mis- chiefs which this trait brought upon him. t'oiirage grows bv success. Idie demon- strated ability to deal with dangers pro- duces readiness to meet more dangers, and himself aiul lienelicial to others : and he might have escaped that invalid life \\hich for a long" time past he had to bear. In his case, however, the jienalties of iiu'alid life had great mitigations — mitiga- tions such as fall to the lot of but few. It is concen'able that the phvsical discom- feirts and mental weariness which ill-health Villi ' ha\e known the these years of nursing household dtiring are a.ware i->f the 11 is self-jiistifving wdiere the muscular power brings, mav be almost compensated, if not and the nerve habitualU' prove adequate, even quite compensated, by the pleasurable Kut the resulting habit of miml is apt to emotions caused b\" nnllagging attentions int]uence conduct in other s|iheres, wdiere and syniiiathetic ci.uiipanionship. If this muscular power and nerve are of no avail ever happens, it happened in his case. All — IS ,ipt to cause the daring of dangers whach are not to be met b\" strength of limb or by skill. Nature as e.xternally presented in precipices, ice-slo|ies, and crevasses may be dared b\- ^■■n'i adequaiel\ endowed : but Nature as internally pre sented m the torm of physical constitution may not be thus dared with impiinif^ Prompted bv high motives, I'viidall tended too much to disregard the protests of his bod\'. Over-application in (.ierman\- caused at one time absolute sleepless- ness for, I think he told me. more than a week : and this, with kindred trans- gressituis, brtuight ov\ that i ns o m n 1 a b\" wdiich his after-life was troubled, and b\' wdiich his powers t'f work were diminished : fo him say, a sound night's sleep was f by marked exaltation of faculty then, in later life, came the daring which, by its results, brkuight his active career to a close. He conscientiously desired to fultil an engagement to lecture at the Royal Institution, and was not to be de- terred by fear of consequences. He gave PROFESSOR TVNDALL S COTTAGE IN THE ALF.S. unmeasured kindness he has received with- out ceasing. I happen to have had special evidence of this devotion on the one side and gratitude on the other, wdiich I do not the lecture, notwithstanding the protest think I am called upon to keep to myself. which for days before his system had been making. The result w.is a serious illness. threatening, as he thought at one time, a fatal result : and. notwdthstanding a year's furlough for the recovery of health, he was eventually obliged to resign his posi- but rather tii do the contrary. In a letter I received from him some half-dozen years ago. referring, among either things, to Mrs. Tyndall's self-sacrilicing care of him. he wrote : "She has raised my ideal of the possibdities of human nature. " CHARLES A. DANA IN HIS OFl'^ICI-: AT " THK SUN." (Drawn from life by Corwin Knapp Linsun.) MR. DANA OF "THE SUN." Bv Edward P. Mitchell. KINGLx\KE'S picture of a great editor — the most famous, if not the greatest, editorthat English journalism has known — represents a man wrapped in midnight mys- tery. He is surrounded by sentinels, and perpetually absorbed during business hours in highly responsible thought. Part of the description of John T. Delane at work mak- ing the next morning's " I'imes " is worth quoting here, for it does not lack uncon- scious humor : " From the moment of his entering the editor's room until four or five o'clock in the morning, the strain he had to put on his faculties must have been always great, and in stirring times almost prodigious. There were hours of night when he often had to decide — to decide, of course, with great swiftness — between two or more courses of action momentously different ; when, be- sides, he must judge the appeals brought up to the paramount arbiter from all kinds of men, from all sorts of earthly tribunals ; when despatches of moment, when tele- grams fraught with grave tidings, when notes hastily scribbled in the Lords or Com- mons, were from time to time coming in to confirm or disturb, perhaps even to annul, former reckonings ; and these, besides, were the hours when, on questions newly obtrud- ing, yet so closely, so importunately present that they would have to be met before sun- rise, he somehow must cause to spring up sudden essays, invectives, and arguments which only strong power of brain, with even much toil, could supply. For the delicate task any other than he would require to be in a state of tranquillity ; would require to have ample time. But for him there are no such indulgences ; he sees the hand of the clock growing more and more peremp- tory, and the time drawing nearer and near- er when his paper must, must be made up." No trait is more characteristic of Mr. Dana than his intolerance of anything like humbug about his professional labors or methods. For almost fifty years he has managed to keep easily ahead of the clock, and to meet, without much personal con- sciousness of effort, all sorts of new and sud- denly developed situations requiring swift decision as between courses of action mo- mentously different. Mr. Dana's c>wn im- agination has never decorated with mystic importance this power to dispose rapidly and accurately of any newspaper question that comes up at any hour of the day or night. It has never seemed remarkable to him that he should be able to get out his paper morning after morning, and year after year, without any sense on his part of high pressure or extraordinary intellectual strain. He works hard, and, at the same time, it is quite true that he works easilv ; for he works with absolute tranquillity, undisturbed by that most common and most wearing attendant of mental effort, the mind's constant recognition of its own atti- tude towards the labor in which it is at the time engaged. Thus Mr. Dana has always been the master, and not the slave, of the immediate task. The external features of his journalism are simplicity, directness, common sense, and the entire absence of aft'ectation. He would no more think of attempting to live up to Mr. Kinglake's ideal of a great, mysterious, and thought- burdened editor, than of putting on a con- ical hat and a black robe spangled with suns, moons, and stars, when about to receive a visitor to his editorial office in Nassau Street. 82 HUMAiX DOCUMENl'S. I. Thf. rather naked little corner room in the " Sun " Building in which Wx. Dana has sat almost daily for twentj'-five years, is a surprise to many persons wiio see it for the first time. His genuine love of beautiful things, his disposition to acquire them if possible, and the extraordinary range and accuracy of his resthetic appreciations, are so widely known that it is quite natural for those who do not understand him to expect to find his tastes reflected in his accustomed place of work. The room might be even barer than it is and vet serve Mr. Dana's purpose as well as if it were the Gallery of Apollo. On the other hand, if his chair and desk were established in the middle of the vastest and most sumptuous presence-chamber to be found anywhere, and amid a throng of curi- ous and noisv onlookers, Mr. Dana would work on with the same tranquil efficiencv, providing his pen did not splutter and the capacious waste-basket at his feet were emp- tied from time to time. The processes of his mind are neither stimulated nor intimi- dated by the surrounchngs. The accesso- ries of luxurious professional habits are absent because they are superfluous to Mr. Dana ; if he thought they would help him to make a better newspaper, they would all be there. In the middle of the small room a desk- table of black walnut, of the Fulton Street style and the period of the first administra- tion of Grant ; a shabby little round table at the window, where Mr. Dana sits when the day is dark ; one leather-covered chair, which does duty at either post, and two wooden chairs, both rickety, for visitors on errands of business or ceremony ; on the desk a revolving case with a few dozen books of reference ; an ink-pot and pen, not much used except in correcting manuscript or proofs, for Mr. Dana talks off to a stenog- rapher his editorial articles and his corre- spondence, sometimes spending on the re- vision of the former twice as much time as was required for the dictation ; a window seat filled with exchanges, marked here and there in blue pencil for the editor's eves ; a big pair of shears, and two or three extra pairs of spectacles in cache against an emer- gency : these few items constitute what is practically the whole objective equipment of the editor of " The Sun." The shears are probably the newest article of furniture in the list. They replaced, three or four years ago, another pair of unknown antiq- uity, besought and obtained by Eugene Field, and now occupying, alongside of Mr. Gladstone's axe, the place of honor in that poet's celebrated collection of edged instru- ments. for the non-essentials, the little trapezoid- shaped looni contains a third table, holding a file of the newspaper for a few weeks back, and a heap of new books which have passetl review ; an iron umbrella rack ; on the floor a cheap Turkish rug ; and a lounge covered with horse-hide, upon which Mr. Dana de- scends for a five minutes' nap perhaps five times a year. The adornments of the room are mostly accidental and insignificant. Ages ago somebody presented to Mr. Dana, with symbolic intent, a large stuffed owl. The bird of wisdom remains by inertia on top of the revolving book-case, just as it would have remained there had it been a stuffed cat or a statuette of Folly. Unno- ticed and probably long ago forgotten by its proprietor, the owl solemnly boxes the compass as Mr. Dana swings the case, reach- ing in quick succession for his Bible, his Portuguese dictionary, his ctimpendium of botanical terms, or his copy of the Demo- cratic National Platform of 1892. On the mantelpiece is an ugly, feather-haired little totem figure from Alaska, which likewise keeps its place solely by possession. It stands between a photograph of Chester A. Arthur, whom Mr. Dana liked and admired as a man of the world, and the japanned cal- endar case which has shown him the time of year for the last quarter of a century. A dingy chromo-lithograph of Prince von Bis- marck stands shoulder to shoulder with George, the Count Joannes. The same mingling of sentiment and pure accident marks the rest of Mr. Dana's pict- ure gallery. There is a large and excellent photograph of Horace Greeley, who is held in half-affectionate, half-humorous remem- brance by his old associate in the manage- ment of " The Tribune." Another is of the late Justice Blatchford of the United States Supreme Court ; it is the strong face of the fearless judge whose decision from the Fed- eral bench in New York twenty years ago blocked the attempt to drag Mr. Dana be- fore a servile little court in Washington, to be tried without a jury on a charge of crim- inal libel, at the time when " The Sun " was demolishing the District ring. Over the mantel is Abraham Lincoln. There are pict- ures of the four Harper brothers and of the five Appletons. Andrew Jackson is there twice, once in black and white, once in vivid colors. An inexpensive Thomas Jefferson faces the livelier Jackson. K framed diplo- ma certifies that Mr. Dana was one of sev- eral gentlemen wdio presented to the State AIR. DANA OF " THE SUN.' 83 yO'l •m- V 'A ? — y n ) * ?^<^^- T -^-l - - -^"^"^^ J5^ -1 i C['[\' HALL PAI^K AND I'RLN'TIN'G HOUSE SQL^AKE. a portrait in oils of Samuel J. Tilden. On different sides of the room are William T. Coleman, the organizer of the San Fran- cisco Vigilantes, and a crude colored print of the Haifa colony at the foot of Mount Carmel, in Syria. Strangest of all in this singular collection is a photograph of a tall, lank, and superior-looking New England mill girl, issued as an advertisement by some Connecticut concern engaged in the manu- facture of spool cotton. For a good many years the most available wall space in Mr. Dana's office was occupied by a huge paste- board chart, showing elaborately, in deadly parallel columns, the differences in the laws of the several States of the Union respecting divorce. It was put there, and it remained there, serving no earthly purpose except to illustrate the editor's indifference as to his immediate surroundings,until it disappeared as mysteriously as it had come. Mr. Dana's divorce chart may have been stolen, but Superintendent Byrnes was not consulted. Thus far in deference to Mr. McClure's re- spect for objective detail, as throwing light on character, .\fter this hasty but approxi- mately complete catalogue, it is needless to remark that the scheme of decoration car- ried out in the workroom of the foremost personage and most interesting figure in American journalism would indicate to no- body that the occupant of the room knew Manet from Monet, or old Persian lustre from Gubbio. From the windows of his room in the dwarf " Sun" Building, the old Tammany Hall in Park Row, Mr. Dana can look out and up to the sky-high edifices built all around him by his esteemed contemporaries during recent years. He is perfectly con- tent to work on, as he has worked in this same block between Spruce Street and Frankfort almost continuously since Feb- ruary, 1846, in the old-fashioned way, as far as externals are concerned. The absence of ostentation that distinguishes his profes- sional methods and habits extends to the whole establishment. While the " Sun " Building, as a workshop, lacks no modern appliance or mechanical improvement that contributes to the production of a great daily newspaper, there are few journals less impressively housed, even in the smaller cities of the United States. 84 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. II. obvious and the least important factor. It accounts, periiaps, for tlie occasional blusii Into the corner room desci-ilied, tlierc wliich the fVench jrentleman noted, forlhe swings nearly every niornniy in the year heai'tiness of his hand-grasp, ami in a meas- a man of seventy-fivL-, looking fifteen veai's ure for the general cheerl u Iness of the view younger; largely built, square-framed, with he hahiluall\- lakes nf lite; but inveterate a step as firm as a sea captain's; \'igor- health is I))' no means a possession peculiar ous, sometimes t(i abiai|)tness, in his b()dil\' to the editor of "The Sun." Nor is the movements, but deliberate and gentle in his analvsis which goes into the (]uestions of speech ; dressed al\va\'s in such a wa\- that a man's diet and hours of sleep, in order lo his clothes seem to belong to him anil not ascertain the secret ol his genius, likely to he to ihem ; with strong brown hands, be reu'arding in its results. Mr. Dana uses rather lai'ge, whiih do not ti'emble as they no tobacco, but that is not the I'easou why hold book or paper; and a countenance, he is superior to petulance and never frets familiar to most Americans through por- himself under any circumstances, whatever traits or caricatures, whose marked feat- his mood. He knows wine, and respects ures the caricaturists distoi-t in various it and himself; but that is not the reason w'himsical ways without ever succeeding in why he knows at a glance good poetry making the face seem either ridiculous or from bad, e\-en if the good be disguised ignoble. Mr. Dana's full beard is trimmed in cramped handwriting and words mis- more closeh' than in former \'ears. It spelled, while the bad is displayed in typog- ranks as snow white only by courtesy; the raphy beautiful to see. He prefers the last str(jngholds (jf the pigment are not mushroom to mush and milk, being both a yet conquered. connoisseur and a cultivator of the former ; The impression which Mr. Dana makes but that is not the reason wh\', as a journal- upon those who come nito contact with him ist, his ])erce|ition of the interesting, the personall)', for the first time or the fortieth, unexpected, the refreshing, has not been is that of vigorous and sympathetic good dulled by fifty years' e.xercise. First, a will, both desirous and capableof pleasing, natural, God-given faculty for the accphsi- He is frank and engaging in conversation, tion, the discrimination, and the dissemina- and the wonderful range of his intellectual tion of facts and ideas; secondly, a life interests makes him equally ready to learn uncommonly rich and varied in its ac- or to communicate. Men who seek him quaintance with men and its experience of merely to measure their wits against liis affairs: these are the lines of iiupiirv to he for a pur]iose, often go away charmed with pursued by any one who is curious for an their reception and well satisfied with re- explanation of the success of Mr. Dana's suits until they begin to reckon at a clis- career, and the incalculable influence of tance wdiat has actually been accomplished his mind upon the general progress and by the interview. If shrewd kindness special methods of American journalism beams on the stranger through one of the during the long perioil of his activity in two lenses of his gold-bowed spectacles, that profession. kind shrewdness is alert behind the other j\lr. Dana was born with a voracious glass. He has learned how to say No intellectual appetite, which has remained when necessary, and even to say it in ital- healthy and insatiate all of his life. He ics ; but he has never learned how to say shrinks at nothing sliort of actual dulness, an inconsiderate thing. or literary deformity so marked as to be A very observant J''renchman once re- repulsive. He is a tireless reader of books, marked about Mr. Dana: "He is one of the magazines, and journals in many languages, few men over sixty I have known wdio re- Whether print or manuscript comes under member the way to blush. The only times his eyes, he takes in the ideas seemingly by I have seen Mr. Dana blush have been wdiole paragraphs, rather than by words, when something discourteous was said or lines, or even sentences. Unlike most other done in his presence, too trivial to call for very rapid readers that I have known, he direct rebid **^»^ ^'^ VJ "x ■> ^ #1 l-^ffif^ '■ -^:Si«Fi:'^ Ji wjijiasi m^^^ k^<*^<' V for about a year, and during that time it was a bright, spunk}- newspaper. Then Mr. Dana came to New York, and, under conditions ver}' different from those of the Chicago undertaking, acquired with his friends the old " Sun " establishment, which had been owned for thirty years by the Beach family. He took possession of the property at the beginning of i868, and soon afterwards moved into the little corner room alread}- described. From tliat time until this Mr. Dana has been the editor of " The Sun " in the full sense of the word. He is, and always has been, in sole charge. The prosperit}' of " The Sun," its achieve- ments, and its position among the journals of the country, express Mr. Dana's absolute control over its everv department. But this is not the story of a newspaper. It is only a necessarily imperfect sketch of the man who edits that newspaper ; whose person- ality, however, perhaps to a greater extent than in the case of any other conspicuous journalist, is identified with the newspaper he edits. XII. What are Mr. Dana's theories of journal- ism ? At the bottom of my heart, I don't believe he ever stopped to think ; that is to say, to formulate anything of the kind, apart from his general ideas of human in- terest, common sense, and the inborn know- how. He has always been much more con- cerned about the practical question of mak- ing for to-morrow morning a paper which its purchasers will be sure to read. Mr. Dana has lectured more than once on jour- nalism, and his audiences and the readers of his published remarks have been de- lighted with his presentation of the subject ; but his experience is too ripe and his wis- dom far too alert to attempt a code of spe- cific directions for the making of a great newspaper. The range of a newspaper depends first of all upon the breatlth of its editor's sympathy with human affairs, and the diversity of things in which he takes a personal interest. If he is genuine, its qualities are his ; and nothing that is in him, or that he can procure, is too gocnl to go into its ephemeral pages. \\"hat Mr. Dana himself writes, in " The Sun " or elsewhere, has that indefinable piquant quality of style which holds your interest and makes you read on without conscious effort, instead of laboring on with admiration — the flavor that is in Charles Reade, but not in George Meredith or George Eliot ; in Saint-Simon and Sainte- Beuve, but not in Ruskin or Gibbon ; in field strawberries, but not in California peaches. ^\'hen he was a very young man, Mr. Dana wrote poetry. Among his earliest contributions to periodical literature were from half a dozen to a dozen sonnets, usu- ally of sixteen lines, published between 1841 and 1844 in various numbers of " The 1 )ial," the remarkable magazine which ^largaret Fuller, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and (George Ripley edited for the benefit of a small but earnest group of men and women. " The Dial " was printed quarterl}- for about four loo HUMAN DOCUMENTS. years, and among ^[r. Dana's fellow con- as impatient of wishy-washy writing as of tributors during that period were Emerson, cant. He pities a fool and can be kind to Thoreau, Channing, Christopher P. Cranch, him, but he hates a sham ; and this hatred, James Russell Lowell, and Jones ^'ery. seated in the profoundest depths of his na- Perhaps one of Dana's poems, written ture, is the key to much that has puzzled fifty-one years ago, will have now the same some observers of Mr. Dana's professional interest as a "human document," as would career. the daguerreotype of him in earlv manhood He communicates his individuality and which the editor of this magazine has not methods to those around him unconscious- been lucky enough to find : ly and by ]5ersonal force, rather than by any attempt at didactics. No office is less a VIA SACR.\. school of journalism in the sense of formal instruction, or even of systematic sugLjes- Slowly along the crowded street I go, ^ j,,.^,, j,,^. . g^,„ - ^fp^g Alarkuisj wuli reverent look each passers face, .,',,.,. , . ■ i i ■ i ,■ Seeking, and not in vain, in each to trace I" "I' of l"^ relations With his SUJKirdl- That primal soul whereof he is the show, nates and assistants in every department. For here still move, by many eyes unseen, Mr. Dana is a model chief. He is true to The blessed gods that erst Olympus kept ; |^ig helpers, reasonable in his requirements. Through everv guise these loft^' forms serene . ' ■ , - ■ ^ ^ c 4 T^ 1 ,1 111 ij- T ■<■ 1 ■>! 1 .. constant m a good opinion once formed. Declare the all-holdmg Life hath never slept ; . ^1 But known each thrill that in Man's heart hath His eyes are on every part ot the paper been, every day, and they are not less sharp for And every tear that his sad eyes have wept. points of defect than for points of excel- Alasforus! the heavenly visitants, ^^ 1^^,^ ,.,ig tongue is ten times quicker We greet them still as most unw elcome guests, ' . , ^ , , , , ' , Answering their smile with hateful looks askance, '» Pr"'^e than to blame. (>enerous and Their sacred speech with foolish, bitter jests ; prompt recognition of good service of any Butch! what is it to imperial Jove sort, or of hoiiest, although onlv partiallv That this poor world refuses all his love ! successful, effort, is habitual with hini. His condemnation can be ]iarticularlv eni- 'I'hat was in 1S43, During the lialf ceii- phatic, if there is occasion for emphasis; tury since then, Mr. Dana has read more small literary sins and venial infractions of poetry and written less than any other man discipline provoke him to humorous com- on earth in whom the love of verse is genu- miseration, rather than to anger. He never ine and strong. fusses, never is overbearing, never tpiarrels In judging and using the prose or poetry with what can't be helped, of others, he is hospitable to almost any Mr. Augustin Daly tells a story about a respectable style or method, no matter how visit of his to Mr. Dana's office to remon- different from his own, as long as the writer strate upon what the manager regarded as has something to say. His tastes are very too severe criticism of Miss Atia Rehan's catholic. He can tolerate either a style performance in a certain part. The pres- approaching barrenness in its simplicit)-, or ent publisher of "The Sun" was at that rhetoric that is florid and ornate in the ex- time its tlramatic critic, treme, providing it conveys ideas that are "I found no tlifhciilt\-," says i\Ir. Dalv, nut rubbish. He is continually reaching "in getting an amlience with Mr. Dana, out for fresh vigor, unconventional moiles. He glanced up from his work and asked, originality of thought and phrase. If all cheerily, ' What can I do for vou to-day?' f Mr. Dana's staff of writers should happen "'Mr. Dana,' I began with great iirra o to be cast in one mould, or should gradually ness, 'I have calleil to trv to convince you assimilate themselves to a single type, so that you sluuild discharge your dramatic that there was monotony of expression in editor. He has ' his newspaper, he would become uneasy. " ' \'cs, I see,' he interrupted, all suavity The first thing that would probably occur ami smiles. M\'ell, Mr. Daly, I will speak to him to do would be to semi out for a to Mr. I.alTan about this matter, and if he blacksmith, (u' perhaps the secoiul mate of thinks that he really deser\es to be dis- a tramp steamship, or what not, to write charged, I will most certainly do it.' " for "The Sun" in the interest of virility There is an a|iocrvphal tratlition, prob- and variety. If the man had good ideas, ably with some slight ftumdation of fact, all right ; Mr. Dana himself would attend which will do as «ell as if it were entirelv to the syntax. true to illustrate .Mr. Dana's indilference Imagination is a quality for which he has to disturbing elements, except as they may the highest respect, but it must go with sin- be useful for newspaper jnirposes. One cerity. Dulness he cannot stand. He is night, in the early times of " The Sun," the MR. DANA OF " THE SUN." city editor rushed in from the outside room, " Tire Sun's " editorial office tlien consisted of four rooms, all small. "Mr. Dana," exclaimed the cit_y editor, "there's a man out there with a cocked revolver. He is very much excited. He insists on seeing the editor-in-chief." " Is he very much excited ? " replied Mr. Dana, turning back to his pile of proofs. " If you think it worth the space, ask Amos Cummings if he will kindly see the gentle- man and write him up." His judgment of the merits of articles submitted to him is, to an extent rarely equalled, independent of the writer's liter- ary reputation. A famous name is no pass- port to his admiration. I think that Mr. Dana would write " Respectfully declined," or even " Nothing in it ! " on a scrap of paper, and fold the saine around a manu- script from Mr. Gladstone, providing it did not seem useful to him, with as little hesi- tation as across a poem on " Spring" from a schoolma'am in the backwoods of Maine or Georgia. If he were prejudiced either way, it would be in favor of the unknown schoolma'am struggling to find an outlet for her poetic sentiment. It is a source of great satisfaction to him to discover in out-of-the-way corners genius that has not been recognized, and to help it out of ob- scurity. This benevolent weakness has cost him, in the aggregate, thousands of hours of valuable time spent in the personal at- tempt to make a poor thing presentable, or in imparting advice and kind but frank criticism to persons unknown to him. Once a clergyman of considerable emi- nence and sensational proclivity volun- teered to write anonymously for "The Sun." His first article came. He had made the amazing blunder of trying to adapt himself to what he supposed to be the worldly and reckless tone proper to a Sunday news- paper. Mr. Dana chuckled quietly as he sent the manuscript back, indorsed in blue pencil, " This is too damned wicked ! " A clerk in the New York Post-Office, sev- eral years ago, copied out in his own hand- writing the Rev. Edward Everett Hale's story, "The Man Without a Country," and offered it to " The Sun " as- original matter for ten dollars. He had evidently found the story in a loose copy of the maga- zine where it was first published, and sup- posed it to be forgotten literature. Some- body proposed to publish the impostor's name. " No," said Mr. Dana. " Mark the manu- script 'Respectfully declined,' and mail it to him. He has been honest enough to in- close postage stamps." XIII. Mr. Dana looks upon the daily news- paper as something more than a bulletin of the world's events, or a vehicle for contem- poraneous literature. He has steadily re- sisted the modern tendency to subordinate the editorial page, or to render it a mere reflection of public or partisan sentiment as understood by the newspaper's man- agers. "The place of the newspaper press in education," he wrote not long ago in rei)ly to a question from the State Department of Public Instruction, " is like that of the pul- pit. It is incidental, not essential." But with Mr. Dana, as with every journalist who is influenced by his brilliant example, the place of the editorial page in the daily newspaper is essential, and not merely inci- dental. A newspaper without positive, inde- pendent, aggressive convictions, generated inside and not outside of the office, and without the habit of uttering them fearless- ly, is easy enough to imagine ; but it would be a newspaper without Mr. Dana. He does not think it necessary to check off every piece of news, or even ever}' im- portant piece of news, with a corresponding paragraph of comment. That is not his idea of an editorial page. "A man at the dinner table, or anywhere else," he said one day to a new writer, " who insists on giving you his opinion about everything on earth, is a bore. So is the newspaper." He has no hard and fast rules to go by in the selection of topics for editorial treat- ment. You can never tell what subjects Mr. Dana will discuss, or what subjects he will pass over, in to-morrow's " Sun." His inclination is always towards the specific, rather than the abstract ; towards the novel, the fresh, the unexpected, rather than the matter-of-course. He would leave over an article any day on "The State of the Union," in favor of one on " The Mar- ket for Poetry," or " The Vitality of Islam," or "The Sorrows of Rich Men," or " How- Engaged Couples Should Act ; " provid- ing the latter were the more meritorious production, and seemed to him likely to be read with more interest by more people. He has always believed in iteration as an agent in the process of planting ideas. " If you say a true and important thing once, in the most striking way, people read HUMAN DOCUMEXTS. it, and say to themselves, ' 'I'liat is vei'v likciv s(i,' ami t'ors^ct it. If \'i)U keep on saving' it, over anil over a^"ain, e\'en with less telicit\' of e\|iression, ^■()n'll hanniier it into their heads so lirnily that they'll say, ' It is so ; ' and the\'ll reniember forever it is so." The characteristics of the man are in "The Sun." His broad sense of news interest, persistent, inquisitive, sympathetic, and appreciative in a thousand ilifferent directions, anti as keen with respect to sons whom he is sup|iosed to regard with n neon d it ional disapproval. 'I'he stiongest and steadiest impulse in Mr. Dana's mind as an editor, is the Amer- ican sentiment. It lies deeper than his partisanship, ami it shapes his politics. His political philosophy may be Jeffersonian in its conception of the functions and limita- tions of the Federal Government in ordi- nary times, but back of that are not only the patriotism that is natural to his tem- perament, but also that broader idea of the small things as to great, shapes every part of the jiaper, and dominates every depart- ment. His editorial page is himself. It reflects his independence of thought, his self-reliance, his humor and philosophy, and his marked partiality, ethical consid- erations being e(pial, or ncarb' so, for the cause of the under dog in the fight. No matter how the crowd shouts, he follows his own judgment. He follows it un- hesitatingly, and without worrying about cjuestions of expediency as affecting him- self. He is loyal beyond most men in his friendships, and positive, although less per- sistent, and rather impersonal, in his dis- likes. Nothing is more common than to hear him speaking kindly, and with just appreciation of their good qualities, of per- nation's might and destiny which was bred in him by the events of the years when he was with Lincoln and Stanton, and with the armies in the field. XIV. Till'. re\-olution which his genius and in- vention ha\-e wrought in the methods of practi(al journalism in America during the past twenty-five years can be estimated only by newspaper makers. His mind, always original, and unblunted and un- wearied at seventy-five, has been a prolific S(uircc of new ideas in the art of gathering, presenting, and discussing attractivelv the news of the world. He is a radical' and unterrilied innovator, caring not a copper MR. DANA OF "THE SUN" 103 for tradition or precedent when a change of method promises a real improvement. Restlessness like his, without his genius, discrimination, and honesty of purpose, scatters and loses itself in mere whimsicali- ties or pettinesses ; or else it deliberately degrades the newspaper upon which it is exercised. To Mr. Dana's personal inven- tion are due many, if not most, of the broad changes which within a quarter of a century have transformed journalism in this country. From his individual ]5ercep- tion of the true philosophy of human in- terest, more than from any other single source, have come the now general repudi- ation of the old conventional standards of news importance ; the modern newspaper's appreciation of the news value of the senti- ment and humor of the daily life around us ; the recognition of the principle that a small incident, interesting in itself and well told, may be worth a column's space, when a large dull fact is hardly worth a stickful's ; the surprising extension of the daily newspaper's province so as to cover every department of general literature, and to take in the world's fancies and imagin- ings, as well as its actual events. The word "news" has an entirely different signifi- cance from what it possessed twenty-five or thirty years ago under the ancient common law of journalism as derived from Eng- land ; and in the production of this im- mense change, greatly in the interest of mankind and of the cheerfulness of daily life, it would be difficult to exaggerate the direct and indirect influence of Mr. Dana's alert, scholarly, and widely sympathetic perceptions. The idea of the newspaper syndicate sys- tem, extensively and successfully applied during the past ten years, and with such marked effect upon the character of the miscellaneous literature furnished to the public through the daily press, originated with Mr. Dana. The first story syndicated by him, if I am not mistaken, was one by Mr. Bret Harte, in 1877 or 1878. Soon after that he purchased a number of short stories from some of the most eminent of living writers, " The Sun" sharing the expense and the right to publish the series \m'Ca half a dozen selected journals in different parts of the United States. One of these stories was a tale called " Georgina's Reasons," by Mr. Henry James, Jr. A circumstance that seemed highly humorous to Mr. Dana, and particularly so in view of Mr. James's fas- tidious ideas of literary form, was that one of the Western journals in the syndicate should have lent distinction to the narra- tive by means of the following scheme of headlines in large, bold type : GEORCxINA'S REASONS ! HENRY JAMES'S LATEST STORY! A WOMAN WHO COMMITS BIGAMV AND ENFORCES SILENCE ON HER HUSBAND ! TWO OTHER LIVES MADE MISERABLE BY HER HEARTLESS ACTION ! XV. Mr. Dana's life outside of his work is his own property, and is to be touched here with reserve. From late in the autumn until early in the spring he occupies his town house at the northwest corner of Madi- son Avenue and Sixtieth Street. His sum- mer home, Dosoris, two or three miles from the village of Glen Cove, is an island of about fifty acres, in the Sound, close to the Long Island shore, and connected therewith by a short bridge. The estate gets its name from the circumstance that the island was once a wife's dowry, dos uxoris. Mr. Dana bought the place soon after his return from Chicago to New York, and extended and modernized the interior of the homely, com- fortable mansion, which is just visible, through the foliage, from the passing steam- boats in the Sound. One of the greatest en- joyments of his life has been found in the beautify ing of Dosoris Island. Its trees and fruits and flowers are famous. Its proprie- tor is an accomplished botanist, a zealous and scientific cultivator, and an artist who might have been a distinguished landscape gardener if he had not been a great editor. He has made Dosoris a wonderful and cele- brated arboretum ; but to most visitors it is first of all a lovely spot. An eminent painter who travelled in Cuba with Mr. Dana several years ago, was somewhat puzzled at the gratification which his companion manifested after a hot and tiresome excursion in the hills of the Vuelta Abajo. He did not learn the cause until dinner-time, Mr. Dana had satisfied himself by personal observation that the pinus Elliolti, or some other special pinus which had been troubling his mind, did grow in that region. He regarded the day as a perfect success. Mr. Dana is fond of horses, of cattle, of dogs, even of pigs and feathered bipeds. He likes to have life, in all of its amiable forms, animal and vegetable, going on healthily and happily around him. I04 HUAIAN DOCUMENTS. He is as constant in liis tastes as in his friendsliips. An intellectual or a;sthetic pursuit once begun b}' him becomes a last- ing occupation and resource. Whether he takes up orchids, or Norse literature, or early Persian ceramics, his interest in the subject never shades back into indifference. His collection of Chinese porcelain of the best period is noted among connoisseurs for the rarity and beauty of its specimens, and the knowledge governing his selections. In pictorial art, his special fondness is for some of the painters of the Barbizon school, as shown by his purchases ; but he is ap- preciative of all good art. He has never formed a large library, and is nothing of a bibliomaniac. He owns some rare vol- umes, but, as a rule, books are with him tools rather than treasures. He cares noth- ing for acquisition for the sake of dis|3lay. He is fond of showing his pictures, or his china, or his trees, to those who can share his own unaffected enjoyment of them. He is a companionable man, and he likes to gather entertaining people around him. His circle of personal acc]uaintance is re- markably large and various. He can be happy in the society of any refined person able to interest him, but he is happiest with his own family, his children and grand- children. For twenty years his most inti- mate friend and most constant companion has been his son and principal professional assistant, Mr. Paul Dana. i\ few weeks ago, just two days before he was seventy-five years old, Mr. Dana climbed to the top of Croydon Mountain in New Hampshire, leading a party of much ' younger men who came toiling and puffing after him. In his editorial office he is hard at work si.x days in the week, put- ting in like a boy of fifty, and still set- ting the pace for the profession which acknowledges him as its leader. To his own mind there is nothing extraordinary in this. PORTRAITS OF CHARLES A. DANA. 1852. AGE 33. io6 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. AGE 38. /" >-"'"' 4^S^'' L, 1865. AGE 4(1. Jg ^^^^K K ^ M I "^ ^■L Li ■ h ^^^Hk K,':;.^ wu ^H ^K. ^^^^K' / ^fi^ ^Hl ^B til 1867. A(.i': 1882. AGK 63. PORTRAITS OF CHARLES A. DANA. 107 1869. AGE 50. io8 HUiMAN DOCUMENTS. DAKA HEluKE GRANT's H EA DijU AmERS AT SI'OTTS'i'LX' ANJA l8((0. AGE 71 CHARLES A. DANA. 109 1094. AGK 75. FROM A I^HOTOGRAPH BY ANDERSON, i\E\\ ■. ul;lv. HUMAN DOCUMENTS. UR. DANA AT THE I'KESENT UAV. 1-KO.ll A I'HU ; ( « . KAl'H lAKE.X B\ lIlS SON, .MR. I'.UL DANA. MY FIRST BOOK— "TREASURE ISLAND." By Robert Louis S'I'kvknson. IT was far, indeed, from beino; my first book, for I am not a novelist alone. But I am well aware that my paymaster, the great public, regards what else I have writ- ten with indifference, if not aversion. If it call upon me at all, it calls on me in the familiar and indelible character ; and when 1 am asked to talk of my first book, no ques- tion in the world but what is meant is my first novel. Sooner or later, somehow, anyhow, I was bound I was to write a novel. It seems vain to ask why. Men are born with vari- ous manias : from my earliest childhood it was mine to make a plaything of imaginary series of events ; and as soon as I was able to write, I became a good friend to the paper-makers. Reams upon reams must have gone to the making of " Rathillet," the " Pentland Rising,"* the " King's Par- don " (otherwise " Park Whitehead "), "Edward Darren," "A Country Dance," and a " Vendetta in the West ; " and it is consolatory to remember that these reams are now all ashes, and have been received again into the soil. I have named but a few of my ill-fated efforts : only such, indeed, as came to a fair bulk ere they were desisted from ; and even so, they cover a long vista of years. " Rathillet " was attempted be- fore fifteen, the " Vendetta " at twenty-nine, and the succession of defeats lasted un- broken till I was thirty-one. By that time I had written little books and little essays and short stories, and had got patted on the back and paid for them — though not enough to live upon. I had quite a reputation. I was the successful man. I passed my days in toil, the futility of which would some- times make my cheek to burn, — that I should spend a m.an's energy upon this business, and yet could not earn a livelihood ; and still there shone ahead of me an unattained ideal. Although I had attempted the thing with vigor not less than ten or twelve times, I had not yet written a novel. All — all my pretty ones — had gone for a little, and then stopped inexorably, like a schoolboy's watch. ^■^- Ne pas confondre. Not the slim screen pamphlet with the imprint of Andrew Elliott, for which (as I see with amazement from the booklists) the gentlemen of England are willing to pay fancy prices ; but its predecessor, a bulky historical romance without a spark of merit, and now de- leted from tlie world. I might be compared to a cricketer of many years' standing who should never have made a run. Anybody can write a short story — a bad one, I mean — who has industry and paper and time enough ; but not every one may hope to write even a bad novel. It is the length that kills. The accepted novelist may take his novel up and put it down, spend days upon it in vain, and write not any more than he makes haste to blot. Not so the beginner. Human nature has cer- tain rights ; instinct — the instinct of self- preservation — forbids that any manfcheered and supported by the consciousness of no previous victory) should endure the miseries of unsuccessful literary toil beyond a period to be measured in weeks. There must be something for hope to feed upon. The be- ginner must have a slant of wind, a lucky vein must be running, he must be in one of those hours when the words come and the phrases balance of themselves — even to begin. And having begun, what a dread looking lluyd osbourne, the "schoolboy in the late miss McGregor's cottage." 112 HUMAN JWCUMKNl'S. IK9 Si.'**'' 1 ? l/'^ 'f-;A-'^^-4«i >*' *^*."~"' " ih^nA^^- ' x*. "'-I," -- "'/V//iiH'///|/«//' 5; I _ »^ iiU? / / THE S'l-EVENSfiN FAMIl.V COTTAGE AHOVE TTTLOCHRV rrrLuciim', a village nlai-' tuic sTEviiNSdN ci.>'i-ia(;k. From ii photograph by G. W. Wilson & Co., Aberdeen. J/V FIRST BOOK—- TREASURE ISLAXD. 113 SPITTAL OF GLENSHEE. forward is that until the book shall be ac- complished 1 For so long a time the slant is to continue unchanged, the vein to keep running ; for so long a time you must hold at command the same quality of style ; for so long a time your puppets are to be always vital, always consistent, always vigor- ous. I remember I used to look, in those da3"s, upon every three-volume novel with a sort of veneration, as a feat — not possibly of literature — but at least of physical and moral endurance and the courage of Ajax, In the fated year I came to live with my father and mother at Kinnaird, above Pit- lochry. There I walked on the red moors and by the side of the golden burn. The rude, pure air of our mountains inspirited, if it did not inspire us ; and m}- wife and I projected a joint volume of bogie stories, for which she wrote " The Shadow on the Bed," and I turned out '' Thrawn Janet," and a lirst draft of the " ]\Ierry ]Men." I love my native air, but it does not love me ; and the end of this delightful period was a cold, a fly blister, and a migration, by Strath- airdle and Glenshee, to the Castleton of Braemar. There it blew a good deal and rained in proportion. My native air was more unkind than man's ingratitude ; and I must consent to pass a good deal of my time between four walls in a house lugubri- ously known as " the late Miss McGregor's cottage." And now admire the finger of predestination. There was a schoolbo}- in the late Miss McGregor's cottage, home for the holidays, and much in want of " some- thing craggy to break his mind upon." He had no thought of literature : it was the art of Raphael that recen'ed his fleeting suf- frages, and with the aid of pen and ink, and a shilling box of water-colors, he had soon turned one of the rooms into a picture gal- lery. !My more immediate duty towards the gallery was to be showman : but I would sometimes unbend a little, join the artist (so to speak) at the easel, and pass the afternoon with him in a generous emula- tion, making colored drawings. On one of these occasions I made the map of an island ; it was elaborately and (I thought) beautifully colored ; the shape of it took my fancy be- yond expression ; it contained harbors that pleased me like sonnets ; and, with the un- consciousness of the predestined, I ticketed my performance "Treasure Island." I am told there are people who do not care for maps, and find it hard to believe. The names, the shapes of the woodlands, the courses of the roads and rivers, the prehis- toric footsteps of man still distinctly trace- 114 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. Krom a ]>ti.>i<>MTa[)li by Sir Percy Shelley. MY FIRST BOOK— ' TREASURE ISLAND." 115 MRS. ROBERT LOl'IS STE\'ENSON, ii6 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. able up hill and down dale, the mills and the ruins, the ponds and the ferries, perhaps the " Standing Stone " or the " Druidic Circle " on the heath — here is an inexhaustible fund of interest for any man with eyes to see, or twopence worth of imagination to under- stand with. No child but must remember laying his head in the grass, staring into the infinitesimal forest, and seeing it grow populous with fairy armies. Somewhat in this way, as I pored upon my map of " Treasure Island," the future characters of the book began to appear there visibly among imaginary woods ; and their brown faces and bright weapons peeped out upon me from unexpected quarters, as they passed to and fro, fighting and hunting treasure, on these few square inches of a flat projection. The next thing I knew, I had some paper before me and was writing out a list of chapters. How often have I done so, and the thing gone no farther ! But there seemed elements of success about this enterprise. It was to be a story for boys ; no need of psychology or fine writ- ing ; and I had a boy at hand to be a touchstone. Women were excluded. I was unable to handle a brig (which the "His- paniola" should have been), but I thought I could make shift to sail her as a schooner without public shame. And then I had an idea for John Silver from which I promised myself funds of entertainment : to take an admired friend of mine (whom the readervery likely knows and admires as much as I do), to deprive him of all his finer qualities and higher graces of temperament, to leave him with nothing but his strength, his courage, his quickness, and his magnificent geniality, and to try to express these in terms of the culture of a raw tarpaulin. Such psychical surgery is, I think, a common way of " mak- ing character ; " perhaps it is, indeed, the only way. We can put in the quaint figure that spoke a hundred words with us yester- day by the wayside ; but do we know him? Our friend, with his infinite variety and flexibility, we know — but can we put him in? Upon the first we must engraft secon- dary and imaginary qualities, possibly all wrong ; from the second, knife in hand, we must cut away and deduct the needless arborescence of his nature ; but the trunk and the few branches that remain we may at least be fairly sure of. On a chill September morning, by the cheek of a brisk fire, and the rain drum- ming on the window, I began the " Sea Cook," for that was the original title. I have begun (and finished) a number of other books, but I cannot remember to have sat down to one of them with more complacency. It is not to be wondered at, for stolen waters are proverbially sweet. I ain now upon a painful chapter. No doubt the parrot once belonged to Robin- CAS'ILKTON UF liKAEMAl^, M«j M Ml.lKKONE. Photogra|.li by G, VV. Wilson & Co., /Mjcrdccn. AfV FIRST BOOK—'' TREASURE ISLAND: 117 Cf^^^navv'R-, jBSit "IHE LATE Ml^S .McGREGOR'S CuTTAGE, son Crusoe. No doubt the skeleton is con- veyed from Poe. I think little of these, they are trifles and details ; and no man can hope to have a monopoly of skeletons or make a corner in talking-birds. The stockade, I am told, is from " Masterman Ready." It may be — I care not a jot. These useful writers had fulfilled the poet's saying : departing, they had left behind them '■ Footprints on the sands of time ; Footprints that perhaps another " and I was the other ! It is my debt to Washington Irving that exercises my con- science, and justly so, for I believe plagiar- ism was rarely carried farther. I chanced to pick up the " Tales of a Traveller " some years ago, with a view to an anthology of prose narrative, and the book flew up and struck me : Billy Bones, his chest, the com- pany in the parlor, the whole inner spirit and a good deal of the material detail of my first chapters — all were there, all were the property of Washington Irving. But I had no guess of it then as I sat writing by the fireside, in what seemed the springtides of a somewhat pedestrian inspiration ; nor )ret day by day, after lunch, as I read aloud my morning's work to the family. It seemed to me original as sin ; it seemed to belong to me like my right eye. I had counted on one boy ; I found I had two in my audience. My father caught fire at once with all the romance and childishness of his original nature. His own stories, that every night of his life he put himself to sleep with, dealt perpetually with ships, roadside inns, robbers, old sailors, and com- mercial travellers before the era of steam. He never finished one of these romances : the lucky man did not require to ! But in " Treasure Island " he recognized some- thing kindred to his own imagination ; it was his kind of picturesque ; and he not only heard with delight the daily chapter, but set himself actively to collaborate. When the time came for Billy Bones's chest to be ransacked, he must have passed the better part of a day preparing, on the back of a legal envelope, an inventory of its contents, which I exactly followed ; and iiS BUM AN DOCUMENTS. ERAF.MAR, FROM CRAKl CO^'NACH. Plioto^^raph by G. W. Wilson & Co., Alierdecn. the name of " Flint's old ship," the " \\'al- rus," was given at his particular request. And now, who should come dropping in, ex inachina, but Dr. Jaap, like the dis- guised prince who is to bring down the curtain upon peace and happiness in the last act, for he carried in his pocket not a horn or a talisman, but a publisher — had, in fact, been charged by my old friend Mr. Henderson to unearth new writers for "Young Folks." Even the ruthlessness of a united family recoiled before the extreme measure of inflicting on our guest the muti- lated members of the '' Sea Cook ; " at the same time we would by no means stop our readings, and accordingly the tale was be- gun again at the beginning, and solemnly redelivered for the benefit of Dr. Jaap. From that moment on I have thought highly of his critical faculty ; for when he left us, he carried away the manuscript in his portmanteau. Here, then, was everything to keep me up — sympathy, help, and now a positive engagement. 1 had chosen besides a very easy style. Compare it with the almost contemporary " Merry Men ; " one may pre- fer the one style, one the other — 'tis an affair of character, perhaps of mood ; but no expert can fail to see that the one is much more difficult, and the other much easier, to maintain. It seems as though a full- grown, experienced man of letters might engage to turn out " Treasure Island " at so many pages a day, and keep his pipe alight. But alas ! this was not m}^ case. Fifteen days I stuck to it, and turned out fifteen chapters ; and then, in the early paragraphs of the sixteenth, ignominiously lost hold. My mouth was empty ; there was not one word more of " Treasure Island " in my bosom ; and here were the proofs of the beginning already waiting me at the " Hand and Spear"! There I corrected them, living for the most jiart alone, walking on the heath at Weybridge in dewy autumn mornings, a good deal pleased with what I had done, and more appalled than I can depict to you in words at what remained for me to do. I was thirty-one ; I was the head of a family ; I had lost my health ; I had never yet paid my way, had never yet made two hundreds pounds a year ; my father had quite recently bought back and cancelled a book that was judged a failure ; was this to be another and last fiasco ? I was indeed very close on despair ; but I shut my mouth hard, and during the journey to Davos, where I was to pass the winter, had the resolution to think of other things, and bury myself in the novels of M. du Boisgobey. Arrived at my destination, down I sat one morning to the unfinished tale, and behold ! it flowed from me like small talk ; and in a second tide of delighted industry, and again at the rate of a chapter MY FIRST BOOK- TREASURE ISLAiYD: 119 a day, I finished " Treasure Island." It had to be transacted almost secretl}'. My wife was ill, the schoolboy remained alone of the faithful, and John Addington Symonds (to whom I timidly mentioned what I was engaged on) looked at me askance. He was at that time very eager I should write on the " Characters " of Theophrastus, so far out may be the judgments of the wisest men. But Symonds (to be sure) was scarce the confidant to go to for sympathy in a boy's story. He was large-minded ; " a full man," if there ever was one ; but the very name of my enterprise would suggest to him only capitulations of sincerity and solecisms of style. Well, he was not far wrong. "Treasure Island" — it was Mr. Hender- son who deleted the first title, " The Sea Cook" — appeared duly in the story paper, where it figured in the ignoble midst without woodcuts, and attracted not the least atten- tion. I did not care. I liked the tale my- self, for much the same reason as my father liked the beginning; it was my kind of pict- uresque. I was not a little proud of John Silver also, and to this day rather admire that smooth and formidable adventurer. What was infinitely more exhilarating, I had passed a landmark ; I had finished a tale, and written " The End " upon my manuscript, as I had not done since the •' Pentland Rising," when I was a boy of sixteen, not yet at college. In truth it was so by a set of luck)^ accidents : had not Dr. Jaap come on his visit, had not the tale flowed from me with singular ease, it must have been laid aside like its predecessors, and found a circuitous and unlamented way to the fire. Purists may suggest it would have been better so. I am not of that mind. The tale seems to have given much pleasure, and it brought (or was the means of bringing) fire and food and wine to a deserving family in which I took an interest. I need scarce say I mean my own. Put the adventures of " Treasure Island " are not yet quite at an end. I had written it up to the map. The map was the chief part of my plot. For instance, I had called an islet "Skeleton Island," not knowing what I meant, seeking only for the imme- diate picturesque ; and it was to justify this name that I broke into the gallery of Mr. Poe and stole Flint's pointer. And in the same way, it was because I had made two harbors that the " Hispaniola " was sent on her wanderings with Israel Hands. The time came when it was decided to repub- lish, and I sent in my manuscript and the map along with it to Messrs. Cassell. The proofs came, they were corrected, but I heard nothing of the map. I wrote and asked ; was told it had never been received, and sat aghast. It is one thing to draw a map at random, set a scale in one corner of it at a venture, and write up a story to the measurements. It is quite another to have to examine a whole book, make an .MOULIN, .ANOTHER VILLAGE NEAR THE STEVENSON COTTAGE. THIS VIEW IS FROM THE SOLTH. HUMAN DOCUMENTS. inventor)' of all the allusions contained in it, and with a pair of compasses painfull)' design a map to suit the data. I did it, and the map was drawn a<;ain in my father's otfice, with embellishments of blow- ing' whales and sailing ships ; and my father himself brought into service a knack he had of various writing, and elaborately fort^fJ the signature of Captain l \''^i'(^I;'w/, U. W. HULMES S LilKTM-rLACE AT L ,\ M lU^I D Gli, IM ASSACH USETTS, EKECTElJ IN 1725. Frodi a phutui^rapli by Wilfrid A, Frcncli. to bring- him ni}- paper lo read. W'iiat I was trying to do, was to sliow that the great idealist was always in touch with his time, and eager to know what, at tlie mo- ment, were the real lacts of American life. /. I remember where Emerson stopped me on State Street once, to cross-question ^*^^^ % CAKDEN DOOU OF THE CAM llE^l LiGE IIUUSE, me about some tletails of Irish emigra- tion. Hoi Dies. Yes, he was eager for all prac- tical information. I used to meet him very often on Saturda}- evenings at the Saturday Club ; and I can sec him now, as he bent forwartl eagerly at the table, if any one were making an interesting observation, with his face like a hawk as he took in what was said. Vou felt how the hawk would be Hying overheatl and looking down on your thought at the next minute. I re- member that I once spoke of "the three great prefaces," and (]uick as light Emer- son said, " \\'liat arc the three great pref- aces?" and I liail to tell him. /. I am sure J do not kiu)W what they arc. What arc llic\' ? Jlolfiu-s. They arc Cahin's to his " Insli- tulcs," 'I'huanus's to his histor)', and I'oly- bins's to his. /. .\ntl I lun'e never read one of them ! Jloliiics. .\ntl I had then never read but one of them. It was a mere piece of en- cyclopLcdia leai'ning of mine. /. What I sliall try to do in my address is to show that Emerson would not have touched all sorts of people as he diil, but for this matter-of-fact interest in his daily surroundings — if he hatl not gone to town- meetings, for instance. Was it you or Lowell who called him the Yankee Plato ? Holmes. Not I. It was probably Lowell, in the " Fable for Critics." I called him AN AFTERNOON WITH OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 129 "a winged Franklin," and I stand by tliat. boolvs ; " and he cited a bright lady from Matthew Arnold quoted that afterwards, Philadelphia, whom he had met the day and I was glad I had said it. /. I do not remember where you said it. How was it ? Dr. Holmes at once rose, went to the turning book-stand, and took down volume three of his own poems, and read me with great spirit the passage. I do not know how I had forgotten it. " Where in the realm of thought, whose air is song, Does he, the liuddha of the West, belong ? He seems a winged Franklin, sweetly wise, Born to unlock the secrets of the skies ; And which the nobler calling-, — if 'tis fair Terrestrial with celestial to compare, — To guide the storm-cloud's elemental flame. Or walk the chambers whence the lightning came, Amidst the sources of its subtile fire. And steal their effluence for his lips and Ij-re ?" before, who had said that she thought men of genius did not rely much upon their reading, and had complimented him by asking if he did so. Holmes said : "I told her — I had to tell her — that in reading my mind is always active. I do not follow the author steadily or implicitly, but my thought runs off to right and left. It runs off in every direction, and I find I am not so much taking his book as I am thinking my own thoughts upon his sub- ject." /. I want to thank you for your contrast between Emerson and Carlyle : " The hatred of unreality was uppermost in Car- lyle ; the love of what is real and genuine, with Emerson." Is it not perhaps possible that Carlyle would not have been Carlyle Here he said, with great fun, " One great but for Emerson? Emerson found him good of writing poetry is to furnish you discouraged, and as with your own quo- tations." And after- wards, when I had made him read to me some other verses from his own poems, he said, " Oh, yes, as a reservoir of the best quotations in the language, there is nothing like a book of 3'our own poeins." I said that there was no greater non- sense than the talk of Emerson's time, that he introduced German philosophy here, and I asked Holmesif he thought that Emerson had borrowed anything in the philosophical line from the Ger- man. He agreed with me that his philoso- phy was thoroughly home-bred, and wrought out in the experience of his own home-life. He said that he was dis- him up and helped him through : posed to believe that that would be true THE HOUSE IN RUE MONSIEUR LE PRINCE WHERE DR. HOLMES LIVED FOR TWO YEARS WHEN STUDYING MEDICINE IN PARIS. he supposed alone, and at the very be- ginning led him out of his darkest places. I think it was on this that Dr. Holmes spoke with a good deal of feeling about the value of appreci- ation. He was ready to go back to tell of the pleasure he had received from per- sons who had written to him, even though he did not know them, to sav of how much use some par- ticular line of his had been. Among others he said that Lothrop Motley had told him that, when he was all worn out in his work in a coun- try where he had not many friends, and among stupid old manuscript ar- chives, two lines of Holmes's braced of Emerson which he knew was true of himself. He knew Emerson went over a great many books, but he did not really believe that he often really read a book " Stick to your aim ; the mongrel's hold will slip, But only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip." He was very funny about flattery. " That through. I remember one of his phrases is the trouble of having so many friends, was, that he thought that Emerson "tasted everybody flatters you. I do not mean to HUMAX DOCUMEXTS. let them luirt me if I can help it, and llat- antl jioetical composition which come from tery is not necessarily untrue. Hut \ou being in the o|ien air and li\-ing in the have to be (.ui \'our guard when everv- country. He wrote, at the request of the body is as kind to you as everybody is to neighborhood, his poem of "'['lie I'lougli- man," to be reiid at a cattle-sliow me. He said, in passing, that l^merson once quoted two lines c t his, aiul quoted them horriblv. The\ iie from the poem c died " The Steamboat "The heating of her re t less heart, Still sounding thr u^h the storm." quoted Emerson them thus : " The pulses of I er iron Iieart Go beating throL t,h the storm."' I was curious to know about r>r. Holmes's ex- perienceof coun- try life, he knows all nature's pro- cesses so «-ell. So he told me how it happened that he went to Pittsfield. It seems that, a centurv and a half ago, his ancestor, Jacob ^^'endell, had a royal grant for the whole township there, with some small exception, perhaps. The place was at first called Pontoosoc, then W'endelltown, and onl)- afterward got the name of I'ittsfield froni 'William Pitt. One part of the \Vendell property descended to Dr. Holmes's mother. When he had once seen it he was struck with its beauty and fitness for a country home, and ask'ed her that he might have it for his own. It was there that he built a house in which he lived for eight or nine years. He said that the Housatonic winds backwards and forwards through it, so that t(j go from one end of his estate to the other in a straight line re- quired the crossing it seven times. Here his children grew uj), and he and they were enlivened anew every year by long summer days there. He was most interesting and animated as he spoke of the vigor of life and work ^^^^^^^m^^s^s^mcmms^mr-rr. o. \v. Holmes's resuience in iie.\con sti man, in i'i t t s fi eld. " .\ n d when 1 came to reail it a f t e r w a r d s I sail), ' Here it is ! Here is open air life, here is what breatiiing the mountain air antl I i V i n g in I h e midst of natin'c does for a man ! ' And I want to read you now a piece of t li a t poem, because it contain eti a prophec)-." .\iul w h i I e he w a s looking for the verses, he said, in the \-cin of the .Autocrat, " No- body knows but a man's self how m a n y go u d things he has done." So \\-e f(Uiiul the lirst vohnue ol the poems, a n d t h e re is "The riough- written, obser\-e, as earh' as 1849. ' (^ gracious Mother, \\-hose benignanl breast Wakes us Id life, and hdls lis all to rest, I low thy sweet featiues, kind to c-vrry elinie, Moek with Iheir smile the wviidded front of lime ! We stain Ihy llowers, — they blossom o'er the ilead ; We rend thy b "^^''lo remember, can tell you, every-clay people did not much think that Faction was going to unbind her bandogs and set the country at war ; and it was only a prophet-poet who saw that there was a chance that men might forge their ploughshares into swords again. But you see from the poem that Holmes was such a prophet-poet, and now, fortv-four years after, it was a pleasure to hear him read these lines. I asked him of his reminiscences of Emerson's famous Phi Beta Kappa oration at Cambridge, which he has described, as so many others have, as the era of inde- pendence in American literature. We both talked of the day, which we remembered, and of the Phi Beta dinner which followed it, when Mr. Everett presided, and bore touching tribute to Charles Emerson, who had just died. Holmes said: "You can- not make the people of this generation understand the effect of Everett's oratory. I have never felt the fascination of speech as I did in hearing him. Did it ever oc- cur to you, — did I say to you the other day. — that when a man has such a voice as he had, our slight nasal resonance is an ad- vantage and not a disadvantage .' " I was fresher than he from his own book on Emerson, and remembered that he had said there somewhat the same thing. His A CORNER IN DR. HOLMES S STUDY. 13- HUMAN nOCl'MI'.N TS. words arc: "It is willi (lclit;lil thai cmc appraicd, iiis lircillic)-. Mr. Jnliii lliilnies Avliii rciiu'inlicrs lOvcictl in his lohrs nf has in il cImiscii I u piil ilish t lu' bri;;lil things rhcliirical splciiiloi- ; wlui recalls his full- which he has niMliJiii)! cd ly wriUcii, lull in all hli iwn, hiL;h-ci 'hired, doulilc-lh iwcrcd peri ei relcs where he la\'i us pciipic with ills p res- ells ; llu' rieh, rcsnnanl, L;ravc, lar-i I'aehiiiL; laa e he is knuwn as cni' id the nicisl a^i'cc- iniisie (d his speech, willi just eiKjnj^h (it aldc(d iiieii. h'.vciylii id\' is ;.da(l I o set him nasal xiliraliim 1 1 > L;i \'e I he \iical sonndini,;- on I he lines ul rennniseenecs. The two l)(iai"d il s 1 1 roper \'al nc in I he ha inn mies (d' liia j| hers, with ereal ^ood hnnior, hcj^an tcll- utlerancc, — il iswilh deli^hl llial such a inj^ i>l a dinner pari v « hieh I Ir. I I (ilnies had oiu' recalls I he i,;h)\\inL;' words ol hancrson eivcai walhin a lew da\s lo a niindicr of whenc\'er he relers lo h.dward h',\'(acll. Il t;ciil leini'ii whose averaee a;^es, aci'ordiiijf is enough il he hinis(d I can;; hi eiil hnsiasni I (] I hem, cxeccded eij^h I \'. ( Mie has I o make from Ihose idoipnail lips. Ihil inaiM' a allowanei' lor ihe cxaj^eiaal ion of Iheir listeiuM' has liad Ins yoiilhfid eiillnisiasm tun, lull I lliink, Innii Ihe lai'ls \vhich they fired l)\' Ihal ^rr'al inasl(M' of aeademie dropped, Ihal Ihe a\'craL;e miisl ha\'c liccn •oratory." I knew, uduai I read Ihis, Ihal mamlained. < )ne won Id ha \e j^i ven a >;o(jd ] lolmes la'ferred lo Innisidf as I he " yoiil h- A^ ^.'^' V •t-^ ' W""' •'■•''.Ui'iv^ %Mh. \ wiii /i^t^3:l- !li:p?i?^?^^ '•■n».5 (.'■'■ 'Kil i,'>. , y^ iv^^h. '--^ y lioHoTiiY (,' ;■. in .M'. IN (.i1./njr.V, MAS.'.AI Mtl!-,|(,-| I ', * Alsf> ( ;illcfl Hie I'clcr I'.nilcr Immihc.-, Scw.ill in liin diary s|)cakH ot il as Mr. iJuincy's new Ikmisc f tr.H.>-Hs;. There Df)rnthv w;is li'irn and married, AJV AFTERNOON WITH OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 133 DR. O. \V. HOLMES DELIVERING HIS FAREWELL ADDRESS AS PARKIMAN PROFESSOR OF ANATOMY IN THE MEDICAL SCHOOL OF HAR\ARD LNU'ERSITI', NOVEIMBER 2S, 18S2. From a proof print in the possession of Dr. James R. Cfiadwick. iiig about when they speak lightly of it. Did you ever think how much is gained by making the first verse begin with the sin- gular number? Not oiu- country, but ''My country,' '/ sing of thee'? There is not an American citizen but can make it his own, and does make it his own, as he sings it. And it rises to a Psalm-like grandeur at the end. It is a magnificent hold to have upon fame to have sixty million people sing the verses that you have written." John Holmes said : " How good 'templed hills' is, and that is not alone in the poem." Both John Holmes and I pleaded to be permitted to come to the class dinner, but Dr. Holmes was very funny. He pooh-poohed us both ; we were only children, and we were not to be pres- ent at so rare a solemnity. For me, I already felt that I had been wicked in wasting so much of his time. But he has the gift of making you think that you are the only person in the world, and that he is only living for your pleasure. Still I knew, as a matter of fact, that this was not so, and very unwillingly I took my- self away. As I walked home I meditated on the fate of a first-rate book in our time. Holmes had expressed unaffected surprise that I spoke with the gratitude which I felt about his "Life of Emerson." The book must have cost him the hard work of a year. It is as remarkable a study as one poet ever made of another. Yet I think he said to me that no one had seemed to understand the care and effort which he had given to it. Here is the position in the United States now about the criticism of such work. At about the time that the " North American Review " ceased to review books, there came, as if by general consent, an end to all elaborate criticism of new books here. I think myself that this is a thing very much to be regretted. In old times, who- ever wrote a good book was tolerably sure that at least one competent person would study it and write down what he thought 134 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. O. W. HOI.MKS AND E. E. 11 A I.E . I'rom a pbi>to,L,"r:ipli taken in Dr. Holmes's study, May about it ; and, from at least one point of view, an author had a prospect of knowing how his book struck other people. Now we have nothing but the hasty sketches, sometimes very good, which are written for the daily or weekly press. So it happens that I, for one, have never seen an)' fit recognition of tlie gift which Dr. Holmes made to our time and to the next generation when he niatle his study of Emerson's life for tlie " American Men of Letters " series. .Apparently he bad not. Just think of it ! Here is a poet, the head of oin" " Academy," so far as there is any such Academy, who is willing to devule a )'ear of his life to telling you and me what Emerson was, from his own personal recol- lections of a near friend, whom he met as often as once a week, and talked with per- haps for hours at a time, and with wIkiiii he talked on literarv and philoso]ihica1 subjects. More than this, this poet has been willing to go through Emerson's books again, to re-read tiiem as he had originally read them when they came out, and to make for you and me a careful analysis of all these books. He is one of five people in the countrv who are com- petent to tell what effect these books pro- duced on the country as they appeared from time to time. And, being competent, he takes the time to tell us this thing. That is a sort of good fortune which, so far as I remember, has happened to nobody excepting Emerson. AVhen John Milton died, there was nobody left who could have done such a thing ; certainly nobody (lid do it, or trieil to tlo it. I must say, I think it is rather Jiard that, when such a gift as that has been given to the people of any country, that people, while boasting of its seventy millions of numbers and its thousands of billions of acres, should not have one critical journal of which it is the business to say at length, and in detail, whether Dr. Holmes has dtuie his duty well by the prophet, or whether, indeed, he has done it at all. A\'hen we left Dr. Holmes, he and his household were looking forward to the an- nual escape to iieverly. Somebody once wrote him a letter dated from"Manchester- by-the-Sea," and Holmes wrote his reply under the date " Heverly-by-the-Depot." AN AFTERNOON WITH OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 135 And here let me stop to tell one of those jokes for which the English language and Dr. Holmes were made. A few years ago, in a fit of economy, our famous Mas- sachusetts Historical Society screwed up its library and other offices by some fifteen feet, built in the space underneath, and rented it to the city of Boston. This was all very well for the treasurer ; but for those of us who had passed sixty years, and had to climb up some twenty more iron stairs whenever we wanted to look at an old pamphlet in the library, it was not so great a benefaction. When Holmes went up, for the first time, to see the new quarters of the Society, he left his card with the words, " O. W. Holmes. High- story-call Society." We understood then why the councils of the Society had been ■over-ruled by the powers which manage this world, to take this flight towards heaven. I ought to have given a hint above of his connection and mine with the society of " People who Think we are Going to Know More about Some Things By and By." This society was really formed by my mother, who for some time, I think, was the only member. But one day Dr. Holmes and I met in the "Old Corner Bookstore," when the " corner " had been moved to the corner of Hamilton Place, and he was telling me one of the extraor- dinary coincidences which he collects with such zeal. I ventured to trump his story with another ; and, in the language of the ungodly, I thought 1 went one better than he. This led to a talk about coincidences, and I said that my mother had long since said that she meant to have a society of the people who believed that some time we should know more about such curious coincidences. Dr. Holmes was delighted with the idea, and we "organized" the so- ciety then and there ; he was to be presi- dent, I was to be secretary, and my mother was to be treasurer. There were to be no other members, no entrance fees, no con- stitution, and no assessments. We seldom meet now that we do not authorize a meet- ing of this society and challenge each other to produce the remarkable coinci- dences which have passed since we met before. There is an awful story of his about the last time a glove was thrown down in an English court-room. It is a story in which Holmes is all mixed up with a marvellous series of impossibilities, such as would make Mr. Clemens's hair grow gray, and add a new chapter to his studies of telep- athy. I will not enter on it now, with the detail of the book that fell from the ninth shelf of a book-case, and opened at the exact passage where the challenge story was to be described. As for the story of his hearing Dr. Phinney at Rome, and the other story of Mr. Emerson's hearing Dr. Phinney at Rome, I never tell that excepting to confi- dential friends who know that I cannot tell a lie. For if I tell it to anjr one else, he looks at me with a cjuizzical air, as much as to say, "This is as bad as the story of the ' Man Without a Country ; ' and I do not know how much to believe, and how much to disbelieve." V (r'l. O. W. HOLMES S SUMMER RESIDENCE AT BEVERLY FARMS. PORTRAITS OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES was the son of a clergyman, eminent in his day, and the author of a book well known to students of American history, "Annals of America." He was born m Cambridge, 2^Iassachusetts, August 29, 1S09. the third in a family of five children. He prepared for college at Phillips Andover Academy, and graduated fri.im Harvard in 1S29. He tlien began the study of the law, but later turned to medicine, and passed three vears ni study in Europe — chiefl)- in Paris. He received his degree in 1836. In iSj9 he became professor of anatomy and physiology at Dartmouth College. He resigned the position after a year or two, and took up the practice of his profession in Boston. In 1S47 !'£ be- came professor of anatomy and physiolog)' at Harvard ; and in this office he served continuously until near the close of 1SS2, when he discontinued his lectures and in- structions on account of his age. Thence- forward until his death, October 7, 1894, he led a life of comparative leisure and re- tirement. Such in outline was Dr. Holmes's career. The literarv employments which are the source of his fame were in the main diver- sions. The business of his life was the teaching and practice of medicine. Yet he began to write as a school-boy, and con- tinued with unabated vigor almost to the very last of his days. As a student at Harvard he contributed to the college peri- odicals, and delivered a poem at commence- ment ; and the year after his graduation, when he was but twenty-one years old, he wrote the famous poem " Old Ironsides," which helped to save the frigate " Consti- tution " from irreverent destruction. One of six frigates which Congress had ordered constructed in 1794, the "Constitution" had played a brilliant part, as Commodore Preble's flagship, in the war against Trip- oli, between 1801 and 1805. Then, uniler Captain Isaac Hull, she had fought the first naval battle of the war of i8t2, cap- turing the British frigate " Guerriere," and had followed this with other notable vic- tories over the British. So when, in 1S30, It was thiftily proposed to break her up, because no longer fit for service, Holmes, to adopt his own phrase on the matter, " mocked the spoilers with his school-boy scorn." Not alone as a schooi-boy, though, was he outspoken against the spoilers. His muse never grew too mature or dignified to speak a warm, strong word for any good human cause. Holmes's great literary opportunity and inspiration came in 1S57, when the " Atlan- tic Monthly " was founded. He provided the name for the new magazine, shared in the preUminary conferences, and by his contributions did more than any one else to secure it immediate popularity. Lowell accepted the editorship — with some mis- givings, as it should seem, for he said, " I will take the place, as you all seem to think I should : but, if success is achieved, we shall owe it mainly to the doctor " (mean- ing Holmes). The opulent fulfihiient of this expecta- tion was " The Autocrat of the Breakfast- Table." In beginning his famous talks, the "Autocrat," it will be remembered, re- marks: "I was just going to say, when I was interrupted ;" and in " The .Autocrat's autobiographv," which prefaces the volume, it is explained that the interruption referred to was "just a quarter of a century in dura- tion." Two articles entitled " The Auto- crat of the Breakfast-Table " had been pub- lished, one in November, 1S31, and one in February, 1832, in the " New England Magazine " of that da)- ; and twentv-five years later, when asked to contribute to the "Atlantic," "the recollection," Dr. Holmes says, "of these crude products of his un- combed literary boyhood suggested the thought that it would be a curious experi- ment to shake the same bough again, and see if the ripe fruit were better or worse than the early windfalls," The experiment proved so acceptable that Dr, Holmes recurred to the "Auto- cratic " form again and again. " The Professor at the Breakfast-Table " followed the " Autocrat ; " then, though many years later, " The Poet at the Breakfast-Table ; " and finally, three years before the author's death, came to complete the series, " Over the Teacups." But in addition to these Dr. Holmes produced several books of poems, three novels (" Elsie Venner," 1861 ; "The Guardian Angel," 1868; and "A Mortal Antipathy," 1885), several biogra- phies, and numerous medical works and papers — a large list for a man with whom writing was never the main business of his life. PORTRAITS OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 137 ALL FROM DAGUERKEOTVPES-THE TWO LAST ON'ES. BETWEEN 1S45 AND 1S55, THE FIRST IS THE EARLIEST PICTl'RE OF DOCrOK HOI MES. ANP HE IS INAPLE TO PLACE A DATE UPON IT. 138 //(-MAX DOCUMENTS. MA1';LH, 1809. AGE Do. AUGLIST, 1874. AGE 65. ABOUT 1882. AGE 73. NOVEMDliN, l8qi. AGE 82. PORTRAITS OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. ^2,9 HOW ELLS AND BOVESEN. A CONVERSATION DKTWEKN W. D. HOWELLS AND PKOKESSOK II. II. BOVE.SEN. KKI-dKIIEl) r.Y rRciFKSSOK P.OVKSKN. WHEN I was requested to furnish a dramatic biograpliv o( JNIr. How- ells, I was confronted with what seemed an insuperable difhcultv. The more 1 thought of William Dean Howells, the less dramatic did he seem to me. 'I'he only way that occurred to me of introduc- ing a dramatic element into our proposctl interview was for me to assault him with tongue or pen, in the ho|)e that he might take energetic measures to resent m\- in- trusion ; but as, notwithstanding his unva- rying kindness to me, and many unforgot- ten benefits, I cherished only the frieiidhest feelings for him, I coukl not persuade my- self to procure tlramatic interest at such a price. My second objection, I am bound tocon- fess, arose from my own sense of dignity, which rebelled against the role oi an inter- viewer, and it was not until mv conscience was made easy on this point tJiat I agreed to undertake the jjresent article. I was reminded that it was an ancient and highlv dignified form of literature I was about lu revive; and that my precedent was to he sought not in the modern newspaper inler- view, but in the I'latonic dialogue. V<\ the friction of two kindreil minds, sparks of thought ma\- Hash forth which owe their (U'igin solel\- to the friendly collision. We ha\-e a tar more \i\-iil ]iortralt of Socrates in the beautiful con\-ci-sal ional tui'us of "The S\'mposium " and the fu'st book of "'I'he Re|)nblic" than in the pureb' ob- jective account of Xoiiophon in his " Me- morabiha." .And Howells, though he may not know it, has this trait in common with Socrates, that he can poi'trav himself, un- consciously, better than 1 (U" anybody else could ilo it for him. If I needed any further encouragemeut, I found it in the assurance that what I was expected to furnish was to be in tlie nature ol "an e.xchange of confidences between two fiientls with a view to publication." It HOWELLS AND BOYESEN. 141 was understood, of course, that Mr. How- ells was to be more confiding than m3'self, and that his reminiscences were to pre- dominate ; for an author, however unhe- roic he may appear to his own modesty, is bound to be the hero of his biography. What made the subject so alluring to me, apart from the personal charm which in- heres in the man and all that appertains to him, was the consciousness that our friendship was of twenty-two years' stand- ing, and that during all that time not a single jarring note had been introduced to mar the harmony of our relation. Equipped, accordingly, with a good con- science and a lead pencil (which remained undisturbed in my breast-pocket), I set out to " exchange confidences " with the author of "Silas Lapham " and "A Modern In- stance." I reached the enormous human hive on Fifty-ninth Street where my sub- ject, for the present, occupies a dozen most comfortable and ornamental cells, and was promptly iioisted up to the fourth floor know. I am aware, for instance, that you were born at Martin's Ferry, Ohio, March II, 1S37 ; that you removed thence to Day- ton, and a few years later to Jefferson,. Ashtabula County ; that your father edited,, published, and printed a country newspa- per of Republican complexion, and that you spent a good part of your early years in the printing office. Nevertheless, I have some difficulty in realizing the environ- ment of your boyhood." Howdh. If }'ou have read my " Boy's Town," which is in all essentials autobio- graphical, you know as much as I could tell you. The environment of my early life was exacth' as there described. Boycsen. Your father, I should judge, then, was not a strict disciplinarian ? Howclh. X(j. He was the gentlest of men — a friend and companion to his sons. He guided us in an unobtrusive way with- out our suspecting it. He was continuall}' putting books into my hands, and they were always good books ; many of them PKUFESbOR B ^ESEN IN HI STL L \ A I CJL IVl L C LI HUE and deposited in front of his door. It is a house full of electric wires and tubes — literally honeycombed with modern con- veniences. But in spite of all these, I made my way triumphantly to Mr. Howells's became events in niv life. I had no end of den, and after a proper prelude began the such literary passions during my boyliood. novel task assigned to me. Among the first was Goldsmith, then " I am afraid," I remarked quite en pas- came Cervantes and Irving. sant, " that I shall be embarrassed not by my ignorance, but by my knowledge con- cerning your life. For it is difficult to ask with good grace about what you already Boycsen. Then there was a good deal of literary atmosphere about ^-our child- hood ? BIowclls. Yes. I can scarcely remem- 1.4- JIUMAN nOL ' UAfF.N TS. hv\' llio lime wlii'ii books diil not play a lion olsocirlN' in ( 'oliinibiis (liiriiis;' tliose great part in in\' lili'. l^'atlier was, li\- liis ila\s? culture and his iiilcresis, lallier isolated llotcuils. There wiTe man)' delightful from the comnundtN' in whieh we li\ed, and iidli\aled people there, and soeiuty and this made hnn and all of us rejoiee w.is eharnnng ; ihe Norlh and South were the more in a new anlhor, in whose world holh represenled, and iheir eharaelerisi ii's we would li\'e for weeks and monlhs, and uniled in a kind ol inlormal Western lios- who colored t)ur tlioughts and coux'ersa- pitalil \', warm and cordial ni its tone, which tion. ga\'e id' its \'ei"\ best without stint. Sal- Boycscii. It has alwavs been a mailer mon I'. ( 'hase, later Secrt'tary ol Ihed'reas- of wonder to me that, with so hit le regular in-\, and ('hid jnstiee ol the Ibhled schooling, \-ou sle|)pcd f u I l-tlcdL;cd into States, was then i;o\-crnor ol ()hio. 11^ literatni'e with such an exipiisite and had a charming I a uu I \', and made ns \ dung wholly intli\dtlual st\de. editors welcome ai his house. All winter Howcl/s. If you accuse me of that kind long there was a rouiul ol parties a! the (d" thing, 1 must lea\'e \ou to account fm' dillci'cnt lionso ; the houses wcie lai-gc it. I had alwa\sa passi(ui for literature, and w c alwa\'s danced. d'hese parlies and to a bo\- with a mind and a desiic to were brilliant ahairs, soiialU', but besides, learn, a piiuting ollice is not a bad sehocd. wi' \dung |)cople had many infornial Boycscn. ibiw old were \'on when \-ou ga\eiics. d'lie < )ld Starling ,Mc(hcal ('ol- left lelltu'sou and went lo Colnndms? Icgt', whiih was dclnnct as an educational Ilowrlls. I was nineteen \ears old when institution, (.■\ce|)t l(U' some \ i \ i-^ect imi I went tt) the ca|)ltal and wnaile legislati\c and cxperimenis on hapless cats and dogs rejiorts for ('incinnali and ( 'lexcland that wiuil on in souu-onUof lhe-wa\' cni'- papers ; afterwards I becauie one of the ncrs, was used as a boardingdionse ; aud editoi's of the " ( )liio State b"ii'iial." .My there was a large iii'cular I'oom in which duties graduallv look a wide range, and I we often improviscii dances. We \'oinig edited the lilerar\- t-olnmu and wrote many fellows who lodged \n the place were li.ilf of the leading articles. I was then ill the mitlst of in\' enthusiasm for Heine, and was so impregnated with his spirit that a poem whicii I sent to the " yVtlantie Monthly " was mistaken bv Mr. Lowell for a translation from the ('.eriiiaii poet. When he had satisfied himsell, however, that it was not a transla- tion, he acce|)ted and printed it. Boyesen. 'Tell me how \'ou hap- pened lo ]iublish N'oiir lirsi volume, " J'oems b\' d'wo I'rii'uds," in pai't- nership wutii b)h)i |. I'iat t. Hoivells. I had knowai I'iall as a young printer ; afterwards when lie be.gan to write poems, I read I hem and was delighted with them. When he came to ( 'obi III bus I made his acipiaintance, and we became friends. I!\' this t iim; we were bot h colli ribiilors to t he " .\ I lant ic MontliK'." [ ma\' as well tell \'o;i that his C(uil ribnlions to onr joinl volume were far superior lo mine. Boyesen. l)id l.owi'll share that opinion ? Howells. d'iiat I don't know, lie wrote nie a \er\' charuhiig letter, in whicli he said uian\' encimra.ging things, and he briell\' reviewed the bo(d< in the "At lant le." BoVeSl'll. What was the comb- '■!"■ ih>wjti.s .m mm. imi. m. wmnK,, "ankh. kii.iiiiUN," iK:-i7. ■1 ! Jt \ '^^0:^ 1 I*-:, Bii\T^^ ' 1 HQil '^ ^ i wMUfkJ^^ 'S .■ ■■fiHiWll L. m '1^ '^- HOW ELLS AMD BOYESEN. 143 a dozen journalists, lawyers, and law students ; one was, Hke my- self, a writer for the "Atlantic," and we saw life with joyous eyes. We read the new books, and talked them over with the young ladies whuni we seem to have been al- ways calling;' upon. I remember those vears in Columbus as among the happiest years of my life. Boycscn. From Columbus you went as consul to Venice, did not you ? LLmvclls. Yes. You remember — I had written a campaign " I^ife of Lincoln." I was, like my father, an ardent anti-slavery man. I went mvself to Washington soon after Pres- ident Lnicoln's inauguration. I was first offered tlie consulate ti) Rome ; but as it depended entireh' upon perquisites, wdiich amounted onlv to three or tour hundred dollars a vear, I declined it, and they gave me A'enice. Tlie salary was raised to fif- thk bietih^l.uk mi- w. u. h,hvk).i.!. ai- maktin's fekkv, teen hundred dollars, which seemed to me ""i". quite beyond the dreams of avarice. Bovesen. L>o not you regard that friend of yours, named llrunetta, whom I Venetian expei'ience as a verv valuable failed to find. one? ILowcUs. Oh, of course. In the first place, it gave me four years of almost un- interrupted leisLU'e for study and literary work. There was, to be sure, occasionally Lfowells. Yes, Brunetta was the first friend 1 had in A'enice. He was a dis- tinctly Latin character — sober, well regu- lated, and probity itself. Bovesen. Do you call that the Latin an invoice to be verified, but that did not character? take much time. Secondly, it gave me a LLowells. It is not our conventional idea wider outlook upon the world than I had of it ; but it is fully as characteristic, if hitherto had. ^Vith(nlt much study of a not more so, than the light, mercurial, systematic kind, I had acquired a notion pleasure-loving type which somehow in of English, French, Cerman, and Spanish, literature has displaced the other. Bru- literature. I hatl lieen an eager and con- netta and 1 promptly made the discovery stant reader, alwavs guided in \\\\ choice that we were congenial. Then we became of books by mv own inclination. I liad daily companions. I had a number of learned German. Now, my first task was other Italian friends too, full of beautiful to learn Italian ; and one of my early bonhomie and Southern sweetness of tem- teachers was a A'enetian priest, whom I perament. read Dante with. This priest in certain Bovesen. You must have ac(inired Italian ways suggested Don Ippolito in " A Fore- gone Conclusion." Bovesen. Then he took snuff, and liad a supernumerarv calico handkerchief ? LLowells. Yes. But what interested me in a verv short time ? LLowells. Yes; being domesticated in that wav in the verv heart of that Italv which was then Ltalia irrlJente, I could not help ;teeping m\'self in its atnios|ihere and most about him was his religious skepti- breathing in the language, with the rest of cism. He used to sa\", '' The saints ai"e the its verv composite flavors. gods baptized." Then he was a kind of Bovesen. Ves ; and whatever I know of baffled inventor ; though whether his in- Italian literature I owe largely to the com- ventions had the least merit I was unable pleteness of that soaking process of yours. to determine. Your book on the Italian poets is one of Bovesen. But his love story ? the most charmingly sympathetic and il- LLowells. That was wholly fictitious. luniinative bits of criticism that I know. Bovesen. I remember you gave me, in LLowells. I am glad you think so ; but 1S74, a letter of introduction to a \^enetian the book was never a popular success. Of 144 HUM A N DOC UMEN TS. all the Italian authors, the one I ilelighteii in the most was (loUloni. His exquisite realism fascinated me. It was the sort of thing which I felt I ought not to like ; but for all that I liked it immensely. Bovcsen. How do you mean that you ought not to like it ? Hmvi'lh. Why, I was an idealist in those days. I was onh' twent\"-fi)ur or twentv-fiye years old, and 1 knew the world chiefly througii literature. I \\'as all the time trying to see things as others had seen them, and I had a notion that, in literature, persons and things should be nobler and better than they are in the sor- did realitv : and this romantic glamour veiled the world to me, and kept me from seeing things as the\' are. But in the lanes and alleys of ^'enice I found iJoldoni everywhere. Scenes from his plays were enacted before m\- eyes, with all the charm- ing Southern vividness of speech and ges- ture, and I seemed at every turn to haye stepped unawares into one of his come- dies. I belie\'e this was the beginning of my revolt. But it was a good while yet before I ft)Uiul ni\- own beariiiLrs. THE GIL'STIKI.A.N'I P.\LACE, IIUVVELrs S HOME IN VENICE. Bovcsfii. But permit me to say that it was an e.Kquisitel\' delicate set of fresh Western senses you brought with you to Venice. When I was in \'enice in 1S78, I could not get away from you, however much I tried. I saw )our old Venetian senator, in his august rags, roasting cof- fee ; and I promenadetl about for days in the cha|)ters of your '' \'enetian Life," like the Knight Hiddbrand in tiie Enchanted Forest in " Undine," and I could not find m\- way out. (")f course, I know that, being what vmi were, _\'(iu could not have helped writing that book, but what was the immediate cause of your widting it? Hoivclls. From the ^\^A\ I arrix'ed in \'en. ice I kept a juurnal in which I notetl down \w\ impressions. I found a young pleasure in registering m\' sensations at the sight of notable things, and literary reminiscences usualh' shimmered thi-ough my observa- tions. 'I'hen 1 recci\cd an offer from the " Boston Daily Advertisei" " to write week- l\- or bi-weekl\- letters, tor which thev paitl me five dollars, In greenbacks, a colinnn, non|iareil. By the time this sum reached A'enice, shaven and shorn by discounts for exchange in gold premium, it had usually shrunk to half its size or less. Still I was glad enough to get even that, ULid I ke|it on writing joyously. So the book grew in my hands until, at the time I resigned, in 1865, I was trying to have it published. I offered it successively to a number of Eng- lish publishers ; but they all declined it. At last Mr. 'I'riibner agreed to take it, if I could guarantee the sale of five hundred copies in the United States, or induce an American publisher to buy that number of copies in sheets. 1 happenetl to cross the ocean with .Mr. Hurd of the New York lirni of Hiu'd & HouglU(ui, and repeated Mr. 'I'riibncr's pi-o|)osilion to hnn. He refused to connnit himself ; but some weeks after m\- arrival in New N'oi'k he told me that the risk was praclically nothing at all, and that his firm wmdd agree to take the live himdred copies. 'I'he book was an instant success. I don't know how inan\' editions of it have been printed, but I should say that its sale has been upwaixl of fort\' thou- sand copies, and it still continues. 'I'he English weeklies ga\'c me liuig conipli- mentar\' notices, which I carried about for months in my pocket like lo\-e-leaers, and reatl sun-cptitiously at oild nuimenls. I thought it was curious that other people to whom I showed the reviews did not seem much interested. Boyesen. After returning to this conn- try, (.lid not )-ou settle tlown in New York? HOW ELLS AND BOYESEN. 145 Howells. Yes; I was for a while a free seventy. I dined with him every week, lance in literature. I did whatever came and he showed the friendliest appreciation in my way, and sold my articles to the of the work I was trying to do. A\'e took newspapers, going about from office to long walks together ; and you know what a office, but I was finally offered a place on rare talker he was. Somehow I got much " The Nation," where I obtained a fixed nearer to him than to Longfellow. As a position at a salary. I had at times a sense that, by going abroad, I liad fallen out of the American procession of prog- ress ; and, though I was elbowing my way energetically through the crowd, I seemed to have a tremendous diffi- culty in recovering ray lost *"" '""7,' place on mv native soil, and asserting my full right to it. So, when young men beg me to recommend them for consulships, I always feel m duty bound to impress on them this great danger of falling out of the proces- sion, and asking them whether they have confi- dence in their ability to re- conquer the place they have deserted ; for while they are awav it will be pretty sure to be filled by somebody else. A man returning from a residence of several years abroad has a sense of super- fluity in his own country — he has become a mere super- numerary whose presence or absence makes no particular difference. Boyesen. What year did you leave " The Nation" and assume the editorship of "The Atlantic " ? LLowelh. I took the edi- t(jrship in 1872, but went to live in Cambridge si.x or seven years before. 1 was first assistant editor under James T. t'ields, who was , uniformly kind and consid- erate, and with whom I got along perfectly. It was a place that he could have made odious to me, but he made it delightful. I have the tenderest regard and the brightest respect for his memory. -^*«K HUWELI.S, .-\F1EK H FROM VE.MCE. man Tongfellow was flawless. He was full of noble friendliness and encourage- ment to all literary workers in whom he believed. Boyesen. Do you remember you once said to me that he was a ' ' '" ■ " -' ~ most inveterate praiser ? Howells. I may have said that ; for in the kindness of his heart, and his constitu- tional reluctance to give pain, he did undoubtedly often strain a point or two in speaking well of things. But that was part of his beautiful kindliness of soul and admirable urbanity. Lowell, you know, confessed to being "a tory in his nerves ; " but Longfellow, with all his stateliness of manner, was nobly and per- fectlv democratic. He was ideally good ; I think he was without a fault. Boyesen. I have never known a man who was more completely free from snob- bishness and pretence of all kinds. It delighted him to go out of his wa)' to do a man a favor. There was, however, a little touch of Puritan pallor in his tem- perament, a slight lack of robustness ; that is, if his brother's biography can be trusted. What I mean to say is, that he appears there a trifle too perfect ; too bloodlessly, and almost frostily, statuesque. I have a little diminutive grudge Rev. Samuel Longfellow for not using a single one of those beautiful anecdotes I sent him illustrative of the warmer and more genial side of the poet's always had against the Boyesen. I need scarcely ask you if your character. He evidently wanted to portray association with Lowell was agreeable ? a Plutarchian man of heroic size, and he Howells. It was in every way charming, therefore had to exclude all that was subtly He was twenty years my senior, but he individualizing. always treated me as an equal and a con- Howells. ^\'ell, there is always room for temporary. And you know the difference another biography of Longfellow. between thirty and fifty is far greater than Boyesen. At the time when I made your between forty and sixty, or fifty and acquaintance, in 1S71, you were writing 146 HUMAN DOCL -M RN TS. I From :l phritopr.ipli taken at Camhrul^L- in iSri was ail in('i>m])aralil\' drli^lill ul and iiiler- eslinii" man. y>('iv.f(7/. \'cs ; I irnii'inluM- him wull, I (.loiihl if I c\'(.T iirard a moi'c hi'iHiaiit talker. Jlowrlls. Nil ; lu- was onr nl' llio iicst lailsLTs in ,\nuTii'a. .\n(l didn't llic ini- moidal Ral|)h Kcclci' a|i|)car iipdii iln' scLMic diii'inL;" till' siimmrr nl '71 or '7J ' J-!i>wsrii. \ cs : \uni- small sun " llua" in- sisted n|iiin calling- liiin " ISIl; Man Krrlcr," in s|iitr lit' his snial I size. JloKU'lh. N'l-s, Una U'as I he (inl\- mic who CN't'l' sa w krrlrr hlr-sizr. Jn'Yi'sr/i. I rcincinlicr liiiw he sat in \iiiir lilir.ii'N' and Inld stmics nl his nc^rn min- strel da\'s and his wild aiU'eiilures in "Their Wetldinji; J()iirne\'." On \'i)n re- man\- elimes, and dnl nut eare whether member tlie .^iiiriiuis talks we had ti lo'et her, )-iiii laML;died with him 1 ir at him, hut while the hmirs nl the nioht slipped awa\' wnuld jniii N'on from sheer s\ ni|)ath\ ; ami unnntieeil? ^^"e ha\e nn mure "f llmse how \\-e all lan!.;lieil in elmrns nntil our S]ilenilid cim versatii mal la^'es miwada\'s. sides ached I How eloquent we wei'e, to be sure ; and Jlcwclls. I'ooi' Keeler I lie was a sort with what deli,i;'ht \-on read those chapters of mi^a'atorN', nomadic snr\ i\"al ; luil he on "Niagara," "(Quebec," and " 'I'he St. had line qiial it ies, and was well equipped Lawrence;" and with what ra|)tni"e I lis- toj- a soil of I'iclion. It he had lived he tened ! I can never reatl them without mii^lit have written the L;ri'al ,\iiierican sup|)lvino; the cadence of vmir xaiice, and iio\el. Who knows? seeing ymi seated, twenty-two )-ears /hivcsrii. Was not it at Cambridi^e that V(innj.;-er than now, in that cose)' little lijurnst jerne bjOnison \isiled \ini .^ library in lierkeley Street. /[owclls. No; thai was in iSSr,at llel- Hcnvc/ls. ^'es ; and tlo you mind oui- mont, w here we went in order to be in the sudden atta(dl''- 1 i ^HfW-.^ f^*«»f v^^lii BiH AGE 25. 1862. LOiMbiUL AJ- VENlLtl. AGE 32. I'ib-). LAMIUvllJt.th., iilASS. " SU I'.LIK U.\N .SKI'/mll PORTRAITS OF W. D. HOU'ELLS. 149 AGK 41- iS/i. LLL.vlUNT, MASS, "THE LADV OF THE AGE 47. 1884. BOSTON, MASS. "THE RISE OF SILAS AROOSTOOK:." LAPHAM." gE 50. 1SS7. I USTU s ' ■\PKIL HOPES.'" 15° JIL 'J/.I.V DOCUArEN VS. PORTRAITS Ol'" I'ROl'I'LSSOR II. II. lU )\- I'.SI-.N. y>(>r// ill FrrJi-iiksiuvni, Norway, Sel^tniiber 23, 7X48 ; die,/ in N'nv Yoik, Oi/i>/>rr 4, 1.S95. AGE 17. 1B65. SI UDKNr, CJII^JSIIANIA, NOHWAV. AGE 19. 1867, S'lllni'rj I , MKIV h h'M I \' ()l<- CIIKISTIANIA. PORTRAITS OF H. H. BO YES EN. 151 AGE 21. IDOg. CHICAGO. EDITOK Ol-" FREMAD. AGE 27. 1875, PROFESSOR OF GERMAN AT CORNELL UNI- VERSITY. IIHACA, NEW YORK. " TALES OF TWO HEMISI-HEKES." AGEJ4. 1882. PRriFESSOR OF MODERN LANGUAGES, COLUIVI- 3IA COLLEGE, NEW YORK CITY. "DAUGHTER OF THE PHILISTINES," THE AUTHOR OF SOCIAL STRUGGLERS. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. ■ A (OXA'KRSATIOX DKTWKEX THK " J |i )OSIKR '■ J'OKT AND IIAMI.IX CAKI^AXD. Kki-CikiiI'Ii \:\ Ml;. (iAKI.ANIi. RILEY'S country, like most of the State of Indiana, has been won from the original forest bv incredible tuil. Three generations of men have laid their bones beneath the soil that now blooms into gold anil lavender harvests of wheat and corn. The traveller to-dav can read this record of struggle in the fringes of mightv elms and oaks and s}'camores which form the grim background of everv pleasant stretch of stubble or corn land. Greenfield, Iving twenty miles east of Indianapolis, is to-day an agricultural town, but in the days when AMiitcomb Riley lived here it was only a half-remove from the farm and the wood-lot ; and the fact that he was brought up so near to the farm, and 3'et not deadened and soured by its toil, accounts, in great measure at least, for his work. But (xreenfield as it stands to-dav, modernized and refined somewhat, is apparently the most un- promising field for litera- ture, especially for poetry. It has no hills and no river nor lake. Nothing but vast and radiant sky, and blue vistas of fields be- tween noble trees. It has the customary main street with stores fronting upon it ; the usual small shops, and also its bar-rooms, swarming with loungers. It has its court- house in the square, half- hid by great trees — a grim and bare building, with its ]">ortal defaced and grim}'. The people, as they pass you in the street, speak in the soft, high-keyed nasal drawl which is the basis of the Hoosier dialect. It looks to be, as it is, halfwav between the New England village and the \\'estern town. Tiie life, like that of all small towns in America, is apparenth' slow-moving, pur- poseless, and uninteresting ; and yet from this town, and other similar towns, has '\\'liitconib Rilev drawn the sweetest honey of poesy — honey with a native delicious tang, as of buckwheat and basswood bloom, J.'\MES WHITCOMB KILE^'. rom a photograph by Barraud, Londo JAMES WIIITCOMB RILEY^HAMLIN GARLAND. 153 KIGGSBV S ^T.ATJUN. — 'rilli OLD KILEV HOUSE AND fRESENT SUMMER RESIDENCE, GREENFIELD, LNDIANA. " Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station — Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door, And ever' neiglibor round the place is dear as a relation — Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore ! " with hints of the mullein and the thistle of dry pastures. I found Mr. Riley sitting on the porch of the old homestead, which has been in alien hands for a long time, but which he has lately bought back. In this house his childhood was passed, at a tirne when the street was hardly more than a lane in the woods. He bought it because of old-time associations. "I am living here," he wrote me, "with two married sisters kee|:iing house for me during the summer; that is to say, I ply spasmodically between here and Indian- apolis." I was determined to see the poet here, in the midst of his native surroundings, rather than at a hotel in Indianapolis. I was very glad to find him at home, for it gave me opportunity to study both the poet and his material. It is an unpretentious house of the usual village sort, with a large garden ; and his two charming sisters with their families {summering here) give him soinething more of a home atmosphere than he has had since he entered the lecturer's profes- sion. Two or three children — nephews and nieces — companion him also. II After a few minutes' chat Rilev said, with a comical side glance at me : " Come up into my library." I knew what sort c>f a library to expect. It was a pleasant little upper room, with a bed and a small table in it, and about a dozen books. Mr. Rilev threw out his hand iu a com- prehensive gesture, and said : " This is as sumptuous a room as I ever get. I live most o' my time in a Pullman car or a hotel, and you know how blamed kixu- rious an ordinary hotel room is." I refused to be drawn off into side dis- cussions, and called for writing paper. Riley took an easy position on the bed, while I sharpeued pencils, and studied him closely, with a view to letting mv readers know how he looks. He is a short man, with square slioul- ders and a large head. He has a very dignified manner — at times. His face is smoothly shaven, and, though he is not bald, tlie light color of his hair makes him seem so. His eyes are gray and round, and generally solemn, and sometimes stern. His face is the face of a great actor — in rest, grim and inscrutable ; in action, full of the most elusive expressions, capable of humor and pathos. Like most humorists, '54 //('ALLY nOCL'M i\X'rs. he is sad in rcpdsc. 1 lis la ML;MaL;(', wlnai "Tlic licsl slory in llial book is 'His lie clinoscs 111 have il so, is w'l mi Icrfii II y rri\'alc lluiinr.' 'I'lial's as h'iiimI as any. ciiiirisr ami |iiiirl lal m,^;- ami bra iil i f iii. In n l\' ilur-,. W'lial makrs Ki|iliii,n- .L;|-i:al is lie il|-u|)S iillrn inln ilialril, liiil al\\a\-s liis liili-lil\' In his own n m \ iri inns ami In willi a Iniik on his Tare whirh shiiws hr is Ins nwn r liliims, his willing;- wlial In: aware uf uhal he is ihiinu-. In ulher kmiws ahuMl. Ami, l)\' Ihe way, llie Nor- WDiaJs, he is masler nl' hnlh finiiis of \veL;ians ami Swedes al Ihe World's k',ii|- S|)eeeh. Mis inonlh is his womlerrul iVal- ha\'e read as a eood lesson on Ihal score, ure: wide, llexihie, elean-eul. Mis lips 1'hev'\e |inl eeilain phases of llieir life ai'e eapalile of the i^^rimmest and Ihe inei'- and landseapc hefoie us wilh in -nse \iiii riesl lines. Wdien he leads llie\' poni like and Iriilli, uliih; our Ameriean arlisis \v.\\k- a child's, or draw down inio a slraij^hl, main ly .L;oiie hiinrni,!;- lor lliemes jlre-lnn grim line like a New k'ai,L;danil deaeon's, or |ieasanls and |a|)aiiese dam in^-.^arls." close at one side, and nneo\'er Ins white Kiley sleiail)- roused m|i Id inleriii|il: and even teeth at tin: other, in Ihe sly "And i^noriii); llie besl malerial in llic smile I me to traxad. Ihil Imu in Ihe world was to understand me beaut if id I w lie kiu-w I totra\'el wIiIkhiI monc\' ? It was just at 1 couldn't learn anthinetic. 'I'liere wasn't this lime that the pal ent-medi<-iiie man any ).jray matter in that p.nt of m\' head. s ?" "Three or tOur \'eai's. and we had more fan than aiuliodv." lie turned another comical look on nie o\er his pinch-nose eveglasses. "You've heard this slorv about mv travelling all over the State as a bliiui sign-painter ? \\\dl,that started this waw (hie ilav we were in a small town somewhere, and a great crowd watching us in breathless wonder and ciinosit\- ; and one of our partv said : ' K.ile\\ let me iii- troihice \'ou as a lilind sign-painter.' So just for mischief I put on a craz\' look in the eves and pretended to be blind. 'I'liev led me carefulb' to the ladder, anil handed me m\- brush and pamts. It was great fun. I'd hear them sa\nng as I worked, ' 'I'hat feller ain't binul' ' \'es, he is; see his eves.' 'No. he ain't, I tell you; he's pla\un' off.' '1 tell vou he is blind. Ihiln't \'0U see him fall over a bi.c\ there and spill all his paints ' ' " Rilev rose here aiul laughingiv reenacted the scene, and I don't wonder that the vil- lagers ^^■ere deceived, so perfect was his assumption of the patient, wearv look of a bliiul person. 1 laughed at the joke. It was like the tricks bo\'s plav at college. Rilev went on. " Now, that's all there was to It. I was a blind sign-painter one da\', and forgot it the next. We were all boys, and jokers, natnrall\- enough, liiit not lawless. -Ml «-ere good fellows. All had nice homes and good people." "Were you writing anv at this time?" " (Ml, \-es, 1 was alwa\s writing for pur- poses ot recitatiiui. I couldn't liiul printed poetrv that was natural enough to speak. Fnmiaihild ] had al\\a_\s Ihiiclied at false rhymes and iinersions. 1 liked lohn ('.. Sa.xe because he had a jauiit\" trick of rhyming artle>sl\-; made the Sc'iisc ilcuiaiid the rinuiie — like "^"<)Un;.;" IVacr r\ranill'^ — 1 call him IV-U'i". Not Icir the s.ikL' nl (he rlnnic or llu' iikIiv, r.Lit MKrch- to niaki' iIk- name n annhu r. ' " 1 hkcil those classic t raxa'sl K's, loo — he poked fun at the tedious old ihenics, and that alwa\s |ilcasctl inc." Klle\"'s \iuc(.' grew stern, as he said : "rmagaiiisl I lie Id- k>ws who celebrate the I'ld to the ncglccl of our own kith and km. So 1 was alw a\s lr\- ing to write of the kind of people 1 /■//ca', and especiall)- to write \ersc that I could read just as if it were being spoken for the first time." "1 saw in a newspaper the other day that \-on began your journalistic work in Anderson." "That's right. When 1 got back from mv last trip \vilh 'The (.Graphic C'onipau\-,' \oung \\\\\ M. C'roan ollered me ;i place on a paper he w.is just connecting himself \\\ih. He had hearel that 1 could write, and took it for granted I wauild he a valuable iiKin in the local ami advertising departments. 1 was. I inaugurated at emcc a I eat lire ol tree iloggercl advertis- ing, lor luir regular advertisers. 1 wrote reams and miles of sttiff like this : " ' ( ) \'aHC(ili Sicin. I KA front of mine. He .L^ot dot (.'kxliiv,^ lIowii so line 1 lot elTer'lioU\- hin a-luu in' l''(m y.i.it old \',o\eoli Stein.'" "I'd like to sec stmie of tho>e ohi papers. I su|ipose they're all ilown there on lile." "I'm afraid the\- are. It's all there. ^^'hole hemorrhages of it." "Hid vou go from there to Indianapo- lis?" Me nodded. "How dill vou come to go? Did you go on the venture ? " "No, it came about in this wa\-. I had a lot of real stuff, as I fancied, quite dif- ferent from the doggerel I've just quoted ; and when 1 found simiething pleased the people, as I'd hold 'cm up and irtiJ it to 'em, \\\ send it oil to a maga/.iiU', and It would come back (,|iiitc prom|)tly h)' return mail. Still I l>clie\ed in it. 1 luul a Irieiid on the opposition paper who was always laughing at m\ |ircteiisions ,is a poet, and 1 was ,in\iiuis to show him 1 could write poelr\- just as good as that which he praised of other writers ; and It was for his benelil 1 concocted that scliemc of imilaling Tor. WuTNe hcaial of thai ? " Nol Ironi an\- reliable source." "Well, It was jii>l this way. 1 deter- mined to w rill' ,1 poem in imitation of some well-known poet, to sec if I couldn't tra|i m\- ii\perci ilical friend. I li.id no idea of doing aii\thiiig more than th.it. So I ciuiied and wrote and sent ' 1 .1'onainie ' to :i paper in a neighboring coiintw m lU'ilcr tli'il I might alt.ick it iiuself in m\ own paper and so llirow m\- friend completely "11 the track. The wlude thing was a l"'.^' s tool Iriik. I didn't suppose it would g" out ol the Suite exchanges. 1 was ap- palled at I he result. The whole country JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY— HAAILIN GARLAND. 159 KAILKMAD IIKIIJGE, HRANDVWINE. " Through the viny, shady-shiny Interspaces, shot with tiny Flying motes that ileck the winy Wave -engraven sycamores.'' — A Dream of Autunui. i6o HLWAX DOCUMEXTS. took it up, and pitched into me unjusti- time I bewail a series of ' Benjamin F. fiably." johnsiin ' poems. Tiiev all appeared with "Couldn't \-ou explain?" eelitorial comment, as if they came from "They wouUln't lit me explain. I lost an old Hoosier famier of lioone County, my position on the paper, because I had TheN' wei'e so well received that I gatli- let a rival paper have 'the discovery'! ered them toLj'ciher in a little parchment Kverybod)' insisted 1 was trving to attract volume, which 1 called ' 'I'lie Old Swim- attention, but that wasn't true. 1 siraph- niin' Hole and 'Leven .More l\)ems,' mv wanted to make my critic ackno\vleds.;"e, first book." by the ruse, that I (-()///id y(ui sell 'cm ?" There's a melancholy sort of pleasure in "They sold tliemseb'es. I had the ten- doing tiiat." bushel box of 'em down in the 'journal' Riley didn't seem to take even that office, and it bothered me nearly to death pleasure in it. to attend to the mailing of them. So "In this dark time, just when I didn't when Jiowen i\: Merrill agreed to take the know which wav to turn — friends all ilrop- book ntf mv Inuuls, I gladly consented, ping awav — I got a letter from Judge antl that's the wav I began with them. " Martindale of the 'Indianapolis Journal,' '' It was that little book that lirst made saying, 'Come over and take a regular me acquainted with your name," 1 said, place on the "Journal," and get pav for " AIv friend and your frientl, Charles V,. your work.'" Hurd, of the ' lioston Transcript,' one day " That was a timely piece of kindness read me the poem ' William Leachman,' on his part." which he liked exceedingly, and ended by "It put me really on mv feet, .And just giving me a copy of the book. I saw at about this time, too, I got a letter from once you had taken up the rural life, and Longfellow, concerning some verses that I carried it beyond AA'hittier and Lowell in had the 'nerve' to ask him to examine, in respect of making it dramatic. You gave which he said the verses showed 'the true the farmer's point of view." jioetic faculty and insight.' This was high " I've tried to. Hut people oughtn't to praise to me then, and I went on writing get twisted up on my things the wa\- they with more confidence and ambition ever do. I've written (.lialect in two wavs. after." One, as the modern man, liringing all the " What did you send to him ?" art he can to represent the way some other "I don't remember exactly — some of fellow thinks and sjieaks ; but the 'John- my serious work. Yes, one of the things son' |)oems are intended to be like the old was ' The Iron Horse.' " He cpioted this : man's wn'ttcu poems, l)ecause he is sup- [losed to have sent them in to the paper "No song is mine of Arab -steed— himself. Thev are representations of Mv courser is of nobler blood -.. r i *-' i -i ..i .i And cleaner limb and fleeter speed ^^ ""«" dialect, whde the others are repre- And g-reater stren,£;-th and hardiliood sentationsof dialect as manipulated by Than ever cantered wild and free the artist. lUlt, in cither case, it's the Across the plains ,.f .Vraby." Other fellow doin' it. 1 don't try to treat of jieople as they (V/g^/if to think aiul s|ieak, " How did Judge ALirtindale come to but as ihev do think and speak. In other make that generous offer? Hail \(ui been wiuhIs, 1 ilo not inulertake to edit nature, contributing to the ' Joui-nal ' ?" either pln'sical (U' human." "Oh, yes, for quite a while. One of the " I see your point, but I don't know that things I had jtist sent him was the Christ- I would have done so without having read mas story, ' 'i'he Loss (lirl,' a newsbo\''s 'The Old Swimmin' Htde,' and the 'Tale story. He ditln't know, of course, that 1 of the Airly Days.' " was in trouble when he made the offei-, but I quoted here those lines I always found he stood by me afterwards, and all came so meaningful : right." "" What did vou do on the ' L'urnal ' ? " " '^'^''l "'' "i^' "'''^'^'^ .i"^i ''^c they was, "I was a sort o' free-lance-cmild do 1 hey don't need .lo excuse ... , - , , . i'on t tech em up as the poets does, anything I wanted to. Just about this Till they're all too line for use ! " JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY— HAMLIN GARLAND. T*W^i^ u^rvHAiUr ^; ^-^^ -^^ J^OiM d ^wt WHb Vvvtl^ t«.*<, . i6i < o> ^ cuwA^^^^;^AijO^^ FACSmiLE OF AN AUTOGRAPH POEM BV MR. RILEV, Riley rose to his feet, and walked about the room. " I don't believe in dressing up nature. Nature is good enough for God, it's good enough for me. I see Old Man Johnson, a living figure. I know what the old feller has read. I'd like to have his picture drawn, because I love the old cod- ger, but I can't get artists to see that I'm not making fun of him. They seem to think that if a man is out o' plumb in his language he must be likewise in his morals." I flung my hand-grenade : " That's a relic of the old school, the school of cari- cature — a school that assumes that if a man has a bulbous nose he necessarily has a bulbous intellect ; which doesn't follow. I've known men with bulbous noses who were neither hard drinkers nor queer in any other particular, having a fine, digni- fied speech and clear, candid eyes." " Now, old Benjamin looks queer, I'll admit. His clothes don't fit him. He's bent and awkward. But that don't pre- vent him from having a fine head and deep and tender eyes, and a soul in him you can recommend." Riley paused, and looked down at me with a strange smile. " I tell you, the crude man is generally moral, for Nature has just let go his hand. She's just been leading him through the dead leaves and the daisies. When I deal with such a man I give him credit for every virtue ; but what he does, and the way he does it, is his action and not mine." He read at this point, with that quaint arching of one eyebrow, and the twist at the side of the mouth with which he always represents " Benjamin F, John- son " : i62 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. " ■ My Reli.tren is to jest letters tf) each other, and joke and jim- Do by ail my level best, crow with the >ruses." Feelin; God'U do the rest.— '• Rilev I want to ask yoii. \'our father Facts IS, tur as I cm see, .,.,--, -, ,, The good Bein', makin' me, IS Irish, IS he n.U ? •LI make me what I .v7 to be.'— " Both yes and no. His characteristics are strongly Irish, but he was born a Penn- And that's the lovely Old Man John- s^dvania Dutchman, and spoke the Ger- son talkin', and not me — but I'm listenin man dialect before he spoke English, It to him, understand, yes, and keepin' has been held that the name Riley proba- still I" ' bly comes from 'Ryland,' but there's an Tlie tender side of the jioet came out 'O'Reilly' theory I muse over very pleas- here, and I said : " I had a talk with your antly." father vesterdav, aiul I find that we're in I saw he was getting tired of indoors, harmonv on a gotid many reform topics, so I rose. " Well, now, where's the old He's a Populist and a Oreenbacker. Do swimmin' hole?" vou have any reform leanings ? " His face lighted up with a charming, ■' P'ather is a thinker, and ain't afraid almost boyish, smile. " The (dd swim- of bis thiidxin' machine. I'm turned away min' hole is right down here (ui Brandy- from reform because it's no use. We've wine — the okl ' crick,' just at the edge of got to i-('«fnrm, not /vform, in our attitude to\^'n." with the world and man. Try reformin', " Put on your hat, and let's go down and and sooner or later vou've got to cjuit, find it." because it's always a question of politics. "\^"e took our way down the main street Vou start off with a reform idea, that is, a and the immensely dusty road towards the moral proposition. You end up by doing east. 'Phe locusts quavered in duo and something politic. It's in the nature of trio in the ironweeds, and were answered things. Vou can, possibly, reform just by others in the high sycamores. Parge one individual, but you can't reform the yellow and black butterflies flapped about world at large. It won't work." from weed to weed, 'Phe gentle wind "All reforms, in your mintl, are appar- came over the orchards and C(.irnfields, entlv hopeless, and yet, as a matter of filled with the fragrance of gardens and fact, the great aggregate conforms to a groves. 'Phe road took a little dip to- few men every quarter of a century." wards the creek, which was low, and almost This staggered Riley, and he looked at hidden among the weeds, me rather helplessly. "\Vell, it's an un- Riley paused. "I haven't been to the pleasant thing, anyhow, and I keep away old swimmin' hole for sixteen years. We from it. I'm no fighter. In my own kind used to go across there through the grass, of work I can do good, and make life all e.xcept the feller with the busted toe- pleasant." nail. He had to go round." He pointed He was speaking from the heart. I at the print of bare, graceful feet in the changed the subject by looking about the dust, antl said : room. " You don't read much, I ini- j^^jj^g p ■• " We could tell, by the dent .if the heel and the sale, ^TT ' .. 1 ..1 ■111 There was lots of fun on liand at the old swimmin" He turned another cpiizzical look on 1.,^,]^ ■■ me. '' I'm afraid to read much, I'm so blamed imitative. But I read a good As we looked out on the hot midsum- deal of chop-feed fiction, and browse with mer lanilscape, Rilev ipiotcil again, from relisii through the short stones and jioems a ]ioem in his tlien forthcoming book — a of to-day. But I have no place to put poem which he regards as one oi his best : books. Have to do my own things ^^■here I catch time and Olipcu-tunitv." "" " The airand the sun and the shadows ,i 11, ,, ■ ,- ,1 1 , ' 11 \\ ere wedeled antl made as L>ne, \\ e , I you ( hai a lilirarv, \'ou \„ i ,i,, ■ i • ,i i ' - - ■ - And the w mds ran <^ er the meadows wouldn't have got so many people into .\s little children run ; your ]ioems. ^'ou remind me ol N\liit- man's poet, you tramp a perpetual jounicv. " '^^"'' '\' "i'^d llowed over the meadows, ,,., ' - ,.,''' - • .And along the willowy wa\- A\here do you Uiink you get your verse- The river ran, with its ripples shod writing IxoiW ? " With Ihe sunshine of tlie da\- : " Mainly from m\- mother's famih", the Marines. 'A characteristic of the whole "< ',ihe winds j.nured over the meadows family is their ability to write thymes, but ^„^| „,^, i,^,,.^.^, |„.,,^^, i^.,, ^|,^, ,,,^,^,|^ ^^^ .^ all nnambltiously, 1 he\' write rhymed .\s a sweetheart's tender p.dms. JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY— H AM LIX GARLAiXD. 1 6.^ " And up through the rifteil tree-tops which sixteen years of absence had not T .^'r!h'5t," R'V!lf r-T,'"^ ^T"\ entirelv swept fnjm the poefs mind. Tlien, I saw the hulk of the hawk becalmed , • ' , , ' , , .,' Far out on the azure seas." '''^ ''''*'^' "'^ turned humeward over the rail- road track, thr(.iug]i the dusty little town. Rile}' recited this with great beauty of People were seat'cd in their little back- tone and rhythm — such as audiences never yards here and there eating watermelon, hear from him, hearing only his dialect. and Neighbor Johnson's poem on the As we walked on we heard shunts, and I plucked Riley's sleeve : " Hear that ? If that isn't the cry of a swimming bov, then my experiences are of no value. A boy has a shout which he uses only when splash- ing about in a pond." W'ortermelon " came up : ' >h, \\"ijrtcrmelc>n time is a-cuntin' 'rrjund agin, .Vnd the\' ain't nij feller li\in' an\' tickledcr'n nte." Ril We passed by the old court-hous e, where lace glowed. " That's right, Captain Rilev, the poet's father, has prac- they're there — just as we used to be After climbing innumerable fences, we tised law tor fifty years. I'he captain lives near, m an (jdd-looking hr>use of brick, its came upon the boys under the sliade of the turret showing above the trees. ()\\ tl giant sycamore and green thorn-trees. The boys jiggled themselves into their clothes, and ran off in alarm at the two staid and dignified men, who none the less main street groups (.if men (.jf all ranks and stations were sitting or standing, and they all greeted the poet as he fiassed by with an (.iff-hand : " How are ve, |im'" to wliich had tor them a tender and reminiscent the poet replied : " How are a'ou, 1 (jm '. sympathy. or " How are yi.u. Jack ? How's the All about sjilendid elm-trees stood, and folks?" l'ersonall\", his townsmen like stately green thorn-trees flung their deli- him. They begin to respect him also in cate, fern-like foliage athwart the gray another way, so successful has he Ijecome and white spotted boles rif tall, leaning in a way measurable to them all. sycamores. But the creek was very low, iiack at the house, we sat at lunch of by reason of the dry weather. cake and watermelon, the sisters, Mrs. We threaded our way aI)out, seeking out Payne and Mrs. Eitels, serving as host- old paths and stumps and tree trunks, esses most delightfully. They had left ■MR. G-\KL.\.\D lAKES ,\"uTtS \VH1LE 1 H E "Hlp ruET T.\LKS. 164 nrj/AX noci'MFXTS. their own homes in Iiuhanapohs for tlie summer, to give this added pleasure to tlieir poet lirother. The}- liotli lia\-e much of liis felicitv of plirase, and mucli the same gentleness and sweetness (d bearnig. The liour \\'as a pleasant one, and brought vwX the simple, tlnniestic side of the man's nature. Idle sisters, wliile thev showed their admiration and love for him, ad- dressed him M'ithout a particle of atlccta- tion. There is no mysterious alnss between Mr. Rilev and his familv. TheN' are well- to-do, middle-cniiditioned Amei'icans, with unusual intellectual [inwer and markeil poetic sensibilitw Mr. Rilev is a lugical result i.>f a union of two gifted families, a product (if heretlitarv power, cuoperating with the puwer of an ordmarv \\ estern town. Viorn of a gentle and naturally poetic mother, and a fearless, uncon- ventional fatlier (lawyer and orattu'), he has lived the life conimcm to boys ot vil- lages from Pennsylvania to Dakt>ta, and upon this were added the experiences he has herein related. It is impossible to represent his talk that night. For two liours he ran on — he the talker, the rest e>f us the irritating cause. The most quaintly wise sentences led from his lips in words no other could have used; scraps of verse, poetic images, humorous assumptions vi character, ilaring figures of speech — 1 gave up in despair of ever get- ting him down on paper. He read, at ni\' request, some of his most beautiful things. He talked on religion, and his voice grew dee|i and earnest. "I belie\-e a man pi-a\s when he does well," he said. " 1 belie\'e he worships (.'.od w hen his work is on a high plane ; when his attitude towards his fellow-men IS right, I guess t^od is pleased witli him." I said good-night, and went olf tlown the street, musing upon the man and iiis work, (ienius, as we call it, delies coiuhtions. It knows no barriers. It linds in things close at hand the most ine.xhanstible storehouse. .Ml depends upon the poet, not upon ma- terials. It is his love for the thing, his intere;.t in the fact. Ins ilistributicm of \'alues, his selection of iletails, which makes his wind< irresistibh' comic or tender or pathetic. Xo poet in the Idiited States has the same hold iiptni the minds ot the peiiple as Rde\'. He is the poet of the plain 1 ■^ ^ a^^ ^ ^^:i^<. v.'. r / ■-%f^i-^^. GKKHMlEl ;-\Mi\ WINE. \\'1lilsc the oKI town, fur ;i\\ay 'l'|-iisl the liazy ])asUir-hind, Dozed-like in the heat o' day Peaceful as a hired hand." — f'/ ,1/1,/ Di'iL'ii O/ii /i;i sli'anse, exa'r-wiiwnii;' panorama, so novel that il was dilhcult to grasp comprehensiveU'. In fact, il was not till vears afterwards th.il the i^i'eal mass of prniiarv impi'essions on n\\ nnnd becune suflTcienllv clarihcd foi' liuwai'v use. "The ehaiii^'es of scene were ciuislant and iinexpecleil. Here is one Ih.it I I'e- member \erv well. Clothing' was hard to get ni the earlv davs, and ever\-thing that could serve was mtide use of. ( )iu' willev, in its orclinarv aspect, had ;is nian\' ' spiing styles for gentle- men' as there wei i ~ men to be seen One hot sumnui m o r n i n g , li o w ever, tiie old ordei changed. A lai gi consignment ol condemned navy outfits, purchased bv a local store- keeper, liad found ready sale, and the result was that the valley was filled witii men, hard at work over their claims, and all dressed in white 'jumpers,' wdiite duck trousers, and top boots. On their heads were yellow straw hats, and around their shoulders gaudv bandanna hand- kerchiefs of yel- low, blue, red, and green patterns. Perspiration was so profuse in the hot weatlier thtit a handkerchief was as necessary to a miner as a whiskey flask or a revol- ver. I'hey wore them clung loose- ly around their necks ami falling over their chests, like the collar of simie e\lr.iordinar\' order, and each man as he worked wmdd now and I hen dah his forehead with the handkerchief and push il a 111 lie f.irtlu'r round. I'hc white clothes ,iiul bright handkerchiels ,iga insl the wild background made a ver\- no\el picture, and 1 said sonu'lhliig to this elU'Ct to a miner In' ui\- side. lie took a look tlown the \alh'\', the sl.iiulpoint being (uie that had not occurred lo him, and said : 'It does look kinder nii'c. I'idn't know we gave oiirsi'hes awa\' like lh.it,' and sham- bled down the trail with ailmckle. livery da\' brought new scenes and ik'W experi- ences, thimgh 1 ditl not eouimit them to paper till man\' \'ears afterward." MIN'KK, ICXrRlsSS iMESSKNG ICK, SC IIOOI.M AS r IvR, KDlfOR. " .\inl were \(Ui taking notes for f u tare literary work at this pe- riod ? " " Not at all. I had not the least idea ;it this lime that any portion ol litertir\- fame awtiiled me. I lived their life, im- ihinking. I hiok m\- pick ami shov- e 1 , a n d ask e d w here I might dig. 'I'he\' said ' .Any- where,' and it was t r u e that y o u could get ' color,' that is, a few grains of .gold, from any of the surface earth with which you chose to lill your p;ni. In an ordin;ir\' day's work you got enough to live on, or, as il wtis called, ' g r ii b wages.' I was nut a success ;is ;i gold-digger, tind il was conceived that I would an- swer for a AVells h'tirgo messenger. .\ Wells Fargo messenger was a person who sat , KI'W ".(IKI .4 MORXIXG WITH BRET HARTE. 169 i niinini:;' camp •ob- beside the driver un the Imx-seat ut :l stage-cuach, in cliarg-e of the letters and 'treasure' wliieh llie ^\'ells Taro-u l-^x- press Company took fnmi to the nearest town or citv. Sta , hers were plentiful. My predecessor \n the position had been shot through the arm, and m\' successor was killed. 1 held the post fc^r some months, and then gave it up to become the schoolmaster near Sonora — Sonora having bv immigra- tion attained the size and population wiiich called for a school. For several years after this I wandered about California from citv to camp, and camp to city, without an\- special purpose. I became an editor, and learned to set type, the ability to earn niv own living as a printer being a source of great satisfaction to me, for, strange to sav, I had no confidence, until long after that l^eriod, in literature as a means of liveli- hood. I have never in my life had an arti- cle refused publication, and vet I ne\'er had any of that confidence which, in the case of many others, does not seem to have been impaired by repeated refusals. Nearly all niv life I have held some political or edi- torial post, upon which I relied for an income. This has, no doubt, affected my work, since it gave me more liberty to write as pleased myself, instead of endeavoring- to write for a purpose, or in accordance with the views of somebody else. *■ A great part of this distrust of lit- erature as a profession arose, 1 think," continues !Mr. Harte, and he smiles at the reminiscence, "from my first literary effort. It was a pijem called 'Autumn Musings.' It was written at the mature age of eleven. It was satirical in char- acter, and cast upon the fading year the cynical hght of my repressed dissatis- faction with things in general. I ad- dressed the envelope to the Xew York ' Sunday Atlas,' at that time a journal of some literary repute hi Xew York, where I was then living. I was not cjuite certain how the family would re- gard this venture on my part, and I posted the missive with the utmost secresy. After that I waited for over a w-eek in a state of suspense that en- tirely absorbed me. Sunday came, and with it the newspapers. These were displayed on a stand in the street near our house, and held in their places— I shall never forget them — with stones. With an unmoved face, but a beating- heart, I scanned the topmost copy of the 'Atlas.' To my dying day I shall remember the thrill that came from see- ing ' Aiitiiiun Musings,' a poen-i, on the first page. I don't know that the headline t\-pe uas anv longer than usual, but to me it was coloj-sal. It liatl soniething of the tremeiuloiisiiess of a three-sheet poster. I bought the paper and took it home. I exhibited it to the family by slow and cautious stages. Mv hopes sank lower and lo«-er. At last I realized the enormity oi \w\ offence. The lamentation was gen- eral. It was unanimously conceded that i was lost, and I fiilh' believed it. My idea of a poet — it was the family's idea also — was the Hogarthian one, born of a book of Hogarth's drawings belonging to mv father. In the lean and miserable and helpless guise of 'The Distressed Poet,' as therein pictured, I saw, aided bv the family, niy probable future. It was a terrible experience. I sometimes won- der that I ever wrote another line of verse." His natural tendency in that direction was too strong to be crushed, however. He has always, he says, had a weakness for humorous verse, and in that particular di- rection his pen is as playful as ever. All of w-hich digression leads naturally to the " Heathen Chinee," coilcerning which he has several new facts to make pub- lic. BRET HAKTE. FRO:\I A l-HOTL'GR.-vrH ^.X THij.MAS FALL, LONDON. 170 ni'M AX iWlM i\i-s. BUllT HAKIK AT 1 1 i li JT;K>.1': N 1" ■1>'\, I.OM- SOME NEW FACTS AHOUT THE " H I', A 'I'l 1 K N aiul fl'lls^al, llill it a 1 i I I Ic lu'llci". VrdlU ciiiNKK." placci- mining; lucaid |il,i\iiii; lie Inilu^tri- ousl\' rdlliiurcl llic o\ani|)ir srl liim l>\- his " I was alwavs fniul of salii'ic \Trsc, and supcrinrs, ami timk clu-allni; al cards (|uilc the instinct of ikuihIn' lias alwa\s possessed scrionsh', as a x'aliiabic addilinn In the in- iiie. 'I'he ' I Icat hen ( 'hincc ' is an instance tcicst in;^' L;ainc. 1 I c cheated admiiablw hut, of this, lh(iUL;h 1 don't think I ha\H' told instead of w nmini; praises loi- it, roiiiul anybody, c'xcepl a u'ell-known l'lnL;lish hiniself, when eaici^ht at it, almsed, con- poet, who oliscr\"ed and taxed me wilh the lemiicd, and oeeasionall\- nioMied l)\' his fact, the stoiy ol its nielrical origin. The tea( hers in a \\a\- that li.id not lieeii dreamt 'Heatlu'ii ( 'h iiiee ' was I ( n' a time Ihcliest ol in his pliilosopli\'. d'liis point I put known ol an\- of m\- w iil iiiys. Il \\,is into\ersc I he.ird notliinL;of it for some written for the '()\erlaiid MonlliU',' of time, until a friend told me it was iii.drl\- dis- bke being described as I am not. ,\iul, for some strange journaHstic or liunian reason, the inventions concernmg me seem to have much greater currencv and vital it v than tlie trutlis. Here, for instance." .md he examines a pile of newspa[ier cuttings on the desl<, "are two interesting contri- butions to my pubbc historv wincli came this morning." The first, from " GaUgnam's Messenger," read as follows : "Bret Harte cannot work except in seclusion, and when he is busy on a storv he will hide himself away in some suburban retreat known onh- to his closest friends. Here he will rise just after dawn, be at his desk several hours liefore breakfast, and remain tliere, with an interval of an hour for a walk, the whole daw" " I meet this evervwhere," said Mr. Harte, " and this," taking up a second cutting in its natural sequence : " Bret Harte has reached a point where literary work is impossible to him except in absolute solitude. When writing he leaves his own home for suburban lodgings, where no visitor is allowed to trouble him, aiul where he follows a severe routine of early rising, scant diet, and steaely wurk. It has been generall)' remarked that one can see this laborious regi- men in his latter-dav novels." This was from " The Argo- naut," San Francisco. " Now, what is diabolicallv ingenious in this," continues Mr. Harte, " is that those authoritative statements are untrue in ever\- particular. I never seek seclusion. In fact, I could not work in se- clusion. I rise at a civilized hour, about half-past eighi o'clcck. and eat niv breakfast like any other human being. 1 then go to work, if I have a piece of wcu-k in hand, and remain at mv ilesk till ikhmi. I ne\-er work after luncheon. 1 read mv proofs with as much interest aiul, 1 think, as nuich care as any- bodv else, and vet the public is taught to belie\^e that 1 never see m\' ' copy ' after it once leaves mv hands. " If newspapers ^^-ere as anxious to print facts about a man as the\' are to furnish infcu-mation which their readers will pre- sumablv enjo\- repeating, it woukl be dif- ferent. I \\-on, some \ears ago, without the slightest effm-t on m\ part, the reputa- tiiMi of being tile hi/.iest man in .-\mcrica. At lirst the cmnpliment took the form of an extended paragraph deploring mv fatal facilit\-, and telling in deprecating sen- tences how much I could probablv do if I BRET HARTE OK.AWl.N'i; BY ARTllLR UDM.VN, lSg4 A MORNING WITH BRET HARTE. 177 were not so indolent. This grew smaller and smaller, until it took a concise and easily annexable form, viz.: 'Bret Harte is the laziest man in America.' As an interesting adjunct to the personal column I read it, of course with extreme pleasure, in every paper that came habitually under my eye. Denial, of course, was of no earthly use, and the line tra\'elled all o\'er the country, and is doubtless still on its rountls. fn the course of time, (jn a lect- uring tour, I reached St. Joe, Missouri. I had been lecturing by night and travelling by day for ten weeks, continuously. A reporter called and desired to know what kind of soap I used — he had heard sinister rumors that it was a highly scented foreign article — my opinion of Longfellow, and various other questions of moment. I as- sured him that I used the soap of the hotel, and concealed nothing from him with regard to Longfellow, but be.gged him particularly to note the fact of my preternatural activity. He managed these facts correctly in his half-column next morning, but adorned me with a glittering diamond stud of which 1 had no knowledge. And in the same paper, in another colunm, I found a pleasant variation from the usual line. There was no allusion to my late labors. It was simply : ' Bret I-Iarte says he is not the laziest man in America.' Al- together, therefore, I should perhaps think well of my friend of St. Joe, Missouri. " Those lectures were an amusing ex- perience," he adds, laughing. " What the people expected in me I do not know. Possibly a six-foot mountaineer, with a voice and lecture in proportion. They always seemed to have mentally confused me with one of my own characters. I am not six feet high, and I do not wear a beard. Whenever I walked out before a strange audience there was a general sense of disappointment, a gasp of astonishment that I could feel, and it always took at least fifteen minutes before they recovered from their surprise sufficiently to listen to what I had to say. I think, even now, that if I had been more herculean in propor- tions, with a red shirt and top boots, many of those audiences would have felt a deeper thrill from my utterances and a deeper con- viction that they had obtained the worth of their money." A MAN CAREFUL OF DETAILS IN HIS WORK AND HIS PERSON. The conversation rambles. A polished critic, an epicurean, a man of the world, and carrying everywhere the independence of a distinct literary personality, Bret Harte talks as he writes, like a gentleman. This is a subtile attribute, but one which England never fails to recognize and value, and it is one prime cause of the popularity of his works in the United Kingdom. Con- tinually in evidence also is his distinguish- ing characteristic, one which is only de- scribed by the word " nicet}' " — nicety in dress, nicety in speech, nicety in thought. This artistic precision and thoughtful atten- tion to details is the most marked attribute of the man, and from it you understand the plane and power of his work. Without it, the most impressive of his stories, "The Luck of R(;aring Camp," for instance, could not possibly have been written. It is rather a singular cjuality to be found in combination with his emotional breadth and dramatic sweep as a writer, but it is the one which finishes and polishes the whole, and it is clearly natural and in- herent. THE CI\IL WAR A GREAT OPPORTUNITY FOR AMERICAN NOVELISTS. Perha|5s the most valuable of all Mr. Harte's ideas are his opinions concerning the literary field of to-day. His views of literature as a profession are now pleasantly optimistic, possibly through the business- like way in which his interests have long been handled by that most skilful of liter- ary agents, Mr. A. P. Watt. Contemporary life in its highest social aspects he looks upon, however, as most unpromising ma- terial for romantic treatment. " In .America," he says, " the great field is the late war. The dramatists have found and utilizetl it, but the novelists, the romance writers, have in it the richest possible field for works of serious import, and yet, outside of short stories, the}' seem to have passed it by. If I had time, nothing would jilease me better than to go over the ground, or portions of it, and make use of it for future work. Our war of the Revolution is not good material for cosmopolitan jmrposes. This country has never quite forgotten the \vay in which it ended. But the war of the Rebellion was our own and is our iiwn ; its dramatic and emotional aspects are infinite; and while American writers are coming abroad for scenes to picture, I am in c<,rraphs madu irsptciaDv i'lr " McClur I'.V Kl^liERT H. SlIER.VRI). S I crossed the heath, I passed a group of devout people to whom, standing among them, a Sal- vation Arm}' girl, w i t h an inspired face, was preaching with great fervor. 1 did not stay to listen to her, for (ieorgedu Maurier had appointed me to meet him at his house at three on that Sunday after- noon. But as I went my way, I heard the words : " Never you envy even those who seem most to be envied in this world, for in even the hap- piest life . . ." and that was all. Du Manner's house is in a quiet little street that leads from the open heath down to the township of Hampstead, a street of few houses and of high walls, with trees everywhere, and an air of seclu- sion and quiet over all. The house stands on the left hand as one walks away from the heath, and is in the angle formed by the quiet street and a lane which leads down to the high road. It is a house of bricks overgrown with ivy, with angles and protrusions, and in the little garden which is to the left of the entrance door stands a large tree. The front door, which opens straight on to the street, is painted white, and is fitted with brass knockers of polished brilliance. As one enters the house, one notices on the wall to the left, just after the threshold is crossed, the original of one of Du iMaurier's drawings in " Punch," a drawing concerning two " millionnairesses," with the text written beneath the picture in careful, almost lithographic penmanship. " That was where I received my train- ing in literature," said Du Maurier. " So Anstey pointed out to me the other day, when I told him how surprised I was at the success of mv books, considering that I had never written before. ' Never writ- ten ! ' he cried out. ' Why, my dear Du Maurier, you have been writing all your life, and the best of writing-practice at that. I'hose little dialogues of yours, which week after week you have fitted to your drawings in ' launch,' have pre- pared you admirably. It was precis writ- ing, and gave you conciseness and repartee and appositeness, and the best qualities of the writer of fiction.' And," added Du Maurier, " I believe Anstey was quite right, now that I come to think of it." The waiting-room, (jr hall, is under an arch, to the right of the passage wdiiclr leads from the door to the staircase, a cosy corner on which a large model of the Venus of Milo looks down. " There is my great admiration," said Du Maurier in the evening, as he pointed to the armless goddess, and went on to repeat wdiat Heine has said, and mentioned Heine's desire for the Venus's armless embrace. DU MAURIKR IN HIS STUDY. It was in his study that Du Maurier received me, a large room on the first floor, iSo HCMAy Doci\]//:y IS. with a square bav window overlooking tlie centiir\', M\i.\ still standing in Anjon or quiet street on the right, ami a large wni- Maine, but a bre\\er\' to-dav. It belonged dow almost reaching to the eeilmg, and to oiu" cousins the Atdierys. and in the loi'iking in the direction of the heath, tac- seventeenth centur\' it was the Auber\"s ing the door. It is under this window, who wore the thie of Du Maurier : ami an the light from which is toned down bv Auberv ilu Maurier wlio distinguished hini- brown curtains, that Ihi Mainuer's table self m that centur\' w. is 1 ,ouis of that name, stands, comfortabl\- equipped and tid\'. who was l-'rench andiassador to llcUaml, ( >n a large blotting-pad lav a thin cojn"- ami was\\"ell liked ol the great king. The book, open, and one could see that the Aidier\'s anil the liiissons married and inter- right page was covered with large, round- married, and I cannot quite say witiiout hand writing, whilst ijn the left page there referring to family papers — at present at were, m smaller, more precise penmanship, iiiv bank — when the lUissons assumed the ciu'rections, emendatiiuis, addenda. In a territorial name of l)u Maurier; but niv frame stood a large photograph of Du gramlfather's name was Robert Matliurm ^faurier, and on the other side of the ink- Busson du Maurier, and his name is alwavs stand was a pile of thin co|i\'-books, blue tollowed. in the papers whiidi refer to him, and red. "A fiirtnight's work on mv new b\- the title Gi iitilhoiiiDii- i\-rn'tT — gentle- novel," said Du Maurier. man glass-blower, l-'or until the Re\"olu- A luxurious room it was. with thick car- tion glass-lilowing w.is a monopoh- of the ]iets anil inviting arm-chairs, the walls cov- gciitii/u>)/i/>u-s : that is to sa\". no commoner ered with stamped leather, ami hung with might engage in this imhistrw at that time many of the master's drawings in quiet considered an art. \"ou kno«" the old trames. In luie corner a water-color jior- French sa\ung ; trait, b\' Du Maurier. of Canon Amger. and, from the same brush, the picture of a ladv ' l'"nr souiilor un vcm with a violin, on the wall to the left of the '' '•'"' '■■"■"' ,i;>-'"iil'<'"i deciu'ative I'lreiilace, from over which, in the place of hoiKu', another, smaller, model "A \'ear or two ago." continued Dii of the armless \'enus looks down. To the Maurier. " 1 was o\'er in Paris with Ihirnaiui right is a graml piano, and elsewhere other and hhirniss, ami we went into Notre I'aiue, furniture of noticeable st)de, and curtains, and as we were examining some of the screens, and ornaments. A beautiful room, gravestones with which erne of the aisles in fact, and within it is none of the litter is in places laid. I came upon a I'.usson of the man of letters or of the painter. who had been buried there, and on the It was here that I iu-st saw Du Maurier, stone was car\-ed luir coat-of-arms, but it a ipiiet man of no great stature, who at was almost all effaced, and there only re- tiie first sight of him impre ' ' ■ ■ i.Trc onuiK-. a smile, " about one's -- .. .. .tudio." Those were amongst the ilesceiit. So m.in\- accidents oci-iir, [made lirst words that Du Manner said, and there use of ni.iiu- of the luimes which occur in was of '■ ' '■ " — ' "-• .>..,^...^. v..^,^ ^.l.■V VI HI. Ill I V<1 LIU. ll.llllL,^ WlllLll ('(.(.ill 111 shospitalit_\-in them and the freemasonr\- tlu' papers ciMicerning m\ family history, letters. in ■ Peter Ilibetson.' My lather was a small itiititr, whose Dii l^^.\^'RIER's familv. income was derivt'd from (uir glass-works in Anjou. Ik- was born in England, for " ^[\• full name is C.eorge bonis Palmella his father had lied to iMigland "to escape Bussiui till Maurier, but we were of \ery the guillotine when the Revolution broke small nohilitw .M \- ■■■'■"" p.,i,„,.ui., „..,'.. ,-,,,t ".,„,i fi • . i.- ■ ,. , THE AUTHOR OF "TRILBY." MR, ni' MMRIF.K S IIill'SR ON I) A M I'S'IK .\ H HKATK. pounds a year for each member of his family. He died in tlu- post nf school- master at Tours. CHII.DHOriD .'iNn YOUTH. . " My mother was an Englishwoman, and was married to my father at the liritish Embassy in Paris, and I was born in Paris, on March 6, 1834, in a little house in the Champs-Elysees. It bure the number So. It was afterwards sold by my father, and has since been pulled down. I often look at the spot when I am in Paris and am walking down the Champs-Elysees, and what I most regret at such times are the pine trees which in my childhood used to be there — very different from the miser- able, stumpy avenue of to-day. It is a dis- illusion which c<)mes upon me with equal force at each new visit, for I remember the trees, and the trees onlv. Indeed, I onlv lived in the house of my birth for two years, for in 1S36 my parents removed to Belgium, and here I remember with peculiar vivid- ness a ISelgian man-servant of ours, called Francis. I used to ask him to take me in his arms and to carrv me down-stairs to look at some i)eautiful birds. I used to think that these were real birds each time that I l(«)ked at them, although, in fact, thev were but painted on the panes, and I had been told so. 1 reinember another childish hallucination. I used to sleep in tiiy par- ents' room, and when I turned my face to the wall, a door in the wall used to open, and a charhonnier, a coal-man, big and black, used to come and take me up and carry i82 H^^^AX documfxts. me down a long, winding- staircase, into a ■'Froin lloulognc we went to Varis, to kitclien, where liis wife and children were, li\e ni an apartment on the first lloor of and treated me very kindly. In triuh, the JKUise No. i cS in the Cdianips-Klysees. there was nenher door, nor i/tarboiuiii-r. The house ^till stanils, but the ground nor kitchen. It was an hallucinat Km ; \et lloor is nou' a iaf,\ and the lirst Hour is it possessed me again ami again. part of it. 1 feel sorr\' when 1 look up at " We stayed three years in Kelgiuin, and the windows from whicii niv liear mother's when I was live years idd 1 went with \w\ face used to watch for m\' return from parents to l.oiuloii, where niv father took scluxd, and see waiters luistlnig about ami a house — the luuise winch a year later was in\- home iiu'aded. taken lyv Charles Dickens — i Devonshire "I \\ cut to scluiol at tlie age of thirteen. Terrace, ^[arylebone Road. Of my life here in the I'ensicni Frotissard, in the Avenue 1 liest remember that I used to go out riding du f^ois tie Boulogne. It was kept by a in the park, on a little pony, escorted bv man called Frotissard, a splendid fellow, a groom, who led my pony by a strap, and whom I adniireti inniiensely and remember that I tliil not like to be held in leash tins witli affection and gratitude. He became wav, and tried to get awav. One dav when a deput\' after the Revolution of i CS48. 1 was grumbling at the groom, he said I He was assisted in the school-work by Ins was to be a good bov, for there was the son, who was also one of the heroes of mv Qneen surrounded b\' her lords; and he vouthtui davs, anotiier splendid fellow. I added : ' Master Oeorgie, take c)ff vour hat was a la/.v lad, witii no partictdar bent, ami to the Queen and all her lords.' And then may say that I worked really hard for one cantered past a young woman surrounded year. I made a number of friends, of by horsemen. I waved my hat, and the course, but of my comrades at the I'eusion young woman smiled and kissed her hand Froussard, only one distinguished liimself to me. It was the Queen and her equer- in after life. He was a big boy, two years ries. my senior. His name was Louis Ilecipie "We onlv stayed a year in Devonshire de Fouquiere. He distinguished himself Terrace, for my father grew very poor, in literatin'e, and edited Andre Chcnier's He was a man of scientific tastes, and lost poems. His life has recently been written his monev in inventions which never came bv .Anatolc ]''rancc. to anything. So we had to wander forth " Ves, I am ashamed to sa_\- that I did again, and this time we went to Boulogne, not distinguish myself at school. 1 shall and there we lived in a beautiful house at write mv school life in mv new novel ' The the top of the tirande Rue. I had sunny Martians.' At the age of seventeen 1 hours there, and was very happv. It is a went up iox \w\ bacJiot^ \w\ baccalameale part of mv life w hich I shall describe in tlegree, at the Sorbonne, ami was pluckeil one of my books. for my written Latin version. It is true "Much of my childhood is related in that \\w nose began to bleed tluring the ' Peter Ibbetson.' My favorite book was e.\aminati(Hi, and that upset me, and, the ' Swiss Family Robinson,' aiul ne.xt, besides, the professor w ho was in charge 'Robinson Crusoe.' I used to devour of the room had got an itlea into his lieatl these books. that 1 had smuggled a ' crib ' in, and kept watching me so carefull\- th.it I got ner- DU M.\ui^iER A l..\TF, spE.VKF.R. '^'""* '""-' 'li"'ied. My poor mother was very vexed with me for my failure, for we " I was a late speaker. INIy parents must were vcrv poor at that time, ami it was have thought me dumb. And one day I important that 1 shoukl do well. My surprisetl them all by coming out with a father was then in lingland, and slun'tlv hnig sentence. It was, 'Papa est alh' alter ni\- discmnliture he wrote for me i/icz le boucJii-i- pour achetfr ilc la vianJc to join him there. A\'e had not informed /()//;■ mainait,' ami so astonished cver\- him of nn' failure, ami I felt very miser- body." able as 1 crossed, because 1 thought that Cieorge du Maurier has recently again he would be very angry with me. lle astonished everybody in a similar way, met me at the landing at London Ihidge, coming forth loud and articulate anil ami, at the sight of my utterly woe-be- strong, after a long silence, which one gone face, guessed the truth, and burst fancied was to be forever prolonged. out into a roar of laughter. I think that " We used to speak both F^rench and this roar of laughter gave me the great- English at home, and I was brought up in est pleasure 1 ever experienced in all my both languages. life. THE AUTHOR OF ''TRILBY." 183 A CONTEST FOR DU MAURIER BETWEEN SCIENCE AND THE ARTS. " You see my father was a scientific man, and hated everything that was not science, and despised all books, the classics not less than others, which were not on scientific subjects. I, on the other hand, was fond of books — of some books, at least. When I was quite a boy, I was enthusiastic about Byron, and used to read out 'The Giaour' and 'Don Juan' to my mother for hours together. I knew the shipwreck scene in ' Don Juan ' by heart, and recited it again and again ; and though my admiration for Byron has passed, I still greatly delight in that mag- nificent passage. I can recite every word of it even now. Then came Shelley, for whom my love has lasted, and then Tenny- son, for whom my admiration has never wavered, and will last all my life, though now I qualify him with Browning, Swin- burne was a revelation to me. When his ' Poems and Ballads ' appeared, I was lit- erally frantic about him, but that has worn off. " My father, then, never reproached me for my failure in the bachot examination, indeed, never once alluded to it. He had made up his mind that I was intended for a scientist, and determined to make me one. So he put me as a pupil at the Birkbeck Chemical Laboratory of University Col- lege, where I studied cheinistry under Dr. Williamson. I am afraid that I was a most unsatisfactory pupil, for I took no interest at all in the work, and spent almost all my time in drawing caricatures, I drew all my life, I may say ; it was my favorite occupation and pastime. Dr. Williamson thought me a very unsatisfac- tory student at chemistr)', but he was greatly amused with my caricatures, and we got on very well together. " My ambition at that time was to go in for music and singing, but my father objected very strongly to this wish of mine, and invariably discouraged it. M_\- father, I must tell you, possessed himself the sweetest, most beautiful voice that I have ever heard; and, if he had taken up singing as a profession, would most certainly have been the greatest singer of his time. Indeed, in his youth he had studied music for some time at the Paris Conservatoire, THE DRAWING-ROOM IN MR. DU MAURIER S HOUSE. From a photograph by Fradelle & Young, London. I 84 j/rM.4\ /wr.u/:x7s. but his f.imih' objecteil lo liis folldwiiii^" tlie profession, lor tlie\' wei'e l.c^itimists aiul s t r o 11 ^- t'atliolics, aiul vou know in wiiat contempt the staye was iieUl at tlie lie^nininy,' of this eentin-)-. It is a pit\-, tor tliere were inillioiis in Ins tliroal. " W e were all iiuisical in our tamilv : iii\- father, ni\- sis- ter (the --istei' who married C'lemeiit Scott, a most gifted ]iiaiiistef, and then nu'self. I was at that time cra/v about iiuisic, and ii^ed to practise mv voice wherever and whenever 1 could, even on the tops of omnibuses. lUit m\- father al- wa}-s tliscotira^ed me. I re- ': member one night we Were crossing Smithfield Market to- gether, and I was talking to m\" l.ither about niiisic. ' 1 am sure that 1 cotdd become a singer.' 1 said, 'and if von like I will prt'\"e it to ^■oll. I have mv tuning-fork in mv iiocket. Sliall 1 show \oit mv A ? ' " ' ^ es.' said niv father, ' I shotikl like to hear \'otir ideti ot an .A.' So I sang the note. M\" fathei' laughed. ' 1 'o \'ou call that an .\ ? Let me show \ oil how to sing it.' And then and there rtiipg out a note lit iiuisic. low tind sweet at the outset, and swelling as it went, till It seemed to hll all .Smith- field with divine meliuh". 1 can never fiu- nu' f.ither, who \\,is still laun meed that i get tlutt scene, nevt't ; the dark night, the had a gieat fiiliire bcfiuc iiu' in the pursuit huieh' pUice. ami that wa\"e of the swcct- ol siience, set me up o\\ \\\\ .iccotinl in est sound that in\- ears lia\e e\<.a' IkmiiI. a cheniic.il l.ilior.itorx' in H.ird's ^'ard, " Sometime Liter ni\' f.it her relented and lliickUa'shur\', in t In- cil\ . I'lie house is st ill g,i\-e mc a few music lessims. 1 won liiiii there; 1 saw it a few d.n s ago. It was a over bv showing him a dr.iwiiig which 1 Unc l,ilior.itoi-\-, lor ni\" I. il her being a poor li.id prndiiced in Williamson's class-room, m.in ii.il tir.ilU" lilted it up in the most in which I w.is reprcscntt-d bowing gi'acc- e\pt'nsi\e sl\lc. with .ill sorts lA instrii- fiilU" in acknowledgment i>( the ,ip|il.iiisc incuts. In the midst of iii\- brightlv-pob 1 if an amlience w Ik an I li.id cleia ri lied wit h ishcd .ipparal iis licri.' 1 s,il,.iiid in the long ni\' mnsic.il t.ihaits. Music h.is .dw.i\s inUawals hclwci.ai biismcss drew .iiid di"ew. been a .great delight to mc, and niilil "The onl\' occ.ision n\\ widu'h lln' sa.ge leceiitlv I could sing \\c\\. i'.iit I li,i\e ol li, lid's N.ird was .ililc to render aii\' real spoiled m\- \(iice b\' cigarellc-sim ik nig. ser\'icc to liiiniaiiit\- w.is when he was " Mv poiu' lathci", 1 ma\' add, ,is I ,iin (.aig.igcd li\' the directors of .i ciMnp.iiu' for speaking id' his music, d powers, died in wiM'king ccrlam gold mines in l)c\onshirc my arms — as he w, is singing one ol ("onnt which were being grcith' ' lioomcd,' and de Segur's thanking songs. lie lelt this to which the public w;is snbscriliing hca\il\a world almost with music lui his lips. to go down to 1 )e\ onshire to ,issa\' the ore. " 1 remained ,il the I'urkbeck 1 .abor.itory 1 lanc\- tlie\ expected me to send them a for twai \'cars, that is to sti\- t ill iSs.pwheii report likel\-lo further teni|)l the public. From a photograph by Fradcllc & Voun^", London. THE AUTHOR OF " TRILBY: 185 If this was their expectation they were mistaken ; for after a few experiments, I went back to town and told them that there was not a vestige of gold in the ore. The directors were of course very dissatis- fied with this statement, and insisted on mv returning to Devonshire to make further investigation. I went and had a good time of it down in the country, for the miners were very jolly fellows ; but I was unable to satisfy my employers, and sent up a report which showed the public that the whole thing was a swindle, and so saved a good many people from loss. ADOPTS ART AS A I'ROFESSION THE LOSS OF HIS EYE. " My poor father died in 1856, and at the age of twenty-two I returned to Paris and went to live with my mother in the Rue Paradis-Poissonniere. We were very poor, and very dull and dismal it was. However, it was not long before I entered upon what was the best time of m^r life. That is when, having decided to follow art as a profession, I entered Gleyre's studio to study drawing and painting. Those were my joyous Quartier Latin days, spent in the charming society of Poynter, Whistler, Armstrong, Lament, and others. I have described Gleyre's studio in 'Trilby.' For Gleyre I had a great admiration, and at that time thought his ' Illusions Perdues ' a veritable masterpiece, though I hardly think so now. "My happy Quartier Latin life lasted only one year, for in 1857 we went to Antwerp, and here I worked at the Ant- werp Academy under De Keyser and Van Lerius. And it was on a day in A^^an Leri- us's studio that the great tragedy of my life occurred." The voice of Du Maurier, who till then had been chatting with animation, sudden- ly fell, and over the face came an indefin- able expression of mingled terror and anger and sorrow. " I was drawing from a model, when suddenly the girl's head seemed to me to dwindle to the size of a walnut. I clapped my hand over my left eye. Had I been mistaken ? I could see as well as ever. But when in its turn I covered my right eye, I learned what had happened. My left eye had failed me ; it might be alto- MR. DU MAURIER S STUDIO IN HIS HOUSE AT HAMPSTEAD HEATH. From a photograph by Fradelle & Young, London. i86 IJL'Af.LX nocL'j/j-xrs. gether lost. It was so siuklen a blow that drawing was at the time. My first draw- I was as tluinderstriick. Seeing my dis- ing in ' Piuich ' appeared in June, iS6o, and niav. Van I.erius came up and asked me represented Whistler and myself going into wiiat might be the matter ; and when I t(dd a iihotographer's studio. The pliotog- liini, he said that it was nothnig, that he rapher is \-ery angry with us I'or smoking, hail had that himself, ami so on. And a and sa\-sthat his is not an ortlinary studio, doctor whom I anxiouslv consulted that where one smokes anil is ilisorderiy. same day comforted me, and said that the " My life ^^■as a \er\- prosperous one accident was a passing one. llo«'ever, from the outset in London. 1 was married my eye grew worse ami worse, and the in i8(\^, anil my wife and 1 never once fear of total blindness beset me con- knew linancial troubli's. M\- only trouble stantlv." has been \n\ fear about ni\' e\es. Apart It was with a movement akin to a shud- from th.it I ha\'e been ver\- luippy." der that Iiu M,iurier spoke these words. As i'u Maurier was speaking, his second and m\ mind went back to what I luul son, C'h.irles, .i tall, handsome youth of heard from the girl-preacher as 1 crossed distinguished manners, entered the room, the heath, as in the same low tones and "Ah, that is the 'Mummer,' as we call with the same indefmable expression he him," saiil Du Maurier. " C'hai'les is play- continued : ing in ' Monev ' at the C^irrick, and doing " That was the most ti'agic event of m\ well. He draws three pounils a week, and life. It has poisoneil all mv existence." that's more than niv eldest son, who is in Dti Maurier, as though to shake off a the army, is earning." troubling obsession, rose from his chair. The conversation turned on the stage, and walked about the room, cigarette in " \\dien I went to consult my old friend hand. John Hare about letting Charles go on "In the spring of 1S51) M'e heard of a the stage," said Du Maurier, "Hare saiil great specialist who lived in Diisseldorf, that provided one can get to the top of and we went to see him. He examineil the tree, the stage is tiie most lielightfid my eyes, and he said that though the left profession ; but that for the actor who only eve was certaiirlv lost, I had no reason to succeeds moderately, it is the most miser- fear losing the other, but that I must be able, pothouse existence imaginable, very careful, and not drink beer, and not eat cheese, and so on. It was verv com- forting to know that I was not to be iilind, connection with " ihinch " — .\ climpse but I have never quite shaken off the ter- of -rHACKKR.w. ror of that apprehension. " Most of the jokes in ' runcli ' are mv own, but a good many are sent to me, M.\KiNG HIS OWN w.vv IN LIFE. whicii 1 twist and turn into form. Hut Postlethwaite, Bunthorne, Mrs. Ponsonby "In the following year I felt that the Tonikyns, Sir Cieorgeous Midas, and the time had come for me to earn my own other characters associated with mv draw- living, and so one day I asked my mother ings, are all my own creations, to give me ten pounds to enable me to " 1 have made many interesting friends go to London, and told her that I should during mv long life in London, and the never ask her for any more monev. She lecture which I have delivered all over did not want me to go, and as to ne\er I'aigland contains mam' anecdotes abinit asking for money, she begged me not to them. 1 iH'xer met Charles I'ickens to make any such resolution. Poor woman, s|ieak to him, and oiih- saw him once ; that she would have given me her last penny, was at Leech's funeral. Thackeray 1 also But it happened that I never had occasion met only once, at the house of Mrs. to ask her assistance ; on the contrary, the Sartoris. Mrs. Sartoris, who was Adelaide time came wdien I was able to add to the Kemble, and Hamilton Aide, who knew comforts of her existence. of my immense admiration for Thackeray, "My first lodging in London was in wanted to introduce me to him, but I re- Newman Street, where I shared rooms with fused. I was too diffident. I was so Whistler. I afterwards moved to rooms in little, and he was so great. Puit all that Earl's Terrace, in the house where AValter evening I remained as close to him as Pater died. I began contributing to ' Once possible, greedily listening to his words, a Week ' and to 'Punch ' very soon after my I remember that during the evening an arrival in London, and shockingly bad my American came up to him — rather a com- THE AUTHOR OF " TRILBY.' 187 mon sort of man — and claimed acquaint- write are curious. I was walking one ance. Thackeray received him most evening with Henry James up and down cordially, and invited him to dinner. I the High Street in Bayswater — I had envied that x'X.merican. And my admira- made James's acquaintance much in the tion for Thackeray increased when, as it same way as I have made yours. James was getting late, he turned to his two said that he had great difficulty in findmg daughters, JNIinnie and Annie, and said to plots for his stories. 'Plots!' I e.vclaimed, them, ^Allans, mesJemoiselks, il est tc/iips de 'I am full of plots;' and I went on to course, one of my inti- ten. s'en aller,' with the best French accent I have ever heard in an Englishman's mouth. " Leech was, of mates ; my mas- ter, I may say, for to some ex- tent mv work w a s modelled on his. I spent the autumn of the year which preceded his death with him at Whitby. He was not very funny, but was kind, amiable, and genial, a delightful man. "I shall never forget the scene at his funeral. Dean Hole was officiating, and as the first sod fell with a sounding thud on the coffin of our dear, dear friend, Millais, who was stand- ing on the edge of the grave, burst out sob- bing. It was as a signal, for, the moment after, each man of mourners was sobbing also memorable sight." tell him the plot of 'Trilby.' ' Jhit you ought to write that story,' cried James. ' I can't write,' I said, ' I have never writ- AN ALCOVE IN THE DRAWING-KOOT^I OF DU MAURIER S HOUSE. From a photograph by Fradelle & Youngs, London. If you like the plot so much )-ou may take it.' But James w o u 1 d not take it ; he said it was too valuable a pres- ent, and that I must write the storv mvself. " \V e'l I , on reaching home that night I set to work, and by the ne-\t morn- ing I had writ- ten the first two n u m b e r s of 'Peter Ibbet- son.' It seemed all to flow from my pen, with- out eftort, in a full stream. But I thought it must be poor stuff, and I de- t e r m i n e d to look for an omen to learn whether any success would attend this new departure. So I walked out in that great concourse It was a NOVEL-WRITING THE PLOT OF " TRILEV OFFERED TO HENRY JAIIES. into the garden, and the very first thing that I saw was a large wheelbarrow, and that comforted me and reassured me ; for, as you will remem- ber, there is a wheelbarrow in the first chapter of ' Peter Ibbetson.' " Some time later I was dining with Osgood, and he said, ' I hear, Du Maurier, Then, going on to speak of his literary that you are writing stories,' and asked work bu Mliurier said, " Nobody more me to let him see something. So ' Peter than 'myself was surprised at the great Ibbetson ' was sent over to America and success of my novels. I never expected was accepted at once. Then ' Trilby ' anything of the sort. I did not know followed, and the ' boom ' came, a 'boom' that I could write. I had no idea that I which surprised me immensely, for I never had had any experiences worth recording, took myself au sMeiix as a novelist. In- The circumstances under which I came to deed, this 'boom' rather distresses me HUM AX nOCCJ/EXTS. when I reflect that Thack- eray never had a "boom.' And I hold that a ' boom ' means nothing" as a sign of literary excellence, nothing but monev." Du Manner writes at ir- regidar intervals, and in such moments as he can snatch from his " Punch " work. " pLir," he savs, " I am taknig more pains than ever over mv drawmg." And so saving, he fetched an album in which he showed me the elaborate prepara- tion, in the wav of studies L' MAIK[EKS " SU.NATlKt: AS CAK\t;n, ALONG \\ITH IHt SIG- XATIKKS or OTHER MEMHEKS OF the " ronch " staff, ^>n the table from which the \\eeklv "pinch" dinner is eaten. " Everv book which is worth anything." said Du Maurier, ■'has had its orig-inal life." And again, " I think that tlie best years in a man's life are after he is forty. So Trol- lope used to sav. Does Daudet say so too ? A man at fortv has ceased to hunt the moLin. I would add that in order to enjoy life after fortv, it is perhaps necessary to have achieved, before reaching that age, at least some success." He spoke of the letters he has been receiving since the "boom," and sketches, for a cartoon which was to and said that on an average he received appear in a week or two in his paper. One hve letters a dav from America, of a most figure, from a female model, had been flattering description. " Some of my corre- drawn several times. There was here the spondents, however, don't give a man his infinite capacitv fru" taking pains. " I usu- 'du'," he remarked, with a shadow of a ally write on the top of the piano, standing, smile. and I never look at my manuscript as I Du INIaurier speaks willingly and enthu- write, partlv to spare m}- eves, and partlv siasticallv about literature. He is an because the writing seems literallv to flow ardent admirer of Stevenson, and quoted from my pen. Mv best time is just after with gusto the passage in " Kidnapped " lunch. AIv writing is frequentlv inter- where the scene between David Balfour rupted, and I walk about the studio and and Clunv is described. " One would have smoke, and then back to the manuscript to look at one's guests," he said, " before oncemore. Afterwards I revise, ver\' care- inviting them, if not preciselv satisfied fully now, for I am taking great pains with with one's hospitalitv, to step outside and my new book. ' The Martians ' is to be a take their measure. Imagine me proposiug very long book, and I cannot sav when it will be finished." A summons from Mrs. du Maurier to the drawing-room, where tea was served, here interrupted the conversation. A com- uch an arrangement to a giant like ^'al Prinsep." The dav on which he is able to devote most time to writing is Thursdav. " C'cs/ mon gra/iJ jour." On \\'ednesdavs he is fortable room, with amiable people whom engaged with a model ; a female model one seemed to recognize. Over the mantel comes everv Fridav. three portraits of Du Maurier's children, It is characteristic of the man that he by himself. " Zf-.f rw7<)," he said, not with- should work with such renewed applica- out pride. Above these a water-color tion at his old craft, in spite of the fact picture of the character of the drawings in that circumstances have thrown wide open " Punch." "It has been hawked round all to him the gates of a new career, over America and England," said Du Man- He reminds one as to phvsique, and in rier of this picture, "at exhibitions and certain manifestations of a verv nervous places, but nobody would buy it." temperament, oj another giant worker, whose name is Emile Zola. A MAN AT HIS BEST AFTER fopnTV. }''}^^ 'i*^ '« altogether Original and him- selt, a strong and striking intlividuality, a Over the fire in the comfortable room man altogether deserving of his past and the conversation touched on many tilings, present good fortune. A. CONAN UOYLE AND ROBERT BARR. REM. COXVKRSATION BETWKKN 'I'll KM. RuLLiKDEU uv Mk. J;ai;i;. IN the very beginning I wisli to set down to run in five capital " I's" in the first few the fact tliat I am not a professional lines of this article. There 3'ou have the interviewer, but that I have some acquaint- whole secret of interviewing as practiced ance with the principles of the art. The a.d. 1894, in England. The successful observant reader will notice that I under- interviewer lilazons forth as much of his stand the business, because I have managed own personality as possible, using his vic- BARR AND DOYLE AT DR. DOYLE's HOUSE, SOUTH NORWOOD. FROM A STREET. LO.NDON, W. PHOTOGRAPH EV FK.\DELI.E & YOUNG, 246 REGENT 100 HU.UAX I)0CL'MJ::X1'S. tim as a pet;" on which to hang" his own shorthand reporter behind a screen, as opinions. If the interviewer could be in- l.ouis XI. placeel Quentin Itnrward when dnced to l"ian^" liimself as well as his opin- the kini:;" interviewed the C'onnt of Creve- ions, the world would be brighter and ctvur, he might ]ierhaps get a Real Con- better. I loathe the Faiglish pompous versation, but otherwise 1 don't see how it interview. is to be done. But the interview ii"i luigland is an im- To show tlie i")ractical dilticidties that ]"iorted article ; it is not native to the soil, meet a Real Conversationalist at the \"erv In An"ierica )"ou get the real thing, and beginning", I pulletl out my note-book and even the youngest newspaper n"ian mider- pencil, and, looking across at m\" victim, stands how it should be diine. An inter- solennih" said : viewer shmdd be like a clear sheet of plate " N(mv, Conai"i lloyle, talk." glass that forms the front window of an Instead of comiih'nig with niv most rea- attractive store, through which }-ou can see sonable request, llie novelist threw back the articles thsplaved, scarcelv suspecting his heail and laughcil, and, impressed as I that anything stands between von and the was with the momentousness of the occa- interestnig" collection. ^ion, so heartv antl infectious is his laugh \ et some people are never satished, and that after a few moments I was compelled there arose a man in the United States "who to join him. resolved to invent a new kind of interview. ^\"e had looted two comfortable wicker His name is S. S. [McClure, anil he is the chairs from the house, ami were seated at owner and editor of this Magazine. I hope the farther end of the long lawn that I may be allowed to praise or abuse a man stretches from the l>ovle residence towards in his owi"i magazine, and I hereby give the cit_\- of Londtui. It is one of those him warning" that if he cuts out or changes smooth, exceedingb" green, velvety lawns a line of mv copv I wdl never write another to be fountl onh' in lM"iglaml, vet easy of word for him. He ma\- disclaim what I manufacture there : for, as tlie ("Oxford say in any other portion of this periodical, gardener said to the American visitor, all if he likes, but I alone am responsible for vou lia\"e to do is to leave the la\\"n out- this section. He would have no hesitation doors for five hundred ^"ears or so, cutting in asking" Ciabriel to write him an article on and rolling it frequently, and there ^"ou the latest thing in trumpets, and the re- are. Little, white, hanl rubber golf balls niarkable thing is, he \vould actually get lav about im the gi"ass, like croipiet balls the manuscript. that had shrunk fron"i exposure to the So one day S. S. ^IcClnre invented what weather. Mr. ]>o\"le is a golf inebriate, he thought was a new style of interview, and practices on this lawn, lamling the "which he patented imder the title of " Real balls in a tub when he makes the right sort Conversations." The almanac of the fut- of a hit, and generally breaking a window lire, "which s]")rinkles choice bits of inforn"ia- when he doesn't. tion among weather predictions and signs I jnit away my note-book and pencil. of the zodiac, will have this line: " April " I ha\e a proposal to n"iake," I said. 14, 1S93 — Real Conversations inventeil by " Vou and 1 ha\"e frequently set the world S. S. McClure," right, and sohetl all the ]"iroblems. with no Yet the idea was not i"iew ; we all ha\"e magazine editor to make us afraid, ^\'e practiced it as boys, ^\'e got two dogs to- have talked in \o\w garden and in mine, at gether who helil dillerent opii"iions on social \"our hospitable board and at mine, at vour matters, aiul lU'ged them to discuss the club and at unne, on vour golf ground and question, •\\hile we stood b\" and enio\"ed — )"cs, 1 rcmcndn'r now, I ha\"en't one of the arg"iuncnt. This is what [NlcClnre now my own ; now 1 know A'our views on things does with two writers, and the weapon in pretty well, so 1 will " fake ' a Real Con- the Real Conversation, as in the dog-light, \"ersation, as we sa\- in the States." is the jaw. " lUit that wouldn't be quite fair to Mc- The only fault that I have to find with (.'hire's readers, would it ?" objected Doyle, these Real Conversations is that they are who is an honest man and has ne\"er liad not conversations, and that they cannot be the ailvantage of a newspaper training. " I real. Try to imagine two sane men silting read all of those Real Conversations in the down deliberatel)' to talk for publication ! magazine, and 1 thought them nuist inter- Only a master mind ciuild have conceived esting. The idea seems to me a good one." such a situation — a mind like that of I\lr. " Now that ought to show you how easy McClure, accustomed to accomplishing the it will be for me to make up a Real Conver- impossible. Now, if he were to station a sation with you, Vour iipinion and mine A. CO AT AN DOYLE AND ROBERT BARR. 191 are always the opposite of each other, to attain ; his criticism, even if severe, All I would have to do would be to re- would be helpful and intelligent. A member what I thought on any subject, schoolboy, on the other hand, seems to then write something entirely different, and give his verdict on a book by intuition, but I would have Conan Doyle. That proves he rarely makes a mistake. See how the to me the hollowness of the other inter- schoolboys of the world have made " Treas- views ISIcClure has pubHshed. Howells ure Island " their own. Of course, I would agreed with Boyesen, Hamlin Garland not e.vpect an accurate estimate of " Robert agreed with James Whitcomb Riley, and Elsmere " from a schoolboy, so on all along the line. This isn't natural. Barr. I suppose an author would hardly No literary man ever agrees with any other like to slate another author's work— pub- literary man. He sometimes pretends to licly. Besides, he would be compelled, as ■ ^y , A CORNER OF DR. DOYLE S DRAWING ROOM. FROM A PHOTOGRAPH BY ELLIOTT & FRY, BAKER STREET, LONDON, \V. like the books another fellow has written, but that is all humbug. He doesn't in his heart ; he knows he could have done them better himself." " Oh, you're all wrong there ; all wrong — entirely wrong! Now, if I had to choose my critics, I would choose my fellow- workers, or schoolboys." "Just what I said. You are placing the other authors on a level with schoolboys ! That is worse than " Doyle. Listen to me. A fellow- author knows the difficulties I have to contend with ; he appreciates the effect I am trying a matter of self-protection, to keep up the pretence that there is such a thing as lit- erature in England at the present moment, pjut there is Mr. Howells, who has no Eng- lish axe to grind, and he, from the calm, serene, unprejudiced atmosphere of New York, frankly admits that literature in England is a thing of the past, and that the authors of to-day do not understand even the rudiments of their business. Of course you agree with him? Doyle. I think there never was a time when there was a better promise. There are at least a dozen men and women who 193 jwMAy ixK'iM i\ rs. have nuuic a ilccp niavk, aiul « lu) aro sull ^lUiiis;. No iMic can sa\' how far tlu'N" ina\' t;o. Soiin' (if llioiii arc suro to tk'xelop, for llu' past allows us lliat lu'tion is an art whioh iiiipi'o\a.'S up to the ajic of l'ift\- or so. With fullor kuo«'lo(,lj;o ol hU' comes ^I'catcr power in dcscribui;; it. J^d/r. X ilo.'en ! \ ou alwa\"s \\erc a t;enei"ous man, HonIc. \\ lio are tlie taientcil tweUc. so ih.it 1 nia\- calile to ll.iwclls? Di'vli-. riiere are more tlian a do.-'en — Ivirric, Kiplnp^'. Mi-s. (Mive Si'lnem- er, S.iiah CiranJ, Miss llarrailen, (iilbert Parker, (^*uillei--roucli. Hall C'aine, Ste\'enson, Stanle\' \\ e\ iii.ui, Anlhon\- Hope, (.'rockett. Rider llai;- .^arU, Jerome, /,ant;-will, C'lai-k Russell, Heoia^e Mooi'e — iiian\' of them under tiin-t\' and few of then) nuuh o\"er it. 'Idiere are others, of course. These names just hapinai to occin' to me. ..KAril IIV A. .S\\AN 'fl \\ A ISOK, lailNlUMvliH. 1 \ \ t siiuuLuCK liuUMiib. riaiM A riioruGUAi'H ol'' A uusr uv wit. kins. />'(///. ^'ou think a man im- pro\'es up to lift\' ? Ptiyli. ('er(ainl\-, if he keeps out ol a j;idove and refuse's In do his work in a mecliani<'al way. \\h)-,niany of t he ^ri'atest writers in our fiction did not lie.niu until alter lorlx'. 'rhackera\ w.is about fori)'. Scolt was pasl forty, ("harles Rt'adc and ('■emoe I'diot \vere as nincli. Richardson was hity. To draw life, one must know it. Jian. iM y experience is that wlicn a man is lifl\- he knows lie will inipro\i' until he issi\l\',and when he is si\ly he feels thai im- provement will keep ri^hl on mil il 111' is sex'cnly ; whereas, when he islwcnty he ////// /'.v 1 1 1, it perhaps he will know more when he is lliirly, but is not sure. Man is an amus- in^H" tminuil. Now 1 wamld liki- an American do/en, if \(mi don't niind. J^oylc. I ha\c not read a book lin- a Ioiil; linn' that h;is stirred me as unieii as Miss VVilkins's ' Pembroke." 1 think she is a very jjrcat writer. It is always A. COXA^^ DOYLE AXU ROBERT BARR^ classic, but 193 risky to call a recent book this one reall}' seems to me to have every characteristic of one. Barr. Well ? Doyle. A\'ell ! Barr. That is only one. Don't vou read American fiction ? Doyle. Not as much as I should wish, very superficial things, and good old human nature is always there under a coat of varnish. When one hears of a literature of the A\'est or of the South, it sounds ag- gressively sectional. Barr. Sectional ' If it comes to that,, who could be more sectional than Hardy or Barrie — the one giving us the literature of DR. DOYLE :N HIS STUDV. FRU.M A PHOTOGK.APH B\' FR.ADELLE & 'I'Ol'NG, 246 REGEXT STREET, LO.NDO.N', W. but what I have read has, I hope, been fairly representative. I know Cable's work and Eugene Field's and Hamlin Garland's and Edgar Fawcett's and Richard Harding Davis's. I think Harold Frederic's " In the Valley " is one of the best of recent historical romances. The danger for Amer- ican fiction is, I think, that it should run in many brooks instead of one broad stream. There is a tendency to overaccentuate local peculiarities ; difl'erences, after all, are a county and the other of a village ? You know that a person in a neighboring village said of Barrie, that he was " no sae bad fur a Kerrimuer man." ^^'hen you speak of a section in America, you must not forget it may be a bit of land as big as France. Doyle. Barrie and Hardy have gained success by showing how the Scotch or Wessex peasant shares our common human nature, not by accentuating the points in which thev differ from us. 194 uiw/Ax POCi-Mf-yrs. DR. D0\ LE S ICELAND FALCON. Ban-. AVell, I think Howells is demol- ished. A\'hat l\o you think of liim and of James ? Doyle. James, I think, has had a great and permanent influence upon hction. His beautiful clear-cut style and his artistic restraint must affect every one wlio reads him. I'm sure his " Portrait of a l,ad)'" was an education to me, tliougii one has not always tlie wit to prolit bv one's eilu- cation. Ban-. Yes ; James is a writer of whom you English people ought to be proud. I wish we had an American like him. Still, thank goodness, we iiave our ^^'illiam Dean Howells. 1 lo\e Ilowells so much that I feel sure you must liave sometliing to sa\' against him ; wliat is it ? Doyh'. I admire his iionest, earnest work, but I do not admire his attitude towards all writers and critics wlio happen to differ from his school. t^ne can like \'akles .ind Hourget and Miss Austen without throwing stones at Scott and Tliackeray and Dickens. There is plenty of room tor all. Biirr. liut tlicre is the question of ait. Dovh-. \\'e talk so much about art, that we tend to forget what this art was ever invented for. It was to amuse mankini.1 — to help the sick ani.1 the dull and the weary. If Scott and Dickens h.ive done this for millions, they have done well bv their art. BiUr. Vou don't tliink, then, that the object of all fiction is to draw life as it is ? Doxli. Where would Gulliver and Doll Quixote and Dante and Goethe be, if that were so? No ; the object of fiction is to interest, and the best liction is that which interests most. If you can inter- est by drawing life as it is, by all means do so. Rut there is no reason whv you should object to \iuir neighbor using other means. Bair. Vou do not approve of (he theological novel then? Boyle. Oh yes, I do, if it is made interesting. I think the age of hction is coming — the age when religious and social and poHtical eiianges will all be effected by means cif the novelist. Look, within recent years, how much has been done by such books as "Looking Backward" or "Rob- ert Elsmere." Everybody is edu- cated now, but comparatively few are very educated. i'o get an idea to penetrate to the masses of the people, vou must put hction rouiul it, like sugar round a pill. No statesman and no ecclesiastic will have the inlluencc on public opinion which the novelist of the future will have. If he has strong convictions, he will ha\e wonderful facilities for impressing them on others. Still his first business will always be to interest. If he can't get his sugar right, people will refuse his pill. At this point nature revolted. She thought the subject too dry, and she pro- ceedetl to wet it down. A black tiuinder- ^■|oud came up over the Crystal Palace, and the lirst thing we knew the shower was upon us. lioth of us, luckily, knew enough ti) come in out of the rain. Two men hastily grasped two wicker chairs and bolted for the house, leaving litera- A. CON AN DOYLE AND ROBERT BARR. 195 ture to take care of itself in tlie back garden. Conan Doyle's stud}-, workshop, and smoking-room is a nice place in a down- pour, and I can recommend the novelist's brand of cigarettes. Show me the room in which a man works, and I'll show you — how to smoke his cigarettes. The work- bench stands in the corner — one of those flat-topped desks so prevalent in England. The English author does not seem to take kindly to the haughty, roller-top American desk, covered with transparent varnish and twenty-three patents. There is a bookcase, filled with solid historical volumes for the most part. The most remarkable feature of the room is a series of water-color drawings done by Conan Doyle's father. The Doyle family has always been a familv of artists, and the celebrated cover of " Punch " is, as everybody knows, the work of Dicky Doyle. ROBERT BARR AT Hlb DESK IN THE JFITCE. FROM A FHOTuGRAFH BV FKADELLE it YOUNG, 246 REGENT STREET^ LONDON, W. 196 HC'MAX DOCL'M£yrS. The drawings by Mr, Doyie's father are berg when the\' lav tor some lioiirs beside most weird and imaginative, being in art an ice-field, ani_l then was the tune to take something like what Edgar Allan Poe's a rise out oi the innocent polar bear, \vhc> stories are in fiction. is not accustomed to tlie Peterhead brand There are harpoons on the wail, for of humor. They would put all the grease. Doyle has been a whale fisher in his time, bones, and galley refuse into the furnace, and has the skull of a polar bear and the and the scent of the burning spread along stuffed body of an Iceland falcon to show the Arctic Circle for miles. In a few hours that his aim was accurate. There are but all the bears between there and the Pole two other Iceland talcons in England, would come trooping along with noses high The novelist came nearer to the North in the air, wondering where the banquet Pole than Xew York is to Chicago, and it \\-as. When thev read the signal, "April has always struck me as strange that he Tool," llagged from the mast-head, the did not take a sleeping-car and go through bears grunted and trudged otf home again. to the Pole and spend a night there. But Conan Dovle is not a man who goes to he was young then and let opportunities extremes, but it seems to me that he did slip. He spent his twenty-first birthday in the matter of his vovaging. He came within the Arctic Circle. home from the Arctic Circle, took iiis de- Here are three stories of his Arctic ex- gree at Edinburgh, and at once shipped for periences. A ou see, I am going to sugar- the west African coast, coat the Real Conversation, Here is a tragedv of the sea which oc- The whaler sailed from Peterhead, and curred when Dovle was a bov. He read the crew were Scotsmen with one excep- an account of it at the time, and it made a tion, Doyle was supposed to be the sur- powerful impression on his voting mind. geon of the craft. He brought two pairs An American ship called the " Marie Ce- of boxing-gloves with him, and one of the leste " was found abandoned off the west men, who was handy with his fists, was coast. Nothing on her was disturbed, and ambitious to have a bout, Doyle accom- there were no signs of a struggle. Her modated him. The man was strong, but cargo was untouched, and there was no cvi- had no science. Finding himself hard dence that she had come through a storm. pressed, Doyle struck out, and the cabin On the cabin table was screwed a sewing table being fastened to the floor with no machine, and on the arm of the sewing give to it, the sailor, when he struck it inachine was a spool of silk thread, which after the blow, found his feet in the air and would have fallen off if there had been any his head on the tloor behind the table. motion of the vessel. She was loaded with The man was heard afterwards to say to clocks, and her papers showed that she left a companion in tones of great admiration : Baltimore for Lisbon. She was taken to "Man! McAlpine, yon's the best sur- CTibraltar, but from that dav to this no one geon we've ever had. He knocked me knows what became of the captain and clean ower th' table an' blacked ma e'e." crew of the " Marie Celeste." Few men have had such a compliment This mystery of the sea set the future paid to their medical qualifications. Sherlock Holmes at work trying to find a The man who was not a Scotsman was solution for it. There was no clew to go a gloomy, taciturn person, popularly sup- on, except an old Spanish sword found in posed to be a fugitive from justice, and the forecastle, which showed signs of hav- held in deep respect on that account. He ing been recently cleaned. Doyle's solu- went on the principle that deeds speak tion of the problem appeared in the form louder than words. On one occasion the of a storv for the "Cornhill Magazine," cook took the liberty of being drunk for entitled, "J. Habbakuk Jephson's State- three days. On the third day the mur- ment," Jephson was supposed to be an derer thought this had gone far, just far, American doctor who had taken passage enough, 'Phe cooking was something on the ship for his health. Shortly after awful. He rose without a word, seized a the stor)' appeared, the following telegram long-handled saucepan and brdught it was printed in all the London papers : down on the cook's head, 'Phe bottom of "Solly F'lood, Her Majesty's advocate- the pan broke like glass, and the iron rim general at Gibraltar, telegraphs that the remained around the astonished cook's statement of J, Habbakuk "jephson is noth- neck like a collar, 'Phe man, still without ing less than a fabrication," a word, walked gloomily to his seat. There Which indeed it was ; but the telegram was no more bad cooking on that voyage, was a compliment to the realism of the Thev used to throw an ice-anchor on a story, to sav the least. A. CON AN DOYLE AND ROBERT BARR. 197 On the bookcase in the study there " Doyle, I have known you now for seven stands a bust of a man with a keen, shrewd years, and I know you thoroughly. I am face. going to say something to you that you " Who is the statesman ?" 1 asked, "Oh, that is Sherlock Holmes,' Doyle. "A young sculptor named Wil kins, from Birmingham, sent it to me. Isn't it good ? " "Excellent. By the way, is Sherlock Holmes reallv dead ? " will remember in after life. Doyle, you aid will never come to any good ! " The making of an historical novel in- volves much hard reading. The results of this hard reading, Doyle sets down in a note-book. Sometimes all he gets out of several volumes is represented by a couple Robert Barr Miss Doylt. Conan Doyle. A GROIP IX DR. DO't'LE'S GARDEN. Mrs. Doyle. Robert McClure. "Yes; I shall never write another Holmes story." Dr. Conan Doyle is a methodical worker, and a hard worker. He pastes up over his mantel-shelf a list of the things he in- tends to do in the coming six months, and he sticks to his task until it is done. He must be a great disappointment to his old teacher. When he had finished school the teacher called the boy up before him and said solemnly : of pages in this book. In turning over the most recent pages I saw much about Na- poleon, and I knew that some marvellously good short stories which Dovle has re- cently written, are set in the stormy period of Napoleon's time. "I suppose you are an admirer of that unscrupulous ruffian?" I said gently. " He was a wonderful man — perhaps the most wonderful man who ever lived. What strikes me is the lack of finalitv in his 1 I9S nCMAX rOCCMEXTS. CONAN DOYLE AT 4 \ EARS OF AGE. CONAN PON LE AT I4. CONAN DOYLE AT 22. 'NA\ tH)^ I K AT ^'S. .■J. CONAN DOYLE AND ROBERT BARR. 199 character. W h e n you make up your mind that he is a complete villain, you come on some noble trait ; and then your admiration of this is lost in some act of incredible meanness. But just think of it ! Here was a youni;- fellow of thirty, a man who had had no social advantages and but slight edu- cational training, a member of a pov- erty-stricken family, entering a room with a troop of kings at his heels, and all the rest of them jealous if he spoke a moment longer to one than to the others. Then, there must have been a great personal charm about the man, for some of those intimate with him loved him. His secretary, Meneval, writes of him with al- most doting affection." " Yes ; and then a dealer in fiction must bow down to Napoleon as the most accom- plished liar that ever lived." " Oh, no one could ever compete with him in that line. If he intended to invade Africa, he would give out that he was go- ing to Russia ; then he would tell his inti- mates in strict con- fidence that Ger- many was the spot he had his eye on ; and finally he would whisper in the ear of his most confidential secretary that Spain was the point of at- tack. He was cer- tainly an amazing and talented liar." ■' Do you think his power in this di- rection was the se- cret of his success, and is lying a virtue you would advise us all to cultivate ? " " The secret of his success seems to me to have been his ability to originate gigantic schemes that seemed fantas- tic and impossible, while his mastery of de- tail enabled him to bring his projects to completion where any other man would have failed." At the time this appears in prmt, Dr. Conan Do}de will be in America. He goes there ostensibly to deliver the series of lectures that has been so successful in Eng- land, but the real object of his visit is to see the country. This is a laudable ambi- tion, and I hope the United States and Conan Doyle will mutually like each other. CVu)i«iAj '^)vyu^^ iJuui^^lM al^B.jyy^U./i-^S. Z^ EUGENE FIELD AND HAMLIN GARLAND. A CONVERSATION. RECi')Rr)Ki) iiY IIamlin' Garland. ONE afternoon quite recently two men sat in an attic study in one of the most interesting iTomes in the city of Chi- cago, — a home that was a museum of old books, rare books, Indian relics, dramatic souvenirs and bric-a-brac indescribable, but €ach piece with a histor}^. It was a beautiful June day, and the study window looked out upon a lawn of large trees where children were rioting. It was a part of Chicago which the traveller never sees, green and restful and dignified, the lake not far off. The host was a tall, thin-haired man with woolly as those Eastern fellers expect us to be'?" "All right," said Field, taking his seat well up on the small of his back. " What does it all mean, anyway ? What you goin' to do ? " "I'm goin' to take notes while we talk, and I'm goin' to put this thing down pretty close to the fact, now, you bet," said Gar- land, sharpening a pencil. "Where you wan' to begin ?" "Oh, we'll have to begin with your an- cestry, though it's a good deal like the introductory chapter to the old-fashioned novels. We'll start early ; with your birth. a New England face of the Scotch type, for instance. rugged, smoothly shaven, and generally " Well, I was born in St. Louis." very solemn — suspiciously solemn in ex- " Is that so? " The interviewer showed an pression. His infrequent smile curled his unprofessional surprise. "Why, I thought ■wide, expressive mouth in fantastic gri- you were born in Massachusetts." maces which seemed not to affect the steady " No," said Field, reflectively. "No. I'm gravity of the blue-gray eyes. He was sorry, of course, but I was born in St. Louis ; stripped to his shirt-sleeves and sat with but my parents were Vermont people." He feet on a small stand. He chewed reflec- tively upon a cigar during the opening of the talk. His voice was deep, but rather dry in quality. mentioned this as an extenuating circum- stance, evidently. " My father was a law- yer. He was a precocious boy, — graduated from Middlebury College when he was The other man was a rather heavily built fifteen, and when he was nineteen was made man, with brown hair and beard cut rather State's Attorney by special act of the legis- close. He listened, mainly, going off into lature; without that he would have had to gusts of laughter occasionally as the other wait until he was twenty-one. He married man gave a quaint turn to some very frank and came West, and I was born in 1850." phrase. The tall host was Eugene Field, " So you're forty-three ? Where does the the interviewer a Western writer by the New England life come in ? " name of Garland. "Well, now, brother Field," said Garland, interrupting his host as he was about to open an- other case of rare books, "you remember I'm to interview you to-day." Field scowled savagely. "Oh, say. Garland, can't we put that thing off ? " " No. Must be did," replied his friend decisively. " Now, there are two ways to do this thing. We can be as literary and as delicious- ly select in our dialogue as Mr. Howells and Professor Boyesen were, or we can be wild and woolly. How would it do to be as wild and 14 THE FIELD HOMESTEAD AT F AVETTE\'l LLE, \"ERMUNT. Iir}[AX DOCl'MF.XTS. " \Mien I was seven years old ni\- motlior tlie Inuik. " And \-ou bet it's a eoi'ker." died, anil father packed us boNsia^lu niT lie |iroi.lneed ilie \-olume. wliieii was a to Massaehusetls and pat lis iinLlei' tlieeare small bandlo ^A note-pa|ier bound beauli- ot a maiden eoasin. a .Miss Frciuli, — she lulU-. It \\a;~ wrnien in a bo\';, luinial was a Ihie woman, too." hand. He s.it down to read u : Liarlaiid looked u|) I'rom liis serateh-pad to a>k, •■ This was .it .\niherst ' - , " ^ ""•'"'^' ''■'"■"■^ scomuIIv llr.l o.nscuMu-o nukrs llic \\,i\ iM li\in--;.^rcssiir> h.iru ; tor cwia ,u"( n( pk-.is- iHc, i'\ t, r\" ad ot t, luilt his ci>nsi,'ii,>iu\' siiiiu'-^ hi in. •■ v^ I st.neil there until I w.is nine- teen, and the\~ were the sweetest .iikI linest I'lir l,i-i of hi- si,i\ ,m r.nili will .i|ipc,n lionil.lc i,. da\'S ot' niv llle. 1 likeokl .\mherst." He the Ik-IioLKt. S.'hk' limrs. lu>wc\cr. Ik- will I.I- paused a moment, .ind his lono- f.iee slowlv ^'-^y^'*:' '" I"'' --"'''- -^ ''^■■"'' '" ■' ''■"'"'^" "' '-"'"^' ,■ 1 .. 1 .. 1. .1 "i ■ ' t;n-orUo obicft nr lie .ilLn-kcU Iw Souk- hisL-.isc him- lightened up. bv the w.i\-. here s some- ^^,|,- ^^ ,„.,„„,,„ „, ^|,^, ,„„.,, |^ ,„- ,|,^, ,^.,.,^^. i-,,^,,, ,,„. thing- you 11 like. When 1 w. is iiiiie years ,, link- tinu- |vrh,ips Ik- is .-iLiyol in his aK-kcUncss. old father sent us U|i to l''.l\ette\ ille, \"ei"- but bt-toi-o l..n^ he rclurns lo his \\,.rMI\ hisi. ( ih. mont, to the old home>te.id where mv it is iiKk-ea h.ul h.r sinncs to -,.a..wn im.. |i^'"'iti"n ^. ,, . ,^ 1 ,,, ,^ u ... I ;. . . 1 \\ - ^ , .. I ^ K . . . ' (W cr .ill I Ik- < 'hslacks \\ hi(.-h I itnl h.is nku-t-ii in his gi aiKluiotliei li\eLl. \\ e staxetl there se\ ea , ,, , , ■■ , , , ■ ^ .... ■ ] ■ 1 ■■ 1 - 1 ■ p.ith- l>LUni.in\ I .1111 .il r.iKl Uo l;i> u"w n nun ik'tUi- nionths, he said with a grim curl ot Ins Hon. h.,- wkIc -.iu- .nul l.n..ul is liic w.,v ih.n k-,uk-ih lips, " and the old lad\" got all the grand- to ik-slructiun .ukI in.iny iIktc he lira yo m llK-r<.-.il." son she wanted. She didn't want the \'isit repeateei." He stopped oeeasion.ilh- to look at t'l.ir- He sat a moment in silenee, and his face land graveU', as he reai.1 some part leiikirb' S(,iftened and his e\'es grew teiuler. "1 tell eomieal phr.ise : "'1 seeiuulK' ri-mark ' — vou, tiarland, a man's got to have .i layer ain't that great ? — 'ih.u the wise man re- of eountrv experienee somewhere in him. members e\"en how near he is lo the por- Mv lo\-e for nature dates from that visit, tals of death.' ' Tim t.ils of death ' is good. because 1 bad never liveil in the eountrv ' (.)ne should strixe to walk the narrow- before. Sooner ox later a man rots if he wa\' ,ind nut the one wliieli leatls to perdi- lives too faraway from the grass and the tiou.' I w.is hea\'\' on ipiotations, \oii trees." notice. " " \"ou're right thei'e, FieUi, onh' 1 didn't " Is this the lirst and last of vour ser- know" \-ou felt it so dee|il\-. 1 supposed \oii moiis ? " i|iicried ('..irland, with .in amused hated farm life." smile. " I do ; but farm life is not nature. I'd " The first and kist. ( ".randmother soon like to live in the eountrv without the ga\e mc up as bad materuil for a preacher, effects of work and dirt and llies." She p.iid me five dolhirs for learning the The wiu'd " llies " started him off on ,i Ten (,'omniandmeiUs. I used to be ver\' side-track. " Sav ! \'ou should see ni\- slow at ■commilting to niemor\'.' I recall bo\-s. I go U|1 to a farm near b^ix Lake that while 1 was thus committing the book and stay a week ever\- \-ear, sullering all ot \cls, m\" brotlu-r I'ommilted th.U book sorts of tortures, in order to gixe iii\' boys and the t'ios|K'l ol M.itthew. pail of |oliii, a chance to see farm lit e, 1 sit t here nights the t hii leenl h ch.iptcr of first (.'orinthi.iiis, tr\ing to read b\" a vile-sniel ling old kero- ami the Westminster 1,'atechisni. I wciiild seiie lamp, the llies trooping in so tli.it you not now cxclumgc fcu' .in\- .imoiint of can't kei'i"! the w i ml ow ilowii, vou know, and mo;u'\' t Ik- .icipiainl.incc w il h llu- I'.ible that those bo\-s l\-ing there all the time on a hot was driimiiK-d into me w lu-ii I w.is a lnv;. husk bed, bices spattered with moMjiiilo At h-.irniiig ' pieces tospc-.ik' 1 was, how- bites, ami sweating like pigs — and luipp\" e\er, uiuisiKilA" ipilck, ,ind iii\" f.ixonles as angels. The roar (d the llies ,ind mos- were : ' Marco lio/./aris,' ' Ps.ilm of Lift',' cpiitoes IS sweete^t Inllaln' to a tired bow" I Irake's ' .\nierican I'l.ig,' I .ongfellow's " W't-ll, now, going back lo that \isit," ' I .aiiiu'hing of I he Ship,' W\-bster's 'Act ion,' said the inter\iewer w It h |K'i"sislenc\' to his .Sh.iki.-spe, ire's ' (.'kiix-nce's, l>ream' (Rich- plan, ard lib), and 'W'(dse\' lo Cromwell,' "('h,ves. W ell, in\' o randniot her was a 'I'eath o\ \'irgiiii,i,' 'lloratiiis al the regular old New l-'aiol.iiul ( 'ongrcg.ition- r.ridgc,' 'Ih'nui of the Mora\-i,in Nuns,' alist, S.i\", I'nc got a sermon 1 wroU-when ' Abs.ilom,' 'l.ocliiel's ^\'arning,' 'M.ic- I was nine. The old hidv used to give mc lean's Re\'eiige,' lUilwer's translation of ten cents for e\-ery sermon I'd write. Like Schiller's 'The l>i\-er,' ' Laiuliiig of the to see it ? " rilgrinis,' I'.ryant's 'Melancholy na\s,' " \\'ell, 1 should saw .\ sermon at nine ' llurial of Sir John Moore,' and ' llohen- years I Fiekl, \'ini started in well." liiulen.' "Hidii't 1?" he re|>lied, while getting "1 remember when I was thirteen our EUGRNE FIELD AND HAMLIN GARLAND. 203 ELGENE MELDS [toME AT 1:LENA i'ARK', CHICAGO. cousin said slne'd give us a Cliristmas tree. So we went down into Patriclc's swamp — I suppose the names are all changed now — and dug up a little pine tree about as tall as we were, and planted it in a tub. On the night of Christmas Day, just when we were dancing around the tree, making merry and having a high-old-jinks of a time, the way children will, grandma came in and looked at us. ' Will this popery never cease ? ' was all she said, and out she flounced." " Yes, that was the old Puritan idea of it. But did live " " Now, hold on," he interrupted. " I want to finish. We planted that tree near the corner of Sunset Avenue and Amity Street, and it's there now, a magnificent tree. Scmie time when I'm East I'm going to go u]5 there with my brother and put a tablet im it — ' Pause, busv traveller, and give a thought to the happy days of two A\'estern bovs who lived in old New Eng- land, and make resolve to render the boy- hood near you happier and brighter,' or something like that." " That's a pretty idea," Garland agreed. He felt something fine and tender in the man's voice, which was generally hard and dry, but wonderfully expressive. " Now, this sermon I had bound just for the sake of old times. If I didn't have it right here, I wouldn't believe I ever wrote such stuff. I tell you, a boy's a queer combination," he ended, referring to the book again. "You'll see that I signed my name, those days, 'E. P. Field.' The 'P.' stands for Phillips. "As I grew old enough to realize it, I was much chagrined to find I had no mid- dle name like the rest of the boys, so I took the name of Phillips. I was a great admirer of \^'endell Phillips, — am yet, — though I'm not a reformer. You'll see here." — he pointed at the top of the pages, — " I wrote the word ' sensual.' Evidentlv I was struck with the word, and was seeking a chance to ring it in somewhere, but failed." They both laughed over the matter while Field put the book back. " Are you a college man?" asked (lar- land. " I've noticed your deplorable ten- dency toward the classics." " I fitted for college when I was sixteen. j\Iy health was bad, or I should have en- tered right off. I had pretty nearlv every- thing that was going in the way of dis- eases," — this was said with a comical twist of the vuice — "so I didn't get to^\'ilhams till I was eighteen. j\Iy health improved right along, but I'm sorry to say that of the col- lege did not." He smiled again, a smile that meant a very great deal. "What happened then ?" "Well, my father died, and I returned West. I went to live with mv guardian, Professor Burgess of Knox College. This college is situated at Galesburg, IlJiiKiis. This is the college that has lateh' conferred A. 1\I. upon me. The professor's guardian- ship was merely nominal, however. I did about as I pleased. " I next went to the State Universitv at Columbia, IMissouri. It was an did slave- holding town, but I liked it. I've got a streak of Southern feeling in me." He said abruptly, "I'm an aristocrat. Fin. looking for a Maecenas. I have mighty little in common with most of the wealthy, 204 HIWAX DOCIWEXTS. but I like the idea of wealth in the ab- of his solemn mouth, stract." He failed to make the distinction on a still pool. It was like a ripple money quite clear, but he went on as if realizing that this mi^ht be a thin spot of ice. '■ At twenty-one I came into sixty thousand dollars, and I went to Europe, taking a friend, a voung fellow of about my own age, with me. I had a lovely time 1 " he added, and again the smile con- veyed vast meaning. Garland looked up from his pad. " You must have had. Did vou ' the whole business ' ? " " Pretty near. I sii-'atfcJ the around. Just think of it ! " he ex- claimed, warming with the recol- lection. "A boy of twenty-one, without father or mother, and sixt\" thousand dollars. Oh, it \\-as a lovely combination 1 I saw more things and did more things than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio," he paraphrased, looking at his friend with a strange ex- pression of amusement and pleas- ure and regret. " I had money. I paid it out for experience — it was plenty. Experience was lying around loose." " Came home when the money gave out, I reckon 1 " " Yes. Came back to St. Louis, and went to work on the ' lournal.' I had previously tried to "enter journalism,' as I called it then. About the time I was twentv-one I went to Stilson Hutchins, and told him who I was, and he said : '■ ' All right. I'll give you a chance, but we don't pay much.' Of course I told him pay didn't matter. "'Well!' he said, 'go down to the Olympia, and write up the play there to-night.' I went down, and I brought most of my critical acumen to bear ujion an actor by the name of Charley Pope, who was playing Mercutio for Mrs. D. P. Bowers. His wig didn't fit, and all my best writing centred about that wig. 1 sent the critique in, blame line as I thought, with illuminated initial letters, and all that. (. )h, it was lovely ! and the next morning I was deeply pained and dis- W'ell, when did you really get into the work'" his friend asked, for he seemed about to go off into another by-path. '■ ()h, after I came back from Europe I was ' busted,' and had to go to work. I met Stanley \\'aterloo about that time, and his talk induced me to go to work for the ' lournal ' as a reporter. I soon got to be city editcH', but I didn't like it. I liked to blow in have fun with people. I liked to have my fun as I went akuig. About this time I married the sister of the friend w1k> went with me to Eur(Tpe. and, feeling mv new responsibilities, I went up to St. Jiiseph as city editor." He mused for a moment in silence. " It was terrific hard work, but I wouldn't give a gooil deal for those two years." " Have vou ever drawn upon them for material ? " asked Carland with a noyelist's perceptiiMi of their possibilities. '■ No, but 1 may some time. Things gusted to find it mutilated, — all that about have to get pretty misty before I can use the wig, the choicest part, was cut out. I thought I'd quit journalism forever. I don't suppose Hutchins connects Eugene Field with the fool that wrote that critique. I don't myself," he added with a quick half-smile lifting again the corner em. I'm not like vou fellows," he said, referring to the realists. "I got thirty dollars a week ; wasn't that princely ? " " Nothing else ; but vou earned it, no doubt." "Earned it ? Why, Great Scott ! I did EUGENE FIELD AND HAMLIN GARLAND. 205 the whole business, except turning the han- dle of the press. "Well, in 1877 I was called back to the ' Journal ' in St. Louis as editorial writer of paragraphs. That was the beginning of my own line of work," " ^\'hen did you do your first work in verse ? " asked Garland. The tall man brought his feet down to the floor with a bang, and thrust his hand out toward his friend. " There! I'm glad you said verse. For heaven's sake don't ever say I call my stuff poetry. I never do. I don't pass judgment on it like that." After a little he resumed : "The first that I wrote was ' Christmas Treas- ures.' I wrote that one night to fill in a chink in the paper." " Give me a touch of it ? " asked his friend. He chewed his cigar in the effort to re- member. "I don't read it much. I put it with the collection for the sake of old times." He read a few lines of it, and read it extremely well, before returning to his history. CHRISTMAS TREASURES. I count my treasures o'er with care, — The little toy my darling knew, A little sock of faded hue, A little lock of golden hair. Tong years ago this holy time, My little one — my all to me — Sat robed in white upon my knee, And heard the merry Christmas chime. " Tell me, my little golden-head, If Santa Claus should come to-night. What shall he bring my baby bright, — What treasure for my boy?" I said. u IPl^A A cor:;er in the lii;karv. THE orNING-ROOM. Then he named this httle toy, While in his round and mournful eyes There came a look of sweet surprise That spake his quiet, trustful joy. And as he lisped his eveninj:^ pra'\'er. He asked the boon with childish grace, Then, toddling- to the chimney-place. He hung this little stocking there. That night, while lengthening shadows crept, I saw the white-winged angels come With singing to our lowly home, And kiss my darling as he slept. They must have heard his little prayer, For in the morn, with rapturous face He toddled to the chimney-place. And found this little treasure there. They came again one Christmas-tide, — That angel host so fair and white ! And, singing all that glorious night, They lured my darling from my side. A little sock, a little toy, A little lock of golden hair, The Christmas music on the air, A watching for my baby boy. But if again that angel train And golden head come back to me, To bear me to Eternity, My watching will not be in vain. *' I went next to the Kansas City ' Times ' as managing editor. I wrote there that ' Little Peach,' which still chases me around the country," THE LITTLE TEACH. A little peach in the orchard grew, A little peach of emerald hue ; Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew, It grew. One day, passing that orchard through, That little peach dawned on the view Of Johnny Jones and his sister Sue, Them two. 2o6 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. Up at that peach a ckib the)' threw, Down from the stem on which it grew P'ell tliat peaclr of emerald hue. Mon Dicii ! John tools a liite and Sue a chew, And then the trouble be£;"an to brew, Trouble the doctijr C(juldn't subdue. Too true ! Under the turf where the daisies grew They planted John ond his sister Sue, And their little souls to the angels flew, Boo hoo ! What of that peach of the emerald hue, Warmed by the sun and wet by the dew ? Ah, well, its mission on earth is through. Adieu ! "I went to the ])enver ' Tribune ' next, and stayed there till 18S3. The most con- spicuous thing- I did there was the bur- lesque primer series. ' See tlie po-lice-man. Has he a club? Yes, he has a club,' etc. These were so widely copied and pirated that I put them into a little book which is very rare, thank heaven ! I hope I have the only copy of it. The other thing which rose above the level of my ordinary work was a bit of verse, ' The Wanderer,' which I credited to Modjeska, and which has given her no little annoyance." THE W^ANDERER. Upon a mountain height, far from the sea, I found a shell ; And to my listening ear the lonely thing Ever a song of ocean seemed to sing, E\'er a tale of ocean seemed to tell. Hrjw came the shell upon that mountain height? Ah, who can say Whether there dropped by some too careless hand. Or whether there cast when ocean swept the land, Ere the Eternal had ordained the day ? Strange, was it not? P"ar from its native deep. One song it sang — Sang of the awful mysteries of the tide. Sang of the misty sea, profound and wide, Ever with echoes of the ocean rang. And as the shell upon the mountain height Sings of the sea. So do f ever, leagues and leagues away. So do I ever, wandering where 1 may, Sing, (J my home ! sing, O my home ! of tiiee. " That brings you up to Chicago, doesn't it?" "In 1SS3 Melville Stone askeil me to join him on the 'News,' and I did. Since then my life has been uneventful." "I might not think so. Did you estab- lish the column ' Sharps and Flats ' at once?" " Yes. I told Stone I'd write a good deal of musical matter, and the name seeined appropriate. We tried to change it several times, but no go." " I first saw your work in the 'News.' I was attracted by your satirical studies of Chicago. I don't always like what you write, but I liked your war against sham." Field became serious at once, and leaned towards the other man in an attitude of great earnestness. The deepest note in the man's voice came out. " I hate a sham or a fraud ; not so much a fraud, for a fraud means brains very often, but a shain makes me mad clear through," he said savagely. His fighting quality came out in the thrust of the chin. Here was the man whom the frauds and shams fear. " That is evident. But I don't think the people make the broadest application of your satires. They apply them to Chicago. There is quite a feeling. I suppose you know about this. They say you've hurt Chicago art." " I hope I have, so far as the bogus art and imitation culture of my city is con- cerned. As a matter of fact the same kind of thing exists in Boston and New York, only they're used to it there. I've jumped on that crowd of faddists, I'll admit, as hard as I could ; but I don't think any one can say I've ever willingl)' done any real man or woman an injury. If I have, I've always tried to square the thing up." Here was the man's fairness, kindliness of heart, coming to the surface in good simple way. The other man was visiblv impressed wdth his friend's earnestness, but he pur- sued his course. " You've had offers to go East, according to the papers." "Yes, but I'm not going — why should I? I'm in my element here. They haven't any element there. They've got atmos- phere there, and it's pretty thin sometimes, I call it." He uttered "atmosphere" with a drawling, attenuated nasal, to express his contempt. " I don't want literary atmos- phere. I want to be in an element where I can tumble around and yell without falling in a fit for lack of breath." The interviewer was scratching away like mad — this was his chance. Field's mind took a sudden turn now, and he said emphatically : "Garland, I'm a newspaper man. I don't claim to be anything else. I've never written a thing for the magazines, and I never was asked to, till about four years ago. I never have put a high estimate upon my verse. That it's popular is because my sympathies and the public's happen to run on parallel lines EUGENE FIELD AND HAMLIN GARLAND. 207 just now. That's all. Not much of it will live." " I don't know about that, brother Field," said Garland, pausing to rest. " I think you underestimate some of that work. Your reminiscent boy-life poems and your songs of childhood are thoroughlv Ameri- can, and line and tender. 'I'hey'll take care of themselves." " Ves, but my best work has been along lines of satire. I've consistentlv made war upon shams. I've stood always in my work for decency and manliness and honesty. I think that'll remain true, you'll find. I'm not much physically, but morally I'm not a coward. 1 don't pretend to be a reformer ; I leave that to others. I hate logarithms. life," inirsued Garland, who called himself a veritist, and enjoyed getting his friend as nearly on his ground as possible. " Yes, that's so, but that's in the far past," Field admitted. Garland took the thought up. '' Time helps }'ou, then. Time is a romancer. He halves the fact, but we veritists find the present fact haloed with significance, if nf>t beauty." Field dodged the point. " Yes, I like to do those boj^-life verses. I like to live over the jO)'S and tragedies — because we had our tragedies." " Didn't we ! Weeding the onion-bed on circus dav, for example." "Yes, or gettin' a terrible strappin' for THE DRA\VI>JG-KOOM. I like speculative astronomy. I am natu- rally a lover of romance. My mind turns towards the far past or future. I like to illustrate the foolery of these society folks by stories which I invent. The present don't interest me — at least not taken as it is. Possibilities interest me." " That's a good way to put it," said the other man. " It's a question of the impos- sible, the possible, and the probable. I like the probable. I like the near-at-hand. I feel the most vital interest in the average fact." ' I know you do ; and I like it after you get through with it, but I don't care to deal with the raw material myself.- I like the archaic." " Yet some of your finest things, I re- peat, are your reminiscent verses of boy- goin' swimming without permission. Oh, it all comes back to me, all sweet and fine, somehow. I've forgotten all the unpleas- ant things. I remember only the best of it all. I like boy-life. I like children. I like young men. I like the buoyancy of youth and its freshness. It's a God's pity that every young child can't get a taste of country life at some time. It's a fund of inspiration to a man." Again the finer quality in the man came out in his face and voice. "Your life in New England and the South, and also in the West, has been of great help to you, I think." "Yes, and a big disadvantage. When I go East Stedman calls me a typical West- erner, and when I come West they call me a Yankee — so there I am ! " 220t) HUMAX DOCUMEXTS. l.^.''.; mwmsh '• Now vou touch a great theme. You're right, Field. The next ten years will see literary horizons cliange mightily. The West IS dead sure to be in the game from this time on. A man can't be out here a week without feeling the thrill of latent powers. The West is coming to its man- hood. The West is the place for enthusi- asm. Her history is making." Field took up the note. "' I've got faith in it. I love New England for her heri- tage to me. I like her old stone walls and meadows, but when I get back West — well, Fm home, that's all. My love for the West has got blood in it." Garland laughed in sudden perception of their earnestness. " We're both talking like a couple of ' boomers.' It might be characteristic, however, to apply the methods of the ' boomers ' of town lots to the development of art and literature. What say ? " " It can be done. It will come in the course of events." '■ In our enthusiasm we have skated awav from the subject. Vou are forty- MK. l-IELD S TKEASL'KES; Tl \N,'\ S SHEy\KS, 1 M !■: "There's no doubt of your being a Westerner." "I hope not. I believe in the West. I tell you, brother Garland, the West is the coming country. We ought to have a big magazine to develop the West. It's absurd to suppose we're going on always being tributary to the East ! " Garland laid down his pad and lifted his big fist in the air like a maul. His enthu- siasm rose like a flood. three, then ; you realize there's a lot of work before you, I hope." " Yes, yes, my serious work is just begun. I'm a man of slow development. I feel that. I know my faults and my weak- nesses. I'm getting myself in hand. Now, Garland, I'm with you in your purposes, but I go a different way. You go into things direct. I'm naturally allusive. My work is almost always allusive, if you've noticed." EUGENE FIELD AND HAMLIN GARLAND. 209 " Do you write rapidly ? " " I write my verse easily, but my prose I sweat over. Don't you?" " I toil in revision, even when I have what the other fellows call an inspira- tion." " I tell you. Garland, genius is not in it. It's work and patience, and staying with a thing. Inspiration is all right and pretty and a suggestion, but it's when a man gets a pen in his hand and sweats blood that inspiration begins to enter in." " Well, what are your plans for the fut- ure ? Your readers want to know that. " His face glowed as he replied : " I'm going to write a sentimental life of Hor- ace. ^^'e know mighty little of him, but what I don't know I'll make up. I'll write such a life as he must have lived ; the life we all live when boys." The vounger man put up his notes, and they walked down and fuit under the trees,, with the gibbous moon shining through the gently moving leaves. They passed a couple of young people walking slow — his voice a murmur, hers a whisper. " There they go. Youth ! Youth ! " said Field. PORTRAITS 01- 1-1\>HXH Fli:i.n. AGE SIX MONTHS rORTRAITS OF FATGENE FIELD. PORTRAITS OF DWIGHT LYMAX ^lOODV, 1S54. AGE 17. MR. M'.'ODV AS HE Al l-'EARED AT THE TIME HE REMO\"ED FROM THE FA.AIILY FARM TO BOSTON. 1603. AGE 20. MR. MOODY IN lbb2. AGE 45. FROM A TllOTOGKAFH BV TIERKli LETIT, FAKIS, MR. MOODY: SOME IMPRESSIONS AND FACTS. By Henry DrumiMOnd, LL.D., F.R.S.E , F.G.S. Author of " Natural Law in the Spiritual World," '^ The Greatest Thing in the World," " The Ascent of Man," etc. TO gain just the right impression of Mr. Mood}' you must make a pilgrimage to Northtield. Take the train to the wa^-- side depot in Massachusetts which bears that name, or, better still, to South Vernon, where the fast trains stop. Northfield, his birthplace and his present home, is distant about a couple of miles, but at certain sea- sons of the year you will find awaiting trains a two-horse buggy, not conspicuous for varnish, but famous for pace, driven by a stout farmer-like person in a slouch hat. As he drives you to the spacious hotel — a creation of Mr. Moody's — he will answer your questions about the place in a brusque, business-like way ; indulge, probably, in a few laconic witticisms, or discuss the polit- ical situation or the last strike with a shrewdness which convinces you that, if the Northfield people are of this level-headed type, they are at least a worthy field for the great preacher's energies. Presently, on the other side of the river, on one of those luscious, grassy slopes, framed in with forest and bounded with the blue re- ceding hills, which give the Connecticut Valley its dream-like beauty, the great halls and colleges of the new Northfield which Mr. Moody has built, begin to ap- pear. Your astonishment is great, not so much to find a New England hamlet pos- sessing a dozen of the finest educational buildings in America — for the neighbor- ing townships of Amherst and Northamp- ton are already famous for their collegiate institutions — but to discover that these owe their existence to a man whose name is, perhaps, associated in the minds of three-fourths of his countrymen, not with education, but with the want of it. But presently, when you are deposited at the door of the hotel, a more astounding dis- covery greets you. For when you ask the clerk whether the great man himself is at home, and where you can see him, he will point to your coachman, now disappearing like lightning down the drive, and— too much accustomed to Mr. Moody's humor to smile at his latest jest— whisper, " That's him. " If this does not actually happen in your HEMRV DRL'MMOND. case, it is certain it has happened;* and nothing could more fittingly introduce you to the man, or make you realize the natu- ralness, the simplicity, the genuine and unaffected humanity of this great unspoilt and unspoilable personality. MR. MOODY MUCH MISUNDERSTOOD. Simple as this man is, and homely as are his surroundings, probably America possesses at this moment no more extra- ordinary personage ; nor even amongst the most brilliant of her sons has any * At the beg"inning" of each of the terms, hundreds of stu- dents, many of them strangers, arrive to attend those semi- naries. At such times Mr. Moody literally haunts the depots, to meet them the moment they most need a friend, and give them that personal welcome which .is more to many of them than half their education. When casual visitors, mistaking perhaps the only vehicle in waiting for a public conveyance, have taken possession for themselves and their luggage, the driver, circumstances permitting, has duly risen to the occasion. The fact, by the way, that he so es- capes recognition, illustrates a peculiarity, Mr. Moody, owing to a life-long resistance to the self-advertisement of the camera, is probably less known by photographs than any public man. 214 UrJIAX DOCUMEXTS. rendered more stupendous or more endur- ina; service to his country or his time. No public man is less understood, especially bv the thinking world, than D. L. Moodv. It is not that it is unaware of his existence, or even that it does not respect him. But his line is so special, his work has lain so apart from what it concei\'es to be the rational channels of progress, that it has never felt called upon to take him seri- ously. So little, indeed, is the true stature of this man known to the mass of his generation, that the preliminarv estimate recorded here must seem both e.xtravagant and ill-considered. To whole sections of the communitv the mere word evangelical is a svnonvm for whatever is narrow, strained, superficial, and unreal. Assumed to be heir to all that is hectic in religion, and sensational in the methods of pri"ipa- gating it, men who, like Mr. Moody, earn this name are unconsciously credited with the worst traditions of their class. It will surprise maiiv to know that Mr. Moijdy is as different from the supposed type of his class as light is from dark : that while he would be the last to repudiate the name, indeed, while glorving more and more each day he lives in the work of the evangelist, he sees the weaknesses, the narrownesses, and the limitations of that order with as clear an eve as the most unsparing of its critics. I5ut especially will it surprise many to know that while preaching to the masses has been the main outward work of Mr. Moodv"s life, he has, perhaps, more, and more varied, irons m the fire — educational. philanthropic, religious — than almost any living man ; and that vast as has been his public service as a preacher to the masses, it is probably true that his personal in- fluence and private character have done as much as his preaching to affect his day and generation. Discussion has abounded lately as to the standards bv which a country shall judge its great men. And the verdict has been given unanimouslv on behalf of moral in- fluence. Whether estimated by the moral qualities which go to the making up of his personal character, or the extent to which he has impressed these upon whole com- munities of men on both sides of the Atlantic, there is, perhaps, no more truly great man living than D. L. Moody. By moral influences in this connection I do not mean in any restricted sense religious in- fluence. I mean the influence which, with whatever doctrinal accompaniments, or under whatever ecclesiastical flag, leads men to better lives and higher ideals ; the influence which makes for noble character, personal enthusiasm, social well-being, and national righteousness. I have never heard ]Mr. Moody defend any particular church ; I have never heard him quoted as a theo- logian. But I have met multitudes, and personally know, in large numbers, men and women of all churches and creeds, of many countries and ranks, from the poorest to the richest, and from the most ignorant Xo the most wise, upon whom he has placed an ineft'aceable moral mark. There is no large town in Great Britain or THE .MOODV HOMESTE.^D .\T .\OKTHFIELD, .M.\SS.^CHL"SETTS, WHEKE D. L. MoODV W.\S BORN. MR. MOODY : SOME IMPRESSIONS AND EACTS. 215 AIRS. BETSEY WOODY, MOTHER OF D, L. MOODY, Ireland, and I perceive there are few in America, wliere tliis man lias not gone, wliere lie has not lived for days, weeks, (;r months, and where he has not left behitid him personal inspirations which live to this day ; inspirations which, from the moment of their birth, have not ceased to evidence themselves in practical ways — in further- ing domestic happiness and peace ; in charities and philanthropies ; in social, re- ligious, and even municipal and national service. It is no part of the present object to give a. detailed account of Mr. Moody's career, still less of his private life. The sacred character of much of his work also forbids allusion m this brief sketch to much that those more deeply interested in him, and in the message which he pro- claims, would like to have expressed or analyzed. All that is designed is to give the outside reader some few particulars to introduce him to, and interest him in, the man. BOYHOOD ON A NEW ENGLAND FARM. Fifty-seven years ago (February 5, 1837) Dwight Lyman Moody was born in the same New F^ngland valley where, as al- ready said, he lives to-day. Four years later his father died, leaving a widow, nine children — the eldest but thirteen years of age — a little home on the mountain side, and an acre or two of mortgaged land. How this widow shouldered her burden of poverty, debt, and care ; how she brought up her helpless flock, keeping all together in the old home, educating them, and sending them out into life stamped with her own indomitable courage and lofty principle, is one of those unrecorded his- tories whose ])age, when time unfolds it, will be found to contain the secret of nearly all that is greatest in the world's past. It is delightful to think that this mother has survived to see her labors crowjied, and still lives, a venerable and beautiful figure, near the scene of her early 2l6 JIl'MAX VOCIWEXI^S. ^""■■f^S^'^v -i^v-:^%fc^^ > s . k^fe-i^ ■•■^ '^ ^ ''tt Hi W D. L. MOODY'S KESIDE.NCIL AT NOKTHFIELD. MASSACHUSETTS. LOOKING SOTTH. battles. There, in a sunnv rnoni of the little farm, she sits with faculties unim- paired, cherished by an entire conmuniity, and surrounded with all the love and grati- tude which her children and her chikiren's children can heap upon her. One has only to look at the strong, wise face, or listen to the firm vet gentle tones, to behold the -source of those qualities of sagacity, en- ergv, self-unconsciousness, and faith which have made the greatest of her sons what he is. Until his seventeenth year Mr. Moody's bovhood was spent at home. ^\'hat a merry, adventurous, rough-and-tumble bovhood it must have been, how much fuller of escapade tlian of education, those who kiuiw Mr. Moody's irrepressible tem- perament and buoyant humor will not require the traditions of his Xorthfield schoolmates to recall. The village school was the only semmarv he ever attended, and his course was constantlv interrupted bv the duties of the home and of the farm. He learned little about books, but much about horses, crops, and men ; his mind ran wild, and his mennu-y stored up noth- ing but the alphabet of knowledge. JUit in these early country days iiis bodily form strengthened to iron, and he built up that constitution which in after life enabled him not onlv to do the work of ten, but to sustain without a break through four decades as arduous and cNhausting work as was ever given to man to do. Innocent at this stage of " religion," he was known in the neighborhooil simph' as a raw lad, high-spirited, generous, daring, with a will of his own, and a certain audacious orig- inality which, added to the fiery energy of his disposition, foreboded a proliable future either in the ranks ot the incorrigibles or, if fate were kind, perchance of the im- mortals. Somewhere about his eighteenth vear the turning |ioint came, ^'ast as were tiie issues, the circumstances were in no wav eventful. Leaving school, the bov had set out for 1-ioston, where he had an uncle, to push his fortune. His uncle, with some trepidation, offered him a place in his store ; but, seeing the kind of nature he had to deal with, laid ciown certain condi- tions which the astute man tliought might at least minimize explosions. One of these conditions was, that the lad should attend church and Sundav school. These inlluences — and it is interesting to note that they are sim|i|y the normal inlluences of a t'hristi.m society — did their work. On the surface what appears is this : that he attended church — to onler. and listened with more or less attention ; thai he went to Suiuku' school, ami. when he recovered liis breath, asked awkward questions of his teacher ; that, by and by, when he ap]ilied for membership in the congregation, he was summarilv rejected, and told to wait si.x months until he learned a little more about it ; ami, lasth', that said period of probation having expired, he was dulv re- ceived into communion. The decisive in- strument during this period seems to have been his Sunday-school teacher, i\lr. 1''a1- ward Kimball, whose influence upon his charge was not merely professional, but personal aiul tlirecl. In private friendship he urged young Moody to the siqireme decision, and Mr. Mooilv never ceased to express his gratitude to tlie layman who MR. MOODY : SOME IMPRESSIONS AND FACTS. 217 met him at the parting of the ways, and led his thoughts and energies in the direction in which they have done such service to the world. REMOVAL TO CHICAGO — RARE GIFT FOR BUSINESS. The immediate fruit of this change was not specially apparent. The ambitions of the lad chiefly lay in the line of mercantile success ; and his next move was to find a larger and freer field for the abilities for business which he began to discover in him- self. This he found in the then new world of Chicago. Arriving there, with due introductions, he was soon engaged as salesman in a large and busy store, with possibilities of work and promotion which suited his taste. That he distinguished himself almost at once, goes without saying. In a )'ear or two he was earning a salary considerable for one of his years, and his business capacity became speedily so proved that his future prosperity was as- sured. " He would never sit down in the store," writes one of his fellows, " to chat or read the paper, as the other clerks did when there were no customers ; but as soon as he had served one buyer, he was on the lookout for another. If none appeared, he would start off to the hotels or depots, or walk the streets in search of one. He would sometimes stand on the sidewalk in front of his place of business, looking ea- gerly up and down for a man who had the appearance of a merchant from the country, and some of his fellow-clerks were accus- tomed laughingly to say : ' There is the spider again, watching for a fly.'" The taunt is sometimes levelled at relig- ion, that mainlv those become religious teachers who are not fit for anything else. The charge is not worth answering ; but it is worth recording that in the case of Mr. Mood)' the verv reverse is the case. If Mr. Moody had remained in business, there is almost no question that he would have been to-day one of the wealthiest men in the United States. His enterprise, his or- ganizing power, his knowledge and man- agement of men are admitted b}' friend and foe to be of the highest order ; while such is his generalship — as proved, for ex- ample, in the great religious campaign in Great Britain in 1S73-75 — that, had he VIEW FROM THE PORCH OF MR. MOODY S HOUSE AT NORTHFIELD. 2l8 HTMAX POCCMF.XTS. MR, .MOOD\ S HOL'SE AT NOKTHFIELD IN WINVEU, LOi.iKIXG KA.^l. chosen a militarv career, he would have risen to the first rank among leaders. One of the merchant princes of Britain, tlie well-known director of one of the largest steamship companies in the world, assured the writer latelv that in the course of a life-long commercial experience he had never met a man with more business capa- citv and sheer executive ahilitv than D. I,. Moody. Let any one visit Northfield, \\\i\\ its noble piles of institutions, or stud^' the historv of the work conceived, directed, financed, and carried out on such a colossal scale bv INfr. Moodv during the time of the AVorld's l'"air at Chicago, aiul he will dis- cover for himself the size, the mere intel- lectual qualitv, creative power, and organ- izing skill of the brain behind them. Undiverted, however, from a tleeper pur- pose even bv the glamor of a successful business life, Mr. Moodv's moi'al aiul relig- ious instincts led him almost from the dav of his arrival in Chicago to dex'otc what spare time he had to the W(U"k of the Church. He began l)\" hiring four pc«s in the church to which he IkuI atlarhcd him- self, and these he attempted to fill e\'crv Sunday with young men like himself. This work for a temperament like his soon proved too slow, and he sought fuller out- lets for his enthusiasm. Applving for the post of teacher in an obscure Sunday school, he was told bv the superintendent that it was scholars lie wanted, not teach- ers, but that he would let him tr\' his hand if he could find the scholars. Ne.xt Sun- day the new candidate appeared with a procession of eighteen urchins, ragged, rowdv. and barefooted, on whom he straightway proceeded to operate. Hunt- ing up ciiildren and general recruiting for mission halls remained favorite pursuits for vears to come, and his success was sig- nal. In all this class of work he was a natural adept, and his earlv experiences as a scout were fidl of atlventure. This was probably the most picturesque period of Mr. Moody's life, and not the least useful. Now we hud him tract-distributing in the slums : again, visitiugamongthedocks ; and, linalh', he started a mission of his own in one of the lowest haunts of the citv. There he saw life in all its phases ; he learned what practical religion was ; he tried in succession every known method of Chris- tian wiu'k ; and when ,in\- of the conven- tional methods failed, in\'ented new ones. (.Opposition, tliscouragement, failure, he met at ever\- turn and in e\'erv form ; but one thing he never learned — how to give up man or scheme he had once set his heart on. l'"or vears this guerilla work, hand tc> hand, and heart to heart, went on. He ran through the whole gamut of mission expe- rience, tackling the most difficult districts and tin- most adverse circumstances, doing all the odd jobs and menial work himself, never attempting much in the way of public speaking, but employing others whom he thought more lit ; making friends especially with children, and through them with their dissolute fathers and starving mothers. MR. MOODY : SOME IMPRESSIONS AND FACTS. 219 Great as was his success, the main reward achieved was to the worker himself. Here he was broken in, moulded, toned down, disciplined, in a dozen needed directions, and in this long and severe apprenticeship he unconsciously qualified himself to be- come the teacher of the Church in all methods of reaching the masses and win- ning men. He found out where his strength lay, and where his weakness ; he learned that saving men was no child's play, but meant practically giving a life for a life ; that regeneration was no milk and water experience ; that, as Mrs. Browning says : " It takes a high-soul'd man To move the masses — even to a cleaner sty." But for this personal discipline it is doubtful if Mr. Moody would ever have been heard of outside the purlieus of Chicago. The clergy, bewildered b_v his eccentric genius, and suspicious of his un- conventional ways, looked askance at him; and it was only as time mellowed his head- strong youth into a soberer, yet not less zealous, manhood that the solitary worker found influential friends to countenance and guide him. His activity, especially during the years of the war, when he served with almost superhuman devotion in the Christian Commission, led many of his fellow-laborers to know his worth ; and the war over, he became at last a recognized factor in the religious life of Chicago. The mission which he had slowly built up was elevated to the rank of a church, with Mr. Moody, who had long since given up busi- ness in order to devote his entire time to what lay nearer his heart, as its pastor. MR. Moody's slow development as a PUBLIC SPEAKER. As a public speaker up to this time Mr. Moody was the reverse of celebrated. When he first attempted speaking, in Boston, he was promptly told to hold his tongue, and further efforts in Chicago were not less dis- couraging. " He had never heard," writes Mr. Daniells, in his well-known biography, " of Talleyrand's famous doctrine, that speech is useful for concealing one's thoughts. Like Antony, he only spoke ' right on.' There was frequently a pun- gency in his exhortation which his brethren did not altogether relish. Sometimes in his prayers he would express opinions to the Lord concerning them which were by no means flattering ; and it was not long before he received the same fatherly advice which had been given him at Boston — to the effect that he should keep his four pews full of young men, and leave the speaking and praying to those who could do it better." Undaunted by such pleasantries, Mr. Moody did, on occasion, continue to use his tongue — no doubt much ashamed of himself. He spoke not because he thought ■1 iDY S HOUSE AT KORTHFIELD. BCMAX DOCCJ/EXTS. he could speak, hut because he could uot be silent. The ragged childreu whom he gathered round him in the emptv saloon near the North Side Market, had to be talked to somehow, and among such audi- ences, with neither premeditation nor prep- aration, he laid the foundations of that amazingly direct anecdotal stvie and ex- plosive delivery which became such a splendid instrument of his future service. Training for the public platform, this man, who has done more platform work than anv man of his generation, had none. He knew onlv two books, the Bible and Human Nat- ure. Out of these he spoke : anil because both are books of life, his words were afire with life : and the people to whom he spoke, being real people, listened and understood. When Mr. Moodv first began to be in de- mand on public platforms, it was not because he could speak. It was his experi- ence that was wanted, not his eloquence. As a practical man in work among the masses, his advice and enthusiasm were called for at Sunday school and otiier con- ventions, and he soon became known in this connection throughout the surrounding States. It was at one of these conventions that he had the good fortune to meet Mr. Ira 1*. Sankev, whose name must ever be associated with his. and who henceforth shared his labors at home and abroad, and contributed, in ways the value of which it is impossible to exaggerate, to the success of his after work. "\^"ere one asked what, on the human side, werethe effect- ive ingredients in Mr. Moody's ser- mons, one would find the answer dif- ficult. Probably the foremost is the tre- mendous ciuiviction with which ihev are' uttered. Next to that is their point and direction. Everv blow is straightfrom the shoulder, and everv stroke tells. Whatever c an o n s the}- violate, what- ever fault the critics . ma}' find with their art, their rhetoric, or even with their theology, as appeals to the people they do their work, and with extraordinary power. If eloquence is measured by its effects upon an autlience. and not by its bal- anced sentences and cumulative periods, then here is eloquence of the highest order. In sheer persuasiveness Mr. Moody has few equals, and rugged as his preaching mav seem to some, there is in it a pathos of a quality which few orators have ever reached, an appealing tenderness which not only wliollv redeems it. but raises it, not unseldom almost to sublimity. No report can do the faintest justice to this or to the other most characteristic qualities of his public speech, but here is a specimen taken almost at ran- dom : " I can imagine when Christ said to the little b.ind around Him, ' Co ve into all the world and preach the gospel,' Peter said, ' Lord, do you real!)' mean that we are to go back to Jerusalem and preach the gos- pel to those men that murdered you?' ' Ves,' said Christ, ' go, hunt up that man that spat in mv face, tell him he may have a seat in mv kingdom vet. Yes, Peter, go find that man that macle that cruel crown of thorns and ]ilaced it on my brow, and tell him I will have a crown ready for him when he comes into mv kingdom, and there will be no thorns in it. Hunt up that man that took a rccd and brought it down over the cruel thorns, driving them into mvbrow. and tell him I will put a sceptre in his hand, and he shall rule over the nations of the earth, if he will accejit salvation. Search for the man that (.Irove the spear into mv side, and tell him there is a nearer way to my heart than that. Tell him I forgive MR. MOOnV S STUDY. Hrjf.Lv rocrj/f.xTS. him freely, and that he can be saved if he will accept salvation as a gift.' " I'cll hini iJiere is a ii<:a)cr wax to mx /u\irt llian tluit — prepared or iiiiproniptu, what dramatist could surpass the touch ? MR. MOOPV S MAXXER OF PRErARIXG A SERMOX. His method of sermon-making- is original. In realitv his sermons are never made, thev are always stiU in the making. Suppose the subject is Paul : he takes a monstrous envelope capable of holding some hundreds of slips of paper, labels it " Paul," ,uid slow- ly stocks it with original notes, cuttings from papers, extracts from books, illustra- tions, scraps of all kinds, nearly or remote- ly referring to the subject. After accumu- lating these, it ma\- be for years, he wades novelty both in the subject matter and in the arrangement, for the particular seventy varies with each time of delivery. No greater mistake could be made than to im- agine that Mr. Mood\- docs not study for his sermons. On the contrary he is always studying. A\dien in the evangelistic field, tiie batch of emclopes, bursting with fat- ness, appears the moment breakfast is o\'er ; and the stranger who enters at almost an\' time of the ilav, except at the luuu's of platform work, will fiiul him with his litter of notes, either stuffing hiinselt or his port- folios with the new " points" he has picked up through the da\'. His search for these " points," and especially for light iqioa texts, llible ideas, or characters, is cease- less, and he has an eve like an eagle for anything really good. Tossessing a con- siderable library, he browses over it when at home : but his books are chiellv n HOTEL i\OKI HKlELi) : OCCUPIED RCH ISV line NO through the mass, selects a number of the most striking points, arranges them, and, finally, makes a few jottings in a large hand, and these he carries with him to the platform. 'I'hc process of looking through the whole envelope is repeated each time the sermon is preached. I'arlh' on this account, and ]iartlv because in deliver\- he forgets some points, or disproporlionateh' amplifies others, no two sermons are e\ er exactly the same. Hv this method also — a matter of much more Importance — the de- livery is always fresh to himself. Thus, to make this clearer, suppose that after a thorough sifting, one lumdred eligible points remain in the envelope. iM'crvtime the sermon is preachetl, these hundretl are overhauled. lUit no sin.gle sermon, by a mere limitation of time, can contain, say, more than seventy. Hence, though the general scheme is the same, there is always men, and no student ever read the evtr- open page more diligently, more intelli- genth', or to more immediate practical purpose. To Mr. Moiub' himself, it has always been a standing marvel that people should come to hear him. He honestly beheves that ten thous.ind sermons are made ex'erv week, in obscure towns, ,ind li\- unknown men, \ astly better than an\ thing he e.in do. .Ml he knows about his own productions is that somehow the\' at'hieve the result in- tended. No man is more willing to stand asiile .\nd let tUhers speak. His search for men to whom the people will listen, for men who, whatever the meagreness of their message, can yet hold an audience, has been lite-long, ami whenever and wher- ever he finds such men he instantly seeks to employ them. The word jealousy he has never heard. At one of his own con- MR. MOODY : SOME IMPRESSIONS AND FACTS. ventions at Northfield, he has been known to keep silent — but for the exercise of the duties of chairman — during almost the whole ten days' sederunt, while medi- ocre men — I speak comparatively, not disrespectfully — were pushed to the front. It is at such conferences, by the way, no matter in what part of the world they are held, that t)ne disc(_)vers Mr. Moody's size. He gathers round him the best men he can find, and very good men most of them are ; but when one comes away it is always IMr. Moody that one remembers. It is he who leaves the impress upon us ; his word and spirit live ; the rest of us are forgotten and forget one another. It is the same story when on the evangelis- tic round. In every citv the prominent workers in that field for leagues around are all in evidence. They crowd round the central figure like bees ; you can review the whole armv at once. And it is no dis- paragement to the others to say — what each probably feels for himself — that so high is the stature and commanding per- sonality of Mr. Moody that there seems to be but one real man among them, one char- acter untarnished b)' intolerance or petti- ness, pretentiousness, or self-seeking. The man who should judge Mr. Moody by the rest of us who support his cause would do a great injustice. He makes mistakes like other men ; but in largeness of heart, in breadth of view, in single-eyedness and humility, in teachableness and self-obliter- ation, in sheer goodness and love, none can stand beside him. MR. MOODY S FIRST VISIT TO GREAT BRITAIN. After the early Chicago days the most remarkable episode in Mr. Moody's career was his preaching tour in (ireat liritain. The burning down of his church in Chicago severed the tie which bound him to the city, and though he still retained a con- nection with it, his ministry henceforth belonged to the world. Leaving his mark on Chicago, in many directions — on missions, churches, and, not least, on the Young Men's Christian Association — ■ and already famous in the \\'est for his success in evangelical work, he arrived in England, with his colleague Mr. Sankey, in June, 1S73. The opening of their work there was not auspicious. Two of the friends who had invited them had died, and the strangers had an uphill fight. No one had heard of them; the clergy received them coldly; Mr. Moody's so-called American- isms prejudiced the super-refined against him; the organ and the solos of Mr. Sankey were an innovation sufficient to ruin almost any cause. For some time the prospect was bleak enough. In the town of New- castle finally some faint show of public in- terest was awakened. One or two earnest ministers in Edinburgh went to see for themselves. On returning they reported cautiously, but on the whole favorably, to their brethren. The immediate result was an invitation to visit the capital of Scot- land ; and the final result was the starting of a religious movement, quiet, deep, and 1 THE NUKTHFIELD AUDITORIUM : COMPLETED DURING THE I'KESEiN'T YEAR, AND THE NEWEST IN THE GKOUl' OF SEMINARY BUILDINGS. IT HAS A SEATING CAPACITY OF THREE THOUSAND. 2 24 NCMAN DOCUMENTS. lasting, which moved the country from Held, his house in Chicago having been shoreto shore, spread to England, Wales, swept away by tlie lire. And from this and Ireland, and reached a climax two point onward his activity assumed a new years later in London itself. and extraordinary development. Continu- This is not the place, as already said, to ing his evangelistic work in America, and enter either into criticism or into details of even on one occasion revisiting Englantl, such a work. Like all popular movements, he spent his intervals of repose in planning it had its mistakes, its exaggerations, even and founding the great educational institii- its grave dangers ; but these were probably tions of which Nt)rthlield is now the centre, never less in anv equally wide-spread move- ment of histor)', nor was the balance of good upon the whole ever greater, more solid, or rik. Moody's schools at NOR-ri-iFiEi.D. more enduring. People who understand by a religious movement only a promiscuous There is no stronger proof of Mr. carnival of hysterical natures, beginning in Moddy'sbreadlhof mind than thatheshould excitement and ending in moral exhausticui have inaugurated this work. For an evan- and fanaticism, will probably be assured in gelist seriously to concern himself with such vain that whatever were the lasting charac- matters is unusual; but that the greatest teristics of this movement, these were not. evangelist of his day, not when his powers That such elements w^ere wholly absent were failing, but in the prime of life, and may not be asserted; human nature is in the zenith of his success, should divert human nature; but always the first to so great a measure of his strength into fight them, on th.e rare occasions when educational channels, is a phenomenal cir- thev appeared, was IMr. INIooily himself, cumstance. The explanation is manifold. He, above all popular preachers, worked No man sees so much slip-shod, unsatisfac- for solid results. Even the mere harvest- tory aiul half-done work as the evangelist; ing — his own special department — was a no man so learns the worth of solidity, the secondary thing to him compared with the necessity for a firm basis for religion to garnering of the fruits by the Church and work upon, the importance to the Kingdom their subsequent growth and further fruit- of tiod of men who "weigh." The value, fulness. It was the writer's privilege as above all things, of character, of the sound a humble camp-follower to ft)llow the for- mintl anil disciplined judgment, are borne tunesof this campaign personally from town in upon him every day he lives. Converts to town, and from city to city, throughout without these are weak-kneed and useless ; the three kingdoms, for over a year. And Christian workers inefficient, if not danger- time has only deepened the impression not ous. Mr. Moody saw' that the object of only of the magnitude of the results im- Christianity was to make good men and mediately secured, but equally of the per- good women ; good men and good women manence of the after effects upon every who would serve their Cod and their field of sfjcial, philanthroiiic, and religious country not only with all their heart, but activity. It is not too much to say that with all their mind and all their strength. Scotland — one can speak \vith less knowl- Hence he would found institutions lor tiu'n- edge of England and Ireland — would not ing out such characters. His pupils should have been the sauie to-day but fi}r the be committed lo nothing as regards a future visit (jf Mr. Moodv and Mr. .Sankey ; autl profession. They might become ministers that so far-reaching was, and is, the in- or missionaries, cyaugclisls ox teachers, fluence of their work, that anyone who faruit'i's or politicians, business men or knows the inner religious histmy of the lawyers. .\ll thai he would secure would country must regard this time as nothing l)e that the\' should have a chance, a chance short of a national ejioch. If this is a of becoming useful, educated. Cod-fearing specimen of what has been elTectetl even men. ,\ favorite aphorism with him is, that in less degree elsewhere, it represents a "it is better lo set ten men to work than to fact of commanding importance. Those do the work of ten meu." His institutions who can speak with aulhoialy of the long were fouiuled to equip other men to wiu'k, series of campaigus which succeeded this not in the precise line, but in the same in America, testify in man)' cases with broad interest as himself. He himself had almi:)st ecpial assLnaiice of the results had the scantiest equii)ment for his life- achieved both throughout the Lhiited work, and he daily lamented — though per- States and Canada. haps no one else ever did — the deficiency. After his return from Creat Britain, in In his journeys he constantly met young 1875, Mr. Moody made his home at North- men and young women of earnest spirit. ''f-^ » ' ^< * J 126 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. with circumstances against them, who were in danger of being lost to themselves and to the community. These especialh^ it was his desire to help, and alTord a chance in life. "The motive," sa3's the "Official Hand- book," " presented for the pursuit of an education is the power it confers for Chris- tian life and usefulness, not the means it affords to social distinction, or the grati- fication of selfish ambition. It is designed to combine, with other instruction, an un- usual amount of instruction in the Bible, and it is intended that all the training given shall exhibit a thoroughly Christian spirit. . . . No constraint is placed on the religious views of any one. . . . The chief emphasis of the instruction given is placed upon the life." The plan, of course, developed by de- grees, but once resolved upon, the be- ginning was made with characteristic decision ; for the years other men spend in criticising a project, Mr. Moody spends in executing it. One day in his own house, talking with Mr. H. N. F. Marshall about the advisability of immediately securing a piece of property — some sixteen acres close to his door — his friend expressed his assent. The words were scarcely uttered when the owner of the land was seen walk- ing along the road. He was invited in, the price fixed, and, to the astonishment of the owner, the papers made out on the spot. Next winter a second lot was bought, the building of a seminarv for female stu- dents commenced, and at the present mo- ment the land in connection with this one institution amounts to over two hundred and seventy acres. The current expense of this one school per annum is over fifty- one thousand dollars, thirty thousand dol- lars of which conies from the students themselves ; and the existing endowment, the most of which, however, is not yet available, reaches one hundred and four thousand dollars. Dotted over the noble campus thus secured, and clustered es- pecially near Mr. Moody's home, stand ten spacious buildings and a number of smaller size, all connected with the Ladies' Sem- inary. 'I'he education, up to the standard aimed at, is of first-rate quality, and pre- pares students for entrance into W'ellesley and other institutions of similar high rank. Four miles distant from the Ladies' Sem- inary, on the rising ground on the opposite side'of the river, are the no less imposing buildings of the Mount Hermon School for Young Men. Conceived earlier than the former, but carried out later, this institu- tion is similar in character, though many of the details are different. Its three or four hundred students are housed in ten fine buildings, with a score of smaller ones. Surrounding the whole is a great farm of two hundred and seventy acres, farmed by the pupils themselves. This economic addition to the educational training of the students is an inspiration of Mr. Moody's. Nearly every pupil is required to do from an hour and a half to two hours and a half of farm or industrial work each day, and much of the domestic work is similarly distributed. The lads work on the roads, in the fields, in the woods ; in the refectory, laundry, and kitchen ; they take charge of the horses, the cattle, the hogs, and the hens — for the advantage of all which the sceptical may be referred to Mr. Ruskin. Once or twice a year nearly everyone's work is changed ; the indoor lads go out, the farm lads come in. 'J'hose who before entering the school had already learned trades, have the opportunity of pursuing them in leisure hours, and though the industrial department is strongly sub- ordinated to the educational, many in this way help to pay the fee of one hun- dred dollars exacted annually from each pupil, which pays for tuition, board, rooms, etc.* THE L.iRGE PROFITS OF THE MOODY AND S.ANKEV HY.MN-BOOK. The mention of this fee — which, it mav be said in passing, only covers half the cost — suggests the question as to how the vast expenses of these and other institu- tions, such as the new Bible Institute in Chicago, and the Bible, sewing and cook- ing school into which the Northfield Hotel is converted in winter, are defrayed. The buildings themselves and the land have been largely the gift of friends, but much of the cost of maintenance is paid out of Mr. Moody's own pocket. The fact that Mr. Moody has a pocket has been largely dwelt upon by his enemies, and the amount and source of its contents are subjects of curious speculation. I shall suppose the critic to be honest, and divulge to him a fact which the world has been slow to learn — the secret of i\Ir. Moody's pocket. It is, briefly, that Mr. Moody is the owner of one of the most paying literary proper- ties in existence. It is the hymn-book * An extensive literature, up to date and fully describing all the Northfield institutions, splendidly edited by Mr. Henry VV. Rankin, one of Mr. Moody's most wise and accom- plished coadjutors, may be had at Revcll's, 112 Fifth Avenue, New York. MR. MOODY: SOME IMPRESSIONS AND FACTS. 2 2 7 which, first used at his meetings in con- junction with Mr. Sanke}', whose genius created it, is now in universal use through- out the civilized world. Twenty years ago he offered it for nothing to a dozen differ- ent publishers, but none of them would look at it. Failing to find a publisher, Mr. Moody, with almost the last few dollars he possessed, had it printed in London in 1S73. The copyright stood in his name ; any loss that might have been suffered was his ; and to any gain, by all the laws of busi- ness, he was justly entitled. The success, slow at first, presently became gigantic. The two evangelists saw a fortune in their hymn-book. But they saw something which was more vital to them than a fortune — that the busybody and the evil tongue would accuse them, if they but touched one cent of it, of preaching the gospel for gain. What did they do? They refused to touch it — literally even to touch it. The royalty was handed direct from the publishers to a committee of well- known business men in London, who dis- tributed it to various charities. When the evangelists left London, a similar commit- tee, with Mr. W. E. Dodge at its head, was formed in New York. For many years this committee faithfully disbursed the trust, and finally handed over its responsibility to a committee of no less weight and honor — the trustees of the Northfield seminaries, to be used henceforth in their behalf. Such is the history of Mr. Moody's pocket. In the year 1889 Mr. Moody broke out in a new place. Not content with having founded two great schools at Northfield, he turned his "attention to Chicago, and inaugurated there one of his most success- ful enterprises — the Bible Institute. This scheme grew out of many years' thought. The general idea was to equip lay workers — men and women — for work among the poor, the outcast, the churchless, and the illiterate. In every centre of population there is a call for such help. The demand for city missionaries, Bible readers, evan- gelists, superintendents of Christian and philanthropic institutions, is unlimited. In the foreign field it is equally claimant. Mr. Moody saw that all over the country were those who, with a little special training, might become effective workers in these various spheres— some whose early oppor- tunities had been neglected ; some who were too old or too poor to go to college ; and others who, half their time, had to earn their living. To meet such workers and such work the Institute was conceived. The heart of Chicago, both morally and physically, offered a suitable site ; and here, adjoining the Chicago Avenue Church, a preliminary purchase cf land was made at a cost of fifty-five thousand dollars. On part of this land, for a similar sum, a three- storied building was put up to accommo- date male students, while three houses, already standing on the property, were transformed into a ladies' department. No sooner were the doors opened than some ninety men and fifty women began work. So immediate was the response that all the available accommodation w-as used up, and important enlargements have had to be made since. The mornings at the In- stitute are largely given up to Bible study and music, the afternoons 10 private study and visitation, and the evenings to evan- gelistic work. In the second year of its existence no fewer than two hundred and forty-eight students were on the roll-book. In addition to private study, these con- ducted over three thousand meetings, large and small, in the city and nei.ghborhood, paid ten thousand visits to the homes of the poor, and " called in " at more than a thousand saloons. As to the ultimate destination of the workers, the statistics for this same year record the following : At work in India are three, one man and two women ; in China, three men and one woman, with four more (sexes equally divided) waiting appointment there; in Africa, two men and two women, with two men and one woman waiting appointment ; in Turkey, one man and five women ; in South America, one man and one woman ; in Bulgaria, Persia, Burma, and Japan, one woman to each ; among the North American Indians, three women and one man. In the home field, in America, are thirty-seven men and nine women employed in evangelistic work, thirty-one in pastoral work (including many ministers who had come for further study), and twenty-nine in other schools and colleges. Sunday- school missions employ five men ; home missions, two ; the Young Men's Christian Association, seven : the Young Women's Christian Association, two. Five men and one woman are "singing evangelists." Several have positions in charitable in- stitutions, others are evangelists, and twenty are teachers. This is a pretty fair record for a two years old institute. Not quite on the same lines, but with certain features in common, is still a fourth institution founded by the evangelist at Northfield about the same time. This is, perhaps, one of his most original develop- MR. MOUDV I'XDEXCiMIXATIOXAL AND :;2S HUMAX DOCUMEXTS. ments — the Xorthtield Training Sclinol for found scouring the country-side in all \\'omen. In liis own work at Chicago, directions, visiting the homesteads, and and in his evangelistic rounds among the holding services in hamlets, cottages, and churches, he had learned to appreciate the schoolhouses. exceptional value of women in ministering to the poor. He saw. however, that women of the right stamp were not always to be rxsECTAKi.w ix his works. found where tliev were needed most, and in raanv cases where the\- were to be found. Like all Mr. Moody's institutions, the their work was marred bv inexperience winter Training Home is undenomina- and lack oi training. He determined, tional and unsectarian. It is a peculiarity therefore, tri start a nox'el species of train- kA Xorthtield. that every door is open not ing school, which city churches and mission only to the Church Universal, but to the fields could draw upon, not for highl\- edu- world. Every State in the Union is repre- cated missionaries, but for Christian women sented among the students of his two great who had undergone a measure of special colleges, and almost every nation and race. instructi(_in, especiailv in Bible knowledge C)n the college books are, or have been. and Joiiiistic iioiioiny — the latter being the Africans, Armenians, Turks, Syrians. Aus- special feature. The initial obstacle of a trians, Hungarians, Canadians, Danes. building in which to start his institute was Dutch, English, French, Cierman, Indian, no difficult V tij Mr. iMdodv. Among the Irish, Japanese, Chinese. XTirwegians. manv great buildings tif Xorthfield there Russians, Scotch, Swedish. Alaskans, and was one which, everv winter, was an e^'e- Bulgarians. These include every t}"pe vi sore lo him. It was the Xorthfield Hotel, Christianity, members of every Christian and it was an eve-sore because it was denomination, and disciples of every Chris- eniptv. After the busv season in summer, tian creed. Twent\'-two den<.miinations. at it was shut up from October till the end least, have shared the hospitality of the of March, and Mr. Moodv resijlved that he schools. This, for a religious educational wuuld turn its halls into lecture rooms, its institution, is itself a liberal education : and bedroiuiis into dormitories, stock the first that Mr. Moodv should not onlv have with teachers and the second with schol- permitted, but encouraged, this cosmopoli- ars, and start the work of the Training tan and unsectarian character, is a witness School as soon as the last guest was i:iff at once to his sagacitv and to his breadth, the premises. \Vith evervthing in his special career, in In C'ctober, 1S90, the hrst term opened, his habitual environment, and in the tradi- Six instructors were provided, and tift"\-- tions of his special work, to make him six students took up residence at once, intolerant, iMr. ?\Ioodv's s\"mpathies have Xcxt \"ear the numbers were almost doub- onlv broadened with time. Some vears led, and the hotel college to-dav is in a ago the Roman Catholics in Xorthfield fair wav to become a large and impi.n'tant determined to build a church. Thev went institution. In addition to svstematic round thetownshipcollectingsubscriptions. Bible stud\'. which forms the backbone of and bv and b\' approachetl Mr. Moodv's the curriculum, the pupils are taught those door. How did he receive them? The branches nf diuiiestic ccoiiomv which are narrower evangelical would have shut the most likelv to be useful in their work door in their faces, or opened it onlv to among the homes of the poor. Much give them a lecture on the blasphemies of stress is laid upon cooking, especialh" the Tope c )cY "J//;.V 7S. institution of cheap houses of refreshnieiu rowed to its close. Tt is of small sli^nifi- to counteract the saloons. When he luul cance that one shotiUl make out this or finished, Mr. Mt'odv called 1111011 hun to the other man to be numbered amont;- the speak for ten ntinutes more. Idiat ten workl's ^reat. lUit it is of importance to minutes might almost be said to have been national ideals, that standartls of worthi- a crisis in the social history of l.iveriiool. ness should be trulv dr.iwn, and. wlien 'Mv. Mood\' spent it in whispered conversa- those wlui answer to them in real life a|i- tion with gentlemen on the platform. No pear, th.it thev should be hehl up for the sooner was the speaker done than Mr. world's instruction. Mr. Mood\' iiimself ^[oody sprang to his feet aiul announced has ne\'cr asked for justice, and ne\'er for that a companv had been fcrmetl to carry homage. I'he ci'iiicism A\hich sours, and out the objects Mr. tlarrett had adyocated; the ai.lul,Uion — an adiihition at epociis in that N'arious gentlemen, whom he named his life .imounting to \\orsliJp — wliich (Mr. Alexander r.alfour, Mr. Samuel Smith, spoils, have left him alike untouched. M. v.. Mr, l.ockhart, and others), had each The w.i\- he turned .i>ide fri>m apjilause in taken one thousand shares of h\"e debars 1-aiglaiul struck multitudes with woiuler. each, ami that the subscription li>t would I'o be courtetl w.is to him not merely ,1 be tipen till the end of the meeting. The thing to be disciuir.iged pii general prin- capital was gathered alnuist before the ad- ciples ; it simpU' made him miserable, journment, and a comp,m\- lloated under .\t the close ot a great meeting, when the name of the " lintish Workman I'om- crowds, mu of the b.ise, but of thcwiulln-, pan\". Limited." wdneh has not onh' worked thronged the pl.itform to press Ins hand, a small revolution in 1 ,i\'er|iool, but — wh.it somehow he had alw.n's disapiieared. was not contemplated or wisheil for. e\- \\ hen the\" followed him to his hotel, its cept as an index of healthy business — paitl doors were b.irred. When the\' wrote him. a handsome dixudeiul tn the shareholders. ,is the\' did 111 thousands, the\' got no re- Fc>r twent\' vears this compaiu' has gone spouse. This uuui wouhl not be praised. on increasing; its ramilications are in \'et, |iartl\- for this \-er\' reason, those who ever\" quarter of the cit\- ; it has returned love him love to pr.iise him. .\nd I may ten per cent, throughout the whide period, .is well confess wh.it has induced me. except tor one (strike) \ear, when it re- against keen personal dislike to all that is turned seven ; and, .ibove all, it h.is been person.il, to write these .irticles. thie tiav, copied by cities ami towns innumerable all tra\'elliiig in .\meric.i hist sunnner. a high over Cireat Ihdtain. To Mr. (larrett. who digiiitar\' of the (.dnirch in mv presence unconsciously set the ball a-rolling. the made a contemptuous reference to Mr. ]iersonal consequences «ei\' as curious as Mooih'. .\ sciu'c of times in my life I thev were unexpected. " \"ou must take ha\'e s.iilcd in on such occ.isions. and at. charge of this thing." said Mr. .Nbiod\' to least taught the detr.ictor some f.icts. On him. "or at least you must keep your e\e this occ, ision. with due humility, I asked on it." " Jdiat cannot be," was tlie repl\-. the speaker if he had ever met him? He " I am a W'eslewui ; mv three years in Li ver- h.id lUU ; .nul the re|il\' elicited that tlie ptiol have expired : I uuist |i,iss to another name which he luid useii so lightly was to circuit." "No." said Mr. Mool1\-, "you him no more than an echo. 1 determined must stay here." Mr, (.'..irrett assured him that, time being then denied, 1 wiuild take it was quite impossible, the .Methodist (.'on- the lirst opportunity oi bringing th.it echo ference made no excepticms. lUit Mr. nearer him. It is for him these words were Moody would not be bc.iteii. He got up ^uatten. a petitiLMi to the ( '(Uiference. L was granted— an almost unhe,ird-of thing— and wiiirrinK's oinxiox oi' mi^. .moody. ilr. tiarrett remains in hisLi\'erpool church to this da\-. This last incident ]n-oycs at in the Life of Wdiittier, just published, least one thing — that Mr. Mood\-'s aud,icit\- the p.itroni/.ing reference to Mr. Moody is at least eqtiallei.1 by his inlUience. but too plamh- conlirms the st.itcment with which the lirst article opened — that lew men were less known to their cim- THE CH.VR.VCTKR Ol-" Ml^. MOODV's Olxli.Vl- ICllipc ua rics. NESS. " Mootly and S.mkey," writes tlie poet, " are bus\" in lioston. The papers give That r have not told luie tithe that is the discourses of .Mr, Moody, which seem due to the subject of this sketch, I pain- rather commonplace ;ind pom', but the man fully realize now that my space has nar- is in earnest. ... I hope he will do MR. MOODY: SOME IMPRESSIONS AND FACTS. 23^ good, and believe that he will reach and move some who could not be touched by James P'reeman Clarke or Phillips Brooks. I cannot accept his theology, or part of it at least, and his methotls are not to my taste. But if he can make the drunkard, the gambler, and the debauchee into de- cent men, and make the lot of their weari- ful wives and children less bitter, I bid him God-speed." I have called these words patronizing, but the expression should be withdrawn, Whittier was incapable of that. They are broad, large-hearted, even kind. But they are not the right words. They are the stereotyped charities which sweet natures apply to anything not absolutely harmful, and contain no more impression of the tremendous intellectual and moral force of the man behind than if the reference were to the obscurest Salvation Army zealot. I shall not inciorse, for it could only give offence, the remark of a certain author of world-wide repute when he read the words : " Moody ! Why, he could have put half a dozen Whittiers in his pocket, and they would never have been noticed ; " but I shall indorse, and with hearty good-will, a judgment which he further added. " I have always held," he said — and he is a man who has met every great contempo- rary thinker from Carlvle downward — " that in sheer brain-size, in the mere raw material of intellect, ]\Ioody stands among the first three or iowx great men I have ever known." I believe Great Britain is credited with having " discovered " Mr. Moody. It may or may not be ; but if it be, it was men of the quality and tlie ex- perience of my friend who made the dis- covery ; and that so many distinguished men in America have failed to appreciate him is a circumstance which has only one explanation — that they have never had the oppfjrtunity. An /Vmerican estimate, nevertheless, meets my eve as I lay dtjwn the pen, which I gladly plead space for, as it proves that in Mr. Moody's own country there are not wanting those who discern how much he stands for. They are the notes, slightly condensed, of one whose opportunities for judging of his life and work have been ex- ceptionally wide. In his opinion : 1. " No (jther living man has done so much ilirectly in the way of uniting man to God, ami in restoring men to their true centre. 2. " No other living man has done so much tij unite man with man, to break down personal grudges and ecclesiastical barriers, bringing into united worship and harmonious cooperation men of diverse views and dispositions. 3. " No other living man has set so many other people to work, and developed, by awakening the sense of responsibility, latent talents and powers which would otherwise have lain dormant. 4. " No other living man, by precept and example, has so vindicated the rights, privileges, and duties of laymen. 5. " No other living man has raised more money for other people's enterprises. 6. " No other evangelist has kept him- self so aloof from fads, religious or other- wise ; from isms, from special reforms, from running specific doctrines, or attack- ing specific sins ; has so concentrated his life upon the one supreme endeavor." If one-fourth of this be true, it is a unique and noble record ; if all be true, which of us is worthy even to charac- terize it ? PORTRAITS OF PROFESSOR HFXRV PRl'MMOXD. ^i^r/i i!f S//n///i^\ Sri-/t\7//S. 1851. S\-HF\ A FKl-:>ll\'. W 1\ COLL b" OK. KKOM A rHvTOGKAl'H FV CKOWt: A\D KOPi.:fKS. STIKLING. \ i-:lllu i.\ i,i-:m ival akkica. Ai..t'; ^^5 ^'K jo. PORTRAITS OF PROFESSOR HENRY DRUMMOND. 233 3 FROM A I'HOTOGRAPH BY LAFAYETTE, DUBLIN. AGE 39, 1890. \ < / JN 1893. FROM A SNAP SHOT IN QUEBEC. 234 mWAX JDOCCJIEXTS. PORTRAITS OF GEORGE W. CABLE. Bar 11 at N'eiv Orlea)is October 12, 1844. AGE 9. 1853. ^'' AGE 19. 1863. AGE 24. I 1882. ■■ DOCTOR SE\'IER. HUMAN DOCUMENTS. AGE 40. iSb,).. BONAVENTL'K MR, CABLE liN i8q2 PORTRAITS OF ALPHONSE DAUDET. AGE 30, PARIS, 1870. age 35, paris, 1875. "fromont jel'ne et risler aik£." Bi-j/.-i.v rocc'j/7:xrs. rivlibliM' DA\. ALPHONSE DAUDET AT HOME. HIS O W N A C C O U N T O F HIS LIFE A X 1 1 A\" O R K Kei'Or-ikii r.r R, H. SiiERARn. THOUGH now grown wealth)*, and one of the first personages in Parisian society, being the most welcome guest in such exclusive drawing-rooms as that of the Princess IMathilde, the simple and good- hearted Alphonse Daudet is the most acces- sible man in Paris. I don't believe that any one is ever turned away from his door. He lives in the fashionable Faubourg St. Germain quarter, on the fourth floor of a house in the Rue de Bellechasse which is reputed to possess the most elegant stair- case of any apartment house in Paris. His apartment is simply furnished, and is in great contrast to that of Zola or of Dumas. Still there are not wanting for its decora- tion objects of art, and especially may be mentioned some fine old oak furniture. To the right of the table on which he writes is a Normandy farmhouse cupboard of carved oak which is a treasure in itself. The table, like that of many other successful men of letters in Paris, is a very large and highly ornamental one, reminding one of an altar ; while the chair which is set against it, though less throne-like than that of Emile Zola, is stately and decorative. Daudet's study is the most comfortable room in the house. The three windows look out on a pleasant garden, and, as they face the south, the sun streams through the red-embroid- ered lace curtains nearly all the day. The doors are draped with Oriental portieres ; a heavy carpet covers the floor, and the furniture, apart from the work-table and chair, is for comfort and not for show. Daudet's favorite place, when not writing, is on a little sofa which stands by the fire- place. When the master is seated here, his back is to the light. His visitor sits op- posite to him on another couch, and between them is a small round table, on which may usually be seen the latest book of the day, and— for Daudet is a great smoker— cigars and cigarettes. There are few pictures in the room, but there is a fine portrait of Flaubert to be noticed, whilst over the bookshelf which lines the wall behind the writing-table is a portrait of the lady to whom Daudet confesses that he owes all the success as well as all the happiness of his life, the portrait of Madame Daudet. Nothing can be more charming than the welcome which the master of the house ex- tends to even the stranger who calls upon him for the first time. The free-masonry of letters or of Bohemia is nowhere in Paris so graciously encouraged as here. His in- timates he calls " ni}- sons," and it is this term that he applies also to his secretary and confidant, the excellent Monsieur Hebner. His good humor and unvarj'ing kindness to one and all are the more admirable that, alwavs a nervous sufferer, he has of late years been almost a confirmed invalid. He cannot move about the room but with the help of his stick ; he has many nights when, racked with pain, he is unable to sleep ; and it is consequently with surprise that those who know him see that he never lets an impatient word or gesture escape him, even under circumstances when one or the other would be perfectly justifiable. The consequence is, that Daudet has not a single enemy in the world. There are many who do not admire his work ; but none who do not love the man for liis sweetness, just as all are fascinated with his brilliant wit. It is one of the rarest of intellectual treats to hear Daudet talk as he talks at his table, or at his wife's " at- HARDSHirS OF CHILPHOOD AXD VOUrH. 240 ffl'MAX rOCUMEXTS. homes" on Wediiesdav evening-^, or on the other the least olTensive of apotheca- Sundav mornings, when from ten to twelve ties. I mvself have the Moorish tvpe, and he receives his literary friends. He has a my name Daudet, according to the ver- verv free way of speech, and when alone sion which I like best, is tlie -Nfoorish for \vith men uses whatever expressions best liavid. Half mv fainilv is called David. suit his purpose : but every sentence is an Others say that Daudet means ' Deodat,' epigram or an anecdote, a souvenir or a which is a very common name in Provence, criticism. It is a sight that one must re- and which, derived from D<:o Jatus, means member who has seen Alphonse Daudet ' Given by Gotl.' sitting at his table, or on the couch bv the " I know little of my predecessors, ex- fireside, in an attitude which always be- cept that in 1-20 there was a Chevalier trays how ill at ease he is. and vet showing IVuidet. who wrote poetry and had a dec- himself superior to this, and with eves lixed. aile of celebrity in the South. Rut mv rarely on the person whom he is addressing, brother Ernest, who used to be ambitions, but on something, pen or cigarette, which in his book ' Moii Frere et Moi,' has tried he turns and turns in his nervous fingers, to trace our genealogy from a noble fain- conversing on whatever niav be the teipic il}'. ^\"hatever we ^-ere at one time, wt of the day. He takes a keen interest in had come ver\' low down in the world pontics, and. indeed, seems to prefer to when I came into existence, and my child- speak on these rather than on any other hood was as miserable a one as can bt topic except literature. fancied. I have to some extent related its unhappiness in my book • I.e Petit Chose.' Oh ! and apropos of • Le Petit Chose.' let me declare, on mv word of honor, that When, the other da^', I- asked him to I had never re.id a line of llickens when I tell me of his life, he said, speaking of wrote that book. People have said that his earlv vouth, " I have often tried to col- I was inspired bv Dickens, but that is not lect the memories of mv childhood, to true. It was an Phigiish friend of mine, write them out in Provencal, the language whom I had at Ximes. a bov called lien- of my native land ; but my youth was such asset, who first told me that I \\-as verv like a sad one that these are all resumed in the Dickens in personal appearance. Perhaps "title of a book of mv soiivc/n'rs Jc /c///iiSSc\ that is the reason whv people trace a re- ' Mi Poou.' which means, in Provencal, semblance in our work also. 'My Fears.' Yes. fears and tears ; that is " iM_\" most vivid recollection of vouth is wliat my youth consisted of. I was born at the terrible fear that I had of the mad dog. Ximes, where mv father was a small trades- I was brought up at nurse in a village man. Mv vouth at home was a lamentable called F'ons. whicli must have been called one. I have n.i recollection of home so because there was no fountain, and in- which is not a sorrowful one. a recollection deed no water, within eight miles. It was of tears. The baker who refuses bread ; the most arid of places, and doubtless this the servant whose wages could not be paid, was to some extent the reason whv there and who declares that she will stav on were so manv mad dogs in the district. I withiuit wages, and becomes familiar in remember that the washerwomen of the consequence, and savs ' thou ' to her mas- village used to take train to the Rhone to ter ; the mother always in tears ; the father wash their linen, and that, when they re- alwavs scolding. Mv country is a countrv turned in the evenings, all the peo|iie of of monuments. I jilayed at marbles in the the village used to line the road, as thev ruins of the temple oi Diana, and raced passed with their wet clothes, to get a with mv little conn-ades in the dev.istated whiff of cool air aiul the scent of the Roman arena. It is a beautiful country, \\ater. Perhaps it was because there was howe\"er, and I am pniud I'f my relation to no water an^'where that, when I was a it. iNIy name seems to indicate that I tie- child, I so longed for tlie sea; aiul that, scend from the Moorish settlers of Prov- when I did not wish to be a poet, I prayed ence : for, as you know, the Provencal that I might become a sailor. But to tell people is largely of Moorish extraction, you of the mad dogs that haunted my Indeed, it is fnuii that circumstance that I earliest da\s. !N[v foster-father was aii have drawn much of the humor of my innkeeper. His name was Oarrimon. which books, such as ' Tartarin.' It is funny, you is Provencal for 'Mountain Rat.' Is not know, to hear of men with bushy black that a s|ilendi(.l name— Oarrimon ? \\'hy hair and flaring eyes, like bandits and wild have I ne\ er used it in anv of my books! warriors, who are. the one a peaceful baker, ^^'ell, Garrimon's ta\ern was the rendez- ALP HON SE DAUDET AT HOME. 241 voLis of the village. The cafe ws.^ on the first floor, and I can remember how, at nightfall, the black -bearded, dark-e_ved men of the village, armed to the teeth, one with a sword, another with a gun, and most with sc)'thes, used to come in from all parts of the district, talking of noth- ing but the Chin Foil, the mad dog, that was scouring the land, and against whom they had armed themselves. Then I ran to Neno, m_v foster-mother, and clung to her skirts, and lay awake at nights, trem- bling, as I thought of the Chin Foil and of the terrible weapons that the men carried because they, strong, black-bearded men, were as frightened at him as the quaking little wretch who started at every sound that the wind made in the eaves of the old house. Where I lay in bed, I could hear rough voices, as they sat round the inn- tables, drinking lemonade — for the Pro- vencal is so excitable by nature that mere lemonade acts upon him like strong drink — and it was the Chin Foil, and nothing but the Chin Foil, which they talked about. But what brought my horror to a clima.x, and left an ineffaceable impression on me, was, that one day I nearly met the mad dog. It was a summer evening, I re- member, and I was walking home, carry- ing a little basket, along a path white wilh dust, through thick vines. Suddenly I heard wild cries, '' Aoii Chin Foil ! Aoic Chin Foil!' Then came a discharge of UAUDET .AND HIS ELDEST SON, LHON, IN D.AUDET S STUDY. From a photograph taken especially for McClure's Magazine. 24- HUMAX DOCUMEXTS. guns, ^[ad with terror I jumped into the vine?, rolling heail over ears ; and, as 1 lay there, unable to stir a finger, I heard the dog go bv as if a hurricane were pass- ing ; heard his fierce breath, and the thunder Lif the stones that in his mad course he rolled before him ; and my heart stopped beating, in a paroxysm of terror, which is the strongest emotion that I have ever felt in all my life. Since then I liave an absolute horror of dogs, and, bv exten- sion, indeed, of all aninials. People have reproached nie for this, and sav that a poet caniuit dislike animals. I can't help it. I hate them all. I think that they are what is uglv and vile in nature. Thev are caricatures of all that is most loath- some and base in man; thev are the latrines of humanitv. And, cunouslv enough, all my children have inherited this same horror of dogs. '■ I remember that at nineteen, when I was down in the vallev of Chev- reuse, not far from ?\Iadame Adam's place at CI if, the reci.>Uec- tion of that afternoon came upon me so strongly, that, borrowing A'lctor Hugo's title, I wrote the ' Fortv Days of a Condemned ]\[an,' in «hich I essaved to depict, day by day, the sensations of a man who has been bitten bv a mad dog. This work made me ill, a neuropatli. Before I had finished writing" it, I had grown to believe that I had indeed been bitten, and the result was that my hor- ror and dread were confirmed. The sight of a dog is to-day still m.^u.v.me enough to distress me exceedingly. This phenomenon makes me think, what I have noticed before and repeatedly, that, ciuiiparing man to a book, lie is set up in tvjie at a verv earlv age, and, in after life, it is onlv new editi(uis of him that are printed ; by which I mean that a man's character and habits are crystallized whilst he is still a very young man, and in after life he oiih' goes through the same iihases of emotion over and over again. " Other memories of my youth ? '\\cll, the Homeric battles that we children of the town used to have. Nimes is divided into Huguenots and Roman Catholics, and each party hated the other as keenly as they did in France on the day of Saint Bartholomew, which dawned on tliat san- guinar\' eve. 'Ihe feud was as keen be- tween the children of the town, and many were the battles with stt)iies tliat we fought in the streets. 1 have on my forehead to this ciay the cicatrice of a wound which I received from a Huguenot stone in one of those fights. I have described these fights in ' Nunia Roumestan ; ' and here let me tell you that Numa Roumestan is Alphonse Daudet. It was said that he was Gam- betta. Nothing of the sort. Numa Rou- mestan is Alphonse Daudet, with all his foibles and what strengtli lie iiiav have. " Mv father liad seventeen children, but only three lived to grow up : Ernest, a sister who married the brother of m\' wife, and nn'self. I knew onlv one of the others, being myself (uie of the vounger. That was my brother Henri. I shall never forget the day when the news of his death reached home. It came bv telegram : ' He is dead. l'ra\- '■\ Ciod for him.' .Mv •■ • father rose from the \ table, ,nul cried, ' He is dead ! He is ■^ dead ! He is dead ! ' D.\LUE1- .\.ND IIHK D.\LGHJEK. HlS ^^"CStUre, IllS intonation, which had sometiiing of ancient trageily about it, impressed me profoundh', and I remem- ber tliat all that night 1 lav awake, trving" to imitate ni)' f.ither's voice, to find the tragic ring of his \'oice, repeating ' He is dead ! He is dead!' over and over again until I fouiul it. "I have told you that I longed for the sea. How I ilevoured the first nox'els that I read, 'Midshipman Ivisv,' bv Marrvat, ' Robinson Crusoe,' and ' The Pilot ' ! How I used to dream of all tliat water, and of the cold winds blowing across the brine ! I dare say it was from this love of the water that 1 felt quite happy when 1 was sent to Lyons to school, because there 1 saw water and boats, and it was in some way a reali- zati(.)ii (A my longings. I was ten when I was sent to school, and I remained at school until I was fifteen and a half. I delighted in Latin, and became a good Latin scholar, ALPHONSE DAUDET AT HOME. 243 so that I was afterwards able to help my son Leon in his studies, going over all his books with him. I loved Tacitus ; disliked Cicero. Tacitus has had a great influence on French literature since Chateaubriand. What I best remember of my school-days is the handwriting of every one of my little comrades. Often, in my nights of fever, lying awake, I have seen, as in hieroglyphs upon a huge wall, the writings of all those boys, and have passed hours, as it seemed, in attributing to its author each varied piece of penmanship. I made only one friend, whose name was Garrison, a man of the most extraordinary inconsequen- tiality. He called on me not long ago, for the first time since we parted at school, and I then heard that, though he had been in Paris almost as long as I had, he had never ventured to come near me. He told me, after much hesitation, that he was a manufacturer of dolls' boots, in a street near La Roquette ; but that business was bad, and he wanted me to help him to do something else. I also learned that he had a son, who, he told me, was a comic actor at the Beaumarchais Theatre. " It was on leaving the Lycee at Lyons that I entered upon what was the worst year of my life. It was only during that horrible period that I ever thoaght of sui- cide. But I had not the courage to finish with existence. It requires a great deal of courage to be a suicide. From the age of fifteen and a half to the age of sixteen and a half I was an usher in a school at Alais. The children at the school were very cruel to me. They laughed at me for DAUUET S SECOND my short-sightedness. They played imp- ish tricks upon me because I was short- sighted. Yet I tried to conciliate them. I remember that I used to tell them stories, which I made up as I went along. The misery that I afterwards suffered in Paris was nothing compared to that year. I was free in Paris. There I was a slave, a butt. How horrible it was, and I was so sensi- tive a lad ! I have told of this in the pre- face to ' Petit Chose,' which, by the way, I wrote too early. There was a child to whom I had been especially attentive, and who had promised me that he would take me to his parents' house during the vaca- tion. I was so pleased, and did so look forward to this treat ! Well, on the day of the prizes, in the distribution of which my young friend had received quite a number, which he owed to my coaching, he led me up to his parents, who were standing, waiting for him, bv a grand landau, and said : ' Papa, mamma, here is Monsieur Uaudet, who has been so good to me, and to whom I owe all these books.' Well, papa and mamma, stout bourgeois people in Sunday clothes, simplv turned their backs on me, and drove off with my young pupil, without a single word. And I had so looked forward to a holiday in the country with the lad, whom I loved sincerely. I could not stand the life more than a year, and at the age of seventeen went to Paris, without prospects of any kind, determined to starve rather than to continue a life of suffering drudgery. My brother Ernest was in Paris at the time as secretary to an old gentleman, and he gave me a shelter. I had two francs in my pocket when I arrived in Paris, and I had to share my brother's bed. I brought some rubbishy manuscripts with me, poetr)', chiefly of a religious character. LITERARY LIFE IX PARIS. " My first poem, indeed the first thing of mine that was printed, was published in the 'Gazette de Lyon,' in 1S55. I was at tliat time fifteen years old. It was not long after my arrival in Paris that I was left entirelv to my own resources ; for my brother, losing his place as secretary, was forced to leave the capital, going nito the country to edit a provincial paper. I then entered upon a period of the blackest mis- ery, of the most doleful Bohemianism. I have suft'ered in the way of privation all that a man could suft'er. I have known days without bread ; I have spent days in bed because I had no boots to go out in. -44 BTJIAX nOCCJ/EXTS. I have had boots which made a squashy sound each step that I took. But what made me suffer most was, that I had often to wear dirty hnen, because I could not pay a washerwoman. Often I liad to fail to keep appointments given me bv the fair — I was a handsome lad and liked by ladies — because I was too dirty and shabbv to go, I spent three vears of mv life in this wav — from the age of eighteen, when mv brother left Paris, to twent\--one, "At that moment Due de -Morny offered me employment. His offer came to me in the midst of horror, shame, and distress. He had heard of me m this wa\' : Some time before, I had published mv first book of pnenis, a small volume of eighty pages, entitled ' Les Amoureuses.' This biiok made mv fortune. De Mornv had heard the briithers Lviumet reciting one of ni\' poems out of this liook, a poem called ' Les Prunes,' at the empress's, and I be- lieve the empress asked him to make some inquiries about the poet. He sent to ask me what I needed to live on. and, accept- ing his patronage, I entered his service as attaclit' Jc cabinet. I passed at mice from the most dingv P.ohemianism to a butter- flv life, learning all that there is of pleas- ure and luxurv m existence. But somehow the legend of mv Bohemianism clung to me, as it has clung to me all ni\' life. Some people could never take me an s/n'i'i/x. I remember that I once dined with the Hue Hecazes for the purpose of one of my novels. I had written to tell him that I wanted to make use of his ex- periences, and he had asked me to dinner. Well, during the whole meal he related anecdotes of his career ; but, thinking that he had to deal with a Btihemian, he ar- ranged his anecdotes, as he thought, to interest me most. Thus he alwavs began each storv «ath 'I was taking a bock.' I suppose he thought that mv idea of life was of beer-driiikiiig in a I'a/V. At last 1 said : ' Vour l'lxccllenc\' seems to be \-erv fond of beer,' and afterwards added : ' It is a drink that I have never ficeii able to support,' He seemed to understand what I meant, and changed his tone. Put jusl as 1 left him — it was at two o'clm'k in the morning, and the lacke\s, I remember, were all half tlead \\ath fatigue — he saii.1 ■ 'And now let us go and lay traps for P)is- marck,' I went awav thinking what an ass the man was to think that I sluuild believe that he was going to do anvthing but go up-stairs to his wife ; and he, no doubt, went up-stairs to his wife thinking what an ass I must be to believe what he had said. From the age of twenty-one I had only happiness. I may say that 1 was too happv. I am paving for it now. I believe that people always have to pav for what they have done and what thev have enjoyed, and that therein lie justice and compensation for all, even on earth. Evervbodv's account is settled in this life. Of that I am sure. " As to m\- siK'cess : About, writing for the ■ .Athemvum,' came to see me in iS;:?, to ask me what I was earning. He was writing something about the incomes of various men of letters, aiul, making up mv accounts, I f(Uind that the amount of mv average earnings at that time from litera- ture was Ih'e thousand francs a \'ear. Two vears later, that is to sav in 1S74, I pub- lished ' l-'roment jeune et Risler auie,' which brought me a great reputation, and greatlv increased mv income. Since 1878 I never made less than a hundred thou- sand francs a \-ear, including mv plavs and novels. The boi.k which gave me the most troulile was ' P'Evangeliste,' be- cause mv turn of mind is not in the lea^t religious. It was ' l.'Ex'angeliste,' also, that provoked the bitterest criticism, a book which made me numerous enemies. After its publication I was llooded with anonvmous letters, some of the most of- fensive character. I remember receiving one which was so abominable that 1 took it to Pailleron to show it to him, and all who saw it said that it w.is the worst thing of its kind that thev luul ever seen. H.vmrs OF \\oRK. " Mv wav of working is irregularitv it- self. Sometimes 1 work ttir eighteen hours a (.lay, and day after day. At cither times I pass months without touching" a pen. 1 write verv slowlv. aiul revise aiul revise. I am never satisfied with m\' work. M \' novels 1 always write myself. I never could dictate a no\-el. As to mv plavs, 1 used formerb' to dictate them. That was when I couUl walk. 1 had a certain talent in m\- legs. Since ni)- illness 1 have had {o abaiulim that mode of work, ami 1 re- gret it. I am an improxusator, and in this respect iliffer fnmi Zol.i. 1 am now writ- ing a novel about vouth, t'alled ' Soutien lie Kamille,' and these note-books of mine «ill show \-ou mv wa\- of work. 'I'his is the first book. It contains, as vou see, nothing but notes aiul suggestions. The passages which are scratched out with red iir blue pencil are passages of which 1 have already made use. 'Phis is the second ALPHONSE DAUDET AT HOME. 245 stage. You see only one page is written upon, the opposite ^"^^^^S^^ -^^*=^n^-^ . - ~^- ' e^i"^ one being left blank. Opposite each first composition I write -^_ "^ the amended copy. The page on the ~> - right is the improved copy of the page on - ^ the left. After that JT ^ > I shall rewrite the whole. So that, leav- f ing the notes out of ^ consideration, I write each manuscript three times lun ning, and, if I could, would write it as many times more ; tor, as I have said, I am never satisfied with my work. " I am a feverish and a spas modic worker, but when m the mood can work very hard '\\ hen the fit is upon me I allow nothing to interrupt me, not even lea\inj my writing table for meils I have my food brought to ni} desk, eat hurriedl}^, and set to work before digestion begins Thus I anticipate the drow smess that diges- tion always brings with it and esc ipe its consequences. Now that I am ill, however, I do not often have those periods of splen- did energy. I can produce only very slowly, and I feel quite nervous about 'Soutien de Famille ' when I think that it is already ex- of me when I was a young man. She had pected by the public and announced by the a hat with feathers in it, and was alto- publishers. As to my literary creed, it is gether a most extraordinary person. An oneof absolute independence for the writer, hour later I heard that these people had I have always rebelled against the three sold a part of the right I had ceded to classic traditions of French literature ; them for thirty thousand francs ; so that that is to say, the French Academy, the my nervousness that morning cost me Theatre Frangais, and the 'Revue des about one thousand pounds. Deux Mondes.' I consider the Academy " I must say that in my literary work I a collection of mediocrities, and would owe nearly all to my wife. She rereads hold myself dishonored to be one of them, all my books, and advises me on every "I am very, very nervous. There are point. She is all that is most charming, times when I feel that, if a light were set and has a wonderful mind, entirely opposed to me, I should blaze up in red flame, to mine, a synthetic spirit. I married at the Sometimes this nervousness of mine plays age of twenty-six, and, strangely enough, me bad tricks. I remember that it cost me I had always vowed that I never would a large sum of money one morning recent- marry a woman with literar\' tastes. The ly. A kind of dramatic agent, accompa- very first time that I met mv wife was at nied by his wife, came to see me, to ask a party at Ville d'Avray, where she re- me to sell them the rights of translation cited a piece of poetry called ' Le Trem- of my play, ' Lutte Pour la Vie ;' and they ble.' She was dressed in white, and her bothered and irritated me so, that, in order appearance, as well as the way she de- to get rid of them, I sold them this right claimed those verses, produced an im- for four thousand francs. The woman mense effect upon me. As we were leav- told me how handsome I was, and said ing the house, my sister, who was with me, that the ladies must have been very fond and who knew my aversion for women A COKNEK IN DAUDET S DRAWING-ROOM. 246 HCJfAX nOCUMEXTS. who ciahble in literature, said to me. ' \N'ell, Alphonse, that is not your style, is it ? ' I confessetl, stammeriiigiv, that 1 had no otlier ho|ie then tlian that tliat girl should become mv wife. I was fortu- nate enough to win her, and it was the o'l'eatest blessing that has been accorded talk about that now ! I must go and kiss Mounet, who has been magnilicent.' And I remember reading in Floiiiiet's eyes that he didn't believe that my indifference was sincere. These people who decorate us against our will — I am sure that I never solicited or asked ior anv such honor ; and to nte in the course of a most happv and if I did not refuse it, it was onlv because successfid life. She is verv different from it is priggish to refuse, because it gets A'oti me, practical and logical. Xow, I am talked about — these people, I sa)', are all thoroughh- superstitious. Thus I have a people who themselves are not decorated ; horror of the number thii'tecn, and woidd who seem to despise the rewartl which not walk under a ladcler, or tra\-el on a Friday, for anv consideration. CHir two characters are entireb' (.>pposed, ami so are our wavs of thinking. 'I'hat is perhaps whv we are such excellent friends. '■ I lun'e been verv happw There is mv son LecMi. I think that in hiin, Maurice Barres, and in smiie other voung men, lies the future of French literature. And then mv (jther children. There is mv little daughter Edniee, the godchikl of lie Gon- ci.uu"t. A\'hat can make a man happier than to have a ray of sunlight, like mv little F^dmee, charming, daiiitv, little six- vear-old Parisieniie that she is, about the tlie\- dangle before luir eyes, sa)'iiig, ' If \'ou are good bovs anil write properb", you shall have this prelt)' cross.' Thev treat us like children, desiiising themselves what the_\- hold out to us as such a great in- ducement. Floquet wiuildn't believe that 1 (.lidn't care a snap of the lingers ior his cross, and that all I wanted was to get awa\' liehind the scenes to compliment Mouiiet on his performance. A\'hen 1 saw the news officialb' ann(Uinced next daw I felt sorrv because I had receix'ed this dis- tinctimi abo\"e the heail of 1 >e (ioncourt ; anil 1 feared lest lie ruuicourt, for whom I have the greatest reverence, would feel house ? There is a life of hapjiiness in hurt at mv having been preferreil. her presence alone." " Speaking of actors and of theatres, it As Daudet spoke, little Eilmee ran into mav be of interest to relate that I never the room, just returned from a walk, and am present at aiu' of the first iiroductions clambered upiui the master's knees, and of mv phns. 1 am much too nervous, and kis^ell liim again and again : and it was a alwavs go awa\' as far from the theatre as prett\' sight to see the two. Itaudet had I cm contrive, when a pla\' of mine is being some chocolate cigarettes in a drawer, and produced for the first time. It is luih' on gave them to his ilaughter ; and she said, the following morning that I learn whether " I shall die of happiness," when he gave them. It was emotional aiul l'ro\'encal, but sincere and prett\'. " 'I'he part of m\ success," continued 3)auilet, " which ga\"e me the least pleas- ure, jierhaps, was m\ advancement Tegiiin ot Ilonor to the degree of otiicer. I remember well, it was seven vears ago, and I \\-a> in a I10X at the 'J'healre Francais, ■wtitching .Nbuinet-Sulh' plaving the ]iart of Hamlet ; and just when the curtain fell on the first act, and 1 had risen, sa\-ing, ' I must go and embrace Mminet ; he has lieeii Miblime,' I felt mv- self ]ilncked hx the sleeve, and looking around saw Floipiet. He seemed much excited, and said, ' 1 have a good piece of news for "\-ou, Daudet. It is settled. Your nomination as offi- cer of the Legion of Honor \\\\\ appear in to-morrow's "Gazette." And I said, ' (~)h, I can't sttip to it has been a success or not, and this gen- erallv fnuii the manner of m\- conciiTgc-. If it has been a success, she is most respect- ful. If the ]iapers have told her that her lodger has scored a failure, there is pitv in the blended with contempt in the wa\' in which ALPHONSE DAUDET AT HOME. 247 she hands me my letters. It is an amusing insight into human character that is af- forded to a dramatic writer by the conduct of his friends and of acquaintances on the morrow of a failure. Some pretend not to see him, not knowing what to say. Others come and try to console him, literally try to rub in lotion on the wounded heart. The servants grow familiar, and it is when your porter asks you for a box, or a pair of stalls in the dress circle, that you know that your work is definitely condemned. ^^^^-^ .'^%_ jMADAjME DAUDET IN THE FLOWER GAKUE.N AT CHAiMT ROSA' But I have been so fortunate in life — I am paying for it now — that I have very rarely had these experiences." HIS RETIRED LIFE. Speaking of his friends, Daudet said that since his illness he has rarely gone out. He is a frequent visitor to the house of the Princess Mathilde, and rarely a week passes without his visiting De Goncourt, for whom he has the greatest affection. But the most part of his time is spent at home. On Sunday mornings his friends call on him, and often as many as twenty people are sitting round his chair, listening to his talk. He has been |3articularly spir- ited on the abominable scandals that have been disgusting France of late, and those who heard it will not easih' forget the diatribe which he pronounced against Soinoury for his treatment of Madame Cottu. "I can see him," cried Daudet, "this police official, full of his own im- portance, with his stupid disdain of women, proceeding from his ignorance of any- ■] thing like a real woman, stroking his ; whiskers, and saying, 'I'll soon get '' the little woman to say all that she knows.' " If the people haven't revolted," he said, " and if there has been no rev- olution caused by abominations which only a few years ago would have caused barricades to rise in every street of Paris, it is because, as I have noticed, a complete transformation has been effected in the character of the French people, during the last ten or fifteen years, by the militarism tO' which the country has been subjected since the enforcement of the new army laws. The fear of the corporal is upon every Frenchman, and it is dis- cipline that keeps quiet the men who, fifteen years ago, would have pro- tested at the point of the bayonet against the abominable scoundrels who are plundering France." Daudet, it may be remarked, says what he has to say without fear or reticence. The other day, in some salon, he was sitting next to an advo- cate-general who began a panegyric on a certain procureur-general, at that time the most powerful man in France. " I don't want to hear a word about him," cried Daudet. " He is the most -^ abominable scoundrel that I have ever heard of." It is strange that with such frank outspokenness he should have so few enemies, but the reason of this is, no doubt, the inexpressible charm of his manner. One cannot approach Daudet without lov- ing him — loving him for his handsome face, his large heart, and the entire simplicity of a man who has been petted, but not spoiled, for so many years by Fortune and Fortune's favorites. Amongst men of let- ters, though many criticise his work, he is a universal favorite. I have seen him embraced like a father by those whom he has befriended. His charitv is immense. 248 HUMAN DOCUMENTS. JHE BANKS MF THE SElNti AT CHAMl Nobody applies to him for help or assist- ance in vain. It was amusing, and yet pathetic, to liear him the otlier dav de- scribing" the interview he had had with a poor con/rhre, who came in rags, and who stood tearing at his straggling beard, hesi- tating to tell the real reason of his visit, which was to ask Daiidet for the means to pay three terms of rent. Unless he paid at once, he and his family would be cast into the street. He went away a happy man, with Daudet's promise that his need would be met. " In reviewing my past life," said Daudet, " I find that no period has remained more vividly impressed on my memory than the period of the war. My memory be- traj's me in many respects, so that I have compared it to a forest in which large patches burned up by the sun are i:|uite dead. But 1870 is as clear in my mind as if it were vesterday. I can see the streets without light, the slouching shadows of the streets. I remember, as if tliey had just crossed my lips, the infamous fricassees that we ate. I was a soldier at the time, and oh, so energetic and full of life ! It was the most active period of mj' life. I was always a batailleur ^ fond of sword-pla}- and the haz- ards of combat, and I think that that period was the most intense of my existence. One date that I remember most vividly was that of the 31st of October, when the newsof the surrender of INIetz reached Paris. I was then in the ninet3'-seventh de marche, and was sent to com- municate the news, on a win- K.isAv. ter's morning, to Myre de Villiers, who took me with him to communicate it to the soldiers at the dif- ferent forts around Paris. What a poign- ant day that was ! At each fort the general was surrounded bv men. ' Metz is surren- dered ! We have been betra3'ed ! Bazaine has turned traitor ! ' was what he had to sav. I can remember some who burst into tears, others who threw down their guns and swore horribly. It was a great and a terrible experience. Still I prefer to think of that than of my horrible childhood. Is it possible," cried he, "that a child can be so unhappy as I was? "