CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY GIFT OF Erway Estate PN4012.H8™90r''"'"''"^ The original of tiiis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924015722972 By ELBERT HUBBARD NO ENEMY BUT HIMSELF TIME AND CHANCE LITTLE JOURNEYS. To the Homes of Good Men and Oreat To the Homes of American Authors To the Homes of Famous Women To the Homes of American Statesmen To the Homes of Eminent Painters New Series— To the Homes of English Authors To the Homes of Famous Musicians To the Homes of Eminent Artists To the Homes of Eminent Orators Q. P. PUTNAM'S SONS New York London LITTLE JOURNEYS TO THE HOMES OF EMINENT ORATORS BY ELBERT HUBBARD PERICLES ■ ANTONY ■ SAVONAROLA LUTHER ■ BVRKE • PITT • MARAT INGERSOLL • HENRY ■ KJNG BEECHER ■ PHILLIPS G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS NEW YORK AND LONDON XCbe IRnfcfterbocfter press j 1907 Copyright, 1903 ELBERT HUBBARD Copyright, 1907 BY G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS Ube IRnfcfterbocRet Ipresa, Wew IBorfi HI CONTENTS 1 Pericles 2 Mark Antony 3 Savonarola 4 Martin Luther 5 EDMUifD Burke 6 William Pitt 7 Jean Paul Marat 8 Robert Ingersoll 9 Patrick Henry 10 Starr King 11 Henry Ward Beecher 12 Wendell Phillips I 43 93 137 203 237 267 301 359 403 453 505 ILLUSTRATIONS SAVONAROLA . . ' Frontispiece From the engraving by Desrochers. PERICLES From an engraving by Bovi from the original bust. MARK ANTONY From an old copper print. MARTIN LUTHER From the painting by Cranach. EDMUND BURKE From an engraving by Edward Smith. WILLIAM PITT From the painting by Brompton. JEAN PAUL MARAT .... From the engraving by W. H. Egleton. ROBERT INGERSOLL .... From a photograph by Bogardus, New York. UllUStVfla tions 48 142 208 242 272 306 VI Vllustratlons miustras tions PATRICK HENRY ... After a painting by J. B. Longacre. STARR KING From a steel engraving. HENRY WARD BEECHER . From a photogfraph by Sarony, New York. WENDELL PHILLIPS .... From a steel engraving. PACE 364 408 458 Sio PERICLES When we agreed, O Aspasia! in the beginning of our loves, to communicate our thoughts by writing, even while we were both in Athens, and when we had many reasons for it, we little foresaw the more pow- erful one that has rendered it necessary of late. We never can meet again: the laws forbid it, and love itself enforces them. Let wisdom be heard by you as imperturbably, and afiection as authoritatively, as ever; and remember that the sorrow of Pericles can rise but from the bosom of Aspasia. There is only one word of tenderness we could say, which we have not said oftentimes before ; and there is no con- solation in it. The happy never say, and never hear said, farewell. Reviewing the course of my life, it appears to me at one moment as if we met but yesterday; at an- other as if centuries had passed within it ; for within it have existed the greater part of those who, since the origin of the world, have been the luminaries of the human race. Damon called me from my music to look at Aristides on his way to exile ; and my father pressed my wrist by which he was leading me along, and whispered in my ear: "Walk quickly by; glance cautiously; it is there MUtiades is in prison." In my boyhood Pindar took me up in his arms, when he brought to our house the dirge he had composed for the funeral of my grandfather; in my adolescence I offered the rites of hospitality to Em- Bspasfa B>ericles Sspasia pedocles: not long afterward I embraced the neck of ^schylus, about to abandon his country. With Sophocles I have argued on eloquence; with Eu- ripides on policy and ethics, I have discoursed, as became an inquirer, with Protagoras and Democritus. with Anaxagoras and Meton. From Herodotus I have listened to the most instructive history, conveyed in a language the most copious and the most harmonious ; a man worthy to carry away the collected suffrages of universal Greece; a man worthy to throw open the temples of Egypt, and to celebrate the exploits of Cyrus. And from Thucyd- ides, who alone can succeed to him, how recently did my Aspasia hear with me the energetic praises of his just supremacy. As if the festival of life were incomplete, and wanted one great ornament to crown it, Phidias placed before us, in ivory and gold, the tutelary deity of his land, the Zeus of Homer and Olympus. To have lived with such men, to have enjoyed their familiarity and esteem, overpays all labours and anxieties. I were unworthy of the friendships I have commemorated, were I forgetful of the latest. Sacred it ought to be, formed as it were under the Portico of Death, my friendship with the most sagacious, the most scientific, the most beneficent of Philosophers, Acron and Hippocrates. If mortal could war against Pestilence and Destiny, they had been victorious. I leave them in the field: unfor- tunate he who finds them among the fallen. And now at the close of my day, when every light is dim and every guest departed, let me own that these wane before me, remembering, as I do in the pride and fulness of my heart, that Athens confided her glory and Aspasia her happiness, to me. Have I been a faithful guardian? Do I yesign Pericles them to the custody of the gods undiminished and unimpaired? Welcome then, welcome, my last hour! After enjoying for so great a number of years, in my public and private life, what I believe has never been the lot of any other, I now extend my hand to the urn, and take without reluctance or hesitation that which is the lot of all. Bspaaia PERICLES TO ASPASIA. (WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR.) Ipericlce ONCE upon a day there was a grocer *°'' ^7 who lived in Indianapolis, Indiana. The grocer's name being Heinrich Schlie- mann, his nationality can be inferred; and as for pedigree, it is enough to state that his ancestors did not land either at Plymouth or Jamestown. However, he was an American citizen. Now this grocer made much moneys, for he sold groceries as were, and had a feed bam, a hay scale, a sommer garten, and a lunch counter. In fact, his place of busi- ness was just the kind you would expect a strenuous man by the name of Schlie- mann to keep. Soon Schliemann had men on the road, and they sold groceries as far west as Peoria and east as far as Xenia. Schliemann grew rich, and the opening up of Schliemann's division, where town Xittle Journqjs Stu&ving 6ceel! lots were sold at auction, and Anheuser- Busch played an important part, helped his bank balance not a little. Schliemann grew rich; and the gentle reader, being clairvoyant, now sees Schlie- mann weighed on his own hay scales — and wanting everything in sight — tipping the beam at part of a ton. The expectation is, that Schliemann will evolve into a large oval satrap, grow beautifully boastful and sublimely reminiscent, representing his ward in the Common Cotincil until apo- plexy prunes him off in his prime. But this time the reader is wrong: Schliemann was tall, slender, and reserved, also taciturn. Groceries were not the goal. In fact, he had interests outside of Indianapolis, that few knew anything about. When Schliemann was thirty- eight years old he was worth half a million dollars; and, instead of making his big business still bigger, he was studying Greek. It was a woman and Eros that taught Schliemann Greek ; and this in order that letters cotild be written — dictated by Eros, who they do say is an awful dictator — that wotild not be easily construed by Hoosier hoi polloi. Together, the woman Decides and Schliemann studied the history of Hellas. About the year 1868, Schliemann turned all of his Indiana property into cash; and in April, 1870, he was digging in the hill of Hissarlik, Troad. The same faculty of thoroughness, and the ability to captain a large business — managing men to his own advantage, and theirs — made his work in Greece a success. Schliemann's discoveries at Mt. Athos, Mycenae, Ithaca, and Tiryns turned a search-light upon prehistoric Hellas and revolutionised pre- vailing ideas concerning the rise and de- velopment of Greek Art. His Trojan treasures were presented to the city of Berlin. Had Schliemann given his priceless findings to Indianapolis, it would have made that city a sacred Mecca for all the Western world — set it apart, and caused James Whitcomb Riley to be a mere side-show, inept, inconsequent, im- inaterial, and insignificant. But alas! In- dianapolis never knew Schliemann when he lived there — they thought he was a Dutch grocer! And all the honours went to Benjamin Harrison, Governor Morton, and Thomas A. Hendricks. TCroian Ureasuces Xittle Joumess uoneotB If the Indiana novelists wotild cease their dalliance with Dame Fiction and turn to truth, writing a simple record of the life of Schliemann, it would eclipse in strangeness all the knighthoods that ever were in flower, and Ben Hur would get the flag in his Crawfordsville chariot race for fame. Berlin gave the freedom of the city to Schliemann; the Emperor of Germany bestowed on him a knighthood; the Uni- versity voted him a Ph.D. ; Heidelberg made him a D.C.L. ; and St. Petersburg followed with an LL.D. The value of the treasure, now in the Berlin Museum, found by Schliemann, exceeds by far the value of the Elgin marbles in the British Museum. We know, and have always known, who built the Parthenon and crowned the Acropolis; but not until Schliemann had by faith and good works removed the motmtain of Hissarlik did we know that the Troy of which blind Homer sang was not a figment of the poet's brain. Schliemann showed us that a thousand years before the age of Pericles there was a civilisation almost as great. Aye ! more IPericIes than this — he showed us that the ancient city of Troy was built upon the rtdns of a city that throve and pulsed with life and pride, a thousand years or more before Thetis, the mother of Achilles, held her baby by the heel and dipped him in the River Stjrx. Schliemann passed to the realm of shade in 1890, and is buried at Athens, in the Ceramicus, in a grave ex- cavated by his own hands in a search for the grave of Pericles. Pericles lived nearly twenty-five cen- turies ago. The years of his life were sixty-six — during the last thirty-one of which, by popular acclaim, he was the "first citizen of Athens." The age in which- he lived is called the Age of Pericles. Shakespeare died less than three hundred years ago, and, although he lived in a writing age and every decade since has seen a plethora of writing men, yet writing men are now bandying words as to whether he lived at all. Between us and Pericles lie a thousand years of night, when styli were stilled, pens forgotten, chisels thrown aside, brushes were useless, and oratory was UbousanA Jjjeare of nigbt 12 Xfttle 5ournegs (Bosefps Cbtonlcles silent, dumb. Yet we know the man Pericles quite as well as the popular mind knows George Washington who lived but yesterday, and with whom myth and fable have already played their part. Thucydides, a contemporary of Peri- cles, who outlived him nearly half a cen- tury, wrote his Hfe. Fortunately Thucyd- ides was big enough himself to take the measvire of a great man. At least seven other contemporaries, whose works we have in part, wrote also of the "first citizen. " To Plutarch are we indebted for much of our knowledge of Pericles, and fortim- ately we are in position to verify most of Plutarch's gossipy chronicles. The van- ishing point of time is seen in that Plu- tarch refers to Pericles as an "ancient"; and through the mist of years it hardly seems possible that between Plutarch and Pericles is a period of five hundred years. Plutarch resided in Greece when Paul was at Athens, Corinth, and other Grecian cities. Later Plutarch was at Miletus, about the time that Paul stopped there on his way to Rome to be tried for blasphemy — the same offence committed by Socrates, Pericles and a sin charged, too, against Pericles. Nature punishes for most sins, but sacri- lege, heresy, and blasphemy are not in her calendar, so man has to look after them. Plutarch visited Patmos, where St. John was exiled and where he wrote the Book of Revelation. Plutarch was also at " Malta by the Sea" where Paul was shipwrecked, but, so far as we know, he never heard of Paul nor of Him of whom, upon Mars Hill, Paul • preached. Paul bears testimony that at Athens the people spent their time in nothing else but either to tell or to hear some new thing. They were curious as children, and had to be diverted and amused. They were the same people that Pericles had diverted, amused, and used — used with- out their knowing it, five hundred years before. The gentle and dignified Anaxagoras, who abandoned all his property to the State that he might be free to devote him- self to thought, was the first and best teacher of Pericles. Under his tutorship — better, the companionship of this noble man — Pericles acquired that sublime self- restraint, that intellectual breadth, that 13 JfftBt Ueacbet M Xtttlc Sourness peace at Dome freedom from superstition which marked his character. Superstitions are ossified metaphors and back of every rehgious fallacy lies a truth. The gods of Greece were once men who fought their valiant fight and lived their day; the supernatural is the natural not yet understood — it is the natural seen through the mist of one,, two, three, ten or twenty-five hundred years when things loom large and out of proportion, and all these things were plain to Pericles. Yet he kept his inmost belief to himself, and let the mob believe whate'er it list. Morley's book on Compromise wotild not have ap- pealed much to Pericles — his answer wotild have been, "A man must do what he can, and not what he would. " Yet he was no vulgar demagogue truckling to the caprices of mankind, nor was he a tyrant who pitted his will against the many and subdued by a show of arms. For thirty years he kept peace at home, and if this peace was once or twice cemented by an insignificant foreign war, he proved thereby that he was abreast of Napoleon, who said, "The cure for civil dissension is war abroad." Peri- cles stands alone in his success as a states- Pericles is man. It was Thomas Brackett Reed, I „®"* , ' Central believe, who said, "A statesman is a poli- sun tician who is dead." And this is a sober truth, for, to reveal the statesman, perspective is required. Pericles built and maintained a state, and he did it as every statesman must, by recognising and binding to him ability. It is a fine thing to have ability, but the ability to discover ability in others is the true test. While Pericles lived there also lived -^schylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Zeno, Pythagoras, Socrates, Herodotus, Hippoc- rates, Pindar, Empedocles and Democritus. Such a galaxy of stars has never been seen before or since — unless we have it now — and Pericles was their one central sun. Pericles was great in many ways — great as an orator, musician, philosopher, poli- tician, financier, and great and wise as a practical leader. Lovers of beauty are apt to be dreamers, but this man had the ability to plan, devise, lay out work, and carry it through to a successful conclusion. He infused others with his own animation, and managed to set a whole city full of lazy people building a temple grander far in its rich simplicity than the world had i6 Xfttle 3ournei?s passion for Seauts ever seen. By his masterly eloquence and the magic of his presence, Pericles infused the Greeks with a passion for beauty and a desire to create. And no man can inspire others -with the desire to create who has not taken sacred fire from the altar of the gods. The creative genius is the highest gift vouchsafed to man, and wherein man is likest God. The desire to create does not btirn the heart of the serf, and only free people can respond to the greatest power ever given to any First Citizen.. In beautifying the city there was a necessity for workers in stone, brass, iron, ivory, gold, silver, and wood. Six thousand of the citizens were \mder daily pay as jvirors, to be called upon if their services were needed ; most of the other male adtdts were soldiers! Through the genius of Pericles and his generals these men were set to work as masons, carpenters, braziers, goldsmiths, painters, and sctilptors. Talent was discovered where before it was sup- posed there was none; music found a voice; play- writers discovered actors; ac- tors found an audience; and philosophy had a hearing. A theatre was btiilt, carved Ipedcles almost out of solid stone, that seated ten thousand people, and on the stage there was often heard a chorus of a thousand voices. Physical culture developed the perfect body so that the Greek forms of that time are to-day the despair of the human race. The recognition of the sa- credness of the temple of the soul was taught as a duty; and to make the body beautiful by right exercise and by right life became a science. The sctdptor must have had models approaching perfection, and the exhibition of the sculptor's work, together with occasional public religious processions of naked youths, kept before the people ideals superb and splendid. For Several years everybody worked, carrying stone, hewing, tugging, lifting, carving. Up the steep road that led to the Acropolis was a constant procession canning materials. So infused was every- body and everything with the work that a story is told of a certain mule that had hauled a cart in the endless procession. This worthy worker, "who was sustained by neither pride of ancestry nor hope of posterity, " finally became galled and lame and was turned out to die. But the mule Culture 18 Xittle 5ournei3S Bpprecias tton of tbe Seat did not die— nothing dies until hope dies. That mule pushed his way back into the throng and up and down he went, filled and comforted with the thought that he was doing his work — and aU respected him and made way. If this story was invented by a comic poet of the time, devised by an enemy of Pericles, we see its moral, and think no less of Pericles. To inspire a mule with a passion for work and loyalty in a great cause is no mean thing. So richly endowed was the character of Pericles that he was able to appreciate the best not only in men, but in literature, painting, sculpture, music, architecture, and life. In him there was as near a perfect harmony as we have ever seen — in him all the various lines of Greek culture united, and we get the perfect man. Un- der the right conditions there might be produced a race of such men — ^but such a race never lived in Greece and never could. Greece was a splendid experiment. Greece was God's finest plaything — devised to show what He could do. I have sometimes thought that comeli- ness of feature and fine physical propor- tions were a handicap to an orator. If Pericles 19 a man is handsome, it is quite enough — ube let him act as chairman and limit his words ®'^"*'" to stating the pleasure he has in intro- ducing the speaker. No man in a full dress suit can sway a thousand people to mingle mirth and tears, play upon their emotions and make them remember the things they have forgotten, drive con- viction home, and change the ideals of a Kfetime in an hour. The man in spotless attire, with necktie mathematically ad- justed, is an usher. If too much attention to dress is in evidence, we at once conclude that the attire is first in importance and the message secondary. The orator is a man we hate, fear, or love, and are curious to see. His raiment is incidental ; the usher's clothes are vital. The attire of the usher may reveal the man — ^but not so the speaker. If our first impressions are disappointing, so much the better, provided the man is a man. The best thing in Winston Churchill's book The Crisis is his description of Lincoln's speech at Freeport. Churchill got that description from a man who was there. Where the issue was great, Lin- coln was always at first a disappointment. Xittle 5ottrnei?s H)is= His unkempt appearance, his awkward- ''menT° ^^^' ^^ shriU voice — these things made people laugh, then they were ashamed because they laughed, then they pitied, next followed surprise, and before they knew it they were being wrapped round by words so gracious, so fair, so convincing, so free from prejudice, so earnest, and so charged with soiol that they were taken captive, bound hand and foot. Talmage, who knew his business, used to work this element of disappointment as an art. When the event was important and he wished to make a particularly good impression, he would begin in a very low, sing-song voice, and in a monotonous manner, dealing in trite nothings for five minutes or raore. His angular form would seem 'to take on more angles and his homely face would grow more homely — if it were possible; disappointment would spread itself over the audience like a fog; people would settle back in their pews, sigh and determine to endure. And then sud- denly the speaker would glide to the front, his great chest would fill, his immense mouth would open and there would leap forth a sentence like a thunderbolt. IPecicles Visitors at "The Temple," London, will recall how Joseph Parker worked the matter of surprise, and often piqued curiosity by beginning his sermon to two thousand people in a voice that was just above a whisper. One of the most impressive orators of modem times was John P. Altgeld, yet to those who heard him for the first time his appearance was always a disappoint- ment. Altgeld was so earnest and sincere, so full of his message, that he scorned all the tricks of oratory; but still he must have been aware that his insignificant form and commonplace appearance were a perfect foil for the gloomy, melancholy, and foreboding note of earnestness that riveted his words into a perfect whole. Over against the type of oratory repre- sented by Altgeld, America has produced one orator who fascinated first by his personal appearance, next exasperated by his imperturbable calm, then disap- pointed through a reserve that nothing could baffle, and finally won through all three more than by his message. This man was Roscoe Conlding, he of the Hy- perion curls and Jove-like front. TLtVCB of (Sratorc 22 %ittlc Journeys ""nb" The chief enemy of Conkling (and he conftiins had a goodly Ust) was James G. Blaine, who once said of him, "He wins like Pericles by his grand and god-like manner — and knows it." In appearance and manner Pericles and Conkling had much in common, but there the parallel stops. Pericles appeared only on great occasions. We are told that in twenty years he was only seen on the streets of Athens once a year, and that was in going from his house to the Assembly where he made his annual report of his stewardship. He never made himself cheap. His speeches were prepared with great care and must have been memorised. Before he spoke, he prayed the gods that not a single un- worthy word might escape his lips. We are told that his manner was so calm, so well poised, that during his speech his mantle was never disarranged. In his speeches, Pericles never cham- pioned an unpopular cause — he never led a forlorn hope — he never flung reasons into the teeth of a mob. His addresses were the orderly, gracious words of eulogy and congratulation. He won the approval of his constituents often against their Pericles 23 will and did the thing he wished to do, » sue 1ISS11£ without giving offence. Thucydides says that his words were like the honey of Hymettus — persuasion sat upon his lips. No man wins his greatest fame in that to which he has given most of his time; it 's his side issue, the thing he does for recreation, his heart's play-spell, that gives him immortality. There is too much tension in that where his all is staked. But in his leisure the pressure is removed, his heart is free and judgment may for the time take a back seat — there was where Dean Swift picked his laurels. Although Pericles was the greatest orator of his day, yet his business was not oratory. Public speaking was to him merely incidental and accidental. He doubtless would have avoided it if he cotild — he was a man of affairs, a leader of practical men, and he was a teacher. He held his place by a suavity, gentleness and gracious show of reasons unparalleled. In oratory it is manner that wins, not words. One virtue Pericles had in such generous measure that the world yet takes note of it, and that is his patience. If interrupted in a speech, he gave way and never answered sharply. 24 Xittle Joumess patience nor used his position to the other's dis- comfiture. In his speeches there was no challenge, no vituperation, no irony, no arraignment. He assumed that every- body was honest, everybody just, and that all men were doing what they thought was best for themselves and others. His ene- mies were not rogues — simply good men who were temporarily in error. He im- peached no man's motives; but went much out of his way to give due credit. On one occasion, early in his public career, he was berated by a bully in the streets. Pericles made no answer, but went quietly about his business. The man followed him, continuing his abuse, followed him clear to the door of his house. It being dark, Pericles ordered one of his servants to procure a torch, light the man home and see that no harm befell him. The splendour of his intellect and the sublime strength of his will are shown in that small things did not distress him. He was building the Parthenon and making Athens the wonder of the world; this was enough. The Greeks at their best were barbarians ; Pericles 25 at their worst, slaves. The average in- telligence among them was low; and the idea that they were such a wonderful peo- ple has gained a foothold simply because they are so far off. The miracle of it all is that such sublimely great men as Peri- cles, Phidias, Socrates, and Anaxagoras should have sprung from such a barbaric folk. The men just named were as ex- ceptional as was Shakespeare in the reign of Elizabeth. That the masses had small appreciation of these men is proven in the fact that Phidias and Anaxagoras died in prison, probably defeating their perse- cutors by suicide. Socrates drank the cup of hemlock, and Pericles, the one man who had made Athens immortal, barely escaped banishment and death by diverting attention from himself to a foreign war. The charge against both Pericles and Phidias was that of "sacrilege." They said that Pericles and Phidias should be punished because they had placed their pictures upon a sacred shield. Humanity's job lot was in the saddle, and sought to wound Pericles by attacking his dearest friends. His old teacher, Anaxagoras was made to die; his beloved Cbatge of Sacrilege 26 Xtttle Sourness Son of helper, Phidias, the greatest sctilptor the pettcicB ^orld has ever known, suffered a like fate, and his wife, Aspasia, was htimiliated by- being dragged to a public trial where the eloquence of Pericles alone saved her from a malefactor's death: and it is said that this was the only time when Pericles lost his "Olympian calm." The son of Pericles and Aspasia, was one of ten generals executed because they failed to win a certain battle. The scheme of beheading unsuccessful soldiers was not without its advantages, and in some wd,ys is to be commended, but the plan reveals the fact that the Greeks had so Uttle faith in their leaders that the threat of death was deemed necessary to make them do their duty. This son of Pericles was de- clared illegitimate by law; another law was passed declaring him legitimate; and finally his head was cut off, all as dtily provided in the statutes. Does this make us wonder what this world would have been without its lawmakers? The par- ticular offence of Anaxagoras was that he said Jove occasionally sent thtinder and Hghtning with no thought of Athens in mind. The same subject is up for dis- Pericles 27 cussion yet, but no special penalty is provided by the State as to conclusions. The citizens of Greece in the time of Pericles were given over to two things which were enough to damn any individual and any nation — idleness and superstition. The drudgery was done by slaves : the idea that a free citizen should work was pre- posterous: to be useful was a disgrace. For a time Pericles dissipated their foolish thought, but it kept cropping out. To speak disrespectfully of the gods was to invite death, and the philosophers who dared discuss the powers of nature or refer to a natural religion were only safe through the fact that their language was usually so garlanded with the flowers of poesy that the people did not comprehend its import. Very early in the reign of Pericles a present of forty thousand bushels of wheat had been sent from the King of Egypt — at least it was called a present — ^probably it was an exacted tribute. This wheat was to be distributed among the free citizens of Athens, and accordingly when the cargo arrived, there was a fine scramble among the people to show that they were of Steece 28 Xfttle Sourness Clt(3ens sbip free. Everybody produced a certificate and demanded wheat. Some time before this Pericles had caused a law to be passed providing that in order to be a citizen a man must be descended from a father and mother who were both Athenians. This law was aimed directly at Themistocles, the predecessor of Pericles, whose mother was an alien. It is true the mother of Themistocles was an alien, but her son was Themistocles. The law worked and Themistocles was declared to be a bastard and was banished. Before unloading our triremes of wheat, let the fact be stated that laws aimed at individuals are apt to prove boomerangs. "Thee should build no dark cells," said Elizabeth Fry to the King of France, " for thy children may occupy them." Some years after Pericles had caused this law to be passed defining citizenship, he loved a woman who had the misfortune to be born at Miletus. According to his own law the marriage of Pericles to this woman was not legal — ^she was only his slave, not his wife. So finally Pericles had to go before the people and ask for the repeal of the law that he had made, in order that his ©ericles 29 own children might be made legitimate. Little men in shovel hats and knee-breeches who hotly fume against the sin of a man marrjnng his deceased wife's sister are usually men whose wives are not deceased, and who have no sisters. The wheat arrived at the Piraeus, and the citizens jammed the docks. The slaves wore sleeveless tunics. The Greeks were not much given to that abstird plan of cutting off heads — ^they simply cut off sleeves. This meant that the man was a worker — the rest affected sleeves so long that they could not work, somewhat after the order of the Chinese nobility who wear their fingemails so long they cannot use their hands. " To kill a bird is to lose it, " said Thoreau. "To kill a man is to lose him," said the Greeks. " You should have your sleeves cut off, " said some of the citizens to others, with a bit of acerbity, as they crowded the docks for their wheat. The talk increased — it became louder. Finally, it was proposed that the dis- tribution of wheat should be deferred until every man had proved his pedigree. The ayes had it. SUeveleea Uunfcs 3° Xtttle 5ournei?s ■'I'" The result was that on close scrutiny, counttB five thousand supposed citizens had a blot on their 'scutcheon. The property of these five thousand men was immediately con- fiscated and the men sold into slavery. The total number of free men, women, and children in the city of Athens was about seventy-five thousand, and of slaves or helots about the same, making the total population of the city about one hundred and fifty thousand. We have heard so much of "the glory that was Greece, and the grandeur that was Rome, " that we are, at times, apt to think the world is making progress back- ward. But let us all stand erect and lift up our hearts in thankfulness that we live in the freest country the world has ever known. Wisdom is not monopolised by a few; power is not concentrated in the hands of a tyrant; knowledge need not express itself in cipher; to work is no longer a crime or a disgrace. We have superstition yet, but it is toothless : we can say our say without fear of losing our heads or sleeves. We may lose a few customers, and some subscribers may cancel, but we are not in danger of 1 IPertcles 31 banishment, and that attenuated form of ostracism which consists in neglecting to invite the offender to a four-o'clock-tea, has no terrors. Bigotry is abroad, but it has no longer the power to throttle science; the empty threat of future punishment and the offer of reward, are nothing to us, since we perceive they are offered by men who have not these things to give. The idea of war and conquest is held by many, but concerning it we voice otir thoughts and write our views; and the fact that we per- ceive and point out what we believe are fallacies, and brand the sins of idleness and extravagance, is proof that light is breaking in the East. If we can profit by the good that was in Greece and avoid the bad, we have the raw material here, if properly used, to make her glory fade into forgetfulness by comparison. Do not ask that the days of Greece shall' come again — ^we now know that to live by the sword is to die by the sword, and the nation that builds on conquest builds on sand. We want no splendour fashioned by slaves — no labour driven by the lash, or lured on through superstitious threat of X(9bt is Scealiing 32 Xtttle Journeys Comra&ee punishment and offer of reward : we recog- nise that to own slaves is to be one. Ten men built Athens — the passion for beauty that these men had may be ours, their example may inspire us, but to live their lives — we will none of them! Our lives are better — the best time the world has ever seen is now; and a better yet is sure to be. The night is past and gone — the light is breaking in the East. , Womanhood was not held in high esteem in Greece. To be sure, barbaric Sparta made a bold stand for eqtiality, and almost instituted a gynocracy, but the usual idea was that a woman's opinion was not worth considering. Hence the caricaturists of the day made sly sport of the love of Pericles and Aspasia. These two were intellectual equals, comrades, and that all of Pericles' public speeches were rehearsed to her, as his enemies averred, is probably true. "Aspasia has no time for society; she is busy writing a speech for her lord, " said Aristophanes. Socrates used to visit Aspasia, and he gave out as his opinion that Aspasia wrote the sublime ode de- livered by Pericles on the occasion of his etilogy on the Athenian dead. The popu- Pericles 33 lar mind could not possibly comprehend how a great man could defer to a woman in important matters, and she be at once his wife, counsellor, comrade, friend. Soc- rates, who had been taught by antithesis, understood it. The best minds of our day behold that Pericles was as sublimely great in his love affairs as he was in his work as architect and statesman. Life is a whole, and every man works his love up into life — his Hfe is revealed in his work, and his love is mirrored in his life. For myself I cannot see why the Parthenon may not have been a monument to a great and sublime passion and the statue of Athena, its chief orna- ment, be the sacred symbol of a great woman greatly loved. So far as can be fotind, the" term of "coitrtesan" applied by the mob to Aspa- sia, came from the fact that she was not legally married to Pericles, and for no other reason. That their union was not legal was owing to the simple fact that Pericles, early in his career had caused a law to be passed making marriage between an Athenian and an alien morganatic: very much as in England, for a time, the (Steat in love 36 QLittle Sourness TRnbat Aigbt taw Seen berlain and Salisbury had been the avatars of Pericles and Phidias, they would have used the nine hundred millions of dollars wasted in South Africa, and the services of those three hundred thousand men, and done in England, aye! or done in South Africa, a work of harmony and undying beauty such as this tired earth had not seen since Phidias wrought and Pindar sang. And another thing, the thirty thousand Englishmen sacrificed to the God of war, and the ten thousand Boers, dead in a struggle for what they thought was right would now nearly all be alive and well rejoicing in the contemplation of a harmony unparalleled and unsurpassed. During the last year, the United States has appropriated four hundred million dollars for w^ar and war apparatus. Since 1897, we have expended about three times the sum named for war and waste. If there had been among us a Pericles who could have used this vast treasiire in irrigating the lands of the West and build- ing manual training schools where boys and girls would be taught to do useful work and make beautiful things, we could have IPericles 37 made ancient Greece pale into forget- fulness beside the beauty we would manifest. When Pericles came into power there was a union of the Greek states, formed with intent to stand against Persia, the common foe. A treasure had been accumu- lated at Delos by Themistocles, the predecessor of Pericles, to use in case of emergency. The ambition of Themistocles was to make Greece commercially supreme. She must be the one maritime power of the world. AU the outlying islands of the ^gean Sea were pouring their tithes into Athens and Delos that they might have protection from the threatening hordes of Persia. Pericles saw that war was not imminent, and under the excuse of increased safety he got the accumulated treastire moved from Delos to Athens. The amoimt of this emergency fund, to us, would be insignifi- cant — a mere matter of say two million dollars. Pericles used this money, or a portion of it at least, for beautifying Athens, and he did his wondrous work by maintaining a moderate war tax in a ing mtbens 38 Xittle Sourness Beatb of time of peace, using the revenue for some- pettcice -tj^jng better than destruction and vaunting pride. But Pericles could not forever hold out against the mob at Athens, and the hordes abroad. He might have held the hordes at bay, but disloyalty struck at him at home — ^his best helpers were sacrificed to superstition — ^his beloved helper Phidias was dead. War came — ^the population from the country flocked within the walls of Athens for protection. The pent up people grew restless, sick — pestilence fol- lowed and in ministering to their needs, trying to infuse courage into his whimper- ing coimtrymen, bearing up under the disloyalty of his own sons, planning to meet the lesser foe without, Pericles grew a-weary, nature flagged, and he was dead. From his death dates the decline of Greece — she has been twenty-five centuries dying and is not dead even yet. To Greece we go for consolation, and in her armless and headless marbles we see the perfect type of what men and women yet may be. Copies of her " Winged Victory " are upon ten thousand pedestals pointing us the way. pertcles 39 England has her Chamberlain, Salisbury, Lord Bobs, Buller, and Kitchener; America has her rough riders who bawl and boast, her financiers, and her promoters. In every city of America there is a Thetois- tocles who can organise a " Trust of Delos" and make the outlying islands pay tithes and tribute through an indirect tax on this and that. In times of alleged danger all the men of Kansas flock to arms and offer their lives in the interest of outraged humanity. These things are well, but where is the Pericles who can inspire men to give in times of peace what all are willing to give in the deUrium of war — ^that is to say, themselves? We can Funstonise men into fighting machines ; we can set half a nation licking stamps for strife ; but where is the Pericles who can enthuse the populace into paving streets, btiilding good roads, planting trees, constructing waterways across desert sands, and crowning each rock-ribbed hill with a temple consecrated to love and beauty! We take our mules from their free prairies, huddle them in foul transports and send them across wide oceans to bleach their Mantes— H Pericles 40 Xlttle Journegs tmianteb— bones upon the burning veld; but where is the man who can inspire our mules with a passion to do their work, add their mite to building a temple and follow the pro- cession imled, undriven — with neither curb nor lash — happy in the fond idea that they are a part of all the seething Ufe that throbs, pulses, and works for a universal good. "I never caused a single Athenian to wear mourning," truthfully said Pericles with his dying breath. Can the present prime ministers of earth say as much? That is the kind of leader America most needs to-day — a man who can do his work and make no man, woman, or child wear crape. The time is ripe for him — we await his coming. We are sick of plutocrats who struggle and scheme but for themselves: we turn with loathing from the concrete selfishness of Newport and Saratoga; the clatter of arms and the blare of battle trumpets in time of peace is hideous to our ears — we want no wealth gained from conquest and strife. Ours is the richest cotmtry the world has ever known — Greece was a beggar IPecicles 41 compared with Iowa and Illinois, where nothing but honest effort is making small cities great. But we need a Pericles who shall inspire us to work for truth, harmony, and beauty, a beauty wrought for ourselves, and a love that shall perform such miracles, that they will minister to the millions yet tmbom. We need a Pericles! We need a Pericles! xnnanteti- BCericIee MARK ANTONY 43 45 It is not long ago, my Antony, since, with these hands I buried thee. Alas! they were then free, but thy Cleopatra is now a prisoner, attended by guard, lest, in the transports of her grief, she should disfigure this captive body, which is reserved to adorn the triumph over thee. These are the last offerings, the last honours she can pay thee; for she is now to be conveyed to a distant country. Nothing could part us while we lived, but in death we are to be divided. Thou, though a Roman, liest buried in Egypt; and I, an Egyptian, must be interred in Italy, the only favour I shall receive from thy country. Yet, if the Gods of Rome have power or mercy left, (for surely those of Egj^t have forsaken us) let them not suiler me to be led in living triumph to thy disgrace! No! hide me, hide me with thee in the grave; for life, since thou hast left it, has been misery to me. Plutarch. UoBnton^ 47 THE sole surviving daughter of the great King Ptolemy of Egypt, Cleopatra, was seventeen years old when her father died. By his will, the King made her joint heir to the throne with her brother Ptolemy, several years her junior. And according to the custom, not tmusual among royalty at that time, it was provided that Ptolemy shotdd become the husband of Cleopatra. She was a woman — her brother a child. She had intellect, ambition, talent. She knew the history of her own country, and that of Assyria, Greece, and Rome; and aU the written languages of the world were to her familiar. She had been educated by the philosophers, who had brought from Greece the science of Pjrthagoras and Plato. Her companions had been men — dleopatca 48 Xittle Sourness umioman Still not women, or nurses, or pious, pedantic priests. Through the veins of her young body pulsed and leaped life plus. She abhorred the thought of an alliance with her weak-chinned brother; and the ministers of state who suggested another husband, as a compromise, were dismissed with a look. They said she was intract- able, contemptuous, tmreasonable, and was scheming for the sole possession of the throne. She was not to be diverted even by ardent coiirtiers who were sent to her, and who lay in wait ready with amor- ous sighs — she scorned them all. Yet she was a woman still, and in her dreams she saw the coming prince. She was banished from Alexandria. A few friends followed her, and an army was formed to force from the enemy her rights. But other things were happening — a Roman army came leisurely drifting in with the tide and disembarked at Alexandria. The Great Caesar himseH was in command — a mere holiday, he said. He had in- tended to join the land forces of Mark Antony and help crush the rebellious abuvh Bntoni? 49 Pompey, but Antony had done the trick alone, and only a few days before word had come that Pompey was dead. Caesar knew that civil war was on in Alexandria, and being near he sailed slowly in, sending messengers ahead warn- ing both sides to lay down their arms. With him was the far-famed invincible Tenth Legion that had ravished Gaul. Caesar wanted to rest his men, and inci- dentally, to reward them. They took possession of the city without a blow. Cleopatra's troops laid down their arms, but Ptolemy's refused. They were sim- ply chased beyond the walls, and their ptmishment for a time deferred. Caesar took possession of the palace of the King, and his soldiers accommodated themselves in the houses, public build- ings, and temples as best they could. Cleopatra asked for a personal inter- view so as to present her cause. Caesar declined to meet her — ^he understood the trouble — many such cases he had seen. Claimants for thrones were not new to him. Where two parties quarrelled, both were right — or wrong — ^it really mattered little. It is absurd to quarrel — still more Ube Coming of Cesar 52 Xittle Sourneps Ube IRug (8 tanroius At a door they pause an instant, there is a whispered word — ^they enter. The room is furnished as becomes the room that is the private library of the King of Egypt. In one corner, seated at the table, pen in hand, sits a man of middle age, pale, clean shaven, with hair close- cropped. His dress is not that of a soldier — ^it is the flowing white robe of a Roman priest. Only one servant attends this man, a secretary, seated near, who rises and explains that the present is acceptable and shall be deposited on the floor. The pale man at the table looks up, smiles a tired smile and murmurs in a per- functory way his thanks. Appolidorus having laid his burden on the floor, kneels to untie the ropes. The secretary explains that he need not trouble, pray bear thanks and again thanks to his master — ^he need not tarry! The dumb man on his knees neither hears nor heeds. The rug is unrolled. Prom out the roll a woman leaps lightly to her feet — a beautiful young woman of twenty. She stands there, poised, defiant, gazing at the pale-faced man seated at the table. /Darft Hntoni? S3 He is not siirprised — ^he never was. One might have supposed he received all his visitors in this manner. "Well?" he says in a qidet way, a half smile parting his thin lips. The woman's breast heaves with tumul- tuous emotion — just an instant. She speaks, and there is no tremor in her tones. Her voice is low, smooth, and scarcely audible: "I am Cleopatra." The man at the desk lays down his pen, leans back and gently nods his head, as much as to say, indulgently, "Yes, my child, I hear — go on!" "I am Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, and I would speak with thee alone." She paused; then raising one jewelled arm motions to Appolidorus that he shall withdraw. With a similar motion, the man at the desk signifies the same to his astonished secretary. of Saspt Appolidorus went down the long hall- way, down the stone steps and waited at the outer gate amid the throng of soldiers. They questioned him, gibed him, railed at him, but they got no word in reply. He waited — he waited an hotir, two — 54 QLfttle Journess (lonqueBt and then came a messenger with a note written on a slip of parchment. The words ran thus: "Well beloved 'Dorus: Veni, vidi, vici\ Go fetch my maids, also all of our personal belongings. " II STANDING alone by the slashed and stiffened corpse of Julius Caesar, Mark Antony says: Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Caesar had two qualities that mark the man of supreme power: he was gentle and he was firm. To be gentle, generous, lenient, forgiving, and yet never relinquish the vital thing — this is to be great. To know when to be generous, and when firm — ^this is wisdom. The first requisite in ruling others is to rule one's own spirit. The suavity, moderation, dignity, and wise diplomacy of Caesar led him by sure and safe steps from a lowly clerkship to positions of gradually increasing responsi- bility. At thirty-seven he was elected 55 (Bteatness _ 56 Xtttle Sourness Zbe Oceate est /man in IRome Pontifex Maximus — the head of the State reUgion. Between Pagan Rome and Christian Paganism there is small choice — all State religions are very much alike. Caesar was Pope: and no State religion since his time has been an improvement on that of Csesar. In his habits Csesar was ascetic — a scholar by natvire. He was tall, slender, and in countenance sad. For the intellect nature had given him, she had taken toll by cheating him in form and feature. He was deliberate, and of few words — he listened in a way that always first com- plimented the speaker and then dis- concerted him. By birth he was a noble, and by adoption one of the people. He was both plebeian and patrician. His mihtary experience had been but slight, though creditable, and his public addresses were so few that no one claimed he was an orator. He had done nothing of special importance and yet the feeling was everywhere that he was the greatest man in Rome. The nobles feared him, trembling at thought of his displeasure. /IDarf: Hnton^ 57 The people loved him— he called them, "My children." Caesar was head of the Church, but politi- cally there were two other strong leaders in Rome, Pompey and Crassus. These two men were rich, and each was the head of a large number of followers whom he had armed as militia "for the defence of State. ' ' Csesar was poor in ptirse and could not meet them in their own way even if so inclined. He saw the danger of these rival factions — strife between them was imminent — street fights were com- mon, and it would only require a spark to ignite the tinder. Csesar the Pontiff — the man of peace — saw a way to secure safety for the State from these two men who had armed their rival legions to protect it. To secure this end he would crush them both. The natural way to do this would have been to join forces with the party he deemed the stronger, and down the oppo- sition. But this done the leader with whom he had joined forces would still have to be dealt with. Caesar made peace between Pompey and Sxeat tbe Vontfff S8 Xtttle Sourness Uroublcs some (Saul Crassus by joining with them, forming a Triumvirate. This was one of the greatest strokes of statecraft ever devised. It made peace at home — averted civil war — cemented rival factions. When three men join forces, make no mistake, power is neVer equally divided. Before the piping times of peace coiild pall, a foreign war diverted attention from approaching diffictilties at home. The Gauls were threatening — they were always threatening — war could be had with them any time by just pushing out upon them. To the south, Sicily, Greece, Persia, and Egypt had been exploited — fame and empire lay in the dim and un- known North. Only a Caesar could have known this. He had his colleagues make him governor of Gaul. Gaul was a troublesome place to be in, and they were quite willing he should go there. For a priest to go among the fighting Gauls — ^they smiled and stroked their chins! Gaul had definite boundaries on the South — ^the Rubicon marked the line — ^but on the North it was without limit. Real estate owners own flDarft Hntong 59 as high in the air and as deep in the earth amuc as they wish to go. Caesar alone guessed ™"' the greatness of Gaul. Under pretence of protecting Rome from a threatened invasion he secured the strong- est legions of Pompey and Crassus. Com- bining them into one army he led them northward to such conquest and victory as the world had never seen before. It is not for me to tell the history of Caesar's Gallic wars. Suffice it to say that in eight years he had penetrated what is now Switzerland, France, Germany, and England. Everywhere he left monuments of his greatness in the way of splendid highways, baths, aqueducts, and temples. Colonies of settlers from the packed popu- lation of Rome foUowed the victors. An army left to itself after conquest wiU settle down to riot and mad surfeit, but this man kept his forces strong by keeping them at work — discipline was never re- laxed, yet there was such kindness and care for his men that no mutiny ever made head. Caesar became immensely rich — ^his debts were now all paid — ^the treasure returned to Rome did the general coffers fill, his 6o Xtttle Sourness CiEeiir dioggee tbe IRubicon name and fame were blazoned on the Roman streets. When he returned he knew, and had always known, it would be as a con- quering hero. Pompey and Crassus did not wish Caesar to rettun. He was still governor of Gaul and should stay there. They made him governor — ^he must do as they required — ^they sent him his orders. " The die is cast, " said Caesar on reading the message. Immediately he crossed the Rubicon. An army fights for a leader, not a cause. The leader's cause is theirs. Caesar had led his men to victory, and he had done it with a comparatively small degree of danger. He never made an attack until every expedient for peace was exhausted. He sent word to each barbaric tribe to come in and be lovingly annexed, or else be annexed willy nilly. He won, but through diplomacy where it was possible. When he did strike, it was quickly, unex- pectedly, and hard. The priest was as great a strategist as a diplomat. He par- doned his opposers when they would lay down their arms — ^he wanted success, not flDarh antons 6i vengeance. But always he gave his sol- cioubs diers the credit. *""'" They were loyal to him. Pompey and Crassus could not oppose a man like this — ^they fled. Cassar's most faithful and trusted col- league was Mark Antony, seventeen years his junior — a slashing, dashing, audacious, exuberant fellow. Caesar became dictator, really king or emperor. He ruled with moderation, wisely and well. He wore the purple robe of authority, but refused the crown. He was honoured, revered, beloved. The habit of the pontiff still clung to him — ^he called the people, "My children." The imperturbable calm of the man of God was upon him — ^his courage was unim- peachable, but caution preserved him from personal strife. That he could ever be approached by one and all was his pride. But clouds were beginning to gather. He had pardoned his enemies, but they had not forgiven him. There were whisperings that he was getting ready to assume the office of emperor. At a certain parade when Caesar sat upon the raised seat, reviewing the 62 Xlttle Sourness Xou& /Durmurs passing procession, Mark Antony, the exuberant, left his place in the ranks, and climbing to the platform had tried to crown his beloved leader with laurel. Cssar had smilingly declined the honour, amid the plaudits of the crowd. Some said this whole episode was planned to test the temper of the popiilace. Another cause of offence was that some time before, Cassar had spent several months at Alexandria at the court of Cleopatra. And now the young and beau- tiful queen had arrived in Rome, and Csesar had appeared with her at public gatherings. She had with her a boy, two years old, by name Cassario. This Egyptian child, said the con- spirators, was to be the future Emperor of Rome. To meet this accusation Caesar made his will and provided that his grand- nephew, Octavius Cassar, should be his adopted son and heir. But this was de- clared a ruse. The murmurings grew louder. Sixty senators combined to assassinate Cassar — the high position of these men made them safe — ^by standing together they would be secure. /Darl! Untorvs Csesar was warned, but declined to take the matter seriously. He would neither arm himself nor allow guards to attend him. On the 15th of March, 44 B. C, as Cffisar entered the senate the rebels crowded upon him under the pretence of handing him a petition, and at a sign fell upon him. Twenty-three of the conspirators got close enough to send their envious daggers home. Brutus dipped his sword in the flowing blood, and waving the weapon aloft cried, "Liberty is restored!" Two days later, Mark Antony standing by the dead body of his beloved chief, sadly mused: Thou art the ruins of the noblest man That ever lived in the tide of times. Ube Vteg ot Aaccb 64 III In 1)igb oacee C^SAR died aged fifty-six. Mark An- tony, his executor, occupying the office next in importance, was thirty-nine. In point of physique, Antony far siir- passed Caesar: they were the same height, but Antony was heroic in stature and carriage, muscular, and athletic. His face was comely — his nose large and straight, his eyes set wide apart ; his manner martial. If he lacked in intellect, in appearance he held averages good. Antony had occupied the high offices of quaestor and tribune, the first calling for literary ability, the second for that of an orator. Caesar, the wise and diplo- matic, had chosen Mark Antony as his Secretary of State on accotint of his pe- culiar fitness, especially in representing the government at public functions. An- tony had a handsome presence, a gracious /IDarf; Hntons 65 tongue, and was a skilled and ready writer. Cffisar himself was too great a man to be much in evidence. In passing, it is well to note that all the tales as to the dissipation and profligacy of Mark Antony in his early days come from the "Philippics" of Cicero, who made the mistake of executing Lentulus, the stepfather of Mark Antony, and then felt called upon forever to condemn the entire family. Philippics are always a form of self-vindication. However it need not be put forward that Mark Antony was a paragon of virtue — a man who has been successively and suc- cessfully soldier, politician, lawyer, judge, rhetorician, and diplomat is what he is. Rome was the ruler of the world : Csesar was the undisputed greatest man of Rome : and Mark Antony was the right hand of Caesar. At the decisive battle of Pharsalia, Csesar had chosen Mark Antony to lead the left wing while he himself led the right. More than once Mark Antony had stopped the Roman army in its flight and had turned defeat into victory. In the battle Ube 1fif9bt t)an& of axeax 66 Xittle Journeys B plot with Aristobtdus he was the first to scale the wall. His personal valotir was beyond cavil — he, had distinguished himself in every battle in which he had taken part. It was the first intent of the conspirators that Caesar and Antony should die to- gether, but the fear was that the envious hate of the people toward Csesar would be neutralised by the love the soldiers bore both Csesar and Antony. So they counted on the cupidity and ambition of Antony to keep the soldiers in subjection. Antony was kept out of the plot, and when the blow was struck he was detained at his office by pretended visitors who wanted a hearing. When news came to him that Caesar was dead, he fled, thinking that massacre wotild follow. But the next day he re- turned and held audience with the rebels. Antony was too close a follower of Caesar to depart from his methods. Natur- ally he was hasty and impxilsive, but now, everything he did was in imitation of the great man he had loved. Caesar always pardoned. Antony lis- tened to the argument of Brutus that /Darh Hntonp 67 Caesar had been removed for the good of Rome. Brutus proposed that Antony should fill Caesar's place as Consul or nomi- nal dictator; and in return Brutus and Cassius were to be made governors of certain provinces — amnesty was to be given to all who were in the plot. Antony agreed, and at once the Assembly was called and a law passed tendering pardon to all concerned — thus was civil war averted. Caesar was dead, but Rome was safe. The funeral of Caesar was to occur the next day. It was to be the funeral of a private citizen — ^the honour of a public funeral pyre was not to be his. Brutus wotild say a few words, and Antony, as the closest friend of the dead, would also speak — the body wotild be buried and all would go on in peace. Antony had done what he had because it was the only thing he could do. To be successor of Cassar filled his ambition to the brim— but to win the purple by a compromise with the murderers! It turned his soul to gall. At the funeral of Caesar the Forum was crowded to every comer with a subdued, funeral of Casat 68 Xittle Journegs Bntons's Station dejected, breathless throng. People spoke in whispers — no one felt safe — the air was stifled and poisoned with fear and fever. Brutus spoke first: we do not know his exact words, but we know the temper of the man, and his mental attitude. Mark Antony had kept the peace, but if he could only feel that the people were with him he would drive the sixty plotting conspirators before him like chaff before the whirlwind. He would then be Caesar's successor because he had avenged his death. The orator must show no passion until he has aroused passion in the hearer — ora- tory is a collaboration. The orator is the active principle, the audience the passive. Mark Antony, the practised orator, begins with simple propositions to which all agree. Gradually he sends out quiver- ing feelers ; the response returns ; he con- tinues, the, audience answers back, he plays upon their emotion, and soon only one mind is supreme, and that is his own. We know what he did and how he did it, but his words are lost. Shakespeare, the man of imagination, supplies them. /IDarft antonp 69 The plotters have made their defence — it is accepted. Antony, too, defends them — ^he repeats that they are honourable men, and to reiter- ate that a man is honourable is to admit that possibly he is not. The act of defence implies guilt, and to turn defence into accusation through pity and love for the one wronged is the supreme task of oratory. From love of Caesar to hate for Brutus and Cassius is but a step — panic takes the place of confidence among the conspirators — they slink away. The spirit of the mob is uppermost — the only honovir left to Cassar is the funeral pjnre. Benches are torn up, windows piilled from their fastenings, every available combustible is added to the pile, and the body of Cassar — he alone calm and untroubled ainid all this mad mob — is placed upon this improvised throne of death. Torches flare, and the pile is soon in flames. Night comes on, and the same torches that touched to red the funeral couch of Cffisar, hunt out the houses of the con- spirators who killed him. But the conspirators have fled. One man is supreme, and that man is Mark Antony. Supreme 70 IV Ube ipet of IRome TO maintain a high position requires the skill of a harlequin. It is an abnormality that any man should long tower above his fellows. For a few short weeks, Mark Antony was the pride and pet of Rome. He gave fStes, contests, processions and enter- tainments of lavish kind. "These things are pleasant, but they have to be paid for," said Cicero. Then came from lUyria, Octavius Csesar, aged nineteen, the adopted son of Caesar the Great, and claimed his patrimony. Antony laughed at the stripling, and thought to bribe him with a fete in his honour and a promise, and in the meantime a clerkship where there was no work to speak of and pay in inverse ratio. The boy was weak in body and common- place in mind — in way of culture he had flbarK Hntons 71 been overtrained — but he was stubborn. Mark Antony lived so much on the surface of things, that he never imagined there was a strong party pushing the "yoiing Augustus" forward. Finally Antony became impatient with the importuning young man, and threat- ened to send him on his way with a guard at his heels to see that he did not return. At once a storm broke over the head of Antony — ^it came from a seemingly clear sky — ^Antony had to flee, not Octavius. The soldiers of the Great Caesar had been remembered in his will with seventy- five drachmas to every man, and the will must stand or fall as an entirety. Caesar had provided that Octavius should be his successor — ^this will must be respected. Cicero was the man who made the argu- ment. The army was with the will of the dead man, rather than with the ambition of the living. Antony fled, but gathered a goodly army as he went, intending to return. After some months of hard times, passion cooled, and Antony, Octavius, and Lepidus, the chief general of Octavius, met in the field for consultation. Swayed by the B Stocm 72 B Urfunts vlcate 3Ltttle Sourness eloquence of Antony who was still full of the precedents of the Great Caesar, a Tri- umvirate was forraed, and Antony, Octav- ius, and Lepidus coolly sat down to divide the world among them. One strong argument that Antony used for the necessity of this partnership was, that Brutus and Cassius were just across in Macedonia, waiting and watching for the time when civil war would so weaken Rome that they coxild step in and claim their own. Brutus and his fellow-conspirators must be punished. In two years from that time, they had performed their murderous deed; Cassius was killed at his own request by his ser- vant, and Brutus had fallen on his sword to escape the sword of Mark Antony. In the stress of defeat and impending calamity, Mark Antony was a great man: he could endure anytliing but success. But now there were no more enemies to conquer: tinlike Caesar the Great he was no scholar, so books were not a solace; to build up and beautify a great state did not occur to him. His camp was turned into a place of mad riot and disorder. Har- /IDacfi Hntoni? 73 pers, dancers, buffoons, and all the sodden splendotir of the East made the nights echo with " shouts, sacrifices, songs, and groans." When Antony entered Ephesus the women went out to meet him in the undress of bacchanals, troops of naked boys repre- senting cupids, and men clothed like satyrs danced before. Everywhere were ivy crowns, spears wreathed with green, and harps, flutes, pipes, and hiunan voices sang songs of praise to the great god Bac- chus — ^for such Antony liked to be called. Antony knew that between Cleopatra and Cassar there had been a tender love. All the world that Caesar ruled, Antony now ruled — or thought he did. In the intoxication of success he would, too, rule the heart that the great Caesar had ruled. He would rule this proud heart or he would crush it beneath his heel. He despatched Dellius, his trusted secre- tary to Alexandria summoning the Queen to meet him at Cilicia, and give answer as to why she had given succour to the army of Cassius. The charge was preposterous, and if sincere, shows the drunken condition of Antony's mind. Cleopatra loved Caesar — Vntoficas tion of Success 74 Xittlc Sourness Cleopatra's Xevt foe Cssar he was to her the King of Kings, the one supreme and god-like man of earth. Her studious and splendid mind had matched his own — this cold, scholarly man of fifty- two had been her mate — the lover of her soul. Scarcely five short years before, she had attended him on his journey as he went away, and there on the banks of the Nile as they parted, her unborn babe responded to the stress of parting no less than she. Afterward she had followed him to Rome that he might see his son, Cassario. She was in Rome, when Brutus and Cassius struck their fatal blows, and had fled, disguised, her baby in her arms, refusing to trust the precious life to the hands of hirelings. And now that she should be accused of giving help to the mtu-derer of her joy! She had execrated and despised Cassius, and now she hated, no less, the man who had wrongfully accused her. But he was dictator — his summons must be obeyed. She would obey it, but she would humiliate him. Antony waited at Cilicia on the day appointed, but Cleopatra did not appear. /Dart? Hntons 75 He waited two days— three — and very m leisurely, up the river, the galleys of Cleo- pageant patra came. But she did not come as suppliant. The curiously carved galley was studded with nails of gold ; the oars were all tipped with silver, the sails were of purple silk. The rowers kept time to the music of flutes. The Queen in a gauzy dress of Venus re- clined under a canopy, fanned by Cupids. Her maids were dressed like the Graces, and fragrance of burning incense filled the air along the shores. The whole city went down the river to meet this raost gorgeous pageant, and Antony the proud was left at the tribunal alone. On her arrival Cleopatra sent official word of her presence. Antony sent back word that she should come to him. She responded that if he wished to see her he should call and pay his respects. He went down to the riverside and was astonished at the dazzling, twinkling lights and all the magnificence that his eyes beheld. Very soon he was convinced that 76 Xittle Sourness Sleopa tea's jFascinas tion in elegance he could not cope with this Egyptian queen. The personal beauty of Cleopatra was not great. Many of her maids outshone her. Her power lay in her wit and won- drous mind. She adapted herself to con- ditions; and on every theme and topic that the conversation might take, she was at home. Her voice was marvellously musical, and was so modvilated that it seemed like an instrument of many strings. She spoke all languages, and therefore, had no use for interpreters. When she met Antony she quickly took the measure of the man. She fell at once into his coarse soldier ways, and answered him jest for jest. Antony was at first astonished, then subdued, next entranced — a woman who could be the comrade of a man she had never seen before! She had the intellect of a man and all the luscious weaknesses of a woman. Cleopatra had come hating this man Antony, and to her surprise she found him endurable — and more. Besides that, she had cause to be grateful to him — he had flDarh Hntons 77 destroyed the conspirators who had killed her Caesar — ^her King of Kings. She ordered her retinue to make ready to return. The prows were turned toward Alexandria; and aboard the galley of the queen, beneath the silken canopy, at the feet of Cleopatra, reclined the great Mark Antony. ■ Bt tbe 3feet of Cleopatra 78 Bntonyi's Xove BYRON Stuns the subject up in his masterly phrase, "Man's love is of man's life a thing apart ; 'tis woman's whole existence." Still, I suppose it will not be disputed that much depends upon the man and — ^the woman. In this instance we have a strong, wilful, ambitious and masculine man; up to the time he met Cleopatra, love was of his life apart; after this, it was his whole existence. When they first met there at Cilicia, Antony was past forty, she was twenty-five. Plutarch tells us that Fulvia, the wife of Antony, an earnest and excellent woman, had tried to discipline him. The result was that instead of bringing him over to her way of thinking she had separated him from her. Cleopatra ruled the man by entwining /IDarl! Hntons 79 her spirit with his — mixing the very fibres ®"'"^' of their being — fastening her sotil to his spoct» with hoops of steel. She became a ne- cessity to him — a part and parcel of the fabric of his life. Together they attended to all the affairs of state. They were one in aU the games and sports. The exuber- ant animal spirits of Antony occasionally found vent in roaming the streets of Alex- andria at dead of night, rushing into houses and pulling people out of bed, and then absconding before they were well awake. In these nocturnal pranks, Cleopatra often attended him, dressed like a boy. Once they both got well pomriielled, and de- servedly, but they stood the drubbing rather than reveal their identity. The story of their fishing together, and Antony making aU the catch has been often told. He had a skilful diver go down every now and then and place a fish on his hook. Finally when he grew beautifully boastful, as successful fisher- men are apt to do, Cleopatra had her diver go down and attach a large Newfoundland salt cod-fish to his hook, which when pulled up before the company turned the laugh and in the guise of jest taught the man a 8o OLtttle Journegs innequal ipactneie useftil lesson. Antony should have known better than to try and deceive a woman like that — other men have tried it before and since. But all this horse-play was not to the higher taste of Cleopatra — with Caesar, she wotild never have done it. It is the man who gives the key to con- duct in marriage, not the woman; the partnership is successful only as a woman conforms her life to his. If she can joy- ftilly mingle her life with his, destiny smiles in benediction and they become necessary to each other. If she grudgingly gives, conforming outwardly, with mental reservations, she droops, and spirit flagel- lates the body until it sickens, and dies. If she holds out firmly upon principle, intent on preserving her individtiality, the man, if small, sickens and dies ; if great, he finds companionship elsewhere, and leaves her to develop her individuality alone — ^which she never does. One of three things happens to her : she dies, lapses into nullity, or finds a mate whose nature is sufficiently like her own for them to blend. Cleopatra was a greater woman, far, than Antony was a man. But she con- /Darh Hntoni? formed her life to his and counted it joy. She was capable of better things, but she waived them all, as strong women do and have done since the world began. Love is woman's whole existence — sometimes. But love was not Cleopatra's whole ex- istence, any more than it was the sole existence of the silken Sara, her prototype. Cleopatra loved power first, afterward she loved love. By attaching to herself a man of power both ambitions were realized. Two years had gone by, and Antony still remained at Alexandria. Importun- ities, requests, and orders had all failed to move him to return. The days passed in the routine affairs of state, hunting, fishing, excursions, fStes, and games. An- tony and Cleopatra were not separated night or day. Suddenly news of serious import came — Fulvia, and Lucius, the brother of Antony, had rebelled against Caesar and had gathered an army to fight him. Antony was sore distressed, and started at once to the scene of the difficulty. Fulvia's side of the story was never told, for before Antony arrived in Italy she was dead. Zifstressing ttevrt 82 aLtttle Sourness filuacrelg Octavius Caesar came out to meet An- tony and they met as friends. According to Caesar, the whole thing had been planned by Fulvia as a scheme to lure her lord from the arms of Cleopatra. And anyway the plan had worked. The Triumvirate- still existed — although Lepidus had prac- tically been reduced to the rank of a private citizen. Antony and Caesar would now rule the world as one, and to cement the bond Antony should take the sister of Octavius to wife. Knowing full well the rela- tionship of Antony and Cleopatra, she consented to the arrangement, and the marriage ceremony was duly performed. Antony was the head of the Roman army and to a great degree the actual ruler. Power was too equally divided between him and Caesar for either to be happy — they quarrelled like boys at play. Antony was restless, uneasy, impatient, — Octavia tried to keep the peace, but her kindly offices only made matters worse. War broke out between Rome and certain tribes in the East, and Antony took the field. Octavia importuned her liege that she might attend him, and he finally /IDarh Hntons 83 consented. She went as far as Athens, then across to Macedonia and here Antony- sent her home to her brother that she might escape the dangers of the desert. Antony followed the enemy down into Syria; and there sent for Cleopatra that he might consult with her about joining the forces of Egypt with those of Rome to crush the barbarians. Cleopatra came on, the consultation followed, and it was decided that when Caesar the Great — the god-like man whose memory they mutually revered — said,"War is a foolish business, " he was right. They would let the barbarians slide — if they deserved punishment, the gods wotild look after the case. If the barbarians did not need punishment, then they should go free. Tents were struck, pack camels were loaded, horses were saddled, and the caravan started for Alexandria. By the side of the camel that carried the Queen, quietly stepped the proud barb that bore Mark Antony. B 3fooIfeb Susiness 84 Cssacio VI FOR fourteen years Cleopatra and An- tony ruled Egypt together. The country had prospered, even in spite of the extravagance of its governors, and the Egyptians had shown a pride in their Roman ruler, as if he had done them great honour to remain and be one with them. Cassario was approaching manhood — his mother's heart was centring her ambition in him — she called him her King of Kings, the name she had given to his father. Antony was fond of the young man, and put him forward at public f^tes even in advance of Cleopatra, his daughter, and Alexander and Ptolemy, his twin boys by the same mother. In playftil paraphrase of Cleopatra, Antony called her the Queen of Kings, and also the Mother of Kings. Word reached Rome that these children /IDarl? antons 8s of Cleopatra were being trained as if they were to rtile the world — perhaps it was so to be! Octavius Caesar scowled. For Antony to wed his sister, and then desert her, and bring up a brood of bar- barians to naenace the State, was a serious offence. An order was sent commanding Antony to rettirn — requests and prayers all having proved futile and fruitless. Antony had turned into fifty; his hair and beard were whitening with the frost of years. Cleopatra was near forty — de- voted to her children, being their nurse, instructor, teacher. The books refer to the life of Antony and Cleopatra as being given over to sensuality, licentiousness, profligacy. Just a word here to state this fact: sensiiality alone sickens and turns to satiety ere a single moon has nm her course. Sensuality was a factor in the bond, because sensu- ality is a part of life, but sensuality alone soon separates a man and woman — ^it does not long tmite. The bond that united Antony and Cleopatra cannot be dis- posed of by either of the words, " sensiial- ity" or "licentiousness" — some other Zbc Sent of mnion 86 Xtme Journess Bnton^'s VOUU term here applies: make it what you wish. A copy of Antony's will had been stolen from the Alexandria archives and carried to Rome by traitors in hope of personal reward. Cassar read the will to the Senate. One clause of it was particularly offensive to Caesar: it provided that on the death of Antony, wherever it might occur, his body shotild be carried to Cleopatra. The will also provided that the children of Cleopatra should be provided for first, and afterward the children of Fulvia and Octavia. The Roman Senate heard the will, and declared Mark Antony an outlaw — a public enemy. Ere long Cassar himself took the field and the Roman legions were pressing down upon Egypt. The renegade Mark An- tony was fighting for his life. For a time he was successfttl, but youth was no longer his, the spring had gone out of his veins, and pride and prosperity had pushed him toward fatty degeneration. His soldiers lost faith in him, and turned to the powerful name of Caesar — a name to conjure with. A battle had been ar- /IDarl? Sntoni? ranged between the fleet of Mark Antony and that of Cassar. Mark Antony stood upon a hillside, overlooking the sea, and saw his valiant fleet approach, in battle array, the ships of the enemy. The two fleets met, hailed each other in friendly manner with their oars, turned and to- gether sailed away. On shore the cavalry had done the same as the soldiers on the sea — the infantry were routed. Mark Antony was undone — he made his way back to the city, and as usual sought Cleopatra. The palace was de- serted, save for a few servants. They said that the Queen had sent the children away some days before, and she was in the mausoleum. To the unhappy man this meant that she was dead. He demanded that his one faithfiil valet, known by the fanciful name of Eros, should keep his promise and kill him. Eros drew his sword, and Antony bared his breast, but instead of striking the sword into the vitals of his master, Eros plunged the blade into his own body, and fell dead at his master's feet. At which Mark Antony exclaimed, " This 87 inntone L 88 Xtttle Journeys ment of Slespatra was well done, Eros — thy heart would not permit thee to kill thy master, but thou hast set him an example!" So saying he plunged his sword into his bowels. The wound was not deep enough to cause immediate death; he begged the gathered attendants to kill him. Word had been carried to Cleopatra, who had moved into her mausoleum for safety. This monument and tomb had been erected some years before; it was made of square blocks of solid stone, and was the stoutest building in Alexandria. While Antony was outside the walls fight- ing, Cleopatra had carried into this building all of her jewelry, plate, costly silks, gold, silver, pearls, her private records, and most valuable books. She had also car- ried into the mausoleum a large qtiantity of flax and several torches. The intent was that if Antony was de- feated, and the city taken by Caesar, the conqueror should not take the Queen alive, neither shotild he have her treasure. With her two women, Iras and Charmion, she entered the tomb, all agreeing that when the worst came they would fire the flax and die together. Sbatli Hntoni? 89 When the Queen heard that Antony was at death's door, she ordered that he should be brought to her. He was carried on a Utter to the iron gate of the tomb; but she, fearing treachery, would not unbar the door. Cords were let down from a window above and the queen and her two women, by much effort, drew the stricken man up, and lifted him through the window. Cleopatra embraced him, calling him her lord, her Hfe, her king, her husband. She tried to staunch his wound, but the death rattle was already in his throat. "Do not grieve," he said, "remember our love — remember, too, I fought like a Ro- man and have been overcome only by a Roman!" And so holding him in her arms, Antony died. When Caesar heard that his enemy was dead, he put on mourning for the man who had been his comrade and colleague, and sent messages of condolence to Cleopatra. He set apart a day for the funeral, and ordered that the day should be sacred, and that Cleopatra should not be disturbed in any way. Sleatb of Bntons go Xlttle Journeys (Cleopatra prepares for Seatb Cleopatra prepared the body for burial with her own hands, dug the grave alone, and with her women laid the body to rest, and she alone gave the funeral address. Csesar was gentle, gracious, kind. As- surances came that he would do neither the city, nor the Queen, the slightest harm. Cleopatra demanded Egypt for her children, and for herself she wished only the privilege of living with her grief in obscurity. Caesar would make no pronnises for her children, but as for herself she should still be Queen — they were of one age — why should not Caesar and Cleopatra still rule, just as a Caesar had ruled before! But this woman had loved the Great Caesar, and now her heart was in the grave with Mark Antony — she scorned the soft, insintiating promises. She clothed herself in her most costly robes, wearing the pearls and gems that Antony had given her, and upon her head was the diadem that proclaimed her Queen. A courier from Caesar's camp knocked at the door of the mausoleum, but he knocked in vain. Finally a ladder was procured, and he /IDarft antonp 91 climbed to the window through which the body of Antony had been lifted. In the lower room he saw the Queen seated in her golden chair of state, robed and serene, dead. At her feet lay Iras, lifeless. The faithful Charmion stood as if in waiting at the back of her mistress's chair, giving a final touch to the diadem that sat upon the coils of her lustrous hair. The messenger from Csesar stood in the door aghast — orders had been given that Cleopatra should not be harmed, neither should she be allowed to harm herself. Now she had escaped !- "Charmion!" called the man in stem rebuke. "How was this done?" "Done, sir," said Charmion "as became a daughter of the King of Egypt." As the woman spoke the words she reeled, caught at the chair, fell, and was dead. Some said these women had taken a deadly poison invented by Cleopatra and held against this day, others still told of how a countryman had brotight a basket of figs, by appointment, covered over with green leaves, and in the basket was hidden an asp, that deadliest of serpents. Cleo- Beatb of tbe dueen 92 Xittle Sourness In tbe Orave witb Bntonc patra had placed the asp in her bosom, and the other women had followed her example. Caesar still wearing motiming for Mark Antony went into retirement and for three days refused all visitors. But first he ordered that the body of Cleopatra, clothed as she had died, in her royal robes, should be placed in the grave beside the body of Mark Antony. And it was so done. SAVONAROLA 93 Savonarola. 95 Some have narrowed their minds, and so fettered them with the chains of antiquity, that not only- do they refuse to speak save as the ancients spake, but they refuse to think save as the ancients thought. God speaks to us, too, and the best thoughts are those now being vouchsafed to us. We will excel the ancients! Eicel tbe Bncfents 97 THE wise ones say with a sigh, genius parents does not reproduce itself. But let us take heart and remember that medi- ocrity does not always do so, either. The men of genius have often been the sons of commonplace parents — no hovel is safe from it. The father of Girolamo Savonarola was a trifler, a spendthrift, and a profligate. Yet he proved a potent teacher for his son, pressing his lessons home by the law of antithesis. The sons of dissipated fathers are often temperance fanatics. The character of Savonarola's mother can be best gauged by the letters written to her by her son. Many of these have come down to us, and they breathe a love that is very gentle, very tender, and yet very profoiind. That this woman had an intellect which went to the heart of si8 Xlttle Sourness Seat things is shown in these letters: we write for those who understand, and the person to whom a letter is written gives the key that calls forth its quality. Great love-letters are written only to great women. But the best teacher young Girolamo had was his grandfather, Dr. Michael Savonarola, a physician of Padua, and a man of much wisdom, and common-sense, beside. Between the old man and his grandchild there was a very tender senti- ment, that soon formed itself into an abiding bond. Together they rambled along the banks of the Po, climbed the hiUs in springtime looking for the first flowers, made collections of butterflies, and caught the sunlight in their hearts as it streamed across the valleys when the shadows lengthened. On these solitary little journeys they usually carried a copy of St. Thomas Aqtiinas, and seated on a rock the old man wotild read to the boy lying on the grass at his feet. In a year or two, the boy did the reading, and wotdd expound the words of the saint as he went along. The old grandfather was all bound up SaY>onarola 99 in this slim, delicate youngster with the veuet olive complexion, and sober ways. There *^'"'"fl were brothers and sisters at home — big and strong — ^but this boy was different. He was not handsome enough to be much of a favotirite with girls, or strong enough to win the boys, and so he and the grand- father were chums together. This thought of aloofness, of being pe- culiar, was first fostered in the lad's mind by the old man. It was not exactly a healthy condition. The old man taught the boy to play the flute, and together they constructed a set of pipes — the pipes o' Pan — and out along the river they would play, when they grew tired of reading, and listen for the echo that came across the water. "There are voices calling to me," said the boy looking up at the old man, one day, as they rested by the bank. "Yes, I believe it — ^you must listen for the Voice, " said the old man. And so the idea became rooted in the lad's mind that he was in touch with another world, and was a being set apart. " Lord, teach me the way my soul should walk!" was his prayer. Doubt and dis- Xittle Journeys » Dapps Urio trust filled his mind, and his nights were filled with fear. This child without sin, believed himself to be a sinner. But this feeling was all forgotten when another companion came to join them in their walks. This was a girl about the same age as Girolamo. She was the child of a neighbour — one of the Strozzi family. The Strozzi belonged to the nobility, and the Savonarolas were only peasants, yet with children there is no caste. So this trio of boy, girl, and grandfather were very happy. The old man taught his pupils to observe the birds and bees, to make tracings of the flowers, and listen to the notes he played on the pipes, so as to call them all by name. And then there was always the St. Thomas Aquinas to fall back upon should outward nature fail. But there came a day when the boy and girl ceased to walk hand in hand, and in- stead of the delight and abandon of child- hood there was hesitation and aloofness. When the parents of the girl forbade her pla5ring with the boy, reminding her of the difference in their station, and she came by stealth to bid the old man and Girolamo Sat>onatola lOI good-bye, the pride in the boy's heart flamed up : he clenched his fist — and feeling spent itself in tears. When he looked up, the girl was gone — they were never to meet again. The grief of the boy pierced the heart of the old man and he murmured, "Joy liveth yet for a day, but the sorrow of man abideth forever." Doubt and fear assailed the lad. The efforts of his grandfather to interest him in the study of his own profession of medicine, failed. Religious brooding filled his days, and he became pale and weak from fasting. He had grown in stature, but the gaunt- ness of his face made his coarse features stand out, so that he was almost repulsive. But this homeliness was relieved by the big, lustrous, brown eyes — eyes that chal- lenged and beseeched in turn. The youth was now a young man — eighteen summers lay behind, when he disappeared from home. Soon came a letter from Bologna in which Girolamo explained at length to his mother that the world's wickedness was to him intolerable, its ambition ashes, and its fftom ISoutb to dDanboot Xittle Journeys '"""t" hopes not worth striving for. He had ftomtbe entered the monastery of St. Doininico, ™*''* and to save his family the pain of parting he had stolen qtiietly away. "I have hearkened to the Voice, " he said. I03 II SAVONAROLA remained in the mon- Tteacttc astery at Bologna for six years, iRe"*et scarcely passing beyond its walls. These were years of ceaseless study, writing, meditation — work. He sought the most menial occupations — doing tasks that others cautiously evaded. His simplicity, earnestness, and austerity won the love and admiration of the monks, and they sought to make life more congenial to him, by advancing him to the office of teacher to the novitiates. He declared his unfitness to teach, and it was an imperative order, and not a sug- gestion, that forced him to forsake the business of scrubbing corridors on hands and knees and array himself in the white robe of a teacher and reader. The office of teacher and that of an orator are not far apart — ^it is all a matter J04 OLittle Sourness power of an Orator of expression. The first requisite in ex- pression is animation — you must feel in order to impart feeling. No drowsy, lazy, disinterested, half-hearted, selfish, pre- occupied, trifiing person can teach — to teach you must have life, and life in abundance. You must have abandon — you must project yourself, and inundate the room with your presence. To infuse life, and a desire to remember, to know, to become, into a class of a dozen pupils is to reveal the power of an orator. If you can fire the minds of a few with your own spirit, you can, probably, also fuse and weld a thousand in the same way. Savonarola taught his little class of novitiates, and soon the older monks dropped in to hear the discourse. A larger room was necessary, and in a short time the semi-weekly informal talk re- solved itself into a lecture, and every seat was occupied when it was known that Brother Girolamo would speak. This success suggested to the Prior that Savonarola be sent out to preach in the churches round about, and it was so done. But outside the monastery Savonarola was not a success — he was precise, exact, Savonarola and laboured to make himself understood — freedom had not yet come to him. But let us wait! One of America's greatest preachers was well past forty before he evolved abandon, swung himself out clear, and put for open sea. Uncertainty and anxiety are death to oratory. In every monastery there are two classes of men, the religious, the sincere, the earnest, the austere; and the fat, lazy, profligate, and licentious. And the proportion of the first class to the second changes just in proportion as the monastery is successful — to succeed in nature is to die. The fruit much loved by the sun rots first. The early monas- teries were mendicant institutions, and for mendicancy to grow rich is an anomaly that carries a penalty. A successful beg- gar is apt to be haughty, arrogant, dicta- torial — from an humble request for alms to a demand for your purse, is but a step. In either case the man wants something that is not his — there are three ways to get it: earn it, beg it, seize it. The first method is absurd — to dig I am ashamed — the second, easy, the last is best of all, 105 aiaseee of /Donfts io6 Xittle Journeys (Cortuption intbe Cbuccb providing objection is not too strenuous. Beggars a-horseback are knights of the road. That which comes easy, goes easy, and so it is the most natural thing in the world for a monk to become a connoisseur of wines, an expert gourmet, a sensualist who plays the limit. The monastic im- pulse begins in the beautiful desire for solitude — to be alone with God — ^and ere it runs its gamut, dips deep into licence and wallows in folly. The austere monk leaves woman out, the other kind enslaves her: both are wrong, for man can never advance and leave woman behind. God never intended that man, made in his image, should be either a beast or a fool. And here we are wiser than Savonarola — noble, honest, and splendid man that he was. He saw the wickedness of the world and sought to shun it by fleeing to a monas- tery. There he saw the wickedness of the monastery and there being no place to flee to, he sought to purify it. And at the same time he sought to purify and better the world by standing outside of the world. Savonarola 107 The history of the Church is a history of endeavour to keep it from drifting into the thing it professes not to be — concrete selfishness. The Church began in hu- mility and simplicity, and when it became successful behold, it became a thing of pomp, pride, processional, crowns, jewels, rich robes, and a power that used itself to subjugate and subdue, instead of the pity that would uplift and lead by love. Oh, the shame of it! And Savonarola saw these things — saw them to the exclusion of everything else — ^and his cry continually was for a return to the religion of Jesus the carpenter, the man who gave his life that others might live. The Christ spirit filled the heart of Savonarola. His soul was wrung with pity for the poor, the unfortunate, the oppressed : and he had insight into econo- mics sufficient to know that where greed, gluttony, and idleness abound, there too stalks oppression, suffering, and death. The palaces of the rich are built on the bones of the poor. Others, high in Chiu-ch authority, saw Cotruption intbe Cbuccb lo8 OLlttle Sourness St. Ibavk'e ODonagtecs these things, too, and knew no less than Savonarola the need of reform — they gloried in his ringing words of warning, and they admired no less his example of austerity. They cotild not do the needed work, perhaps he cotild do a little, at least. And so he was transferred to St. Mark's Monastery at Florence — the place that needed him most. Florence was the acknowledged seat of art and polite learning of all Italy, and St. Mark's was the chief glory of the Chtirch in Florence. Florence was prosperous and so was St. Mark's, and have we not said that there is something in pure prosperity that taints the soul ? Savonarola was sent to St. Mark's merely as a teacher and lecturer. Bologna was full of gloom and grime — the bestiality there was untamed. Here everything was gilded, gracious and good to look upon. The cloister walks were embowered in climbing roses, the walls decorated fresh from the brush of Fra Angelico, and the fountains in the gardens, adorned by naked cupids, sent their sparkling beads aloft to greet the sunlight. Savonarola 109 Brother Girolamo had never seen such beauty before — ^its gracious essence en- folded him round, and for a few short hours lifted that dead weight of abiding melancholy from his soul. When he lectured he was surprised to find many fashionable ladies in his audi- ence — learning was evidently a fad. He saw that it was expected that he should be amusing, diverting, and incidentally, instructive. He had only one mode of preaching — this was earnest exhortation to a higher life, the life of austerity, sim- plicity, and nearness to God, by labouring to benefit His children. He mumbled through his lecture and retired, abashed and humiliated. dDoOe of Ill xotenso TT was the year 1482, and the whole /Baflni. *■ world was a-thrill with thought and ficent feeling. Lorenzo the Magnificent was at the height of his power and popularity; printing-presses gave letters an impetus; art flourished ; the people were dazzled by display and were dipping deep into the love of pleasure. The austerity of Christ- ian religion had glided off by impercept- ible degrees into pagan pageantry, and the song of bacchanals filled the streets at midnight. Lorenzo did for the world a great and splendid work — for one thing, he dis- covered Michael Angelo — and the en- couragement he gave to the arts made Florence the beautiful dream in stone that she is even to this day. The world needs the Lorenzos and the world needs the Savonarolas — ^they form Savonarola an opposition of forces that holds the balance true. Power left to itself attains a terrific impetus — a governor is needed — and it was Savonarola who tempered and tamed the excesses of the Medici. In 1483, Savonarola was appointed Lent- en preacher at the Church of St. Lorenzo in Florence. His exhortations were plain, homely, blunt — his voice uncertain, and his ugly featiires at times inclined his fashionable auditors to unseemly smiles. When ugliness forgets itself and gives off the flash, of the spirit it becomes magnifi- cent — takes upon itself a halo — but this was not yet to be. The orator must subdue his audience or it will subdue him. Savonarola retired to his cloister cell, whipped and discouraged. He took no part in the festivals and ffites: the Gar- dens of Lorenzo were not for him; the society of the smooth and cultured lovers of art and literature was beyond his pale. Being incapable by temperament of mixing in the whirl of pleasure, he found a satis- faction in keeping out of it, thus proving his humanity. Not being able to have a thing, we scorn it. Men who cannot lenteii ipteacbec in JFIoccnce 3Ltttle Journeys Sawn. dance are apt to regard dancing as sinful. msaion Savonarola saw things as a countryman sees them when he goes to a great city for the first time. There is much that is wrong — very much that is wasteftil, ex- travagant, absurd, and pernicious, but it is not all base, and the visitor is apt to err in his conclusions, especially if he be of an intense and ascetic type. Savonarola was sick at heart, sick in body — fasts and vigils had done their sure and certain work for nerves and digestion. He saw visions and heard voices, and in the Book of Revelation he discovered the symbols of prophecy that foretold the doom of Florence. He felt that he was divinely inspired. In the outside world, he saw only the worst — and this was well. He believed that he was one sent from God to cleanse the Church of its iniquities — and he was right. These mad men are needed — Nature demands them, and so God makes them to order. They are ignorant of what the many know, and this is their advantage; they are blind to all but a few things, and therein lies their power. Saponacola "3 The belief in his mission filled the heart of Savonarola. Gradually he gained ground, made head, and the Prior of St. Mark's did what the Prior of St. Domi- nico's had done at Bologna — ^he sent the man out on preaching tours among the churches and monasteries. The austerity and purity of his character, the sublimity of his faith, and his relentless war upon the extravagance of the times, made his presence valuable to the Church. Then in all personal relationships the man was most lovable — gentle, sympathetic, kind. Wherever he went, his influence was for the best. Power plus came to him for the first time at Brescia in i486. The sermon he gave was one he had given many times, in fact, he never had but one theme — flee from the wrath to come, and accept the pardon of the gentle Christ ere it is too late — ere it is too late. Much of what passes for oratory is merely talk, lecture, harangue, and argu- ment. These things may all be very useful, and surely they have their place in the world of work and business, but oratory is another thing. Oratory is the Influence Vower 114 aiittle Sourness (Bteat IRecurcing Ubeme impassioned outpouring of a heart — a heart full to bursting: it is the absolute giving of soul to soul. Every great speech is an evolution — it must be given many times before it becomes a part of the man himself. Oratory is the ability to weld a mass of people into absolutely one mood. To do this the orator must lose himself in his subject — he must cast expediency to the winds. And more than this, his theme must al- ways be an appeal for humanity. In- vective, threat, challenge, all play their parts, but love is the great recurring theme that winds in and out through every great sermon or oration. Pathos is only possible where there is great love, and pathos is always present in the oration that subdues, that convinces, that wins, and sends men to their knees in abandon- ment of their own wills. The audience is the female element — the orator the male, and love is the theme. The orator comes in the name of God to give protection — freedom. Usually the great orator is on the losilig side. And this excites on the part of the audience the feminine attribute of pity. Savonarola "5 and pity fused with admiration gives us love — ^thus does love act and react on love. Oratory supplies the most sublime grati- fication which the gods have to give. To subdue the audience and blend mind with mind affords an intoxication beyond the ambrosia of elysium. When Sophocles pictured the god Mercury seizing upon the fairest daughter of earth and carrying her away through the realms of space, he had in rnind the power of the orator, which through love lifts up humanity and sways men by a burst of feeling that brooks no resistance. Oratory is the child of democracy — ^it pleads for the weak, for the many against the few, and no great speech was ever yet made save in behalf of mankind. The orator feels their joys, their sorrows, their hopes, their desires, their aspirations, their sufferings and pains. They may have wandered far, but his arms are open wide for their return. Here alone does soul respond to soul. And it is love, alone, that fuses feeling so that all are of one mind and mood. Oratory is an exercise of power. Tapiifts Dumanits ii6 Xittle Sourness penalty of ®tatocs But oratory, like all sublime pleasures, pays its penalty — ^this way raadness lies. The great orator has ever been a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief. Oratory points the martyr's path; it leads by the thorn road; and those who have trod the way, have carried the cross with bleeding feet, and deep into their side has been thrust the spear. IV 117 IT was not until his fortieth year that Savonarola attained that self-suf- ficiency and complete self-reliance that marks a man who is fit for martyrdom. Courage comes only to those who have done the thing before. By this time Savonarola had achieved enemies, and several dignitaries had done him the honour of publicly answering him. His invective was against the sins of Church and Society, but his enemies instead of defending their cause did the very natural thing of inveighing against Savonarola. Thus did they divert attention from the question at issue. Personal abuse is often more effective than argument, and certainly much more easy to wield. Savonarola was getting himself beauti- fully misunderstood. Such words as fa- natic, pretender, agitator, heretic, renegade, stoo& ri8 Xtttle Journeys tbumanfst /Dovement and "dangerous," were freely hurled at him. They said he was pulling down the pillars of society. He seriously considered retiring entirely from the pulpit; and as a personal vindication and that his thoughts might live, he wrote a book, The Triumph of the Cross. This volume contains aU his philosophy and depicts truth as he saw it. Let a reader, ignorant of the author, peruse this book to-day, and he will find in it only the oft-repeated appeal of a believer in ' ' Primitive Christianity. ' ' Pur- ity of life, sincerity, simplicity, earnestness, loyalty to God and love to man — ^these are very old themes, yet they can never die. Zeal can always fan them into flame. Savonarola was an unconscious part of the great "humanist" movement. Savonarola, John Knox, the Wesleys, Calvin, Luther, the Ptiritans, Huguenots, Quakers, Shakers, Mennonites, and Dunk- ards — all are one. The scientist sees species under all the manifold manifes- tations of climate, environment, and local condition. Florence was a republic, but it is only eternal vigilence that can keep a republic Savonarola 119 a republic. The strong man who assumes the reins is continually coming to the fore, and the people diplomatically handled are quite willing to make him king, provided he continues to call himself "Citizen." Lorenzo de Medici rioled Florence, yet occupied no office, and assumed no title. He dictated the policy of the government, filled all the offices, and ministered the finances. Incidentally he was a punctil- ious Churchman — obeying the formula — and the Church of Florence was within his grasp no less than the police. The secret of this power lay in the fact that he handled the "sinews of war" — no man ever yet succeeded largely in a public way wHo was not a financier, or else one who owned a man who was. Public power is a matter of money, wisely used. To'divert, amuse, and please the people is a necessity to the ruler, for power at the last is derived from the people, and no government endures that is not founded on the consent of the governed. If you would rule either a woman or a nation, you would better gain consent. To secure this consent you must say, "Please." The gladiatorial shows of Greece, the Ipowec of Xocenjo ie UDe&ici I20 Xfttle Sourness ube games, contests, displays, all the barbaric ^^ic splendour of processions, music, f^tes, fes- tivals, chants, robes, and fantastic fol-de- rol of Rome — ancient and modern — ^the boom of guns in sham battles, coronations, thrones, and crowns are all manifestations of this great game of power. The people are children, and must be pleased. But eventually the people reach ado- lescence — knowledge comes to them — to a few at least — and they perceive that they themselves foot all bills, and pay in sweat and tears and blood for all this pomp of power. They rise in their might, like a giant aroused from sleep, and the threads that bound them are burst asunder. They themselves assume the reins of govern- ment, and we have a republic. And this republic endures until some republican, coming in the name of the people, waxes powerful and evolves into a plutocrat who assumes the reins, and the cycle goes its round and winds itself up on the reel of time. Savonarola thundered against the ex- travagance, moral riot, and pomp of the Savonarola rich — and this meant the Medici, and all those who fed at the public trough, and prided themselves on their patriotism. Lorenzo grew uneasy, and sent requests that the preacher moderate his tone in the interests of public weal. Savonarola sent back words that were unbecoming in one addressing a ruler. Then it was that Lorenzo the Magnifi- cent, also the wise and wily, resolved on a great diplomatic move. He had the fanatical and troublesome monk, Fra Girolamo Savonarola, made Prior of the Monastery of St. Mark's — success was the weapon that would undo him. Of course, Lorenzo did not act directly in the matter — personally he did not appear at all. Now the Prior of St. Mark's had the handling of large sums of money, the place could really be the home of a prince if the Prior wished to be one ; and all he had to do was to follow the wishes of the Magnificent Lorenzo. "Promote him," said Lorenzo, "and his zeal will dilute itself, and culture will come to take the place of frenzy. Art is B S)fpIomatic dDove Xittle Sourness IPrioc of St. Aarfi's better than austerity, and silken robes and broidered chasubles are preferable to horse-hair and rope. A crown looks better than a tonsure. " And Savonarola became Prior of St. Mark's. Now the first duty, according to estab- lished custom, of a newly appointed Prior was to call, in official robes, and pay his respects to Lorenzo, the nominal governor of Florence. It was just a mere form, you know — simply showing the people that St. Mark's was still loyal to the State. Lorenzo appointed a day and sent word that at a certain hour he wotild be pleased to welcome the Prior, and congratulate him upon his elevation. At the same time the Prior was expected to say mass in the private chapel of the governor, and bestow his blessing upon the House of the Medici. But Savonarola treated the invitation to call with disdain, and ttirned the messen- gers of Lorenzo away with scant courtesy. Instead of joining hands with Lorenzo he preached a sermon at the Cathedral, bit- terly arraigning the aristocracy, prophesy- ing their speedy downfall, and beseeching all men who wished to be saved to tiun. Savonarola 123 repent, make restitution, and secure the pardon of God, ere it was too late. The sermon shook the city, and other addresses of the same tenor followed daily. It was a "revival," of the good old Methodist kind — and religious emotion drifting into frenzy is older far than history. The name of Lorenzo was not mentioned personally, but all saw it was a duel to death between the plain people and the silken and perfumed rulers. It was the same old fight — personified by Savonarola on one side and Lorenzo on the other. Lorenzo sunk his pride and went to St. Mark's for an interview with the Prior. He found a man of adamant and iron, one blind and deaf to political logic, one who scorned all persuasion and in whose lexicon there was no such word as expediency. Lorenzo turned away whipped and disappointed — the prophecies of impending doom had even touched his own stout heart. He was stricken with fever, and the extent of his fear is shown, that in his extremity he sent for the Prior of St. Mark's to come to his bedside. Even there, Savonarola was not softened. Before granting absolutionto the sick man, Itbe people anA tbe IRuIers 124 Xlttle Sourness Seatb of Xocenjo ii he demanded three things. "First, you must repent and feel a true faith in God, who in his mercy alone can pardon." Lorenzo assented. "Second, you must give up your ill- gotten wealth to the people." Lorenzo groaned, and finally reluctantly agreed. "Third, you must restore to Florence her liberty." Lorenzo groaned and moaned, and turned his face to the wall. Savonarola grimly waited half an hour, but no sign coming from the stricken man, he silently went his way. The next day Lorenzo the Magnificent, aged forty-two, died — died unabsolved. LORENZO left three sons. The eldest was Pietro, just approaching his ma- jority, who was the recognised successor of his father. The second son was Giuliano who had already been made a cardinal at thirteen years of age, and who was destined to be the powerftil Pope, Leo X. The death of Lorenzo had been indi- rectly foretold by Savonarola,, and now some of his disciples were not slow in showing an ill-becoming exultation. They said, "I told you so!" The intensity of the revival increased, and there was danger of its taking on the form of revolution. Savonarola saw this mob spirit at work, and for a time moderated his tone. But there were now occasional outbreaks be- tween his followers and those of the Medici. A guard was necessary to protect Savonarola as he passed from St. Mark's 125 HOUIi) Excitement 126 3Little Sourness Summonet to Ifiome to the different churches where he preached. The police and soldiers were on the side of the aristocracy who supported them. The Pope had been importtined to use his influence to avert the threatened harm to "true religion." Savonarola should be silenced, said the aristocrats, and that speedily. A letter came from Pope Alexander, couched in most gentle and gracious words requesting Savonarola to come to Rome and there give exhibition of his wondrous gifts. Savonarola knew that he was dealing with a Borgia — a man who cajoled, bought, and bribed, and when these failed there were noose, knife, and poison close at hand. The Prior of St. Mark's could deal with Lorenzo in Florence, but with Alexander at Rome he woiild be undone. The in- iquities of the Borgia family far exceeded the sins of the Medici, and in his impas- sioned moments Savonarola had said as much. At Rome he would have to explain these things — and to explain them, would be to repeat them. Alexander stood for nepotism, which is the sugared essence Savonarola 127 of that time-Honoured. maxim, "To the Ercusee victor belong the spoils. " The world has never seen so little religion and so much pretence as during the , reign of the Borgias. At this time when offenders were called to Rome, it sometimes happened that they were never again heard from. Be- neath the Castle of St. Angelo were dun- geons — no records were kept — and the stories told of human bones found in walled-up cells are no idle tales. An iron collar circling the neck of a skeleton that was once a man is a sight these eyes have seen. Prison records open to the public, are a comparatively new thing, and the prac- tice of "doctoring" a record has, until recently, been quite in vogue. Savonarola acknowledged the receipt of the Pope's request, but made excuses and asked for time. Alexander certainly did all he could to avoid an open rupture with the Prior of St. Mark's. He was inwardly pleased when Savonarola affronted the Medici — it was a thing he dared not do — and if the religious revival could be localised and 128 little Journeys tibe Ifteb -bat kept within bounds, all would have been well. It had now gone far enough; if continued, and Rome should behold such scenes as Flqrence had witnessed, the Holy See itself would not be safe. Alexander accepted the excuses of Sa- vonarola with much courtesy. Soon word came that the Prior of St. Mark's was to be made a cardinal, but the gentle hint went with the message, that the red hat was to be in the nature of a reward for bringing about peace at Florence. Peace! Peace! how could there be peace unless Savonarola bowed his head to the rule of the aristocrats? His sermons were often interrupted — stones were thrown through the windows when he preached. The pulpit where he was to speak had been filled with filth, and the skin of an ass tacked over the sacred desk. Must he go back? To the offer of the cardinal's hat he sent this message: " No hat will I have but that of a martyr reddened with my own blood." The tactics of the Pope now changed, he sent an imperative order that Savona- rola should present himself at Rome, and Savonarola 129 give answer to the charges there made against him. Savonarola silently scorned the message. The Pope was still patient. He wotild waive the insult to himself, if Florence would only manage to take care of her own troubles. But importunities kept coming that Savonarola shovild be silenced — ^the power of the man had grown until Florence was absolutely under his sub- jection. Bonfires of pictures, books, and statuary condemned by him, had been burned in the streets; and the idea was carried to Rome that there was danger of the palaces being pillaged. Florence could deal with the man, but would not so long as he was legally a part of the Church. Then it was that the Pope issued his bull of excommunication, and the order removing Savonarola from his office as Prior of St. Mark's. The answer of Savonarola was a sermon in the form of a defiance. He claimed, and rightly, that he was no heretic — no obligations that the Church asked had he ever disregarded, and therefore the Pope had no right to silence him. He made his appeal to the rulers of the TSxcamm municateb 13° 3Littlc Joumess iflorence anb tbe pope world, and declared that Alexander was no Pope, because he had deliberately bought his way to the Vatican. There was now a brief struggle between the authorities of the Pope and those of Florence as to who should have the man. The Pope wanted him to be secretly cap- tured and taken to Rome for trial. Alex- ander feared the publicity that Florence would give to the matter — he knew a shorter way. But Florence stood firm. Savonarola had now retired to St. Mark's and his followers barricaded the position. The man might have escaped, and the author- ities hoped he would, but there he re- mained holding the place, and daily preaching to the faithful few who stood by him. Finally the walls were stormed, and police, soldiers, and populace overran the monastery. Savonarola remained passive, and he even reproved several of the monks who, armed with clubs, made stout resistance. The warrants for arrest called only for Fra Girolamo, Fra Domenico, and Fra Silvestro — these last being his most faith- Savonarola 131 ,ful disciples, preaching often in his pulpit and echoing his words. The prisoners were bound and hurried through the streets toward the Piazzo Signoria. The soldiers made a gttard of spears and shields around them, but this did not prevent their being pelted with mud and stones. They were lodged in separate cells, in the prison portion of the Palazzo Vecchio, and each was importuned to recant the charges made against the Pope and the Medici. All refused, even when told that the others had recanted. Savonarola's judges were chosen from among his most bitter foes. He was brought before them, and ordered to take back his accusations. He remained silent. Threatened, he answered in parable. He was then taken to the torttire cell, stripped of aU clothing, and a thin, strong rope passed under his arms. He was suddenly drawn up, and dropped. This was repeated until the cord around the man's body cut the skin and his form was covered with blood. fmprfsonei anb TCortureb 132 Xittle Sourness B Sceat Calm The physically sensitive nattire of the man gave way and he recanted. Being taken to his cell he repeated all he had said against the Pope, and called aloud, "Lord Jesus, pardon me that I forsook thy truth — it was the torture — I now repeat all I ever said from thy pulpit — Lord Jesus, pardon!" Again he was taken to the torture chamber and all was gone over as before. He and his two companions were now formally condemned to death and their day of execution set. To know the worst is peace — ^it is un- certainty that kills. A great calm came over Savonarola — he saw the gates of heaven opening for him. He was able now to sleep and eat. The great brown eyes beamed with love and benediction, and his hands were raised only in blessing to friend and foe alike. The day of execution came, and the Piazza Signoria was filled with a vast concourse of people. Every spare foot of space was taken. Platforms had been erected and seats sold for fabtilous prices. Every window was filled with faces. Savonarola 133 An elevated walk had been btiilt out from the second story of the prison to the executioner's platform. From this high scaffold rose a great cross with ropes and chains dangling from the arms. Below were piled high heaps of fagots, saturated with oil. There was a wild exultant yell from the enenaies of the men on their appearance, but others of the adversary appeared dazed at their success, and it seemed for a few moments as if pity wotild take the place of hate, and the mob wotild demand the release of the men. The prisoners walked firmly and con- versed in undertone, encouraging each other to stand firm. Each held a crucifix and pressed it to his lips, repeating the creed. Half way across to the gibbet, they were stopped, the crucifixes torn from their hands, and their priestly robes stripped from them. There they stood, clad only in scant underclothes, in sight of the mob that seethed afid mocked. Sharp sticks were thrust up between the crevices of the board walk, so blood streamed from their bare feet. Having advanced so that they stood Was to Sseeution 134 Xittle Sourness tn tbe beneath the gibbet, their priestly robes were again thrown over them, and once more torn off by a bishop who repeated the words, "Thus do I sever you from the Church Militant and the Church Trium- phant!" "Not the Church Triumphant!" an- swered Savonarola in a loud voice, "You cannot do that. " In order to prolong the torture of Sa- vonarola his companions were hanged first, before his eyes. When his turn came he stepped lightly to his place between the dead and swinging bodies of his brethren. As the execu- tioner was adjusting the cord about his neck, his great tender eyes were raised to heaven and his lips moved in prayer as the noose tightened. The chains were quickly fastened about the bodies to hold them in place, and scarcely had the executioner upon the plat- form slid down the ladders, than the wait- ing torches below fired the pile and the flames shot heavenward and licked the great cross where the three bodies swayed. The smoke soon covered them from view. Savonarola 135 Then suddenly there came a gust of -ebt wind that parted the smoke and flames, *an6 and the staring mob, now silent, saw that the fire had burned the thongs that bound the arms of Savonarola. One hand was uplifted in blessing and benediction. So died Savonarola. MARTIN LUTHER 137 139 Only slaves die of overwork. Work a weariness, a danger, forsooth! Those who say so can know very little about it. Labour is neither cruel nor ungrateful; it restores the strength we give it a hundred-fold and, unlike your financial operations, the revenue is what brings in the capital. Put soul into your work and joy and health will be yours ! Luther. mnorfi 141 THE idea of the monastery is as old as man, and its rise is as nattiral as the birth and death of the seasons. We need society, and we need solitude. But it happens again and again that man gets a surfeit of society — he is thrown with those who mistmderstand him, who thwart him, who contradict his nature, who bring out the worst in his disposition : he is sapped of his strength, and then he longs for solitude. He would go alone up into the mountain. What is called the "monastic imptilse" comes over him — he longs to be alone — ^alone with God. The monastic impulse can be traced back a thousand years before Christ: the idea is neither Christian, Jewish, Philistine, nor Buddhist. Every people of which we know have had their hermits and recluses. The communal thought is a form of monasticism — ^it is a-getting away from Aonastic Impulse 142 Xittle Sourness Ube Cbtistian A)onastet:e the world. Monasticism does not neces- sarily imply celibacy, but as unreqtiited or misplaced love is usually the precursor of the monastic impulse, celibacy or some strange idea on the sex problem usually is in evidence. Monasticism has many forms: College Settlements, Zionism, Deaconess Homes, Faith Cottages, Shakerism, Mormonism are all manifestations of the impulse to get away from the world, and still benefit the world by standing outside of it. This desire to get away from the world and still mix in it, shows that monasticism is not quite sincere — we want society no less than we want solitude. Very seldom, indeed, has a monk ever gone away and remained: he comes back to the world, oc- casionally, to beg, or sell things, and to "do good." The rise of the Christian monastery begins with Paul the Hermit, who in the year 250, withdrew to an oasis in the desert, and lived in a cave before which was a single palm-tree, and a spring. Other men worn with strife, tired of stupid misunderstanding, persecution, and unkind fate, came to him. And there they U^ffiiTTDKl P-,yv^EGy„ /iDartin Xutber 143 lived in common. The necessity of dis- cipline and order naturally suggested themselves, so they made rules that governed conduct. The day was divided up into periods when the inmates of this first monastery prayed, coinmuned with the silence, worked, and studied. Within a hundred years there were similar religious communities at fifty or more places in Upper Egypt. Women have always imitated men, and soon nunneries sprang up here and there. In fact, the nunnery has a little more excuse for being than the monastery. In a barbaric society an unattached woman needs protection, and this she got in the nunnery. Even so radical a thinker as Max Muller regarded the nunnery as a val- uable agent in giving dignity to woman's estate. If she was mistreated and desired protection, she could find refuge in this sanctuary. She became the bride of Christ, and through the protection of the convent, man was forced to be civil and chivalry came to take the place of force. Most monasteries have been mendicant institutions. As early as the year 500, we read of the monks going abroad a- lEbe Vlunnerlee 144 Xittle Sourness Eipett questing, a bag on their backs. They begged as a business, and some became very expert at it, just as we have expert evan- gelists and expert debt-raisers. They took anything that anybody had to give. They begged in the name of the poor; and as they travelled they undertook to serve those who were poorer than themselves. They were distributing agents. They ceased to do manual labour and scorned those who did. They traversed the towns and highways by trios and asked alms at houses or of travellers. Occasion- ally they carried cudgels, and if such a pair asked for alms it was usually equal to a demand. These monks made ac- quaintances, they had their friends among men and women, and often being far from home they were lodged and fed by the householders. In some instances the alms given took the form of a tax which the sturdy monks collected with startling regularity. We hear of their dividing the country up into districts, and each man having a route that he jealously guarded. They came in the name of the Lord — they were supposed to have authority. They said, "He who giveth to the poor /iDartin Xutber us lendeth to the Lord. " They blessed those who gave; and cursed those who refused. Some of them presumed to forgive the sins of those who paid. And soon the idea suggested itself of forgiving in ad- vance, or granting an indulgence. They made promises of mansions in the skies to those who conformed and threatened with the pains of hell those who declined their requests. So the monks occasionally became rich. And when they grew rich they often became arrogant, dictatorial, selfish, glut- tonous, and licentious. They undertook to nianage the government which they had before in their poverty renounced. They hired servants to wait upon them. The lust of power and the lust of the flesh, and the pride of the heart, all became manifest. However, there were always a few men, pure of heart and earnest of purpose, who sought to stem the evil tendencies. And so the history of monasticism and the history of the Church is the record of a struggle against idleness and corruption. To shave a man's head, give him a new name, and clothe him in strange garments. Evil Uentencies 146 Xittle Sourness SeneMct an& daeeios does not change his nature. Monks grown rich and powerftil will become idle, and the vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience are then mere jokes and jests. No man knew this better than Benedict who lived in the sixth century. The profligacy, ignorance, and selfishness of the fat and idle monks appalled him. With the aid of Cassiodorus he set to work to reform the monasteries by interesting the inmates in beautiful work. Cassio- dorus taught men to write, illumine, and bind books. Through Italy, France, and Germany he travelled and preached the necessity of manual labour, and the ex- cellence of working for beauty. The art impulse in the nvinneries and monasteries began with Benedict and Cassiodorus, who worked hand in hand for beauty, purity, and truth. Benedict had the greater executive ability, but Cassiodorus had the more far-reaching and subtle in- tellect. He anticipated all that we have to say to-day on the New Education — the necessity of playing off one factilty of the mind against another through manual labour, play, and art creation. He even anticipated the primal idea of the kinder- /IDartin Xutbet 147 garten, for he said, "The pleasurable emotion that follows the making of beau- tiful forms with one's hands is not a sin, like unto the pleastire that is gained for the sake of pleasure — rather to do good and beautiful work is incense to the nostrils of God." In all Benedictine monasteries, flagel- lations ceased, discipline was relaxed, and the inmates were enjoined to use their energies in their work, and find peace by- imitating God, and like Him, creating beautiful things. Beautiful book-making traces its genesis directly to Benedict and Cassiodorus. But a hundred years after the death of these great men, the necessity of reform was as great as ever, and other men took up the herctilean task. And so it has happened that every century men have arisen who protested against the abuses inside the Church. The Church has tried to keep religion pure, but when she has failed and scandalised society at large, governments have taken the matter up, and the monasteries were wiped out of existence and their property confiscated. Since the fifteenth century. IteeA of IRefocm 148 Xtttle Sourness 3Beg(nnfng of protests antiam regiolarly once every hundred years, France has driven the monks from her borders, and in this year of our Lord 1903, she is doing what Napoleon did a hundred years ago; what Cromwell did in England in 1645; what has been done time and again in every comer of Christendom. Martin Luther's quarrel with the Church began simply as a protest against certain practices of the monks, and that his pro- tests should develop into a something called "Protestantism" was a thing he never for a moment anticipated, or desired. He had no thought of building an insti- tution on negation; and that he should be driven from the Church because he loved the Church and was trying to purify and benefit it, was a source to him of deepest grief. II 149 MARTIN LUTHER was thirty-five years old. He was short in stattire, inclining to be stout, strenuous, and bold. His faults and his virtues were all on the surface. He neither deceived nor desired to deceive — ^the distinguishing feature of his character was frankness. He was an Augustinian monk, serving as a teacher in the University of Wittenberg. Up to this time, his life had been un- eventful. His parents had been very poor people — ^his father a day-labourer, working in the copper mines. In his boy- hood Martin was "stubborn and intract- able," which means that he had life plus. His teachers had tried to repress him by flogging him " fifteen times in a forenoon, " as he himself has told us. In childhood he used to beg upon the streets, and so he could the better beg he lutbet'8 CMIbbooft ISO Xittle Joumegs B Strong llatuce was taught to sing. This rough early experience wore ofiE all timidity and put "stage-fright" forever behind. He could not remember a time when he could not sing a song or make a speech. That he developed all the alertness and readiness of tongue and fist of the street urchin there is no doubt. When he was taken into a monastery at eighteen years of age, the fact that he was a good singer and a most successful beggar, were points of excellence that were not overlooked. That the young man was stubbornly honest in his religious faith, there is not a particle of doubt. The strength of his nature and the extent of his passion made his life in the monastery most miserable. He had not yet reached the point that many of the older monks had, and learned how to overcome temptation by suc- cumbing to it, so he fasted for days until he became too weak to walk, watched the night away in vigils, and whipped his poor body with straps until the blood flowed. We now think it is man's duty to eat proper food, to sleep at night, and to care for his body ; so as to bring it to the most /tDatttn Xutbet 151 perfect condition possible — all this that he may use his life to its highest and best. Life is a privilege and not a crime. But Martin Luther never knew of these things and there were none to teach him, and probably he would have rejected them stoutly if they had been presented — arguing the question six nights and days together. The result of all that absurd flying in the face of nature was indigestion and its concomitant, nervous irritability. These demons fastened upon him for life ; and we have his word for it in a thousand places that he regarded them as veritable devils — thus does man create his devil in his own image. Luther had visions — ^he "saw things," and devils, witches, and spirits were common callers to the day of his death. In those early monastery days, he used to have fits. of depression when he was sure that he had committed the "un- pardonable sin," and over and over in his mind he would recoiant his shortcojnings. He went to confession so often that he wore out the patience of at least one con- fessor, who once said to him, "Brother intbe Slougb of Eieeponb 1 52 Xittle Journeys sftin in Martin, you are not so much a sinner as a Sefiating ^^^^„ g^.^ ^^^^^^^ g^^g ^^j^ this gOOd advice, "God is not angry with you, but He will be if you keep on, for you are surely angry with Him — you better think less about yourself and more of others; go to work!" This excellent coupsel was followed. Luther began to study the Scriptures, and the writings of the saints. He took part in the disputss which were one of the principal diversions of all monasteries. Now a monk had the privilege of re- maining densely ignorant, or he could become learned. Life in a monastery was not so very different from what it was outside — a monk gravitated to where he belonged. The yottng man showed such skill as a debater, and such commendable industry at all of his tasks, from scrubbing the floor to expounding Scripture, that he was sent to the neighbouring University of Erfurt. From there he was transferred to the University of Wittenberg. In the classes at these universities the plan ob- tained, which is still continued in all theological schools, of requiring a student to defend his position on his feet. Knotty /iDartin Xutber 153 propositions are put forth, and logical complications fired at the youth as a necessary part of his mental drill. Beside this there were societies where all sorts of abstrusities and absurdities were argued to a stand-still. At this wordy warfare none proved more adept than Martin Luther. He became Senior Wrangler; secured his degree; re- mained at the college as a post-graduate and sub-lecturer ;^ finally was appointed a teacher, then a professor, and when twenty-nine years old became a Doctor of Theology. He took his turn as preacher in the Schlosskirche, which was the school chapel, and when he preached, the place was crowded. He was something more than a monotonous mumbler of words, he made his addresses personal, direct, critical. His allusions were local, and contained a deal of wholesome criticism put with pith and point, well seasoned with a goodly dash of rough and surprising wit. Soon he was made district vicar — a sort of presiding elder — and preached in a dozen towns over a circuit of a hundred miles. On these tours he usually walked. Bbvancea ment 154 Xfttle Joumess lacli of (Eonctess bareheaded, wearing the monk's robe. Often he was attended by younger monks and students who considered it a great privilege to accompany him. His courage, his blunt wit, his active ways, all appealed to the youth, and often delegations would go out to meet him. Every college has his kind, whom the bantlings fall down and worship — fisticuffs and books are both represented and a touch of irreverence for those in authority is no disadvantage. Luther's lack of reverence for his su- periors held him back from promotion — and another thing was his imperious tem- per. He coTold not bear contradiction. The orator's habit of exaggeration was upon him, and occasionally he would affront his best friends in a way that tested their patience to the breaking point. "You might become an abbot, and even a bishop, were it not for your lack of courtesy," wrote his superior to him on one occasion. But this very lack of diplomacy, this indifference to the opinions of others, this boldness of speech made him the pride and pet of the students. Whenever he entered the lecture-room they cheered /Dartin Xutbet iss him, and often they applauded him even in church. Luther was a "sensational preacher," and he was an honest preacher. No doubt but that the applause of his auditors urged him on to occasional un- seemliness. He acted upon his audiences, and the audience reacted upon him. He thundered against the profligacy of the rich, the selfishness of society, the in- iquities of the government, the excesses of the monks, the laxity of discipline in the schools, and the growing tendency in the Church to worship the golden calf. In some instances priests and monks had married, and he thtmdered against these. All of the topics he touched had been treated by Savonarola in Italy, Wyclif in England, Brenz at Heidelberg, Huss in Bohemia, Erasmus in HoUand, and Butzer in Switzerland — and they had all paid the penalty of death or exile. It is well to be bold but not too bold. Up to a certain point the Church and so- ciety will stand criticism— first it is di- verting, next amusing, then tiresome, finally heretical — ^that is to say, criminal. There had been a good deal of heresy — Donest I>Kacber 156 Xittle Joumegs nfnetie«Ove Zbeees it was in the air — ^men were thinking for themselves — the printing-presses were at work, and the spirit of the Renaissance was abroad. Martin Luther was not an innovator — he simply expressed what the many wished to hear — he was caught in the current of the time; he was part and parcel of the Renaissance. And he was a loyal Chiirchman. None of his diatribes were against the Church itself — he wished to benefit the Church by freeing it from the f atilts that he feared would disintegrate it. And so it happened that on the 31st day of October, 15 17, Martin Luther tacked on the church door at Wittenberg his Ninety-five Theses. The church door was the bulletin board for the University. The University con- sisted of about five hundred students. Wittenberg was a village of three or four thousand people, all told. The theses were simply questions for discussion, and the proposition was that Martin Luther and his pupils would defend these ques- tions against all comers in public debate. Challenges of this sort were very /iDartin Xutber 157 common, public debates were of weekly occurrence; and little did Martin Luther realise that this paltry half sheet of paper was to shake the world. H little leaven iS8 III ■ictli 'T^HE immediate cause of Luther's chal- i lenge was the presence of a Domini- can monk by the name of John Tetzel. This man was raising money to complete St. Peter's Church at Rome, and he was armed with a commission direct from Pope Leo X. That Brother John was an expert in his line, no one has ever denied. He had been in this business of raising money for about ten years, and had built monasteries, asylums, churches, and convents. Be- ginning as a plain, sturdy beggar, this enterprising monk had developed a system — not entirely new, but he had added valuable improvements. There is a whole literature on the sub- ject of the " indulgence, " and I surely have no thought of adding to the mighty tomes on this theme. But just let me briefly /Dartfn Xutber 159 explain how John worked: When he ap- cctjei'a preached a town, he sent his agents ahead '^' "" and secured the co-operation of some certain priest, under the auspices of whose chtirch the place was to be worked. This priest would gather a big delegation of men, women, and children, and they would go out in a body to meet the represen- tative of God's vicegerent on earth. The Pope could not come himself, and so he sent John Tetzel. Tetzel was carried on a throne borne on the shoulders of twenty-five men. His dress, outshone any robe ever worn by mortal Pope. Upon his head was a crown, and in his hand a hollow golden feceptre that enclosed his commission from the Pope. In advance of this throne was carried an immense cross, painted red. As the procession entered a village, people would kneel or uncover as the agent of the Pope passed by; all traffic wotild cease — stores and places of business would be closed. In the public square or market place a stage would be erected, and from this pulpit Tetzel would preach. The man had a commanding presence, and a certain rough and telling eloquence. i6o Xf ttle Jottrne^s Sacrament of penance He was the foremost evangelist of his day. He had a chorus of chanters who wore bright robes and sang and played harps. It will thus be seen that Moody and Sankey methods are no new thing. Crowds flocked to hear him, and people came for many miles. Tetzel reasoned of righteousness and judgment to come; he told of the horrors of sin, its awftil penalties; he pictured purgatory, hell, and damnation. Men cried aloud for mercy, women screamed, and the flaming cross was held aloft. Men must repent — and they must pay. If God has blessed you, you should show your gratitude. The sacrament of pen- ance consists of three parts: repentance, confession, satisfaction. The intent of penance is educational, disciplinary, and medicinal. If you have done wrong, you can make restitution to God, whom you have angered, by paying a certain sum to his agent, for a good pturpose. The Church has never given men the privilege of wronging other men by making a payment. That is one of the calumnies set afloat by infldels who pretend that /iDartin Xutber i6i Catholics worship images. You can, how- infl ever, show penitence, sincerity, and grati- tude by giving. Any one can see that this is quite a different thing from buying an indulgence. This gift you made was similar to the Wehrgeld, or money compensation made to the injtired or kinsmen of those who had been slain. By giving you wiped out the offence, and better still you became participant in all the prayers of those to whom you gave. If you helped rebuild St. Peter's, you participated in all the masses said there for the repose of the dead. This would apply to all your kinsmen now in purgatory. If you gave, you could get them out, and also insure yourself against the danger of getting in. Repent and show your gratitude. Tetzel had half a dozen secretaries in purple robes, who made out receipts. These receipts were printed in red and gold and had a big seal and ribbon attached. The size of the receipt and seal was pro- portioned according to the amount paid — if you had a son or daughter in purga- tory, it was wise to pay a large amount. 1 62 Xlttle Journeys iin»ui«= The certificates were in Latin and certified in diffuse and mystical language many- things, and they gave great joy to the owners. The money flowed in on the secretaries in heaps. Women often took their jewelry and turned it over with their purses to Tetzel ; and the secretaries worked 'far into the night issuing receipts — or what some called letters of indulgence. That many who secured these receipts regarded them as a licence to do wrong and still escape punishment, there is no doubt. Before Tetzel left a town his secretaries issued for a sum equal to twenty-five cents, a little certificate called a Butterbriefe, that allowed the owner to eat butter on his bread on fast days. Then in the night Tetzel and his caval- cade would silently steal away, to con- tinue their good work in the next town. This program was gone through in hund- reds of places, and the amount of money gathered no one knew, and what became of it all, no one could guess. Pope, Electors, Bishops, Priests, and Tetzel all shared in the benefits. To a great degree the same plans are still /iDartfn Xutber 163 carried on. In Protestant chiirches we have the professional debt raiser, and the evangelist who recruits by hypnotic Tetzel methods. In the Catholic Chttrch receipts are still given for money paid, vouching that the holder shall participate in masses and prayers, his name put in a window, or engrossed on a parchment to be placed beneath a corner-stone. Trinkets are sold to be worn upon the person as a protection against this and that. The Church does not teach that the Pope can forgive sin, or that by mere giving you can escape punishment for sin. Christ alone forgives. However, the Pope does decide on what constitutes sin and what not; and this being true, for myself, I do not see why he cannot decide that under certain con- ditions and with certain men an act is not a sin, which with other men is. And surely if he decides it is not a sin, the act thereby carries no penalty. Thus does the Pope have the power to remit punishment. Either the Pope is supreme, or he is not. Luther thought he was. The most that Luther objected to was Tetzel's power of tbe pope 164 Xittle Sourness Tllniuet 3utgment extreme way of putting the thing. Tetzel was a Dominican; Luther was an Augus- tinian: and between these two orders was contintm.1 friction. Tetzel was working Luther's territory, and Luther told what he thought of him, and issued a challenge to debate him on ninety-five propositions. That priests in their zeal should overstep their authority, and that people should read into the preaching much more than the preacher intended, is not to the dis- credit of the Church. The Church cannot be blamed for either the mistakes of Moses, or for the mistakes of her members. We have recently had the spectacle of a noted evangelist, in Vermont, preaching prohibition, indulging in strong drink, and making a bet with a Jebusite that he would turn all of his clothing wrong side out — socks, drawers, trousers, tinder- shirt, shirt, vest and coat — ^and preach with his eyes shut. The feat was carried out, and the preacher won the bet; but it would hardly be fair to charge this action up against either the Prohibition party or the Protestant religion. IV i6s REVOLUTION never depended on any- one man. A strong man is acted upon by the thought of others — ^he is a sensitive plate upon which impressions are made — ^and his vivid personality gathers up these many convictions, concentrates them into one focus, and then expresses them. The great man is the one who first ex- presses what the many believe. He is a voice for the voiceless, and gives in trum- pet tones what others would if they could. Throughout Germahy there was a strong liberal movement. To blindly obey was not sufficient. To go to church, perform certain set acts at certain times, and pay were not enough — ^these things were aU secondary — ^repentance must come first. And along comes John Tetzel with his pagan processions, suppl5mig salvation for silver! Martin Luther the strenuous, the B Voice foe tbe IVofeeUss i66 Xittle Journeys lutber's Ipropoels tione impulsive, the bold, quickly writes a challenge in wrath to public disputation. " If God wills, " said Martin to a friend, " I '11 surely kick a hole in his drum. " Within two weeks after the Ninety-five Theses were nailed to the church door, copies had been carried all over Germany, and in a month the theses had gone to every comer of Christendom. The local printing-press at Wittenberg had made copies for the students, and some of these prints were carried the next day to Leipsic and Mainz, and were at once recognised by publishers as good copy. Luther had said the things that thousands had wanted to say. Tame enough are the propositions to us now. Let us give a few of them : The whole life of the faithful disciple should be an act of repentance. Punishment remains as long as the sinner hates himself. The Pope neither can nor will remit punish- ment for sin. God must forgive first, and the Pope through his priests can then corroborate the remission. No one is sure of his own forgiveness. Every sinner who truly repents has a /Dartin Xutbec 167 plenary remission of punishment due him without payment of money to any one. Every Christian, living or dead, has a full share in all the wealth of the Church, without letters of pardon, or receipts for money paid. Christians should be taught that the buying of pardons is in no wise to be compared to works of mercy. To give to a poor man is better than to pay money to a rich priest. Because of charity and the works of charity, man becomes better, whether he pays money to build a church or not. Pardon for sin is from Christ, and is free. The Pope needs prayers for himself more than ready money. Christians should be taught that the Pope does not know of the exactions of his agents who rob the poor by threat, otherwise he would prefer that St. Peter's should lie in ashes than be built up on the skin, bones, and flesh of his sheep. If the Pope can release souls from purga- tory, why does he not empty the place for love and charity? The Pope being the richest man in Christ- endom, why does he not build St. Peter's out of his own pocket. Such are the propositions that leaped hot from Luther's heart; but they are not Intbec'e IPcoposfs tlons 1 68 Xtttle Sourness Sflect of tbe Ubesca all of one spirit, for as he wrote he be- thought himself that Tetzel was a Domin- ican, and the Dominicans held the key to the Inquisition. Luther remembered the fate of Huss, and his inward eye caught the glare of fagots a-fire. So he changes his tone, and to show that he is still a Catholic he says, "God forgives no man his sin tmtil the man first presents himself to his priestly vicar." Were it not for such expressions as this last, one might assume that man had no need of the assistance of priests or sacra- ments, but might go to God direct and seciire pardon. But this would do away with even Martin Luther's business, so Brother Martin affirms, "The Church is necessary to man's salvation, and the Church must have a Pope in whom is vested supreme authority. "The Church is not to blame for the acts of its selfish, ignorant, and sinful professors. " One immediate effect of the theses was that they put a quietus on the work of Brother John Tetzel. Instead of the people all falling prostrate on his ap- proach, many greeted him with jeers and /fl)artin Xutber 169 mud-balls. He was only a few miles away from Wittenberg, but news reached him of what the students had in store, and im- mediately he quit business and went south. But although he did not appear in person, Tetzel prepared a counter set of theses, to the appalling ntmiber of one hundred and thirteen, and had them printed and widely distributed. His agent came to Wittenberg and peddled the documents on the streets. The students got woi-d of what was going on and in a body captured thfe luckless Tetzelite, led him to the public square and burned his documents with much pomp and circxim- stance. They then cut oflf the man's coat-tails, conducted him to the outskirts of the town, turned him loose and cheered him lustily as he ran. It will thus be seen that the human heart is ever the same, and among college students there is small choice. The following Sunday, Luther devoted his whole sermon to a vigorous condem- nation of the act of his students, admonish- ing them in stern rebuke. The sermon was considered the biggest joke of the season. Tletsel's Cbesee L 170 Xittle Sourness R XuII in tbe Storm Tetzel seemed to sink out of sight. Those whom he had sought to serve re- pudiated him, and Bishops, Electors, and Pope declined to defend his cause. As for Luther, certain bishops made formal charges against him, sending a copy of his theses to Pope Leo X. The Holy Father refused to interfere in what he considered a mere quarrel between Domin- icans and Augustinians, and so the matter rested. But it did not rest long. 171 V THE general policy of the Church in Luther's time was not unlike what it is now. Had he gone to Rome, he would not have been humiliated — the intent would have been to pacify him. He might have been transferred to a new territory, with promise of a preferment, even to a bishopric, if he did well. To silence men, excommunicate them, degrade them, has never been done ex- cepting when it was deemed that the safety of the Church demanded it. The Church, like governments — all gov- ernments — is foxinded upon the consent of the governed. So every religion, and every government, changes with the peo- ple — rulers study closely the will of the people and endeavour to conform to their desire. Priests and preachers give people Solfcs of tbeCburcb 172 Xittle Sourness lutbec tftemains firm the religion they wish for — it is a question of supply and demand. The Church has constantly changed as the intelligence of the people has changed. And this change is always easy and natural. Dogmas and creeds may remain the same, but progress consists in giving a spiritual or poetic interpretation to that which once was taken literally. The scheme of the esoteric and the exoteric is a sliding, self- lubricating, self-adjusting, non-copyrighted invention — perfect in its workings — that all wise theologians fall back upon in time of stress. Had Luther obeyed the mandate and gone to Rome, that would have been the last of Luther. Private interpretation is all right, of course: the Church has always taught it — ^the mistake is to teach it to everybody. Those who should know do know. Spir- itual adolescence comes in due time, and then all things are made plain — be wise! But Luther was not to be bought off. His followers were growing in number, the howls of his enemies increased. Strong men grow through opposition — ^the plummet of feeling goes deeper. /IDartin Xutber 173 thought soars higher — ^vivid and stern personalities make enemies because they need them, otherwise they drowse. Then they need friends, too, to encourage — opposition and encouragement — ^thus do we get the alternating current. That Luther had not been publicly answered excepting by Tetzel's weak rejoinders, was a constant boast in the liberal camp; and that Tetzel was only fit to address an audience of ignorant peas- antry was very sure: some one else must be put forward worthy of Martin Luther's steel. Then comes John Eck, a priest and lawyer, a man in intimate touch with Rome, and the foremost public disputant and orator of his time. He proposed to meet Luther in pubUc debate. In social station Eck stood much higher than Luther. Luther was a poor college pro- fessor in a poor little university — a mere pedagogue, a nobody. That Eck should meet him was a condescension on the part of Eck — ^as Eck explained. They met at the University of Leipsic — an aristocratic and orthodox institution, Eck having refused to meet Luther either 5obn EcA 174 OLIttle Sourness Sell anS lutber at Erfurt or Wittenberg — ^wherein Eck was wise. The Bishop at Leipsic posted notices forbidding the dispute — ^this, it is beUeved, on orders from Rome, as the Chxirch did not want to be known as having mixed in the matter. The Bishop's notices were promptly torn down, and Duke George decided that as the dispute was not under the auspices of the Church the Bishop had no business to interfere. The audience came for many miles. A gallery was set apart for the nobility. Thousands who could not gain admittance remained outside and had to be content with a rehearsal of the proceedings from those who were forttmate enough to have seats. The debate began June 27, 15 19, and continued daily for thirteen days. Eck was commanding in person, deep of voice, suave and terrible in turn. He had all the graces and the power of a great trial lawyer. Luther's small figure and plain clothes were at a disadvantage in this brilliant throng, yet we are told that his high and piercing voice was heard much farther than Eck's. /Dartin Xutber 175 Duke George of Saxony sat on a throne TEbe in state, and acted as master of ceremonies. Wittenberg was in the minority, and the hundred students who had accompanied Luther were mostly relegated to places outside, under the windows — their ardour to cut off coat-tails had quite abated. The proceedings were orderly and digni- fied, save for the marked prejudice against Luther displayed by Duke George and the nobility. Luther held his own: his manner was self-reliant, with a touch of pride that perhaps did not help his cause. Eck led the debate along by easy stages and endeavoured to force Luther into anger and unseemliness. Luther's friends were pleased with their champion — ^Luther stated his case with precision and Eck was seemingly van- quished. But Eck knew what he was doing — he was leading Luther into a defence of the doctrines set forth by Huss. And when the time was ripe, Eck, in assumed aston- ishment, cried out,' "Why this is exactly that for which Huss the heretic was tried and rightly condemned!" He very skil- S)ebate 176 Xlttle Journeys Ube fully and slyly gave Luther permission •KesuitB ^^ withdraw certain statements, to which Luther replied with spirit that he took' back nothing, "and if this is what Huss taught, why God be praised for Huss. " Eck had gotten what he wanted — a defence of Huss who had been burned at the stake for heresy. Eck put his reports in shape and took them to Rome in person, and a demand was made for a formal Bull of Excom- munication against Martin Luther. Word came from Rome that if Luther would amend his ways and publicly dis- avow his defence of Huss, further proceed- ings would cease. The result was a volley of Wittenberg pamphlets re-stating, in still bolder language, what had already been put forth. Luther was still a good Catholic, and his quarrel was with the abuses in the Church, not with the Church itself. Had the Pope and his advisers been wise enough they would have paid no attention to Luther, and thus allowed opinion inside the Church to change,' as it has changed in our day. Priests and preachers every- where now preach exactly the things for /Dattfn Xutbec 177 which Huss, Wyclif , Ridley, Latimer, and Tyndale forfeited their lives. But the Pope did not correctly gauge the people — ^he did not know that Luther was speaking for fifty-one per cent of aU Germany. ■ Orders were given out in Leipsic from pulpits, that on a certain day all good Catholics should bring such copies of Martin Luther's books as they had in their possession to the public square, and the books would there be burned. On October 9th, the Bull of Excom- munication mentioning Luther and six of his chief sympathisers, reached Witten- berg, cutting them off from the Church forever. Luther still continued to preach daily, and declared that he was still a Catholic and that as popes had made mistakes before, so had Pope Leo erred this time. With the bull came a notice that if Luther would recant, the bull would be withdrawn and Luther would be reinstated in the Church. To which Luther replied, "If the bull is withdrawn I will still be in the Church." Bonfires of Luther's books now burned Xutber Ercoma municatei 178 3LittIe Sourness berg Sonfire bright in every town and city of CKHsten- dom — even in London. Then it was that Wittenberg decided to have a bonfire of its own. A printed bill was issued calling upon all students and other devout Christians to assemble at nine o'clock on the morning of December lo, 1520, outside the Elster gate, and witness a pious and religious spectacle. A large concotirse gathered, a pyre of fagots was piled high, the Pope's Bull of Excommunication was solemnly placed on top, and the fire was lighted by the hand of Martin Luther, 179 VI THE theses prepared by Tetzel had small sale. People had heard all these arguments before, but Luther's propositions were new. Everything that Luther said in public now was taken down, printed, and passed along; his books were sold in the market places and at the fairs throughout the Empire. Luther glorified Germany, and referred often to the Deutsche Theologie, and this pleased the people. The jealousy that existed between Italians and Germans was fanned. He occasionally preached in neighbour- ing cities, and always was attended by an escort of several hundred students. Once he spoke at Nuremberg and was enter- tained by that great man and artist, Albert Diirer. Everywhere crowds hung upon his words and often he was cheered and Xutbec's popuIaritattin Xutber 199 discreet: he held po personal communi- cation with Luther. In December, 1521, the prisoner was allowed to go to Wittenberg on a three days' parole. When he appeared at the University he came as one from the dead. The event was too serious for student jollification, many were struck dumb with astonishment and glad tears of joy were upon every cheek — and by common consent all classes were abandoned, and a solemn service of thanksgiving held in the Church, upon the door of which, four years before, this little college professor had • tacked his theses. All understood now that Luther was a prisoner — he must go back to his prison. He admonished his hearers to be patient, but to be firm; cleave to what they be- lieved to be right, even though it led to the scaffold. He administered the sacra- ment, and through that congregation, and throughout Saxony, and throughout all Germany ran the vow, silent, solemn, serious that Martin Luther's defiance of papal authority was right. The Church was made for man and not man for the Church — and come what might this man Luther must ®n pacole 200 Xittle Journeys HUltltfng anb preacbing be protected even though the gutters ran with blood. When would his trial occur? Nobody knew — ^but there would be no haste. Luther went back to prison, but not to remain there. His little lease of liberty had been given just to see which way the wind lay. He was a prisoner still — a prisoner on parole — and if he was taken out of Saxony it could only be by illegal means. The action of the Elector was as wise and as successful a bit of legal procedure as ever mortal lawyer worked ; that it was all done without the advice, consent, or connivance of the prisoner, makes it doubly admirable. Luther set himself to work as never before, writing and preaching. He kept close to Wittenberg and from there sent forth his thunders of revolt. Outside of Saxony, at regular intervals, edicts were read from pulpits ordering any and all copies of Luther's writings to be brought forward that they might be burned. This advertised the work, and made it prized — ^it was read throughout all Christendom. That gentle and ascetic Henry VIII. of /iDartin Xutber 201 England, issued a book denouncing Luther and telling what he would do with him if he came to England. Luther replied, a trifle too much in kind. Henry put in a pious rejoinder to the effect that the devil would not have Luther in hell. In their opinion of Luther the Pope and King Henry were of one mind. So lived Martin Luther, execrated and beloved. At first he sought to serve the Church, and later he worked to destroy it. After three hundred years, the Cath- olic Church still lives, with more com- municants than it had in the days of Luther. The fact that it still exists proves its usefulness. It will still live, and it will change as men change. The Church and the Pope are not the detestable things that Martin Luther pictured them; and Protestantism is not the sweet and lovely object that he would have us believe. All formal and organised religions will be what thfey are, as long as man is what he is — ^labels count for little. In 1525, Martin Luther married "Cath- arine the Nun," a most excellent woman, and one who rumour says had long en- couraged and upheld him in his works. zutbec's Carriage 202 Xittle 5ournep8 of tbe people Children came to bless them, and the picture of the great heretic sitting at his wooden table with little Johnny Luther on his knee, his loving wife by his side, and kind neighbours entering for a friendly chat, show the great reformer at his best. He was the son of a peasant, all his ancestors were peasants, as he so often told, and he lived like a peasant to the last. For himself, he wanted little. He sided with the people, the toilers, with those who struggled in the bonds of slavery and fear — ^for them he was an eye, an ear, a trumpet voice. There never lived a braver man — ^there never lived one more earnest and sincere. He fought freedom's fight with all the weapons God had given him; and for the liberty we now enjoy, in great degree, we are debtors to Martin Luther. EDMUND BURKE 203 20S I was not, like His Grace of Bedford, swaddled and rocked and dandled into a legislator; nitor in ad- versum is the motto for a man like me. I possessed not one of the qualities, nor cultivated one of the arts, that recommend men to the favour and pro- tection of the great. I was not made for a minion or a tool. As little did I follow the trade of winning the hearts, by imposing on the understandings of the people. At every step of my progress in life, for in every step I was traversed and opposed, and at every turnpike I met, I was obliged to show my passport, and again and again to prove my sole title to the honour of being useful to my country, by a proof that I was not wholly unacquainted with its laws and the whole system of its interests both abroad and at home; otherwise no rank, no toleration even for me. Striving against Opposition 207 IN the American Encyclopedia, a work I cheerfully recommend, wiU be found a statement to the efiEect that Edmund Burke was one of the fifteen children of his parents. Aside from the natural curiosity to know what became of the fourteen, the matter is of small moment, and that its truth or falsity should divide men is most absurd. Of this, however, we know — ^the parents of Burke were plain people, rescued from oblivion only through the excellence of this one son. The father was a lawyer, and fees being scarce, he became chief clerk for another barrister, and so lived his life and did Ms work. When Edmund Burke was bom at Dublin in the year 1729, that famous city was at its flood tide of prosperity. It was a metropolis of commerce, art, wit, oratory. Vacntage 2o8 awttle 5ournegs Bt Scbool and literary culture. The one name that looms large to us out of that time is that of Dean Swift, but then there were dozens just as great as he — ^so-said. Edmund must have been a bright, fine, attractive boy, for we hear that certain friends of his parents combined with his father and they bent themselves to the task of sending the lad to Trinity College. Before this, however, he had spent some time at a private school kept by one Shackleton, a Quaker and a rare sweet soul, with enough of stern moral fibre in him that he exercised a profound and last- ing influence for good on young Mr. Burke. The boy was to be a lawyer — a great lawyer. The elder Burke was not a great lawyer, but he felt competent to raise one. There was another boy destined for fame at Trinity College while Burke was there, but they did not get acquainted then. Some years later they met in London, though, and talked it over. In countenance these two young men had a certain marked resemblance. Rey- nolds painted pictures of both Burke and Goldsmith, and when I looked at these portraits this morning, side by side, I said, £6mun& asurfte 209 " Sir Joshua had n't quite got the Burke out of his brush before he painted Gold- smith. " Burke is Goldsmith grown big. Each had a weak chin, which was re- deemed by the fine, full forehead and brilliant eye. In face and features, taken as a whole, Burke had a countenance of surpassing beauty. Note the full sensuous lips, the clear, steady, lustrous beaming eye, the splendid head! There is nothing small, selfish, mean, or trifling about the man — he is open, frank, sympathetic, gentle, generous, and wise. He is a manly man. No wonder that even the staid and chilly Hannah More loved him; and little Miss Bumey worshipped at his shrine even in spite of "his friendship for those detested rebels, the Americans; and the other grievous sin of persecuting that good man, Warren Hastings." Goldsmith was small in stature, apolo- getic in manner, hesitating, and at times there was a lisp in speech, which might have been an artistic and carefully ac- quired adjunct of wit, but it was not. Burke was commanding in stature, dig- Xucte anb Sotesmitb 3Lfttle Journeys B Uoutb witba paMton nified, suave, and in speech direct, copious, and elegant. Goldsmith overworked the minor key, but Burke merely suggests that it had not been omitted. At college young Burke did not prove a brilliant student — ^his intellect and aptitude it seems were a modest mouse-color, that escaped attention. His reading was de- sultory and general, with spasms of passion for this study or that, this author or the other. And he has remarked, most regret- fully, that all of these passions were short- lived, none lasting more than six weeks. It is a splendid sign to find a youth with B. passion for any branch of work, or study, or for any author. No matter how brief the love — ^it adds a ring of growth to character; and if you have loved a book once it is easy to go back to it. In all these varjnng moods of likes and dislikes, Burke was gathering up material for use in after years. But his teachers did not regard it so, neither did his father. He got through college after a five years' course, aged twenty, by the grace of his tutors. He knew everything ex- cepting what was in the curriculum. II 211 TALL, handsome, with hair black as the raven's wing, and eyes that looked away off into space, dreamy and ttncon- cemed, was Edmund Burke at twenty. His father was a business lawyer, with a sharp nose for technicalities, quirks, and quillets, but the son studied law as a literary curiosity. Occasionally there were quick chidings, answered with irony needlessly calm; then the good wife and mother would intervene with her tears, and the result was that Burke the elder would withdraw to the open air to cool his coppers. Be it known that no man can stand out against his wife and son when they in love combine. Finally it was proposed that Edmund go to London and take a course of law at the Middle Temple. The plan was ac- cepted with ill-concealed alacrity. Father Stuttfng Xaw Xittle Journeys sfnftot and son parted with relief, but the good- bye between mother and son tore the hearts of both — ^they were parting forever, and something told them so. It evidently was the intention of Burke the elder, who was a clear-headed practical person, competent in all petty plans, that if the son settled down to law and got his "call, " then he would be summoned back to Dublin and put in a way to achieve distinction. But if the young man still pursued his desultory reading and scrib- bling on irrelevant themes, then the re- mittances were to be withdrawn and Edmund Burke, being twenty-one years of age, could sink or swim. Burke pater would wash his hands in innocency, having fully complied with all legal requirements, and God knows that is all any man can do — ^there ! Ill IN London-town since time began, no em- bryo Coke ever rapped at the bar for admittance — lawyers are "summoned" just as clergymen are "called," wtule other men find a job. In England this pretty little illusion of receiving a "call" to prac- tise law still obtains. Burke never received the call, for the reason that he failed to fit himself for it. He read everything but law books. He might have assisted a young man by the name of Blackstone in compiling his "Commentaries," as their lodgings were not far apart, but he did not. They met occasionally, and when they did they always discussed Spenser or MUton, and waxed warm over Shakespeare. Burke gave Old Father Antic the law as lavish a letter of recommendation as the 213 not Callet 214 Xtttle Sourness BoSalej'B legal profession ever received, and he gave it for the very natural reason that he had no use for the law himself. The remittances from Dublin were al- ways small, but they grew smaller, less frequent, and finally ceased. It was sink or swim — and the young man simply paddled to keep afloat upon the tide of the times. He dawdled at Dodsley's, visited with the callers, and browsed among the books. There was only one thing the young man liked better to do than to read, and that was to talk. Once he had read a volume nearly through, when Dodsley up and sold it to a customer — " a rather ungentlemanly trick to play on an honest man," says Burke, It was at Dodsley's he first met his countryman Goldsmith, also Garrick, Bos- well, and Johnson. It was then that Johnson received that lasting impression of Burke, of whom he said, "Sir, if you met Edmtind Burke, under a gateway where you had taken shelter for five min- utes to escape a shower, you would be so impressed by his conversation that you would say, 'This is a most extraordinary man. ]£t)mun& Burlie 215 If one knows how, or has to, he can live in a large city at a small expense. For nine years, Burke's London life is a tale of a garret, with the details almost lost in the fog. Of this time, in after years, he seldom spoke, not because he was ashamed of all the straits and shifts he had to endtire, but because he was endowed with that fine dignity of mind which does not dwell on hardships gone and troubles past, but rather fixes itself on blessings now at hand and other bless- ings yet to come. Then better still, there came, a time when work and important business filled every moment of the fast flying hours. And so he himself once said, "The sure cure for all private griefs is a hearty interest in public affairs." The best search-light through the mist of those early days comes to us through Burke's letters to ShacMeton, the son of his old Quaker teacher. Shackleton had the insight to perceive his friend was no common man, and so preserved every scrap of Burke's writing that came his way. About that time there seems to have Cute foe Ocfefs 2i6 Xfttle Journeys poetic been a sort of meteoric shower of chip- munk magazines, following in the lumi- nous pathway of the Spectator and the Tatler. Burke was passing through his poetic period, and supplied various stan- zas of alleged poetry to these maga- zines for a modest consideration. For one poem he received eighteen pence, as tearfully told by Shackleton, but we have Hawkins for it that this was a trifle more than the poem was worth. Of this poetry we know little, happily, but glimpses of it are seen in the Shackle- ton letters; for instance, when he asks his friend's criticism of such lines as these : The nymphs that haunt* the dusky wood, Which hangs recumbent o'er the crystal flood. He speaks of his delight in ambient sun- sets, when gilded oceans, ghostly ships and the dull, dark , city vanish for the night. Of course, such things never hap- pen except in books, but the practice of writing about them is a fine drill, in that it enables the writer to get a grasp on his vocabulary. Poetry is for the poet. And if Burke wrote poetry in bed, having, to remain there in the dajrtime, while his jEbmunb Burfte 217 landlady was doing up his single ruffled shirt for an evening party, whose business was it? When he was invited out to dinner he did the meal such justice that he needed nothing the following day; and the wel- come discovery was also made that fasting produced an exaltation of the "spiritual essence that was extremely favotirable to writing good poetry." Burke had wit, and what Johnson called a "mighty affluence of conversation"; so his presence was welcome at the Turk's Head. Burke and Johnson were so thor- oughly well matched as talkers that they respected each other's prowess and never with each other clinched in wordy warfare. Johnson was an arch Tory; Burke the leader of the Whigs, but Ursa was wise enough to say," I '11 talk with him on any subject but politics." This led Gold- smith to remark, " Dr. Johnson browbeats us little men, but makes quick peace with those he cannot down." Then there were debating societies, from one of which he resigned because the limit of a speech was seven minutes; but finally the time was extended to fifteen minutes Sucfie ani 3oI)n8on 2l8 Xittle Sourness Stimulats mun5 Burfee 225 older than the Mogul Empire, under which the village crowds assemble, the thatched roof of the peasant's hut, the rich tracery of the mosque where the Imaum prays with his face to Mecca, the drums, the banners and gaudy idols, the devotee swinging in the air, the graceful maiden with the pitcher on her head, descending the steps to the river- side, the black faces, the long beards, the yellow streaks of sect, the turbans and the flowing robes, the spears and the silver maces, the elephants with their canopies of state, the gorgeous palanquin of the prince, and the close litter of the noble lady — all these things were to him as famiHar as the objects which lay, on the road between Beaconsfield and . St. James Street. All India was present to the eye of his mind — ^from the halls where suitors laid gold and perfumes at the feet of sovereigns, to the wild moor where the gipsy camp was pitched; from the bazaar, humming like a beehive with the crowd of buyers and sellers, to the jungle where the lonely courier shakes his bunch of iron rings to scare away the hyenas. He had just as lively an idea of the insurrection at Benares as of Lord George Gordon's riots, and of the execution of Nuncomar as of Dr. Dodd. Op- pression in Bengal was to him the same thing as oppression in the streets of London. Sbacanlai on Sutfte IS 226 Xittle Journeys single Speecb fjamilton The wide encompassing quality of Burke's mind made him a man among men. Just how much he lent his power in those early days to assist those in high places who needed him, we do not know. Such services were sacred to him — done in friendship and in confidence, and held as steadfast as a good lawyer holds the secrets of his client. No doubt though, but that the one speech which gave glory and a nickname to Single Speech Hamilton was written by Burke. It was wise, witty, and pro- found — and never again did Hamilton do a thing that rose above the dull land deadly mediocre. It was a rival of Burke's who said, " He is the only man since Cicero who is a great orator, and who can write as well as he can talk." That Burke wrote the lectures of Sir Joshua Reynolds is now pretty generally believed; in fact, that he received the goodly sum of four thousand potmds for writing these lectures, has been proved to the satisfaction of a jury. Burke never said he wrote the Reynolds lectures, and Sir Joshua left it to his valet to deny it. £{>mun& Burfte 227 But read the lectures now and you will see the stately step of Bolingbroke, and the insight, wit, and gravity of the man who said, " Mr. Speaker, I rise to a question of privilege : If it is the pleasure of the House that all the heaviest folios known to us should be here read aloud, I am in honour bound to graciously submit, but only this I ask, that proceedings shall be suspended long enough for me to send home for my night-cap." 1RcienoIt« lectutes 228 V I)t(vate Seccetars PRESENTLY Burke graduated from doing hack work for William Gerard Hamilton to the position of his private secretary — Hamilton had been appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland and so highly did he prize Burke's services that he had the government vote him a pension of three hundred pounds a year. This was the first settled income Burke had ever re- ceived, and he was then well past thirty years of age. But though he was in sore straits financially, when he perceived that the intent of the income was to bind him into the exclusive service of his patron, he resigned his office and refused the pension. Without knowing how wisely he was acting, Burke, by declming the pension and affronting Lord Hamilton, had done the very thing that it was most expedient to do. ]EJ)mun5 SSurhe 229 When Hamilton could not buy his man, he foolishly sought to crush him, and this brought Burke for the first time into the white light of publicity. I suppose it is fully understood that the nobility of England are not necessarily either cultured or well-read. Literature to most of the titled gentry is a blank, my lord — ^it is so now and always has been so. Burke's brilliant books were not sufficient to make him famous excepting among the elect few, but the episode with Lord Hamilton set the gossips by the ears, and all who had never read Burke's books now pretended they had. Burke was a national character — such a man merely needs to be known to be wanted — ^strong men are always needed. The House of Commons opened its doors to him — ^several boroughs competing with each other for the favour of being repre- sented by him. A political break-up with opportunity came along, and we find the Marquis of Rockingham made Premier, and Edmund Burke his secretary. It was Fitzherbert who recommended Burke to Rockingham, and Fitzherbert is immortal for this and n national Cbacactec 230 Xittle 5ournei3s IRocIiinas bam anft Xutfte for the fact that Johnson used him to point a moral. Said Dr. Johnson, "A man is popular more through negative qualities than positive ones. Fitzherbert is the most acceptable man in London because he never overpowers any one by the su- periority of his talents, makes no man think worse of himself by being his rival, seems always ready to listen, does not obHge you to hear much from him, and never opposes what you say." With Rockingham and Burke it was a case of the tail wagging the dog, but Burke and Rockingham understood each other, and always remained firm friends. I believe it was John J. Ingalls who said America had never elected but one first-class man for president, and he was chosen only because he was unknown. Rockingham could neither make a speech nor write a readable article; but he was kindly disposed, honest, and intelligent, and had a gracious and winning presence. He lives in history to-day chiefly because Edmund Burke was associated with him, Burke was too big a man for Premier — such men have to be kept in subjection — ^the popular will is wise. Men like 36&mun& Burfte 231 Burke make enemies — common folks can- not follow them in their flight, and in their presence we feel "Uke a farmer in the presence of a sleight-of-hand man." To have life, and life in abundance is the prayer of every strong and valiant soul. But men are forever running away from life — getting into " positions, " monas- teries, communities, and now and again cutting the cable of existence by suicide. The man who commits suicide usually leaves a letter giving a reason — ^most any reason is sufficient, — ^he was looking for a reason and when he thought he had found it, he seized upon it. Life to Edmund Burke was the gracious gift of the gods, and he was grateful for it. He ripened slowly. Arrested development never caught him — all the days of his life his mind was ex- panding and reaching out touching every phase of human existence. Nothing was foreign to him, nothing that related to hu- man existence was small or insignificant. When the home-thrust was made that Ireland had not suffered more through the absenteeism of her landlords than through the absenteeism of her men of B Oracious 0ift 232 Xlttle 5otttnei5s tEoucb of £cin genius, Burke made the reply that Ireland needed friends in the House of Commons more than at home. Burke loved Ireland to the last, and his fine loyalty for her people doubtless cost him a seat in the Cabinet. In moments of passion his tongue took on a touch of the old sod which gave Fox an oppor- tunity of introducing a swell bull, " Burke's brogue is worth going miles to see. " And once when Burke was speaking of Amer- ica he referred to the wondrous forests " where the hand of man had never trod. " Fox arose to a point of order. And this was a good deal easier on the part of Fox than to try to meet his man in serious debate. Burke's was not the primrose path of dalliance. He fought his way inch by inch. Often it was a dozen to one against him. In one speech he said, "The min- ister comes down in state attended by beasts clean and unclean. He opens his budget and edifies us with a speech — one-half the house goes away. A second gentleman gets up and another half goes, and a third gentleman launches a speech that rids the house of another half. EbmunD Burhe '^SS A loud laugh here came in, and Burke stopped and said he was most happy if a smaU dehorned Irish bull of his could put the House in such good humotu-, and went on with his speech. Soon, however, there were cries of "Shame!" from the Tories who thought Burke was speaking dis- respectfully of the King. Burke paused and said, "Mr. Speaker, I have not spoken of the King except in high esteem — I prize my head too well for that. But I do not think it necessary that I should bow down to his man- servant, his maid-servant, his ox,. or his ass" — and he fixed his intrepid gaze upon the chief offender. Nature's best use for genius is to make other men think; to stir up things so sedi- mentation does not take place ; to break the anchylosis of self-complacency; and start the stream of public opinion running so it will purify itself. Burke was an agitator — ^not a leader. He had the great gift of exaggeration, without which no man can be a great orator. He painted the picture large, and put the matter in a way that com- pelled attention. For thirty years he was Bn Bgitatot 234 Xittle Journeys "Sbcee ^fnte of View a most prominent figure in English politics — no great measure could be passed with- out counting on him. His influence held dishonesty in check, and made oppression pause. History is usually written from one of three points of view — apolitical, literary, or economic. Macaulay stands for the first. Taine for the second. Buckle for the third. Each writer considers his subject supreme. When we speak of the history of a country we usually refer to its statesmen. Politicians live the lives of moths as compared with the lasting influence of commerce that feeds, houses, and clothes, says Buckle. Rulers govern, but it is literature that enlightens, says Taine. Literature and commerce are made possible only through the wisdom of states- men, says Macaulay. Edmund Burke's business was state- craft; his play was letters; but he lives for us through letters. He had two sets of ardent friends, his po- litical associates, and that other little group of literary cronies made up of Johnson, Goldsmith, Boswell, Reynolds, and Garrick. ]6l)mttn& JSurfte 23s With these his soul was free — his sense of sublimity then found wings — the vo- cabulary of Johnson, the purling poetry of Goldsmith, the grace of Garrick's mimicry, the miracle of Reynolds's pencil and brush — these ministered to his hungry heart. They were forms of expression. All life is an expression of spirit. Burke's life was dedicated to expression. He expressed through speech, personal presence, and written words. Who ever expressed in this way so well? And — stay! — who ever had so much that was worth while to express? B %IU of Sxpteestan WILLIAM PITT 237 239 Time was when slaves were exported like cattle from the British Coast and exposed for sale in the Roman market. These men and women who were thus sold were supposed to be guilty of witchcraft, debt, blasphemy, or theft. Or else they were prisoners taken in war — they had forfeited their right to freedom, and we sold them. We said they were incapable of self-government and so must be looked after. Later we quit selling British slaves, but began to buy and trade in African humanity. We silenced conscience by saying, "It's all right — they are incapable of self-government." We were once as obscure, as debased, as ignorant, as barbaric, as the African is now. I trust that the time will come when we are willing to give to Africa the opportunity, the hope, the right to attain to the same blessings that we ourselves enjoy. William Pitt on Abolition of Slavery in England. IPIea foe Equal 241 THE law of heredity has been de- scribed as that law of our nature which provides that a man shall resemble his grandmother — or not, as the case may- be. What traits are inherited and what acquired — who shall say? Married folks who resort to the happy expedient of pro- curing their children at orphan asylums can testify to the many times they have been complimented on the striking resem- blance of father to daughter, or son to mother. Possibly that is all there is of it — ^we resemble those with whom we associate. Far be it from me to say the final word on this theme — I would not if I could, de- prive men of a problem they can never solve. When all questions are answered, it will be time to telephone the imdertaker. Xawof 242 OLittle Sourness 0reat SSen'a OceatSons That men of genius do not reproduce themselves after the flesh is an axiom, but that William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, did, is brought forth as an exception, incident, accident, or circumstance, just according to one's mood at the moment. "Great men do have great sons!" we cry. " Just look at the Pitts, the Adamses, the Walpoles, the Beechers, the Booths, the Bellinis, the Disraelis!" and here we begin to falter. And then the opposition takes it up and rattles off a list of great men whose sons were spendthrifts, gam- blers, ne'er-do-wells, and jackanapes. When Pitt the Younger made his first speech in the House of Commons, he struck thirteen. The members of the House were amazed. "He's not a chip off the old block," they said. "He 's the block itself," said Burke. Lord Rosebery, who had the felicity to own a Derby winner, once said of Pitt, "He was bred for speed, but not for endurance. " II 243 SINCE the subject of heredity always seems to come up when the Pitts are mentioned, it may be proper for us to go back and trace pedigree a bit, to see if we have here the formula for producing a genius. The grandfather of William Pitt the elder, was Thomas Pitt, a sea-captain, trader, and gentleman adventurer. In fact, he was a bold buccaneer, but not too bold, for he gave large sums to church and charity and showed his zeal for virtue by once hanging three smugglers in chains, high up on a gibbet overlooking the coast of Cornwall, and there the bodies were left until the birds of prey and the elements had bleached their bones. Thomas Pitt was known as "Diamond Tom" through bringing from India and selling to the Regent Orleans the largest "Siiamont Uom" 244 Xittle Sourness Saturn diamond, I believe, ever owned in England. For this diamond, Tom received one hundred and thirty-five thousand pounds — a sum equal to one million dollars. That Diamond Tom received this money there is no doubt, but where and how he got the diamond nobody seems to know, and in his own time it was deemed in- delicate to inquire. Tom might have wasted that money right shortly — ^there are several ways of dissipating a fortune — ^but he wisely decided to found a house. That is to say — he bought a borough — ^the borough of Old Sarum, the locality that was to become famous as the "rotten borough" of the Reform Bill. He bought this borough and all the tenants outright from the government, just as we bought the Filipinos at two dollars per head. All the people who lived in the borough had to pay tribute, taxes, or rent to Tom, for Tom owned the tenures. They had to pay, run away, or have their heads cut off. Most of them paid. If the time were at our disposal it might be worth while to let this brochure extend itself into a picture of how all the land MilUam Pitt 245 in England once belonged to the Crown, and how this land was transferred at will to Thomas, Richard, and Henry for cash or as reward for services rendered. It was much the same in America — ^the govern- ment once owned all the land, and then this land was sold, given out to soldiers, or to homesteaders who would clear the land of trees, and later we reversed the proposition and gave the land to those who would plant trees. There was this similarity, too, between English and American land laws: the Indians on the land in America had to pay, move, or be perforated. For them to pay rent or work out a road tax, was quite out of the question. Indians, like the Irish, will not pay rent, so we were compelled to evict them. But there was this difference in America : the owner of the land could sell it; in England he could not. The law of entail has been much modified, but as a general proposition the land owner in England has the, privilege of collecting the rent, and warning off poachers, but he cannot mortgage the land and eat it up. This keeps the big estates intact, and is a very XanMaws 246 Xittle Journeys IRobert IPitt good scheme. Under a similar law in the United States, Uncle Billy Bushnell or Ali Baba might live in Hot Springs, Arkansas, and own every foot of East Aurora, and all of us would then vote as Baron Bushnell or Sir Ali dictated, thus avoiding much personal animus at Town Meetin' time. But no tenure can be made with death — he can neither be bought, bribed, cajoled, nor intimidated. Diamond Tom died, and his eldest son Robert came into possession of the estate. Now Robert was commonplace and beautifully mediocre. It is one of Nature's little ironies at the expense of the law of entail, that she will occasionally send out of the spirit realm, into a place of worldly importance, a man who is a regular chump. Robert Pitt, son of Diamond Tom, escaped all censure and unkind critic- ism by doing nothing, saying nothing, and being nothing. But he proved procreant and reared a goodly brood of sons and daughters — ^all much like himself, save one, the youngest son. This son, by name William Pitt, very Milliam pltt 247 much resembled Diamond Tom, his illus- trious grandfather — Nature bred back. William was strong in body, firm in will, active, alert, intelligent. Times had changed or he might have been a bold buccaneer, too. He was all his grand- father was, only sand-papered, buffed, and polished by civilisation. He was sent to Eton, and then to Trinity College, Oxford, where buccaneer instincts broke out and he left without a degree. Two careers were open to him, as to all aspiring sons of Noble Beef-eaters — he could enter the Church or the army. He chose the army, and became in due course the first cornet of his company. His elder brother Thomas was very naturally a member of the House of Commons for Old Sarum, and later sat for Oakhampton. Another of Nature' s little ironies here outcrops: Thomas, who was named for his illustrious grandfather — ^he of the crystallised carbon — did not resemble his grandfather nearly so much as did his younger brother. William. So Thomas with surprising good sense named his brother for a seat in the House of Commons from Old Sarum. TCbe IBoungeet Son 248 Xfttle 5oumei?s IMleU William was but twenty-seven years of age when he began his official career, but he seemed one who had leaped into life full armed. He absorbed knowledge on every hand. Demosthenes was his idol, and he, too, declaimed by the sea-shore with his mouth full of pebbles. His splendid command of language was ac- quired by the practice of translation and re- translation. Whether Greek or Latin ever helped any man to become a better thinker is a mooted question, but the practice of talking off in your own tongue a page of a foreign language is a mighty good way to lubricate your English. William Pitt had all the graces of a great orator — ^he was deliberate, self- possessed, positive. In form he was rather small, but he had a way of carrying himself that gave an impression of size. He was one of the world's big little men — ^the type of Aaron Burr, Alexander Hamilton, Ben- jamin Harrison, and John D. Long. In the House of Commons he lost no time in making his presence felt. He was assertive, theatrical, declamatory — ^still, he usually knew what he was talking about. His criticisms of the government so ex- miUtam Pitt 249 asperated Sir Robert Walpole that Walpole used to refer to him as " that terrible cor- net of horse." Finally Walpole had him dismissed from the army. This instead of silencing the young man really made matters worse, and George II., who patron- ised the opposition when he could not down it, made him groom of the bed- chamber to the Prince of Wales. This was an office lined with adipose, with no work to speak of. The feeling is that Pitt revealed his common clay by accepting the favour. He was large enough to get along without such things. In most of the good old " School Speak- ers " was an extract from a speech supposed to have been delivered by Pitt on the occasion of his being taimted by Horatio Walpole on account of his youth. Pitt replied in language something like this: " It is true that I am young, yet I '11 get over that; but the man who is a fool will probably remain one all his days." The speech was reported by a lout of a countryman, Samuel Johnson by name, who had come up to London to make his fortune, and found his first work in re- Common alas 2SP Xittle Journeys Samuel Jobneon, Itqpotter porting speeches in the House of Commons. Pitt did not write out his speeches for the press, weeks in advance, according to latter day methods ; the man who reported them had to have a style of his own — and certainly Johnson had. Pitt was much pleased with Johnson's reports of his speeches, but on one occasion mildly said, "Ah, Mr. Johnson — you know — I do not exactly remember using that expression!" And Samuel Johnson said, "Sir, it is barely possible that you did not use the language as I have written it out; but you should. " Just how much Johnson we get in Pitt's printed speeches is still a topic for debate. Pitt could think on his feet, while Samuel Johnson never made but one speech and broke down in that. But Johnson could write, and the best of Pitt's speeches are those reported by Ursa Major in a style superbly Johnsonese. The member from Old Sarum once sent John- son two butts of canary and a barrel of white-bait, as a token of appreciation for his skill in accurate reporting. Pitt followed the usual course of suc- cessful reformers, and in due time lined TKnuUam pitt 251 up on the side of the conservatives, and gradually succumbed to a strictly aristo- cratic disease, gout. Whether genius is transmissible or not is a question, but all authorities agree as to gout. Pitt's opposition to the Walpoles was so very firmly rooted that it continued for life, and for this he was rewarded by the Duchess of Marlborough with a legacy of ten thousand pounds. Her Grace was the mother of the lady who had the felicity to have her picture painted by Gains- borough, which picture was brought to America and secreted here for many years and finally was purchased for sixty-five thousand doUars by Pierpont Morgan, through the kind offices of my friend Patricius Sheedy, PhiHstine-at-Large. The Duchess in her will said she gave the money to Pitt as " an acknowledgment of the noble defence he had made for the support of the laws of England." But the belief is that it was her hatred for Walpole that prompted her admiration for Pitt. And her detestation of Wal- pole was not so much political as senti- mental — a woman's love affairs being much more to her than patriotism, but the Sppoeition totbe Tmalffolea 252 Xittle Joumess loss of Populatitt Duchess being a woman deceived herself as to reasons. Our acts are right, but our reasons seldom are. I leave this Marlborough matter with those who are interested in the psychology of the heart — merely calling attention to the fact that although the Duchess was ninety when she passed out, the warm experiences of her early womanhood were very vivid in her memory. If you wish to know when love dies out of a woman's brain, you will have to ask some one who is older than was the Duchess of Marlborough. When George II. died, and his grandson George III. came into power, Pitt resigned his office in the Cabinet and abandoned politics. At last he found time to get married. He was then forty-six years of age. Men retire from active life, but seldom remain upon the shelf, — either life or death takes them down. In five years' time we find the King offering Pitt any- thing in sight, and Mr. Pitt, the Great Commoner, became Viscount Pitt, Earl of Chatham. By this move Pitt lost in popularity more than he had gained in dignity — ^there TOlilUam pitt 253 was a complete revulsion of feeling toward him by the people, and he never again attained the influence and power he had once known. Burke once referred to a certain pro- posed biU as "insignificant, irrelevant, pompous, creeping, explanatory, and am- biguous — done in the true Chathamic style." But the disdain of Burke was really complimentary — ^it took a worthy foe to draw his fire. Chatham's faults were mostly on the surface, and were more a matter of manner than of head or heart. America has cause to treasure the memory of Chatham. He opposed the Stamp Act with all the vigour of his tremendous intellect, and in the last speech of his life he prophesied that the Americans would never submit to taxation without repre- sentation, and that all the power of Eng- land was not great enough to subdue men who were fighting for their country. Yet his appeal to George III. and his minions was like bombarding a fog. But all he said proved true. On the occasion of this last great speech Chatham was attended by his favourite son ]Ftien» at Bmetica 254 Xittle Sourness EcHpaes William, then nineteen years old. Proud as was this father of his son, he did not guess that in four short years this boy would, through his brilliancy, cast his own splendid efforts into the shadow; and that Burke, the querulous, would give the son a measure of approbation never vouch- safed to the father. WilHam Pitt, the younger, is known as the " Great Pitt, " to distinguish him from his father, who in his day was known as the greatest man in England. 2SS III WILLIAM PITT, the second son of the Earl of Chatham, was bom of poor but honest parents, in the year 1759. That was the year that gave us Robert Burns — ^between whom and Pitt, in some respects, averages were held good. The same year was bom WilHam Wilberforce, philanthropist and emancipator, father of Canon Wilberforce. At this time the fortunes of William Pitt the elder were at full flood. England was in a fever of exultation — drunk with success. Just where the thought got abroad that the average Englishman is moderate in success and in defeat not cast down, I do not know. But this I have seen: All London mad, howling, exultant, savage drunk, because of the report that the Red Coats had sub- jugated this colony or that. To subdue. HOKllfam Pitt tbe 256 Xfttlc Sourness finflifab crush, slay, and defeat, has caused Victories shrieking shouts of joy in London since London began — unless the slain were Englishmen. This is patriotism, concerning which Samuel Johnson, reporter in the House of Commons, once made a remark slightly touched with acerbity. In the years 1758 to 1759, not a month passed but bonfires burned bright from Cornwall to Scotland in honour of English victories on land and sea. In Westphalia, British Infantry defeated the armies of Louis XV. ; Boscawen had sunk a French fleet; Hawke put to flight another; Am- herst took Ticonderoga ; Clive destroyed a Dutch armament; Wolfe achieved vic- tory and a glorious death at Quebec; English arms had marched triumphant through India and secured for the tight little island an empire, while another had been gained on the shores of Ontario. For all this the Great Commoner re- ceived most of the glory; and that this tremendous popularity was too great to last is but a truism. But in such a year it was that William Pitt was born. His father was fifty years MtUiam pitt 257 old, his mother about thirty. This mother was a woman of rare grace, intellect, and beauty, the only sister of two remarkable brothers — George Grenville, the obstinate adviser of George III., the man who did the most to make America free — unin- tentionally — and the other brother was Richard Earl Temple, almost equally potent for right or wrong. That the child of a sensitive mother, bom amid such a crash of excitement, should be feeble was to be expected. No one at first expected the baby, to survive. But the tenderness and care brought him through, and he grew into a tall, spindling boy whose intellect far out- matched his body. He was too weak to be sent to take his place at a common school, and so his father and mother taught him. Between the father and son there grew up a fine bond of affection. Whenever the father made a public address the boy was there to admire and applaud. The father's declining fortunes drove him back to his family for repose, and aU of his own ambitions became centred in his son. With a younger man this u S)eUcatc (Cbil» 2S8 Xtttle 3oumei?s jfatbec an6 Son might not have been the case, but the baby boy of an old man means much more to him than a brood coming early. Daily this boy of twelve or fourteen, would go to his father's study to recite. Oratory was his aim, and the intent was that he should become the greatest parlia- mentarian of his time. This little mutual admiration society composed of father and son, speaks vol- umes for both. Boys reaching out toward manhood, when they are neither men nor boys, often have little respect for their fathers — they consider the pater to be both old-fashioned and tyrannical. And the father, expecting too much of the son, often fails in faith and patience; but there was no such failure here. Chatham personally superintended the matter of off-hand translation, and this practice was kept up daily from the time the boy was eight years old, until he was nineteen, when his father died. Then there was the tutor Pretyman who must not be left out. He was a combina- tion valet and teacher, and the most pe- dantic and idolatrous person that ever moused through dusty tomes. With a XKHilUam Pitt 259 trifle more adipose and a little less in- tellect, he would have made a most suc- cessful and awfttl butler. He seemed a type of the English waiter who by some chance had acquired a college educa- tion, and who never said a wrong thing nor did a right one during his whole Kfe. Pretjonan wrote a Life of Pitt, and according to Macaulay it enjoys the dis- tinction of being the worst biography ever written. Lord Rosebery, however, de- clares the book is not so bad as it might be. I believe there are two other bio- graphies equally stupid — ^Weems's Life of Washington and the book on Gainsborough by Thicknesse. Weems 's book was written to elevate his man into a demi-god; Thicknesse was intent on lowering his subject and exalting himself; while Prety- man extols himself and his subject equally, revealing how William Pitt could never have been William Pitt were it not for his tutor. Pretyman emphasises trifles, slights important matters, and waxes learned concerning the irrelevant. A legacy coming to Pretyman, he changed his name to TonJine, as women Ptttim man's life e( Pitt 26o Xittle Sourness a pcomtoe change their names when they marry or enter a convent. Religion to Pitt was qmte a perfimctory affair, necessary, of course; but a bishop in England was one who could do little good and, fortunately, not much harm. With an irony too subtle to be seen by but very few, Pitt when twenty-seven years of age made his old tutor Bishop of Win- chester. Tomline proved an excellent and praiseworthy bishop; and his obse- quious loyalty to Pitt led to the promise that if the Primacy should become vacant, Tomline was to be made Archbishop of Canterbury. This promise was told by the unthinking Tomline, and reached the ears of George III. , a man who at times was very much alert. There came a day when the Primacy was vacant, and to head off the nomina- tion by Pitt, the King one morning at eight o'clock walked over to the residence of Bishop Manners Somers and plied the knocker. The servant who answered the sum- mons explained that the bishop was taking his bath and could not be seen until he had had breakfast. MiUiam ©ttt 261 But the visitor was importunate. The servant went back to his master and explained that the stout man at the door would neither go away nor tell his name, but must see his lordship at once. When the Bishop appeared in his dress- ing-gown and saw the King, he nearly had apoplexy. But the King quickly told his errand and made his friend Primate on the doorstep, with the butler and housemaid for witnesses. Later in the day, when Pitt appeared at the palace he was told that a primate had been appointed — ^the King was very sorry, but the present incumbent could not be removed unless charges were preferred. Pitt smilingly congratulated the King on the wisdom of his choice, but afterward referred to the transaction as "a rather scurvy trick." At twenty-three years of age, William Pitt entered the House of Commons from the. same borough that his father had repre- sented at twenty-seven. His elder brother made way just as had the elder brother of his father. The first speech he made in Parliament fixed his place in that body. His fame £ntec« Douse of Commons 262 Xittle Sourness ff'tst had preceded him, and when he arose ""' every seat was taken to hear the favourite ,son of the Earl of Chatham, the greatest orator England had ever seen. The subject was simply a plan of finance, and lacked all excuse for fine phrasing or flavour of sentiment. And what shoiold a boy of twenty-three know about a nation's financial policy? Yet this boy knew all about it. Figures, statistics, results, conclusions, were shown in a steady, flowing, accurate, lucid man- ner. The young man knew his theme — every by-way, highway, and tracing of it. By that speech he proved his mathe- matical genius, and blazed the way straight to the office of Chancellor of the Exchequer. Not only did he know his theme, but he had the ability to explain it. He spoke without hesitation or embarrassment, and revealed the same splendid dignity that his father had shown, all flavoured by the same dash of indifference for the auditor. But the discerning ones saw that he sur- passed his father, in that he carried more reserve and showed a suavity that was not the habit of Chatham. millfam Pitt 263 And the man was there — ^mighty and »«»« self-rehant. The voice is the index of the soul. The voice of the two Pitts was the same voice, we have been told — a deep, rich, culti- vated lyric-baritone. It was a trained voice, a voice that came from a full column of air, that never broke into a screech, rasping the throat of the speaker and the ear of the listener. It was the natural voice carefully developed by right use. The power of Pitt lay in his cold, calcu- lating intellect, but the instrument that made manifest this intellect was his deep, resonant, perfectly controlled voice. Pitt never married, and according to the biting phrase of Fox, all he knew of love was a description of it he got from the Iliad. That is to say he was separated from it about three thousand years. This is a trifle too severe, for when twenty-two years of age he met the daughter of Necker at Paris — she who was to give the world of society a thrill as Madame de Stael. And if the gossips are right it was not the fault of Pitt that a love match did not follow. But the woman gauged the man, and she saw that love to him would merely be an L 264 Xittle ^onvncss Dilotitifl tbeSbfp of State incident, not a consuming passion, and she was not the woman to write a book on Farthest North. She dallied with the young man a day, and then sent him about his business, exasperated and per- plexed. He could strike fire with men as flint strikes on flint, but women were outside his realm. Yet he followed the career of Madame de Stael, and never managed to quite get her out of his life. Once in his later years he referred to her as that " cold and trifling daughter of France's greatest financier." He admired the father more than he loved the daughter. For twenty-four years Pitt piloted Eng- land's ship of state. There were constant head winds, and now and again shifting gales of fierce opposition and all the time a fat captain to pacify and appease. This captain was stupid, sly, obstinate, and insane by turns, and to run the ship and still allow the captain to believe that he was in command was the problem that confronted Pitt. And that he succeeded as well as any living man could there is no doubt. During the reign of Pitt, England lost MilHam pttt 265 the American Colonies. This was not a defeat for England, it was destiny. Eng- land preserved her independence by cut- ting the cable that bound her to us. The life of Pitt was a search for power — ^to love, wealth, and fame he was indifferent. He was able to successfully manage the finances of a nation, but his own were left in a sorry muddle — at his death it took forty thousand pounds to cause him to be worth nothing. His debts were paid by the nation. And this indifference to his own affairs was put forth at the time as proof of his probity and excellence. We think now that it marked his limitations. His income for twenty years preceding his death was about f^ty thousand dollars a year. One hour a day in auditing ac- counts with his butler would have made all secure. He had neither wife, child, nor dependent kinsmen, yet it was found that his household consumed nine hundred pounds of meat per week and enough beer to float a ship. For a man to waste his own funds in riotous living is only a trifle worse than to allow others to do the same. Literature, music, and art owe little to jfinancM 266 Xfttle Journegs pcreons alits Pitt — only lovers care for beauty — the sensuous was not for him. He knew the classics, spoke French like a Parisian, revelled in history, had no confidantes, and loved one friend — Wilberforce. Pictures of Pitt by Reynolds and Gains- borough reveal a face commonplace in feature save for the eye — "the most brilliant eye ever seen in a hviman face." In describing the man, one word always seems to creep in, the word "haughty." That the man was gentle, land, and even pla3rful among the few who knew him best, there is no doubt. The austerity of his manner was the inevitable result of an ambition the sole aim of which was to dictate the policy of a great nation. All save honotir was sacrificed to this end, and that- the man was successful in his am- bition, there is no dispute. When he died, aged forty-seven, he was by popular acclaim the greatest English- man of his time, and the passing years have not shaken that proud position. JEAN PAUL MARAT 267 269 Citizens: You see before you the widow of Marat. I do not come here to ask your favours, such as cupidity would covet, or even such as would relieve indigence, — Marat's widow needs no more than a tomb. Before arriving at that happy termination to my existence, however, I come to ask that justice may be done in respect to the reports recently put forth in this body against the memory of at once the most intrepid and the most outraged defender of the people. SiMONNE EvRARD Marat, to the Convention. a tiequeet 271 THE French Revolution traces a lineal descent direct from Voltaire and Jean Jacques Rousseau. These men were contemporaries ; and they came to the same conclusions, expressing the same thought, each in his own way, absolutely inde- pendent of the other. And as genius seldom recognises genius, neither knew the greatness of the other. Voltaire was an aristocrat — ^the friend of kings and courtiers, the brilUant cynic, the pet of the salons, and the centre of the culture and brains of his time. Rousseau was a man of the people, plain and unpretentious — a man without am- bition — a dreamer. His first writings were mere debating-society monologues, done for his own amusement and the half dozen or so cronies who cared to listen. But, as he wrote, things came to him — Veltaite ani IRouegeau 272 3Little journeys IRousseau's political pbilosopbi! the significance of his words became to him apparent. Opposition made it neces- sary -to define his position, and threat made it wise to amplify and explain. He grew through exercise, as all men do who grow at all; the spirit of the times acted upon him, and knowledge unroUed as a scroll. The sum of Rousseau's political philo- sophy found embodiment in his book, The Social Contract, and his ideas on education in Lavinia. The Social Con- tract became the bible of the Revolution, and as Emerson says all of our philosophy will be found in Plato, so in a more exact sense can every argument of the men of the Revolution be fotmd in The Social Contract. But Rousseau did not know what firebrands he was supplying. He was essentially a man of peace — ^he launched these children of his brain, in- differently, like his children of the flesh, upon the world and left their fate to the god of chance. 2 73 II OUT of the dust and din of the French «"*"«« Revolution, now seen by us on pontics the horizon of time, there emerge four names-: Robespierre, Mirabeau, Danton, and Marat. Undaunted men all, hated and loved, feared and idoUsed, despised aiid deified — even yet we find it hard to gauge their worth, and give due credit for the good that was in each. Oratory played a most important part in bringing about the explosion. Oratory arouses passion — ^fear, vengeance, hate — ^and draws a beautiful picture of peace and plenty just beyond. Without oratory there would have been no political rfevolution in France, or elsewhere. Politics, more than any other function of human affairs, turns on oratory. Ora- tors make and unmake kings, but kings 274 Xlttle Journeys rtsactBra are seldom orators, and orators never secure thrones. Orators are made to die — ^the cross, the torch, the noose, the guillotine, the dagger awaits them. They die through the passion that they fan to flame — ^the fear they generate turns upon themselves, and they are no more. But they have their reward. Their names are not writ in water, rather are they traced in blood on history's page. We know them, while the ensconced smug and successful have sunk into oblivion; and if now and then a name like that, of Pilate or Caiaphas or Judas comes to us, it is only because fate has linked the man to his victim, like unto that Roman soldier who thrust his spear into the side of the Unselfish Man. In the qualities that mark the four chief orators of the French Revolution, there is much alloy — ^much that seems like clay. Each had undergone an ap- prenticeship to fate — each had been pre- paring for his work; and in this preparation who shall say what lessons could have been omitted and what not! Explosions re- quire time to prepare — ^revolutions, politi- cal and domestic, are a long time getting Scan Paul asavat 27s ready. Orators, like artists, must go as did Dante, down into the nether regions and get a glimpse of hell. ptepatam tfon 276 III B peasant JEAN PAUL MARAT was exactly five feet high, and his weight when at his best was one hundred and twenty pounds — ^just the weight of Shakespeare. Jean Paul had a nose like the beak of a hawk, an eye like an eagle, a mouth that matched his nose, and a chin that argued trouble. Not only did he have red hair, but Car- lyle refers to him as "red-headed." His parents were poor and obscure people, and his relationship with them seems a pure matter of accident. He was bom at the village of Beaudry, Switzer- land, in 1743. His childhood and boy- hood were that of any other peasant boy bom into a family where poverty held grim sway, and toil and hardship never relaxed their chilling grasp. His education was of the chance kind — ^but education anjrway depends upon 5ean ^aul /Dacat 277 yourself — colleges only supply a few oppor- tunities, and it lies with the student whether he will improve them or not. The ignorance of his parents and the squalour of his surroundings acted upon Jean Paul Marat as a spur, and from his fourteenth year the idea of cultivating his mental estate was strong upon him. Switzerland has ever been the refuge of the man who dares to think. It was there John Calvin lived, demanding the right to his own belief, but occasionally denying others that precious privilege; a few miles away at beautiful Coppet re- sided Madame de Stael, the daughter of Necker; at Geneva Rousseau wrote, and to name that beautiful little island in the Rhone after him was not necessary to make his fame endure; but a little way from Beaudry lived Voltaire, pointing his bony finger at every hypocrite in Christendom. But as in Greece, in her days of glory, the thinkers were few; so in Switzerland, the land of freedom, the many have been, and are, chained to superstition. Jean Paul Marat saw that their pride was centred in a silver crucifix, "that keeps a man In tbe Xanb of ftefuge 278 3LittIe Journeys Zbe %ant) of promise from harm, " their conscience committed to a priest; their labotirs for the rich; their days the same, from the rising of the sun to its going down. They did not love, and their hate was but a peevish dishke. They followed their dull routine and died the death, hopeful that they would get the reward in another world which was denied them in this. And Jean Paul Marat grew to scorn the few who would thus enslave the many. For priest and pubHcan he had only aversion. Jean Paul Marat, the bantam, read Voltaire and steeped himself in Rousseau, and the desire grew strong upon him to do and dare, and to become. Tourists had told him of England, and like all hopeful and childlike minds, he imagined the excellent to be far off, and the splendid at a distance: Great Britain was to him the Land of Promise. In the countenance of young Marat was a strange mixture of the ludicrous and terrible. This, with his insignificant size, and a bodily strength that was a miracle of surprise, won the admiration of an English gentleman; and when the tourist ?ean Paul /Darat 279 started back for Albion, the lusty dwarf rode on the box, duly articled, without con- sent of his parents, as a valet. As a servant he was active, alert, in- telligent, attentive. He might have held his position indefinitely, and been handed down to the next generation with the family plate, had he kept a civil tongue in his red head and not quoted Descartes and Jean Jacques. He had ideas, and he expressed them. He was the central sun below-stairs, and passed judgment upon the social order without stint, even occasionally arguing economics with his master, the baron, as he brushed his breeches. This baron is known to history through two facts — one, that Jean Paul Marat brushed his breeches, and second, that he evolved a new breed of fices. Now the master was rich, with an entail of six thousand acres and an income of five thousand pounds, and very naturally he was surprised — amazed — ^to hear that any one should question the divine origin of the social order. Religion and government being at that time not merely second cousins, but B Valet witb tbeae 28o Xittle Journess jfligbt to £tinbucgb Siamese twins, Jean Paul had expressed himself on things churchly as well as secular. And now, behold, one fine day he found himself confronted with a charge of blasphemy, not to mention another damn- ing count of contumacy and contravention. In fact, he was commanded not to think, and was cautioned as to the sin of having ideas. The penalties were pointed out to Jean Paul, and in all kindness he was asked to make choice between immediate punishment and future silence. Thus was the wee philosopher raised at once to the dignity of a martyr ; and the sweet, satisfaction of being persecuted for what he believed, was his. The city of Edinburgh was not far away, and thither by night the victim of perse- cution made his way. There is a serio- comic touch to this incident that Marat was never quite able to appreciate — ^the man was not a humourist. In fact, men headed for the noose, the block, or destined for immortality by the assassin's dagger, very seldom are jokers — ^John Brown and his like do not jest. Of all the emanci- pators of men, Lincoln alone stands out as Jean Paul /Karat 281 one who was perfectly sane. An ability sat, to see the ridiculous side of things marks *"P" the man of perfect balance. The martyr type, whose blood is not only the seed of the Church, but of heresy, is touched with madness. To get the thing done, nature sacrifices the man. Arriving in Edinburgh, Marat thought it necessary for a time to live in hiding, but finally he came out and was duly installed as bar-keeper at a tavern, and student in the medical department of the University of St. Andrew — a rather pe- culiar combination. Marat's sister and biographer, Albertine, tells us that Jean Paul was never given to the use of stimulants, and in fact, for the greater part of his career, was a total abstainer. And the man who knows somewhat of the eternal paradox of things can readily understand how this little tapster, proud and defiant, had a supreme contempt for the patrons who gulped down the stuff that he handed out over the bar. He dealt in that for which he had no use; and the American bartender to-day who wears his kohinoor and draws the pay of a bank cashier, is the one who 282 Xfttle Journegs Stutiing AcMdne "never touches a drop of anything." The security with which he holds his position is on that very account. Marat was hungry for knowledge and thirsty for truth, and in his daily life he was as abstemious as was Benjamin Franklin, whom he was to meet, know, and reverence shortly afterward. Jean Paul was studjang medicine at the same place where Oliver Goldsmith, an- other exile, studied some years before. Each got his doctor's degree, just how we do not know. No one ever saw Gold- smith's diploma — Dr. Johnson once hinted that it was an astral one— but Marat's is still with us, yellow with age, but plain and legible with all of its signatures and the big seal with a ribbon that surely might impress the chance sufferers waiting in an outer room to see the doctor, who is busy enjoying his siesta on the other side of the partition. IV 283 IF it is ever your sweet privilege to clap eyes upon a diploma issued by the ancient and honourable University of St. Andrew, Edinburgh, you will see that it reads thus: "Whereas: Since it is just and reason- able that one who has diligently attained a high degree of knowledge in some great and useful science, should be distinguished from the ignorant- vulgar," etc., The intent of the document, it wUl be observed, is to certify that the holder is not one of the " ignorant- vulgar, " and the inference is that those who are not pos- sessed of like certificates probably are. A copy of the diploma issued to Dr. Jean Paul Marat is before me, wherein, in most flattering phrase, is set forth the attainments of the holder, in the science of medicine. And even before the ink was dry upon that diploma, the "science" Sfplomas of St. Bnttew 284 Xfttle 5ourneB8 SMpIomaa of St. Bntrew of which it boasted, had been discarded as inept and puerile, and a new one inaug- urated. And in our day, within the last twenty-five years, the entire science of healing has shifted ground and the materia medica of the "Centennial" is now con- sidered obsolete. In view of these things, how vain is a college degree that certifies, as the di- plomas of St. Andrew still certify, that the holder is not one of the "ignor- ant-vulgar!" Is not a man who prides himself on not belonging to the "ignor- ant-vulgar" apt to be atrociously ignorant and outrageously vulgar? Wisdom is a point of view, and know- ledge, for the most part, is a shifting product depending upon environment, atmosphere, and condition. The eternal verities are plain and simple, known to babes and sucklings, but often unseen by men of learning, who focus on the difficult, soar high, and dive deep, but seldom pay cash. In the sky of truth the fixed stars are few, and the shepherds who tend their flocks by night, are qmte as apt to know them as are the professed and professional Wise Men of the East — and Edinburgh. V 28s BUT never mind our little digression — the value of study lies in study. The reward of thinking is the abiUty to think, and whether one conies to right conclu- sions or wrong, matters little, says John Stuart Mill in his essay On Liberty. Thinking is a form of exercise, and growth comes only through exercise; that is to say, expression. We learn things only to throw them away : no man ever wrote well until he had forgotten every rule of rhetoric, and no orator ever spake straight to the hearts of men untU he had tumbled his elocution into the Irish Sea. To hold on to things is to lose them. To clutch is to act the part of the late Mullah Bah, the Turkish wrestler, who came to America and secured through his prowess a pot of gold. Going back to his (Btowtft tbcougb E];eccl3e 286 Xlttle Sourness Drifting to lontion native country, the steamer upon which he had taken passage coUided in mid-ocean with a sunken dereHct. Mullah Bah, hearing the alarm, jumped from his berth and strapped to his person a belt con- taining five thousand dollars in gold. He rushed to the side of the sinking ship, leaped over the rail, and went to Davy- Jones's Locker like a plummet, while all about frail women and weak men in life preservers bobbed on the surface and were soon picked up by the boats. The fate of Mullah Bah is only another proof that athletes die young, and that it is harder to withstand prosperity than its opposite. But knowledge did not turn the head of Marat. His restless spirit was reaching out for expression, and we find him drift- ing to London for a wider field. England was then as now the refuge of the exile. There is to-day just as much liberty, and a little more free speech, in England than in America. We have hanged witches and burned men at the stake since England has, and she emanci- pated her slaves long before we did ours. Over against the homethrust that respect- Jean Paul /iDarat 287 able women drink at public bars from John O'Groat's to Land's End, can be placed the damning count that in the United States more men are lynched every year than Great Britain legally executes in double the time. A too ready expression of the Rousseau philosophy had made things a bit un- pleasant for Marat in Edinburgh, but in London he found ready listeners, and the coffee-houses echoed back his radical sentiments. These underground debating clubs of London started more than one man off on the oratorical transverse. Swift, Johnson, Rejmolds, Goldsmith, Garrick, Burke — all sharpened their wits at the coffee- houses. I see the same idea is now being revived in New York and Chicago: Uttle clubs of a dozen or so will rent a room in some restaurant, and fitting it up for themselves, will dine daily and discuss great themes, or small, according to the mental calibre of the members. During the latter part of the eighteenth century these clubs were very popular in London. Men who could talk or speak were made welcome, and if the new Z)e6atfng Clubs of S.on»on 288 Xtttle Journeys flDarat an^ jftanKIin member generated caloric, so much the better — excitement was at a premiiom. Marat was now able to speak English with precision, and his slight French accent only added a charm to his words. He was fiery, direct, impetuous. He was a fighter by disposition and care was taken never to cross him beyond a point where the sparks began to fly. The man was immensely diverting and his size was to his advantage — orators should be very big or very little — ^anjrthing but common- place. The Duke of Mantua would have gloried in Jean Paul, and later might have cut off his head as a precautionary measure. Among the visitors at one of the coffee- house clubs was one Benjamin Franklin, big, patient, kind. He weighed twice as much as Marat ; and his years were sixty, while Marat's were thirty. Franklin listened with amused smiles to the little man, and the little man grew to have an idolatrous regard for the big 'un. Franklin carried copies of a pam- phlet called Common Sense, written by one Thomas Paine. Paine was bom in Eng- land, but was always pleased to be spoken Bean Paul Sbaxat 289 of as an American, yet he called himself "A Citizen of the Worid." Paine's pamphlet, The Crisis, was known by heart to Marat, and the success of Franklin and Paine as writers had fired him to write as weU as "orate." As a result, we have The Chains of Slavery. The work to-day has no interest to us excepting as a literary curiosity. It is a composite of Rousseau and Paine, done by a sophomore in a mood of exaltation, and might serve well as a graduation essay, done in P major. It lacks the poise of Paine, and the reserve of Rousseau, and all the fine indifference of Franklin is noticeable by its absence. They say that Marat's name was "Maara" and his ancestors came from County Down. But never mind that — his heart was right. Of all the inane im- becilities and stupid untruths of history, none are worse than the statements that Jean Paul Marat was a demagogue, hotly intent on the main chance. In this man's character there was nothing subtle, secret, or tmtrue. He was sim- plicity itself, and his undiplomatic blunt- ness bears witness to his honesty. Cucioefts 290 OLlttle Sourness f n ItonBon In London, he lived as the mayor of Boston said William Lloyd Garrison lived — ^in a hole in the ground. His services as a physician were free to all — ^if they could pay, all right ; if not, it made no difference. He looked after the wants of political refugees, and head, heart, and pocket-book were at the dis* posal of those who needed them. His lodging place was a garret, a cellar — anywhere, he was homeless and his public appearances were only at the coffee- house clubs, or the parks wliere he would stand on a barrel and speak to the crowd on his one theme of liberty, fraternity, and equality. His plea was for the in- dividual. In order to have a strong and excellent society, we must have strong and excellent men and women. That phrase of Paine's, " The world is my coun- try ; to do good is my religion, " he repeated over and over again. api VI IN the year 1779, Marat moved to Paris. He was then thirty-six years old. In Paris he Uved very much the same life that he had in London. He established himself as a physician, and might have made a decided success had he put all of his eggs in one basket and then watched the basket. But he did not. Franklin had inspired him with a passion for invention : he rubbed amber with wool, made a battery, and applied the scheme in a crude way to the healing art. He wrote articles on elec- tricity and even foreshadowed the latter day announcement that electricity is life. And all the time he discussed economics, and gave out through speech and written word his views as to the rights of the people. He saw the needs of the poor — he per- ceived how through lack of nourishment Electctcftt Economici . 292 Xittle 3ournei?s people's ftUni there developed a craving for stimulants, and observed how disease and death fasten themselves upon the iU-fed and the ill- taught. To alleviate the suffering of the poor, he opened a dispensary as he had done in London, and gave free medical attendance to all who applied. At this dispensary, he gave lectures on certain days upon hygiene, at which times he never failed to introduce his essence of Rousseau and Voltaire. Some one called him "the people's friend." The name stuck — he Uked it. In August, 1789, this "terrible dwarf" was standing on his barrel in Paris ha- ranguing crowds with an oratory that was tremendous in its impassioned quality. Men stopped to laugh and remained to applaud. Not only did he denounce the nobility, but he saw danger in the liberal leaders, and among others, Mirabeau came in for scathing scorn. Of all the insane para- doxes this one is the most paradoxical — that men will hate those whp are most like themselves. Family feuds, and the wrangles of denominations that, to out- siders, hold the same faith, are common. ?ean Paul /fl)arat 293 When churches are locked in America, it is done to keep Christians out. Christians fight Christians much more than they fight the devil. Marat had grown to be a power among the lower classes — ^he was their friend, , their physician, their advocate. He feared no interruption and never sought to pacify. At his belt, within easy reach, and in open sight, he carried a dagger. His impassioned eloquence swayed the crowds that htmg upon his words to rank unreason. Marat fell a victim to his own eloquence, and the madness of the mob reacted upon him. Like the dyer's hand, he became subdued to that which he worked in. Suspicion and rebellion filled his soul. Wealth to him was an offence — ^he had not the prophetic vision to see the rise of capitalism and aU the splendid indus- trial evolution which the world is to-day working out. Society to him was all founded on wrong premises and he would uproot it. In bitter words he denounced the As- sembly, and declared that all of its members, including Mirabeau, should be B Wctim to Elos Quence 294 Xfttle Journeys /Dicabeau anb dDarat hanged for their inaction in not giving the people relief from their oppressors. Mirabeau was very much like Marat. He, too, was working for the people, only- he occupied a public office, while Marat was a private citizen. Mirabeau and his friends became alarmed at the influence Marat was gaining over the people, and he was ordered to cease public speaking. As he failed to comply, a price was put upon his head. Then it was that he began putting out a daily address in the . form of a tiny pam- phlet. This was at first called The Pub- liciste, but was soon changed to The People's Friend. Marat was now in hiding, but still his words were making their impress. In 1 79 1, Mirabeau the terrible, died — died peacefully in his bed. Paris went in universal mourning, and the sky of Marat's popularity was darkened. Marat lived in hiding until August of 1792, when he again publicly appeared and led the riots. The people hailed him as their deliverer. The insignificant size of the man made him conspicuous. His proud defiance, the haughtiness of his Scan Paul /l)atat 29s countenance, his stinging words, formed a personality that made him the pet of the people. . Danton, the Minister of Justice, dared not kill him, and so he did the next best thing — ^he took him to his heart and made him his right-hand man. It was a great diplomatic move, and the people applauded. Danton was tall, powerful, ath- letic and commanding, just past his thir- tieth year. Marat was approaching fifty, and his suffering while in hiding in the sewers had told severely on his health, but he was still the fearless agitator. When Marat and Danton appeared upon the balcony of the H6tel de Ville, the hearts of the people were with the little man. But behold, another man had forged to the front, and this was Robespierre. And so it was that Danton, Marat, and Robes- pierre formed a triumvirate, and ruled Paris with hands of iron. Coming in the name of the people, proclaiming peace, they held their place only through a vio- lence that argued its own death. Marat was still full of the desire to edu- cate—to make men think. Deprivation and disease had wrecked his frame until B Urium« vicate 296 Xittle Sourness flsarat'B public Speaking was out of the question — the first requisite of oratory is health. But he could write, and so his little paper, The People's Friend, went fluttering forth with its daily message. So scrupulous was Marat in money matters that he would accept no help from the government. He neither drew a salary nor would he allow any but private citizens to help issue his paper. He lived in absolute poverty with his beloved wife, Simonne Evrard. They had met about 1788, and between them had grown up a very firm and tender bond. He was twenty years older than she, but Danton said of her, " She has the mind of a man." Simonne had some property and was descended from a family of note. When she became the wife of Marat, her kins- men denounced her, refused to mention her name, but she was loyal to the man she loved. The Psalmist speaks of something " that passeth the love of woman," but the Psalmist was wrong — nothing does. Simonne Evrard gave her good name, her family position, her money, her life Sean iPaul IBiaxat 297 — ^her soul into the keeping of Jean Paul Marat. That his love and gratitude to her were great and profound, there is abundant proof. She was his only servant, his secretary, his comrade, his friend, his wife. Not only did she attend him in sick- ness, but in banishment and disgrace she never faltered. She even set the type, and at times her arm pulled the lever of the press that printed the daily message. Let it stand to the eternal discredit of Thomas Carlyle that he contemptuously disposes of Simonne Evrard, who repre- sents undying love and unflinching loyalty, by calling her a "washerwoman." Car- lyle, with a savage strain of Scotch Cal- vinism in his cold blood, never knew the sacredness of the love of man and woman — ^to him sex was a mistake on the part of God. Even for the sainted Mary of Galilee he had only a grim and patronising smile, removing his clay pipe long enough to say to Milbum, the blind preacher, "Oh, yes, a country lass elevated by CathoHcs into a wooden image and wor- shipped as a deity!" Carlyle never held in his arms a child of his own and saw the light of love reflected mnfUncba alts 298 Xfttle Joumess Seatb of Aarat in a baby's eyes; and nowhere in his forty- odd volumes does he recognise the truth that love, art, and religion are one. And this limitation gives Taine excuse for saying, "He writes splendidly, but it is neither truth nor poetry." When Charlotte Corday, that poor de- luded rustic, reached the rooms of Marat, under a friendly pretence, and thrust her murderous dagger to the sick man's heart, his last breath was a cry freighted with love, "A moi, chere amie!" And death-choked, that proud head drooped, and Simonne, seeing the terrible deed was done, blocked the way and held the murderess at bay until help arrived. Hardly had Marat's tired body been laid to rest in the Pantheon, before Char- lotte Corday's spirit had gone across the border to meet his — gone to her death by the guillotine that was so soon to embrace both Danton and Robespierre, the men who had inaugurated and popularised if. All Paris went into mourning for Marat — ^the public buildings were draped with black, and his portrait displayed in the Pantheon with the great ones gone. A ?ean ipaul lHavat 299 pension for life was bestowed upon his widow, and lavish resolutions of gratitude were laid at her feet in loving token of what she had done in upholding the hands of this strong man. But Paris, the fickle, in two short years repudiated the pension, the portrait of Marat was removed from the Pantheon, and his body taken by night to another resting place. Simonne the widow, and Albertine the sister, sisters now in sorrow, uniting in a mutual love for the dead, lived but in memory of him. But Carlyle was right — this was a "washerwoman." She spent all of her patrimony in aiding her husband to publish and distribute his writings, and after his death, when friends proved false and even the obdurate kinsmen still considered her name pollution, she took in washing to earn money that she might defend the memory of the man she loved. She was a washerwoman. I uncover in her presence, and stand with bowed head in admiration of the woman who gave her life for liberty and love, and who chose a life of honest toil a tSlasba etwoman 300 Xfttle Sourness Keeping Blfve Aarat'e 'name rather than accept charity or all that selfishness and soft luxury had to offer. She was a washerwoman, but she was more — she was a woman. Let Carlyle have the credit of using the word "washerwoman" as a term of con- tempt, as though to do laundry work were not quite as necessary as to produce literature. The sister and widow wrote his life, republished very much that he had written, and lived but to keep alive the name and fame of Jean Paul Marat, whose sole crime seemed to be that he was a sincere and honest man and was throughout his life — often unwisely — ^the people's friend. ROBERT INGERSOLL 301 303 ,^ Love is the only bow on life's dark cloud. It is the morning and the evening star. It shines upon the babe, and sheds its radiance on the quiet tomb. It is the Mother of Art, inspirer of poet, patriot, and philosopher. It is the air and Ught to tired souls — builder of every home, kindler of every fire on every hearth. It was the first to dream of immortality. It fills the world with melody — for music is the voice of love. Love is the magician, the enchanter that changes worthless things to joy, and makes right royal kings and queens of common clay. It is the perfume of that wondrous flower, the heart, and without that sacred passion, that divine swoon, we are less than beasts; but with it, earth is heaven and we are Xove 30S H E was three years old, was Robert «a6s Ingersoll. There was a baby boy one year old, Ebon by name, then there was John, five years, and two elder sisters. Little Robert wore a red linsey-woolsey dress, and was a restless, active youngster with a big head, a round face, and a pug nose. No one ever asked, "What is it?" — ^there was "boy" written large in every baby action, and every feature from chubby bare feet to the two crowns of his close- cropped tow head. It was a morning in January, and the snow lay smooth and white over all those York State hills. The winter sun sent long gleams of light through the frost- covered panes upon which the children were trying to draw pictures. Visitors began to arrive — ^visitors in stiff Sunday clothes , although it was not Sunday. There 3o6 Xittle Journess Ube jforbiiifien patlonc were aunts, and uncles, and cousins, and then just neighbours. They filled the little house full. Some of the men went out and split wood and brought in big armfuls and piled it in the corner. They moved on tiptoe and talked in whispers. And now and then they would walk softly into the little parlour by twos and threes and close the door after them. This parlour was always a forbidden place to the children — on Sunday after- noons only were they allowed to go in there, or on prayer-meeting night. In this parlour were six hair-cloth chairs and a sofa to match. In the centre was a little marble-top table and on it were two red books and a blue one. On the mantel was a plaster-of-Paris cat at one end and a bunch of crystallised flowers at the other. There was a "what-not" in the comer covered with little shells and filled with strange and wonderful things. There was a "store" carpet bright red. It was a very beautiful room, and to look into it was a great privilege. Little Robert had tried several times to enter the parlour this cold winter morn- ing, but each time he had been thrust "Robert f ngersoU 307 back. Fin9,Uy he clung to the leg of a tall man, and was safely inside. It was very cold — one of the windows was open! He looked abouti with wondering baby eyes to see what the people wanted to go in there for! On two of the hair-cloth chairs rested a coffin. The baby hands clutched the side — ^he drew ^^imself up on tiptoe and looked down at the still, white face — ^the face of his mother. Her hands were crossed just so, and in her fingers was a spray of flowers — ^he recognised them as the flowers she had always worn on her Sunday bonnet-r-a rusty black bonnet — ^not real flowers, just "made" flowers. But why was she so quiet? He had never seen her hands that way before —those hands were always busy: knit- ting, sewing, cooking, weaving, scrubbing, washing! "Mamma! mamma!" called the boy. " Hush, little boy, hush! Your mamma is dead, " said the tall man, and he lifted the boy in his arms and carried him from the room. Out in the kitchen, in a crib in the comer, lay the "Other Baby," and thither little In tbe presence of S)eatb 3o8 Xfttle Journeijs ffittB Robert made his way. He patted the Httet sleeping baby brother, and called aloud in lisping words, "Wake up, baby, your mamma is dead!" And the baby in the crib knew quite as much about it as the toddler in the linsey- woolsey dress, and the toddler knew as much about de§,th as we do to-day. This wee youngster kept thinking how good it was that mamma could have a nice rest — ^the first rest she had ever known — and just lie there in the beautiful room and hold her flowers! Fifty years passed. These children, grown to manhood, are again together. One, his work done, is at rest. Standing by his bier, the other voices these deathless words : " Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We call aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry. From the voice- less lips of the unreplying dead there comes no word; but in the night of death, hope' sees a star and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing. IRobert VngersoU 309 "He who sleeps here, when d)dng, mis- taking the approach of death for the re- turn of health, whispered with his latest breath, 'I am better now.' Let us be- lieve, in spite of doubts and dogmas, of fears and tears, that these dear words are true of all the countless dead." " Setter ■Row" 3'o II po\TCrfui 'T'HE mother of IngersoU was a Living- ereacbet 1 ston — a Livingston of right royal lineage, tracing to that famous family of revolutionary fame. To a great degree she gave up family and social position to become the wife of Reverend John Inger- soU of Vermont, a theolog from the academy at Bennington. He was young and full of zeal — he was called "a powerful preacher." That he was a man of much strength of intellect, there is ample proof. He did his duty, said his say, called sinners to repentance and told what would be their fate if they did not accept salvation. His desire was to do good, and therefore he warned men against the wrath to come. He was an educated man, and all of his be- liefs and most of his ideas were gathered and gleaned from his college professors and Jonathan Edwards. IRobert flngersoll 311 He loved his beautiful wife and she loved him. She loved him just as all good women love, with a complete aban- don — ^with heart, mind, and strength. He at first had periods of such abandon, too, but his conscience soon made him recoil from an affection of which God might be jealous. He believed that a man should forsake father, mother, wife, and child in or4er to follow duty — and duty to him was the thing we did not want to do. That whiqh was pleasant was not wholly good. And so he strove to thrust from him all earthly affections, and to love God alone. Not only this, but he strove to make others love God. He warned his family against the pride and pomp of the world, and the family income being something under four hundred dollars, they observed his edict. Life was a warfare — ^the devil constantly lay in wait — ^we must resist. This man hated evil — ^he hated evil more than he loved the good. His wife loved the good more than she hated evil, and he chided her — ^in love. She sought to explain her position. He was amazed at her temerity — ^what right had a woman Kigib Senee of S)ut8 312 Xtttle Journeys Stealtb to think — what right had any one to think! He prayed for her. And soon she grew to keep her thoughts to herself. Sometimes she would write them out, and then destroy them before any eyes but her own could read. Once she went to a neighboior's and saw Paine's Age of Reason. She peeped into its pages by stealth, and then put it quickly away. The next day she went back and read some more, and among other things she read was this, "To live a life of love and use- fulness^ — ^to benefit others — ^must bring its due reward, regardless of belief." She thought about it more and more and wondered really if God could and would damn a person who just went ahead and did the best he could. She wanted to ask her husband about it — ^to talk it over with him in the evening — but she dare not. She knew too well what his answer would be — ^f or her even to think such thoughts was a sin. And so she just decided she would keep her thoughts to herself, and be a dutiful wife, and help her husband in his pastoral work as a minister's wife should. IRobert ITngersolI 313 But her proud spirit began to droop, she ceased to sing at her work, her face grew wan, yellow, and sad. Yet still she worked — ^there were no servants to distress her — and when her own work was done she went out among the neighbours and helped them — she cared for the sick, the infirm, she dressed the newborn babe, and closed the eyes of the dying. That this woman had a thirst for liberty, and the larger life, is shown in that she herself prepared and presented a memorial to the President of the United States pray- ing that slavery be abolished. So far as I know, this was the first petition ever prepared in America on the subject by a woman. This minister's family rarely remained over two years in a place. At first they were received with loving arms, and there were donation parties where cider was spilled on the floors, doughnuts ground into the carpets, and several hair-cloth chairs hopelessly wrecked. But the larder was filled and there was much good cheer. I believe I said that the Rev. John IngersoU was a powerful preacher — ^he was so powerful he quicldy made enemies. He u xmoman's petition 314 Xittle Sourness frequent Sbange0 told men of their weaknesses in phrase so pointed that necks would be craned to see how certain delinquents took their medi- cine. Then some would get up and tramp out during the sermon in high dudgeon. These disaffected ones would influence others — contributions grew less, donations ceased, and just as a matter of bread and butter a new "call" would be angled for, and the parson's family would pack up — helped by the faction that loved them, and the one that did not. Good-byes were said, blessings given — or the reverse — and the jokers would say, "A change of pastors makes fat calves." At one time the Rev. John IngersoU tried to start an independent church in New York City. For a year he preached every Sunday at the old Lyceum Theatre, and here it was on the stage of the theatre, in 1834, that Robert G. IngersoU was baptised. But the New York venture failed — starved out, was the verdict, and a cotm- try parish extending a call, it was gladly accepted. Such a life, to such a woman, was par- ticularly wearing. But Mrs. IngersoU kept "Kobert "ffngersoll 31S right at her work, always doing for others, until there came a day when kind neigh- bours came in and cared for her, looked after her household, attending this stricken mother — ^tired out and old at thirty-one, unaware that she had blessed the world by giving to it a man-child who was to make an epoch. The watchers one night straightened the stiffening limbs, clothed the body in the gown that had been her wedding-dress, and folded the calloused fingers over the spray of flowers. "Hush, little boy — ^your mamma is dead!" said the tall man, as he lifted the child and carried him from the room. S)eatb of Ate. Ilia gersoU 3i6 III Soucnes FROM the sleepy little village of Dresden, Yates County, New York, seven miles from Penn Yan, where Robert IngersoU was born, to his niche in the Temple of Fame, was a zigzag journey. But that is nature's plan — ^we make head by tacking. And as the years go by, more and more, we see the line of IngersoU's life stretching itself straight. Every change to him meant progress. Success is a question of temper- ament — ^it is all a matter of the red cor- puscle. IngersoU was a success — chappy, exuberant, joying in life, revelling in exist- ence, he marched to the front in every fray. As a boy he was so full of life that he very often did the wrong thing. And I have no doubt but that wherever he went he helped hold good the precedents that preachers' boys are not especially angelic. IRobert IFngersoU 317 For instance, we have it on good authority that Bob, aged fourteen, once climbed into the belfry of a church and removed the clapper, so that the sexton thought the beU was bewitched. At another time he placed a washtub over the top of a chimney where a prayer-meeting was in progress, and the smoke broke up the meeting and gave the good people a foretaste of the place they believed in. In these stories, told to prove his depravity, Bob was al- ways climbing somewhere — ^belfries, steep- les, housetops, trees, verandas, bamroofs, bridges. But I have noticed that young- sters given to the climbing habit usually do something when they grow up. For these climbing pranks Robert and Ebon were duly reproved with a stout strap that htmg behind the kitchen door. Whether the parsonage was in New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, or Illinois — and it dodged all over these states — ^the strap always travelled, too. It never got lost. It need not be said that the Rev. John Ingersoll was cruel or abusive, not at all, — he just believed with Solomon that to spare the rod was to spoil the child. He loved his children, and if a boy could be saved by aUmbing litanfes 3i8 Xittlc 5ottmei?s Ht Scanbs father ston's SO simple a means as "strap oil," he was not the man to shirk his duty. He was neither better nor worse than the average preacher of his day. No doubt, too, the poverty and constant misunderstandings with congregations led to much irritability — ^it is hard to be amiable on half rations. When a stepmother finally appeared upon the scene, there was more trouble for the children. She was a worthy woman and meant to be kind, but her heart was not big enough to love boys who carried live mice in their pockets and turned turtles loose in the pantry. So we find Bob and his brother bundled off to their Grandfather Livingston's in St. Lawrence County, New York. Here Bob got his first real educational advantages. The old man seems to have been a sort of "Foxy Grandpa": Jie played, romped, read, and studied with the boys, and possi- bly neutralised some of the discipline they had received. Of his childhood days Robert Ingersoll very rarely spoke. There was too much bitterness and disappointment in it all, but it is curious to note that when he did speak of his boyhood, it was always IRobert IFngersoll 319 something that happened at " Grandfather Livingston's." Finally the old grandpa got to thinking so much of the boys that he wanted to legally adopt them, and then we find their father taking alarm and bringing them back to the parsonage, which was then at Elj^ria, Ohio. The boys worked at odd jobs, on farms in summer, clerking in country stores, driving stage — and be it said to the credit of their father, he allowed them to keep the money they made. Education comes through doing things, making things, going without things, taking care of your- self, talking about things, and when Robert was seventeen he had education enough to teach a "Deestrick School" in Illinois. To teach is a good way to get an educa- tion. If you want to know all about a subject, write a book on it, a wise man has said. If you wish to know all about things, start in and teach them to others. Bob. was eighteen — ^big and strong, with a good nature and an enthusiasm that had no limit. There were spelling-bees in his school, and a debating society, that had impromptu rehearsals every night at the grocery. Country people are prone ICeacbing Btetcict Scbool 320 Xtttle Journeys petts to "argufying" — the greater and more strife weighty the question the more ready are the bucoUc Solons to engage with it. And it is all education to the youth who listens and takes part — ^who has the receptive mind. This love of argument and contention among country people finds vent in law- suits. Pigs break into a man's garden and root up the potatoes, and straightway the owner of the potatoes "has the law" on the owner of the pigs. This strife is urged on by kind neighbours who take sides, and by the "setters" at the store, who fire the litigants on to tmseemliness. Local attor- neys are engaged and the trial takes place at the railroad station, or in the school house on Saturday. Everybody has opin- ions, and over-rules the " jedge" next day, or not, as the case may be. This petty strife may seem absurd to us, but it is aU a part of the spirit of the hive, as Maeterlinck would say. It is better than dead level dumbness — ^better than the subjection of the peasantry of Europe. These pioneers settle their own disputes. It makes them think, and a few at least are getting an education. This is the cradle in which statesmen are rocked. iRobert f ngersoU And so it happened that no one was surprised when in the year 1853, there was a sign tacked up over a grocery in Shawnee- town, Illinois, and the sign read thus: "R. G. & E. C. Ingersoll, Attorneys and Counsellors at Law." 321 sign 322 IV B Urfp to Peoria SHAWNEETOWN, Illinois, was once the pride and pet of Egypt. It was larger than Chicago, and doubtless it would have become the capital of the state had it been called Shawnee City. But the name was against it, and dry rot set in. And so to-day Shawneetown has the same number of inhabitants that it had in 1855, and in Shawneetown are various citizens who boast that the place has held its own. Robert IngersoU had won a case for a certain steamboat captain, and in gratitude the counsel had been invited by his client to go on an excursion to Peoria, the head of navigation on the Illinois River. The lawyer took the trip, and duly reached Peoria after many hairbreadth escapes on the imminently deadly sand-bar. But a week must be spent at Peoria while the boat was reloading for her return trip. IRobert iTngersoU 323 There was a railroad war on in Peoria. The town had one railroad, which some citizens said was enough for any place; others wanted the new railroad. Whether the new company should be granted certain terminal facilities — ^that was the question. The route was surveyed but the company was forbidden to lay its tracks until the people said "Aye." So there the matter rested when Robert Ingersoll was waiting for the stem- wheeler to reload. The captain of the, craft had meanwhile circulated reports about the eloquence and legal ability of his star passenger. These reports coming to the ears of the manager of the new railroad, he sought out the visiting lawyer and advised with him. Railroad law is a new thing, not quite so new as the law of the bicycle, or the statutes concerning automobiling, but older still than the legal precedents of the aeromotor. Railroad law is an evolution, and the railroad lawyer is a by-product; what Mr. Mantinelli would call a demni- tion product. It was a railroad that gave Robert Ingersoll his first fee in Peoria. The man BKaib toaA TKRar 324 OLtttle Journeijs Sob's Speecb at ptotia was only twenty-three, but semi-pioneer life makes men early, and Robert IngersoU stood first in war and first in peace among the legal lights of Shawneetown. His size made amends for his cherubic face, and the insignificant nose was more than bal- anced by the forceful jaw. The young man was a veritable Greek in form, and his bubbling wit and ready speech on any theme made him a drawing card at the political barbecue. " Bob" at this time did not know much about railroads — ^there was no railroad in Shawneetown — ^but he was an expert on barbecues. A barbecue is a gathering where a whole ox is roasted and where there is much hard cider and effervescent eloquence. Bob wotild speak to the people about the advantages of the new railroad; and the opposition could answer if they wished. Pioneers are always ready for a picnic — ^they delight in speeches — ^they dote on argument and wordy warfare. The barbecue was to be across the river on Saturday afternoon. The whole city quit business to go to the barbecue and hear the speeches. Bob made the first address. He spoke IRobert Ungersoll 325 for two hours about everything and any- thing — ^he told stories, and dealt in love, life, death, politics, and farming — all but railroading. The crowd was delighted — cheers filled the air. When the opposition got up to speak and brought forward its profound reasons and heavy logic, most everybody adjourned to the tables to eat and drink. Finally there came rumours that some- thing was going on across the river, The opposition grew nervous and started to go home, but in some mysterious way the two ferry boats were tied up on the farther bank, and were deaf and blind to signals. It was well after dark before the people reached home, and when they got up the next morning they found the new railroad had a full mile of track down and engines were puffing at their doors. Bob made another speech in the public square, and cautioned everybody to be law-abiding. The second railroad had arrived — ^it was a good thing — ^it meant wealth, prosperity, and happiness for everybody. And even if it did not, it was here and could not be removed excepting by legal means. And we must all be law- Sometbing t)at>i>en8 326 Xittle Journeys EBtab= abiding citizens— let the matter be deter- Peorfa mined by the courts. Then there were a few funny stories, and cheers were given for the speaker. On the next trip of the little stern- wheeler the young lawyer and his brother arrived. They had not much baggage, but they carried a tin sign that they proceeded to tack up over a store on Adams Street. It read thus: "R. G. & E. C. Ingersoll, Attorneys and Counsellors at Law. " And there the sign was to remain for twenty-five years. 327 AT Peoria, the IngersoU brothers did not have to wait long for clients. Ebon was the counsellor, Robert the pleader, and some still have it that Ebon was the stronger, just as we hear that Ezekiel Webster was a more capable man than Daniel — ^which was probably the fact. The IngersoUs had not been long at Peoria before Robert had a case at Grove- land, a town only a few miles away, and a place which, Hke Shawneetown, has held its own. The issue was the same old classic — hogs had rooted up the man's garden, and then the hogs had been impounded. This time there was tragedy, for before the hogs were released the owner was kUled. The people for miles had come to town to hear the eloquent young lawyer from Peoria. The taverns were crowded, and B Sa0e at OrovelanB 328 %ittlc Journeys Squire ratfiet not having engaged a room, the attorney for the defence was put to straits to find a place in which to sleep. In this extrem- ity Squire Parker, the first citizen of the town, invited young IngersoU to his house. Parker was a character in that neck of the woods — ^he was an "infidel," and a terror to all the clergy round about. And strange enough — or not — ^his wife believed exactly as he did, and so did their daughter Eva, a beautiful girl of nineteen. But Squire Parker got into no argument with his guest — ^their belief was the same. Probably we would now call the Parkers simply radical Unitarians. Their kinsman, Theodore Parker, expressed their faith, and they had no more use for a " personal devil" than he had. The courage of the young woman in stating her religious views had almost made her an outcast in the village, and here she was saying the same things in Groveland that Robert was saying in Peoria. She was the first woman he ever knew who had ideas. It was one o'clock before he went to bed that night — ^his head was in a whirl. It was a wonder he did not lose his case the next day, but he did not. IRobert "ffngersoU 329 He cleared his client and won a bride. In a few months Robert IngersoU and Eva Parker were married. Never were man and woman more per- fectly mated than this couple. And how much the world owes to her sustaining love and unfaltering faith, we cannot compute; but my opinion is that if it had not been for Eva Parker — ^twice a daughter of the Revolution, whose ancestors fought side by side with the Livingstons — ^we should never have heard of Robert Inger- soU as the maker of an epoch. It is love that makes the world go round — and it is love that makes the orator and fearless thinker, no less than poet, painter, and musician. No man liveth unto himself alone: we demand the approval and approbation of another; we write and speak for some one; and our thought coming back from this one approved, gives courage and that bold determination which carries conviction home. Before the world believes in us we must believe in ourselves, and before we fully believe in ourselves this some one must believe in us. Eva Parker believed in Robert IngersoU, and it was her love and IRobect's Carriage 33© Xittle Journeys tlpbelb ti bis mite faith that made him believe in himself and caused him to fling reasons into the face of hypocrisy and shower with sarcasm and ridicule the savage and senseless supersti- tions that paraded themselves as divine. Wendell Phillips believed in himself be- cause Ann never doubted him. Without Ann he would not have had the courage to face that twenty years' course of mobs. If it had ever occurred to him that the mob was right he would have gone down in darkness and defeat, but with Ann such a suspicion was not possible. He pitted Ann's faith against the prejudice of centuries — ^two with God are a majority. It was Eva's faith that sustained Robert. In those first years of lectiiring she always accompanied him, and at his lectures sat on the stage in the wings and gloried in his success. He did not need her to protect him from the mob, but he needed her to protect him from himself. It is only per- fect love that casteth out fear. VI 331 THERE is a little book called, " Inger- soU as He Is, " which is being circu- lated by some earnest advocates of truth. The volume is a vindication, a refutation, and an apology. It takes up a goodly list of zealous calumniators and cheerful pre- varicators and tacks their pelts on the barn-door of obliquity. That Ingersoll won the distinction of being more grossly misrepresented than any man of his time, there is no doubt. This was to his advantage — ^he was adver- tised by his rabid enemies no less than by his loving friends. But his good friends who are putting out this vindication should cultivate faith, and know that there is a God, or Something, who looks after the lies and the liars — ^we need not. A big man should never be cheapened by a defence. Life is its own excuse for being. " Vngers soil as t)6llg" 332 Xittle Sourness H IRun foe Safets and every life is its own apology. Silence is better than wordy refutation. People who want to believe the falsehoods told of this man, or any other, will continue to believe them until the crack of doom. Most accusations contain a certain basis of truth, but they may be no less libels on that account. One zealous advocate, in- tent on loving his supposed enemy, printed a thrilling story about IngersoU being taken prisoner during the war, while taking refuge in a pig-pen. To this some of Bob's friends interposed a fierce rejoinder declar- ing that Bob stood like Falstaff at Gads Hill and fought the rogues in buckram to a standstill. Heaven forfend me from my friends — I can withstand mine enemies alone ! I am quite ready to believe that Bob, being attacked by an overwhelming force, suddenly bethought him of an engagement, and made a swift run for safety. The impeccable man who has never done a cowardly thing, or a mean thing, is no kinsman of mine! The saintly hero who has not had his heels run away with his head, and sought safety in a friendly pig- pen — aye! and filled his belly with the IRobert Ifngersoll 333 husks that the swine did eat — has dropped a.imita= something out of his life that he will have to go back for and pick up in another incarnation. We love men for their limi- tations and weaknesses, no less than their virtues. A fault may bring a man very close to us. Have we, too, not sought safety in pig-pens! The people who taunt other people with having taken temporary refuge in a pig-pen are usually those who live in pig-pens the whole year round. The one time in the life of Savonarola when he comes nearest to us is when his tortured flesh wrenched from his spirit a recantation. And who can forget that cry of Calvary, "My God, my God! Why hast thou forsaken me!" That call for help coming to us across twenty centuries, makes the man, indeed, our elder brother. And let it here be stated that even Bob's bitterest foe never declared that the man was a coward by nature, nor that the busi- ness of his life was hiding in pig-pens. The incident named was exceptional and there- fore noteworthy; let us admit it, at least not worry ourselves into a passion denying it. Let us also stipulate the truth that Bob could never quite overcome the 334 Xittle Journeys Urain Sreahfajt temptation to take an unfair advantage of his opponent in an argument. He laid the fools by the heels and suddenly, 'gainst all the rules of either Robertson or Queensbury. To go after the prevaricators, and track them to their holes, is to make much of little, and lift the liars into the realm of equals. This story of the pig-pen I never heard of until IngersoU's friends denied it in a book. Just one instance to show how trifles light as air are to the zealous confirmation strong as holy writ. In April, 1894, Ingersoll lectured at Utica, New York. The follow- ing Sunday a local clergyman denounced the lecturer as a sensualist, a gourmand — one totally indifferent to decency and the feelings and rights of others. Then the preacher said, "At breakfast in this city last Thursday, Ingersoll ordered everything on the bill of fare, and then insulted and roundly abused the waiter-girl because she did not bring things that were not in the hotel." I happened to be present at that meal. It was an "early train breakfast," and the bill of fare for the day had not been printed. "Robert UngersoU 335 The girl came in, and standing at the colo- ttemott nel's elbow, in genuine waiter-girl style, '"' mumbled this: "Ham and eggs, mutton chops, beefsteak, breakfast bacon, codfish balls, and buckwheat cakes. " And Bob solemnly said : " Ham and eggs, mutton chops, beefsteak, breakfast bacon, codfish balls, and buckwheat cakes." In amazement the girl gasped, "What?" And then Bob went over it backward: " Buckwheat cakes, codfish balls, breakfast bacon, beefsteak, mutton chops, and ham and eggs. " This memory test raised a laugh that sent a shout of mirth all through the room, in which even the girl joined. "Have n't you anjrthing else, my dear," asked the great man in a sort of dis- appointed way. "I think we have tripe and pig's feet," said the girl. "Bring a bushel," said Bob, "and say, teU the cook I 'd like a dish of peacock tongues on the side." The infinite good nature of it all caused another laugh from everybody. The girl brought everything ordered excepting the peacock tongues, and this 336 Xlttle Sourness jfeeling of plenitute order supplied the lecturer and his party of four. The waitress found a dollar bill under Bob's plate, and the cook who stood in the kitchen door and waved a big spoon, and called, "Good bye. Bob!" got another dollar for himself. Ingersoll carried mirth, and joy, and good cheer, and radiated a feeling of plenitude wherever he went. He was a royal liver and a royal spender. " If I had but a dollar, " he used to say, " I 'd spend it as though it were a dry leaf, and I were the owner of an unbounded forest." He maintained a pension list of thirty persons or more for a decade, spent upwards of forty thousand dollars a year, and while the forttine he left for his wife and children was not large, as men count things on 'Change, yet it is ample for their ease and comfort. His family always called him "Robert" with an almost idolatrous flavour of tender love in the word. But to the world who hated him and the world who loved him, he was just plain "Bob." To trainmen, hack drivers, and the great singers, poets, and players, he was "Bob." "Dignity is the mask behind which we hide our IRobert ITngersoU 337 ignorance." When half a world calls «ick. a man by a nickname, it is a patent """'* to nobility — ^small men are never so honoured. "Good-bye, Bob," called the white aproned cook as he stood in the kitchen door and waved his big spoon. "Good-bye, brother, and mind you get those peacock tongues by the time I get back," answered Bob. 338 VII fnaersoll's AS to Ingersoll's mental evolution we cannot do better than to let him tell the story himself: Like the most of us, I was raised among people who knew — ^who were certain. They did not reason or investigate. They had no doubts. They knew they had the truth. In their creed there was no guess — ^no perhaps. They had a revelation from God. They knew that God commenced to create one Monday morning and worked until Saturday night, four thousand and four years before Christ. They knew that in the eternity — back of that morning, he had done nothing. They knew that it took him six days to make the earth — all plants, all animals, all life, and all the globes that wheel in space. They knew exactly what he did each day and when he rested. They knew the origin, the cause of evil, of all crime, of all disease, and death. They not only knew the beginning, but IRobert IFngersoU they knew the end. They knew that life had one path and one road. They knew that the path, grass-grown and narrow, filled with thorns and nettles, infested with vipers, wet with tears, stained by bleeding feet, led to heaven, and that the road, broad and smooth, bordered with fruits and flowers, filled with laughter and song, and all happiness of human love, led straight to hell. They knew that God was doing his best to make you take the path and that the devil used every art to keep you in the road. They knew that there was a perpetual battle waged between the great powers of good and evil for the possession of human souls. They knew that many centuries ago God had left his throne and had been born a babe into this poor world — ^that he had suffered death for the sake of man — ^for the sake of saving a few. They also knew that the human heart was utterly depraved, so that man by nature was in love with wrong and hated God with all his might. At the same time they knew that God created man in his own image and was per- fectly satisfied with his work. They also knew that he had been thwarted by the devil — ^who with wiles and lies had deceived the first of human kind. They knew that in consequence of that, God ctirsed the man and 339 In^creoll's Bpologla 34° Xlttle Journeys tngeteoU'e apologia woman; the man with toil, the woman with slavery and pain, and both with death; and that he cursed the earth itself with briars and thorns, brambles and thistles. All these blessed things they knew. They knew too all that God had done to purify and elevate the race. They knew all about the Flood — ^knew that God, with the exception of eight, drowned all his children — ^the old and young — ^the bowed patriarch and the dimpled babe — ^the young man and the merry maiden — ^the lov- ing mother and the laughing child — ^because his mercy endureth forever. They knew too, that he drowned the beasts and birds — every thing that walked or crawled or flew — ^because his loving kindness is over all his works. They knew that God, for the purpose of civilising his children, had devoured some with earth- quakes, destroyed some with storms of fire, killed some with his lightnings, millions with famine, with pestilence, and sacrificed count- less thousands upon the fields of war. They knew that it was necessary to believe these things and to love God. They knew that there could be no salvation except by faith, and through the atoning blood of Jesus Christ. All who doubted or denied would be lost. To live a moral and honest life — ^to keep your contracts, to take care of wife and child — ^to make a happy home — ^to be a good citizen, a IRobert Ungersoll 341 patriot, a just and thoughtful man, was simply a respectable way of going to hell. God did not reward men for being honest, generous, and brave, but for the act of faith — without faith, all the so-called virtues were sins, and the men who practised these virtues, without faith, deserved to suffer eternal pain. All of these comforting and reasonable things were taught by the ministers in their pulpits — by teachers in Sunday schools and by parents at home. The children were victims. They were assaulted in the cradle — in their mother 's arms. Then, the school- master carried on the war against their natural sense, and all the books they read were filled with the same impossible truths. The poor children were helpless. The at- mosphere they breathed was filled with lies — , lies that mingled with their blood. In those days ministers depended on re- vivals to save souls and reform the world. In the winter, navigation having closed, business was mostly suspended. There were no railways and the only means of com- munication were waggons and boats. Gener- ally the roads were so bad that the waggons were laid up with the boats. There were no operas, no theatres, no amusements except parties and balls. The parties were regarded as worldly and the balls as wicked. For real Bpologfa 342 Xittle 5ournei?B UngecsoII'e Hpologia and virtuous enjoyment the good people depended on revivals. The sermons 5srere mostly about the pains and agonies of hell, the joys and ecstasies of heaven, salvation by faith, and the efficacy of the atonement. The little churches, in which the services were held, were generally small, badly ventilated, and exceedingly warm. The emotional sermons, the sad singing, the hysterical amens, the hope of heaven, the fear of hell, caused many to lose the little sense they had. They became sub- stantially insane. In this condition they flocked to the "mourners' bench" — asked for the prayers of the faithful — had strange feelings, prayed and wept, and thought they had been "bom again." Then they would tell their experience — ^how wicked they had been — ^how evil had been their thoughts, their desires, and how good they had suddenly become. They used to tell the story of an old woman who, in telling her experience, said: — "Before I was converted, before I gave my heart to God, I used to lie and steal, but now, thanks to the grace and blood of Jesus Christ, I have quit 'em both, in a great measure."* Of course all the people were not exactly of one mind. There were some scoffers, and now and then, some man had sense enough IRobert irnQersoU 343 to laugh at the threats of priests and make a jest of hell. Some would tell of unbelievers who had lived and died in peace. When I was a boy I heard them tell of an old farmer in Vermont. He was dying. The minister was at his bedside — masked him if he was a Christian — ^if he was prepared to die. The old man answered that he had made no preparation, that he was not a Christian — that he had never done anything but work. The preacher said that he could give him no hope unless he had faith in Christ, and that if he had no faith his soul would certainly be lost. The old man was not frightened. He was perfectly calm. In a weak and broken voice he said: "Mr. Preacher, I suppose you noticed my farm. My wife and I came here more than fifty years ago. We were just married. It was a forest then and the land was covered with stones. I cut down the trees, burned the logs, picked up the stones, and laid the walls. My wife spun and wove and worked every moment. We raised and educated our child- ren — denied ourselves. During all these years my wife never had a good dress, or a decent bonnet. I never had a good suit of clothes. We lived on the plainest food. Our hands, our bodies, are deformed by toil. We never had a vacation. We loved each other and the Bpologia 344 3Lfttlc 5ournegs Vngcteall's Bpslogia children. That is the only luxury we ever had. Now, I am about to die, and you ask me if I am prepared. Mr. Preacher, I have no fear of the future, no terror of any other world. There may be such a place as hell — but if there is, you never can make me believe that it 's any worse than old Vermont. " So they told of a man who compared him- self with his dog. "My dog, " he said, "just barks and plays — ^has all he wants to eat. He never works — has no trouble about business. In a little while he dies, and that is all. I work with all my strength. I have no time to play. I have trouble every day. In a little while I will die, and then I go to hell. I wish that I had been a dog." Well, while the cold weather lasted, while the snows fell, the revival went on, but when the winter was over, when the steamboat's whistle was heard, when business started again, most of the converts "backslid" and fell again into their old ways. But the next winter they were on hand, ready to be "born again." They formed a land of stock com- pany, playing the same parts every winter and backsliding every spring. The ministers who preached at these revivals were in earnest. They were zealous and sincere. They were not philosophers. To them science was the name of a vague dread — IRobert irnftersoU 34S a dangerous enemy. They did not know much, but they believed a great deal. To them hell was a burning reality — ^they could see the smoke and. flames. The devil was no myth. He was an actual person, a rival of God, an enemy of mankind. They thought that the important business of this life was to save your soul — ^that all should resist and scorn the pleasures of sense, and keep their eyes steadily fixed on the golden gate of the New Jerusalem. They were unbalanced, emotional, hysterical, bigoted, hateful, loving, and insane. They really believed the Bible to be the actual word of God — a book without mistake or contradiction. They called its cruelties justice — its absiu-dities, mysteries — its miracles, facts, and the idiotic passages were regarded as profoundly spiritual. They dwelt on the pangs, the regrets, the infinite agonies of the lost, and showed how easily they could be avoided, and how cheaply heaven could be obtained. They told their hearers to believe, to have faith, to give their hearts to God, their sins to Christ, who would bear their burdens and make their souls as white as snow. All this the ministers really believed. They were absolutely certain. In their minds the devil had tried in vain to sow the seeds of doubt. Vngeraoirs Bpologfa L 346 Xf ttle Journeys infleMoir« I heard hundreds of these evangelical ser- Bpoioflia mons — ^heard hundreds of the most fearful and vivid descriptions of the tortures inflicted in hell, of the horrible state of the lost. I sup- posed that what I heard was true and yet I did not believe it. I said, "It is, " and then I thought, " It cannot be. " From my childhood I had heard read, and read.theBible. Morning and evening the sacred volume was opened and prayers were said. The Bible was my first history, the Jews were the first people, and the events narrated by Moses and the other inspired writers and those predicted by prophets were the all important things. In other books were found the thoughts and dreams of men, but in the Bible were the sacred truths of God. Yet in spite of my surroundings, of my education, I had no love for God. He was so saving of mercy, so extravagant in murder, so anxious to kill, so ready to assassinate, that I hated him with all my heart. At his com- mand, babes were butchered, women violated, and the white hair of trembling age stained with blood. This God visited the people with pestilence — ^filled the houses and covered the streets with the dying and the dead — saw babes starving on the empty breasts of pallid mothers, heard the sobs, saw the tears, the sunken cheeks, the sightless eyes, the new- iRobert Ifngersoll 347 made graves, and remained as pitiless as the pestilence. This God withheld the rain — caused the famine — saw the fierce eyes of hunger — ^the wasted forms, the white lips, saw mothers eating babes, and remained fero- cious as famine. It seems to me impossible for a civilised man to love or worship or respect the God of the Old Testament. A really civilised man, a really civilised woman, must hold such a God in abhorrence and contempt. But in the old days the good people justi- fied Jehovah in his treatment of the heathen. The wretches who were murdered, were ido- laters and therefore unfit to live. According to the Bible, God never revealed himself to these people, and he knew that without a revelation they could not know that he was the true God. Whose fault was it then that they were heathen? The Christians said that God had the right to destroy them because he created them. What did he create them for? He knew when he made them that they would be food for the sword. He knew that he would have the pleasure of seeing them miirdered. As a last answer, as a final excuse, the worshippers of Jehovah said that all these horrible things happened under the "old dis- pensation" of unyielding law, and absolute fngetsoll's BpoIogCa 348 Xittle JournepB InflereoH'B Bpologia justice, but that now, under the "new dispen- sation, " all had been changed — ^the sword of justice had been sheathed and love en- throned. In the Old Testament, they said, God is the judge — but in the New, Christ is the merciful. As a matter of fact, the New Testament is infinitely worse than the Old. In the Old there is no threat of eternal pain. Jehovah had no eternal prison — ^no everlasting fire. His hatred ended at the grave. His revenge was satisfied when his enemy was dead. , In the New Testament, death is not the end, but the beginning of punishment that has no end. In the New Testament the malice of God is infinite and the hunger of his revenge eternal. The orthodox God, when clothed in human flesh, told His disciples not to resist evil, to love their enemies, and when smitten on one cheek to turn the other ; and yet we are told that this same God, with the same loving lips, uttered these heartless, these fiendish words : "Depart, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels." These are the words of "eternal love. " No human being has imagination enough to conceive of this infinite horror. All that the human race has suffered in war and want, in pestilence and famine, in fire and IRobert UngersoU 349 flood — ^all the pangs and pains of every dis- ease and every death — all this is nothing compared with the agonies to be endured by one lost soul. This is the consolation of the Christian religion. This is the justice of God — ^the mercy of Christ. This frightful dogma, this infinite lie, made me the implacable enemy of Christian- ity. The truth is that this belief in eternal pain has been the real persecutor. It founded the Inquisition, forged the chains, .and f tarnished the fagots. It has darkened the lives of many millions. It made the cradle as terrible as the coffin. It enslaved nations and shed the blood of countless thousands. It sacrificed the wisest, the bravest, and the best. It subverted the idea of justice, drove mercy from the heart, changed men to fiends, and banished reason from the brain. Like a venomous serpent it crawls and coils and hisses in every orthodox creed. It makes man an eternal victim and God an eternal fiend. It is the one infinite horror. Every church in which it is taught is a public curse. Every preacher who teaches it is an enemy of mankind. Below this Christian dogma, savagery cannot go. It is the infinite of malice, hatred, and revenge. UngecgoH'g Hpoloaia 35° Xittle Joucnegs Ingecsoll'e Bpologia Nothing could add to the horror of hell, except the presence of its Creator, God. While I have life, as long as I draw breath, I shall deny with all my strength, and hate with every drop of my blood, this infinite lie. Nothing gives me greater joy than to know that this belief in eternal pain is gfrowing weaker every day — that thousands of min- isters are ashamed of it. It gives me joy to know that Christians are becoming merci- ful, so merciful that the fires of hell are burning low — flickering, choked with ashes, destined in a few years to die out forever. For centuries Christendom was a mad- house. Popes, cardinals, bishops, priests, monks, and heretics were all insane. Only a few — four or five in a century — ^were sound in heart and brain. Only a few, in spite of the roar and din, in spite of the savage cries, heard reason's voice. Only a few in the wild rage of ignorance, fear, and zeal pre- served the perfect calm that wisdom gives. We have advanced. In a few years the Christians will become humane and sensible enough to deny the dogma that fills the end- less years with pain. VIII 35^ THE world is getting better. We are gradually growing honest, and men everywhere, even in the ptilpit, are ac- knowledging they do not know all about things. There was little hope for the race so long as an individual was disgraced if he did not pretend to believe a thing at which his reason revolted. We are simpli- fying life — simplif5dng truth. The man who serves his fellowmen best is he who simplifies. The learned man used to be the one who muddled things, who scram- bled thought, who took reason away, and instead, thrust upon us faith, with a threat of punishment if we did not accept it, and an offer of reward if we did. We have now discovered that the so-called learned man had no authority, either for his threat of punishment or his offer of reward. Hypocrisy will not now tlnsergoH'E jQDisslon 352 %ittle Journeys IngerioII's pass current, and sincerity, frozen stiff with fright, is not legal tender for truth. In the frank acknowledgment of ignorance there is much promise. The man who does not know, and is not afraid to say so, is in the line of evolution. But for the head that is packed with falsehood, and the heart that is faint with fear, there is no hope. That head must be unloaded of its lumber, and the heart given courage before the march of progress can begin. Now let us be frank, and let us be honest, just for a few moments. Let us acknowledge that this revolution in thought that has occurred during the last twenty-five years was brought about mainly by one individual. The world was ripe for this man's utterance, other- wise he wotild not have gotten the speaker's eye. A htmdred years before we would have snuffed him out in contumely and disgrace. But men listened to him, and paid high for the privilege. And those who hated this man and feared him most went, too, to listen, so as to answer him and thereby keep the planet from swing- ing out of its orbit and sweeping on to destruction. IRobert IFngersoU 353 Wherever this man spoke, in towns and cities or country, for weeks the air was heavy with the smoke of rhetoric, and reasons, soggy and solid, and fuzzy logic and muddy proof were dragged Hke siege guns to the defence. They dared the man to come back and fight it out. The clouds were charged with challenges, and the prophecy was made and made again that never in the same place could this man go back and get a second hearing. Yet he did go back year after year, and crowds hung upon his utterances and laughed with him at the scarecrow that had once filled their day-dreams, made the nights hideous, and the future black with terror. Through his influence the tears of pity put out the fires of hell; and he literally laughfed the devil out of court. This man, more than any other man of his century, made the clergy free. He raised the standard of intelligence in both pew and pulpit, and the preachers who denounced him most, often were, and are, the most benefited by his work. This man was Robert G. Ingersoll. On the urn that encloses his ashes Aisaion 354 IngeteoII'a /Dission Xittle Soumei^s should be these words : Liberator of Men. When he gave his lecture on "The Gods" at Cooper Union, New York City, in 1872, he fired a shot heard round the world. It was the boldest, strongest, and most vivid utterance of the cen- tury. At once it was recognised that the thinking world had to deal with a man of power. Efforts were made in dozens of places to bring statute law to bear upon him, and the State of Delaware held her whipping-post in readiness for his benefit; but blasphemy enactments and laws for the protection of the tmknown were in- operative in his gracious presence. Inger- soU was a hard hitter, but the splendid good-nature of the man, his freedom from all personal malice, and his unsullied character saved him, in those early days, from the violence that surely would have overtaken a smaller person. The people who now seek to disparage the name and fame of IngersoU dwell on the things he was not, and give small credit for that which he was. They demand infinity and perfection, not quite willing yet to acknowledge that IRobect Tngersoll 355 perfection has never been incorporated in a single soul. Let us acknowledge freely that Inger- soU was not a pioneer in science. Let us admit, for argument's sake, that Rous- seau, Voltaire, Paine, and Renan voiced every argument that he put forth. Let us grant that he was often the pleader, and that the lawyer habit of painting his ovra side large never quite forsook him, and that he was swayed more by his feelings than by his intellect. Let us further admit that in his own individual case there was small evolution, and that for thirty years he threshed the same straw. And, these things being said and admitted, nothing more in truth can be said against the man. But these points are neither to his dis- credit nor disgrace. On them you cannot construct an indictment — they mark his limitations, that is all. Ingersoll gave superstition such a jolt that the consensus of intelligence has cotinted it out. Ingersoll did not destroy the good — all that is vital and excellent and worthy in religion we have yet, and in such measure as it never existed before. fngereoll's AiMion 35<5 Xittle Journegs /Dtoeion In every so-called "Orthodox" pulpit you can now hear sermons calling upon men to manifest their religion in their work; to show their love for God in their attitude toward men ; to gain the kingdom of heaven by having the kingdom of heaven in their own hearts. IngersoU pleaded for the criminal, the weak, the defenceless and the depraved. Our treatment toward all these has changed marvellously within a decade. When we ceased to believe that God was going to damn folks, we left off damning them our- selves. We think better now of God and we think better of men and women. Who dares now talk about the " hopelessly lost"? You cannot afford to indict a man who practised every so-called Christian virtue, simply because there was a flaw or two in his "belief" — the world has. gotten beyond that. Everybody now ad- mits that IngersoU was quite as good a man as those who denounced him most. His life was full of kind deeds and generous acts, and his daily walk was quite as blameless as the life of the average priest and preacher. iRobert "ffngersoU 357 Those who seek to cry IngersoU down reveal either density or malice. He did a great and necessary work, and did it so thoroughly and well that it will never have to be done again. His mission was to liberalise and to Christianise every church in Christendom; and no denomination, be its creed ever so ossified, stands now where it stood before IngersoU began his crusade. He shamed men into sanity. IngersoU uttered in clarion tones what thousands of men and women believed, but dared not voice. He was the spokes- man for many of the best thinkers of his time. He aboKshed fear, gave courage in place of cringing doubt, and lived what he believed was truth. His was a brave, cheerful, and kindly life. He was loved most by those who knew him best, for in his nature there was neither duplicity nor concealment. He had nothing to hide. We know and acknowledge the man's limitations, yet we realise his worth: his influence in the cause of simplicity and honesty has been priceless. The dust of conflict has not yet settled; prejudice still is in the air, but time, the great adjuster, wiU give IngersoU his due. Ingersoll's 3S8 Xittle Sourness fngersoH'e Alsslon The history of America's thought evolu- tion can never be written and the name of Ingersoll left out. In his own splendid personality he had no rivals, no compe- titors. He stands alone, and no name in liberal thought can ever eclipse his. He prepared the way for the thinkers and the doers who shall come after, and in insight surpass him, reaching spiritual heights which he, perhaps, could never attain. This earth is a better place, and life and liberty are safer, because Robert G. Ingersoll lived. The last words of Ingersoll were, by a strange coincidence, the dying words of his brother Ebon: "I am better!" — words of hope, words of assurance to the woman he loved. Sane to the last! And let us, too, hope that these dying words are those of all the countless dead. PATRICK HENRY 359 361 It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentle- men may cry. Peace, peace; but there is no peace. The war is actually begtin. The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms. Our brethren are already in the field. Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish? What would they have? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it. Almighty God! — I know not what course others may take ; but as for me, give me liberty or give me death! Xibetts 3^3 SARAH SYME was a blooming widow, thirty-two in June — such widows are never over thirty-two — and managed her estate of a thousand acres in Hanover County, Virginia, with business ability. That such a widow, and thirty-two, should remain a widow in a pioneer country was out of the question. She had suitors. Their horses were tied to the pickets all day long. One of these stoitors has described the widow for us. He says she was "lively in disposition," and he also uses the words "buxom" and "portly." I do not like these expressions — they suggest too much, so I win none of them. I would rather refer to her as lissome and willowy, and tell how her sorrow for the dead wrapped her round with weeds and becoming sable — but in the interests of truth I dare not. a Xlooms ins IKnibow 364 Xittle Sourness ^be tout of Sate Some of her stutors were widowers — ancient of days, fatandFalstaffian. Others were lean and lachrymose, with large families, fortttnes impaired, and futures mostly behind. Then there were gay fox-hunting hoUuschickies, without serious intent and minus both iutwre and past worth mentioning, who called and sat on the front porch because they thought their presence would be pleasing and re- lieve the tedium of widowhood. Then there was a young Scotch school- master, educated, temperate, and gentle- manly, who came to instruct the two children of the widow in long division and who blushed to the crown of his red head when the widow invited him to tea. Have a care. Widow Syme! Destiny has use for you with your lively ways and portly form. You are to make history, help mould a political policy, fan the flames of war, and through motherhood make yourself immortal. Choose your casket wisely, O Widow Syme! It is the hour of fate! II THE widow was a queen bee and so had a perfect right to choose her mate. The Scotchman proved to be it. He was only twenty-five, they say, but he was man enough when standing before the registrar to make it thirty. When he put his red head inside the church door some one cried, "Genius!" And so they were mar- ried and Uved happily ever after. And the name of the Scotchman was John Henry — I '11 not deceive you, sweet! John and Sarah were well suited to each other. John was exact, industrious, prac- tical. The wife had a lively sense of humour, was entertaining and intelligent. Under the management of the canny Scot the estate took on a look of prosperity. The man was a model citizen — honours travelled his way: he became colonel of the local militia, county surveyor, and 365 3obn anS Sarab 366 Xfttle Journeys ttbe Basle finally magistrate. Babies arrived as rap- idly as nattire would allow and with the regularity of an electric clock — although, of course, there was not any electricity then. The second child was named Patrick, Jr., in honour and in deference to a brother of the happy father — a clergyman of the Established Church. Patrick Henry al- ways subscribed himself "P. Henry, Jr.," and whether he was ever aware that there was only one Patrick Henry is a question. There were nine altogether in the brood — eight of them good, honest, barn-yard fowls. And one was an eagle. Why this was so no one knew— the mother did not know and the father could not guess. All of them were bom under about the same conditions, all received about the same training — or lack of it. However, no one at first suspected that the eagle was an eagle — over a score of years were to pass before he was suddenly to spread out strong, sinewy wings and soar to the ether. Patrick Henry caused his parents more trouble and anxiety than all the rest of the family combined. Patrick and culture patrfcfi "fcenrs 367 had. nothing in common. As a youngster he roamed the woods, bare of foot and bare of head, his only garments a shirt and trousers held in place by a single gallus. He was indolent, dreamy, procrastinating, frolicsome, with a beautiftil aversion to books, and a fondness for fishing that was carried to the limit. The boy's mother did not worry very much about the young- ster, but the father had spells when he took the matter to the Lord in prayer, and afterward, growing impatient of an answer, fell to and used the tawse without mercy. John Henry probably did this as much to relieve his own feelings as for the good of the boy, but doubtless he did not reason quite that far. Patrick nursed his black and blue spots and fell back on his flute for solace. After one such seance, when he was twelve years of age, he disappeared with a coloured boy about his own age. They took a shotgun, fishing tackle, and a vio- lin. They were gone three weeks, during which time Patrick had. not been out of his clothes, nor once washed his face. They had dept out imder the sky by camp-fires. The smell of smoke was surely Ipatticit's jSogbooii 368 Xfttle 5ourness patricft leaves Scbool on his garments, and his parents were put to their wits to distingmsh between the bond and the free. Had Patrick been an only child he would have driven his mother into hysteria and his father to the flowing bowl (I trust I use the right expression). If not this, then it would have been because the fond parents had found peace by transforming their son into a Little Lord Fatmtleroy. Nature shows great wisdom in providing companions for children — they educate each other, and so divide the time of the mother that attention to the individual is limited to the actual needs. Too much interference with children is a grave mistake. Patrick Henry quit school at fifteen with a love for arithmetic — it was such a fine puzzle — and an equal regard for his- tory — history was a lot of good stories. For two years he rode wild horses, tramped the woods with rod and gun, and played the violin at country dances. Another spasm of fear, chagrin, and discouragement sweeping over the father on account of the indifference and profli- gacy of his son, he decided to try the youth patrfcft Ibcnrs 369 in trade, and if this failed, to let him go to the devil. So a stock of general goods was purchased and Patrick and WiUiam, the elder brother, were shoved off upon the uncertain sea of commerce. The result was just what might have been expected. The store was a loafins; place for all the ne'er-do-wells in the vicinity. Patrick trusted everybody — those who could not get trusted elsewhere patronised Patrick. Things grew worse. In a year, when just eighteen years old, P. Henry, Jr., got married — married a rollicking country lass, as foolish as himself — done in bravado, going home from a dance, calling a minister out on his porch, in a crazy quilt, to per- form the ceremony. John Henry would have applied the birch to this hare-brained bridegroom, and the father of the girl would have stting her pink and white anatomy, but Patrick coolly explained that the matter could not be undone — ^they were duly married for better or for worse, and so the less fuss the better. Patrick loved his Doxey, and the Doxey loved her Patrick, and together they made as precious a pair of Done in XiavaM 37° Xittle Journess Seelifns BMniesion to tbe Sar beggars as ever played gypsy music at a country fair. Most of the time they were at the home of the bride's parents — not by invitation — but they were there. The place was a wayside tavern. The girl made herself useful in the kitchen, and Patrick wel- comed the traveller and tended bar. So things drifted, until Patrick was twen- ty-four, when one fine day he appeared on the streets of Williamsburg. He had come in on horseback, and his boots, clothing, hair, and complexion formed a chromatic ensemble the colour of Hanover County clay. The accoxmt comes from his old-time comrade, Thomas Jefferson, who was at Williamsburg attending college. "I 've come up here to be admitted to the bar," gravely said P. Henry to T. Jefferson. "But you are a barkeeper now, I hear." "Yes," said Patrick, "but that's the other kind. You see, I 've been study- ing law, and I want to be admitted to practice." It took several minutes for the man who was to write the Declaration of Indepen- dence to get it through his head that the patrfcl: Ibenrg matter was not a joke. Then he con- ducted the lean, lank, rawboned rustic into the presence of the judges. There were four of these men, Wythe, Pendleton, Peyton, and John Randolph. These men were all to be colleagues of the bumpkin at the First Continental Congress at Philadelphia, but that lay in the misty future. They looked at the candidate in sur- prise; two of them laughed and two looked needlessly solemn. However, after some little parley, they consented to examine the clown as to his fitness to practise law. In answer to the first question, as to how long he had studied, his reply was, " About six weeks." One biographer says six months, and still another, with anxious intent to prove the excellence of his man, says six years. We had better take Jefferson's word — "Patrick Henry's reply was six weeks." As much as to say : " What difference is it about how long I have studied ? You are here to find out how much I know. There are men who can get more in six weeks than others can in six years — I may be one of these." 371 Xefng put ICbcougb 372 3Littlc 5ournei?s I've act The easy indifference of the fellow was sublime. But he did know a little law, and he also knew a deal of history. The main thing against him was his unkempt appearance. After some hesitation the judges gave the reqmred certificate, with a little lecture on the side concerning the beauties of etiquette and right attire as an adjtmct to excellence in the learned professions. Young Mr. Jefferson did not wait to witness the examination of his friend — it was too painful, and besides he did not wish to be around so as to get any of the blame when the prayer for admission was denied. So Patrick had to find Thomas. " I 've got it!" said Patrick, and smiled grimly as he tapped his breast pocket where the certificate was safely stowed. Then he motinted his lean dun horse and rode away, disappearing into the forest. Ill 373 AS a pedagogic policy, the training that Patrick Henry received woiild be rank ruin. Educational systems are de- signed for average intellects, but, as if to show us the littleness of oiir little schemes, destiny seems to give her first prizes to those who have evaded all rules and ignored every axiom. Rules and regulations are for average men — and so are average prizes. Speak it softly : There are several ways of getting an education. Patrick Henry got his in the woods, following winding streams or lying at night under the stars ; by mastering horses and wild animals; by listening to the wrangling of lawyers at country lawstiits, and the endless talk of planters who sat long hours, at the tavern, willingly leaving the labours of the field to the sons of Ham. patticfi's £6ucation 374 Xittle Journeps pbfsical anb Untcls Uctual Thus, at twenty-fovir, Patrick Henry had first of all a physical constitution like watch-spring steel — he had no nerves — fatigue was unknown to him — he was not aware that he had a stomach. His intel- lectual endowment lay in his close intimacy with nature — he knew her and 'was so a part of her that he never thought of her, any more than the fishes think of the sea. The continual dweUing on a subject proves our ignorance of it — we discuss only that for which we are reaching out. Then, Patrick Henry knew men — he knew the workers, the toilers, the yoimg, the old, the learned and the ignorant. He had mingled with mankind from behind the coimter, the tavern bar, in court and school, and in chtirch — by the roadside, at horse-races, camp-meetings, dances, and social gatherings. He was light of foot, ready of tongue, and with no thought^ as to respectability, and no doubts and fears regarding the bread and butter question. He had no pride, save possibly a pride in the fact that he had none. He played checkers, worked out mathematical problems in his mind to astonish the loafers, related history to patricft Ibenrs 375 instruct them— and get it straight in his own mind — and told them stories to make them laugh. It is a great misfortune to associate only with cultured people. " God loves the common people," said Lincoln, "otherwise He would not have made so many of them. ' ' Patrick Henry knew them and is not this an education — to know life? He knew he could move men; that he could mould their thoughts ; that he could convince them and bring them over to his own way of thinking. He had done it by the hour. In the continual rural litigations he had watched lawyers make their appeal to the jury; he had sat on these juries, and he knew he could do the trick better. Therefore, he wanted to become a lawyer. The practice of law to him was to con- vince, befog, or divert the jury; he could do it, and so he applied for permission to practise law. He was successful from the first. His clownish ways pleased the judge, jury, and spectators. His ready tongue and in- finite good humour made him a favourite. There may not be much law in justice of the peace proceedings, but there is a practice of Xaw 376 QLfttle Joumess S>l8covets of Dimself certain rude eqtiity which answers the purpose, possibly, better. And siirely it is good practice for the fledgelings: the best way to learn law is to practise it. And the successful practice of the law lies almost as much in evading the law as in complying with it — I suppose we should say that softly, too. In support of the last proposition, let me say that we are dealing with P. Henry, Jr., of Virginia, arch-rebel, and a defier of law and pre- cedent. Had he reverenced law as law, his name would have been writ in water. The reputation of the man hinges on the fact that he defied authority. The first great speech of Patrick Henry was a defiance of the Common Law of England when it got in the way of the rights of the people. Every immortal speech ever given has been an appeal from the law of man to the Higher Law. Patrick Henry was twenty-seven; the same age that Wendell Phillips was when he discovered himself. No one had guessed the genius of the man — ^least of all his parents. He himself did not know his power. The years that had gone had been fallow years — years of failttre — Ipattich Denri3 377 but it was all a getting together of his forces for the spring. Relaxation is the first reqtiisite of strength. The case was a forlorn hope, and Patrick Henry, the awkward but clever country- pettifogger, was retained to defend the " Parsons' Cause," because he had opinions in the matter and no reputation to lose. First, let it be known that Virginia had an Established Church, which was really the Church of England. The towns were called parishes, and the selectmen, or supervisors, were vestrymen. These ves- trymen hired the rectors or preachers, and the money which paid the preachers came from taxes levied on the people. Now the standard of value in Virginia was tobacco, and the vestrymen, instead of paying the parsons in money, agreed to pay each parson sixteen thousand pounds of tobacco, with curates and bish- ops in proportion. But there came a bad year; the tobacco crop was ruined by a drought, and the value of the weed doubled in price. The parsons demanded their tobacco; a bargain was a bargain; when tobacco was plentiful and cheap they had taken Ube parson'e Cause 378 Xfttle Sourness mutings of Siecontent their quota and said nothing. Now that tobacco was scarce and high, things were merely equalised; a contract was a contract. But the people complained. The theme was discussed in every tavern and store. There were not wanting infidels to say that the parsons should have prayed for rain, and that, as they did not secure the moist- ure, they were remiss. Others asked, "By what right shall men who do not labour demand a portion of the crop from those who plant, hoe, and harvest? " Of course, all good Church people, all of the really loyal citizens, argued that the parsons were a necessary part of the State — without them society would sink into savagery — and as they did their duties they should be paid by the people they served, and all contracts made with them should be kept. But the mutterings of discontent con- tinued, and to appease the people, the House of Btirgesses passed a law pro- viding that, instead of tobacco being a legal tender, all debts could be paid in money, figuring tobacco at the rate of two cents per pound. As tobacco was worth IPatricft t)enrs 379 about three times this amount, it will be Parsons seen at once that this was a law made in people favour of the debtor class. It cut the salaries of the rectors .down' just two thirds, and struck straight at English Gammon Law, which provides for the sacredness of contract. The rectors combined and decided to make a test case — ^the parsons vs. the people — or, more properly, " The Rev. John Maury vs. The Colony of Virginia." Both law and equity were on the side of the parsons. Their case was clear ; only by absolutely overriding the law of England could the people win. The array of legal talent on the side of the Church included the best lawyers in the colony — the Ran- dolphs and other aristocrats were there. And on the other side was Patrick Henry, the tall, lean, lank, sallow, and uncouth representative of the people. Five judges were on the bench, one of whom was the father of Patrick Henry. The matter was opened in a logical, lucid, judicial speech by the Hon. Jere- miah Lyon. He stated the case without passion or prejudice — ^there was only one side to it. 38o Xittle 5oumeBS perfect pafec Then Patrick Henry arose. He began to speak; stopped, hesitated, began again, shuffled his feet, cleared his throat, and his father, on the bench, bltished for shame. The auditors thought he was going to break down — even the opposition pitied him. Suddenly, his tall form shot up, he stepped one step forward and stood like a statue of bronze — his own father did not recognise him, he had so changed. His features were transformed from those of a clown into those of command and proud intelligence. A poise so perfect came upon him that it was ominous. He began to speak — his sentences were crystalline, sharp, clear, direct. The judges leaned forward, the audience hung breathless upon his words. He began by showing how all wealth comes from labour applied to the land. He pictured the people at their work, showed the labourer in the field in the rains of spring, under the blaze of the sunmier sun, amid the frosts of autumn — bond and free working side by side with brain and brawn to wring from the earth a scanty sus- tenance. He showed the homes of the poor, the mother with the babe at her patricft 1benri3 381 breast, the girls cooking at the fire, others tending the garden — -all the process of toil and travail, of patient labour and endless effort, were rapidly marshalled forth. Over against this, he unveiled the clergy in broadcloth and silken gowns, riding in carriages, seated on cushions, and living a life of luxury. He turned and faced the opposition, and shook his bony finger at them in scorn and contempt. The faces of the judges grew livid; many of the parsons, unable to endure his withering rebuke, sneaked away; the people forgot to applaud; only silence and the stinging, ringing voice of the speaker filled the air. He accused the parsons of being the de- fiers of the law; the people had passed the statute ; the preachers had come, asking that it be annulled. And then was voiced, I believe for the first time in America, the truth that government exists only by the consent of the governed: that law is the crystallised opinion of the people — ^that the voice of the people is the voice of God — ^that the act of the parsons, in seeking to override the will of the people, was treason, and shotild be punished. He defied the Common Law Voice of tbe people 382 Xittle Sourness HDIUI of England and appealed to the law of God — the question of right — the question of justice — ^to whom does the fruit of labour belong! Before the fiery, overpowering torrent of eloquence of the man, the reason of the judges fled. There was but one will in that assembly, and that will was the will of Patrick Henry. IV 383 IN that first great speech of his life — probably the greatest speech then ever given in Virginia — Patrick Henry com- mitted himself irrevocably on the subject of human rights. The theme of taxation came to him in a way it never had before. Men are taxed that other men may live in idleness. Those who pay the tax must decide whether the tax is just or not — anything else is robbery. We shall see how this thought took hold on Patrick's very life. It was the weak many against the entrenched few. He had said more than he had intended to say — he had expressed things which he never before knew that he knew. As he made truth plain to his auditors, he had clarified his own mind. The heavens had opened before him — he was as one transformed. That out- ^beme of Uaiation 384 Xittle Sourness B Strong persona alftt ward change in his appearance only- marked an inward illumination which had come to his spirit. In great oratory the appearance of the man is always changed. Men grow by throes and throbs, by leaps and bounds. The idea of "Cos- mic Consciousness" — being bom again — is not without its foundation in fact: the soul is in process of gestation, and when the time is ripe the new birth occurs, and will occur again and again. Patrick Henry at once took his place among the strong men of Virginia — he was a personality that must be reckoned with in political affairs. His law prac- tice doubled, and to keep it down he doubled his prices — with the usual effect. He then tried another expedient, and very few lawyers indeed are strong enough to do this — he would accept no case until the fee was paid in advance. " I keep no books — my fee is so much — pay this and I will undertake your case." He accepted no contingent cases, and if he believed his client was in the wrong, he told him so, and brought about a compromise. Some enemies were made through this frank advice, but when the fight was once on, Patrick ibenrs 38s Patrick Henry was a whirlwind of wrath — he saw but one side and believed in his client's cause as though it had been written by Deity on tables of stone. Long years after the death of Pat- rick Henry, Thomas Jefferson made some remarks about Henry's indolence, and his indisposition to write out things. A little more insight, or less prejudice, would have shown that Patrick Henry's plan was only nature's scheme for the conservation of forces, and at the last was the highest wisdom. By demanding the fee in advance, the business was simplified immensely. It tested the good faith of the would-be litigant, cut down the number of clients, preserved the peace, freed the secretions, aided digestion, and tended to sweet sleep o' nights. Litigation is a luxury that must be paid for — by the other fellow, we expect when we begin, but later we find we are it. If the lawyers would form a union, and agree not to listen to any man's tale of woe until he placed a hundred dollars in the attorney's ginger jar, it would be a benefit untold to humanity. Contingent Simplifieti SnafnesB 386 Xittle Soumegs Secures tbe iFloot fees and blackmail have much in common. A man who could speak in public like Patrick Henry was destined for a political career. A vacancy in the State Legislature occurring, the tide of events carried him in. Hardly had he taken the oath and been seated before the House resolved itself into a committee of the whole to consider the Stamp Act. Mutterings from New England had been heard, but Virginia was inclined to abide by the acts of the Mother Country, gaining merely such modi- fications as could be brought about by modest argument and respectful petition. And in truth let it be stated that the Mother Country had not shown herself blind to the rights of the Colonies, nor deaf to their prayers — ^the aristocrats of Virginia usually got what they wanted. The Stamp Act was up for discussion — the gavel rapped for order, and the Speaker declared the house in session. "Mr. Speaker," rang out a high, clear voice. It was the voice of the new mem- ber. Inadvertently he was recognised and had the floor. There was a little more "senatorial courtesy" then than now in deliberative bodies, and one of the un- patriclt t}ents 387 written laws of the Virginia Legislature was that no member during his first session should make an extended speech or take an active part in the business of the house. "Sir, I present for the consideration of this House the following resolutions." And the new member read seven resolu- tions he had gcrawled ofiE on the flyleaves of a convenient law book. As he read, the older members winced and writhed. Peyton Randolph cursed him under his breath. This audacious youth in buckskin shirt and leather breeches was assuming the leadership of the House. His audacity was unprece- dented! Here are numbers five, six, and seven of the resolutions — these give the meat of the matter : Resolved, That the General Assembly of this colony has the only and sole exclusive right and power to lay taxes and impositions upon the inhabitants of this colony; and that every attempt to vest such power in any person or persons whatsoever, other than the General Assembly aforesaid, has a mani- fest tendency to destroy British as well as American freedom. Resolved, That His Majesty's liege people, the inhabitants of this colony, are not bound Several IResoIns tieiw 388 Xittle 5oumq?8 BImost Blone to yield obedience to any law or ordinance whatever designed to impose any taxation whatsoever upon them, other than the laws or ordinances of the General Assembly aforesaid. Resolved, That any person who shall, by speaking or writing, assert or maintain that any person or persons, other than the General Assembly of this colony, have any right or power to impose or lay any taxation on the people here, shall be deemed an enemy to His Majesty's colony. As the uncouth member ceased to read, there went up a howl of disapproval. But the resolutions were launched, and accord- ing to the rules of the House they could be argued, and, in order to be repudiated, must be voted upon. Patrick Henry stood almost alone. Pit- ted against him was the very flower of Virginia's age and intellect. Logic, ar- gument, abuse, raillery, and threat were heaped upon his head. He stood like adamant and answered shot for shot. It was the speech in the " Parsons' Cause" multiplied by ten — the theme was the same: the right to confiscate the results of labour. Before the debater had ceased, couriers were carrying copies of Patrick IPatrich Ibenrg 389 Henry's resolutions,, to New England. Every press printed them — ^the people were aroused, and the name of Patrick Henry became known in every cot and cabin throughout the Colonies. He was the mouthpiece of the plain people; what Samuel Adams stood for in New England, Patrick Henry hurled in voice of thunder at the heads of aristocrats in Virginia. He lighted the fuse of rebellion. One passage in that first encounter in the Virginia Legislature has become death- less. Hackneyed though it be, it can. never grow old. Referring to the injustice of the Stamp Act, Patrick Henry reached the climax of his speech in these words: "Caesar had his Brutus; Charles the First, his Cromwell; and George the Third — " "Treason!" shouted the Speaker, and the gavel splintered the desk. "Treason! treason!" came in roars from all over the house. Patrick Henry paused, proud and defiant, waiting for the tumult to subside — " and George the Third may profit by their example. If this be treason, make the most of it!" And he took his seat. The resolutions were put to a vote and carried. Again Patrick Henry had won. Ttents 391 his farm and law office. His wife rejoiced in his success, laughed with him at his mishaps, and was always the helpful, uncomplaining comrade, and, as he him- self expressed it, "my best friend." And when he wotild get back home from one of his trips, the neighbovws would gather to hear from his own lips about what he had done and said. He was still the unaffected covmtryman, seemingly careless, happy, and indolent. It was on the occasion of one of these family gatherings that a cpntemporaiy saw him and wrote: "In mock complaint he exclaimed, 'How can I play the fiddle with two babies on each knee and three on my back!' " So the years went by in work, play, and gradually widening fame. Patrick Henry grew with his work; the years gave him dignity — gradually the thought of his heart graved its Hnes upon his face. The mouth became firm and the entire look of the man was that of earnest resolution. Fate was pushing him on. What once was only whispered, he had voiced in trumpet tones; the thought of liberty was being openly expressed even in pulpits. He had been returned to the Legislature, fncreasing ftane Z9^ OLittle Sourness (Bceat Speecb was a member of the Continental Congress, and rode horseback side by side with Washington and Pendleton to Philadel- phia, as told at length in Washington's diary. In his utterances he was a little less fiery, but in his heart, everybody who knew him at all realised that there dwelt the thought of liberty for the Colonies. John Adams wrote to Abigail that Patrick Henry looked like a Quaker preacher turned Presbyterian. A year later came what has been rightly called the third great speech of Henry's life, the speech at the Revolutionary Con- vention at Richmond. Good people often expect to hear oratory at a banquet, a lyceum lecture, or in a Sunday sermon; but oratory is neither lecture talk, har- angue, declamation, nor preaching. Of course, we say that the great speech is the one that has been given many times, but the fact is, the great speech is never given but once. The time is ripe — the hour arrives — mighty issues tremble in the balances. The auditors are not there to be amused or instructed — they have not stopped at IPatricft "toenrs 393 the box-office and paid good money to have their senses alternately lulled and titillated — no! The question is that of liberty or bondage, life or death — passion is in the saddle, — hate and prejudice are sweeping events into a maelstrom, — and now is the time for oratory! Such occa- sions are as rare as the birth of stars. A man stands before you — it is no time for fine phrasing^-no time for pose or plati- tude. Self-consciousness is swallowed up in ptu"pose. He is- as calm as the waters above the rapids of Niagara, as composed as a lioness before she makes her spring. Intensity measures itself in perfect poise. And Patrick Henry arises to speak. Those who love the man pray for him in breath- less silence, and the many who hate him in their hearts curse him. Pale faces grow paler, throats swallow hard, hands clutch at nothing and open and shut in nervous spasms. It is the hour of fate. ■ Patrick Henry speaks. Ube fsour of jfate 394 VI Ouiftc Mr. President : It is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of the siren until she transforms us into beasts. Is this the part of wise men, engaged in a great and arduous struggle for liberty? Are we disposed to be of the number of those who having eyes see not and having ears hear not the things which so nearly concern their temporal salva- tion ? For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth ; to know the worst and to provide for it. I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided, and that is the lamp of experience. I know of no way of judging of the future but by the past. And, judging by the past, I wish to know what there has been in the conduct of the British Ministry, for the last ten years, to justify those hopes with which patricft ibencs 395 gentlemen have been pleased to solace them- selves and this house? Is it that insidious smile with which our petition has been lately received? Trust it not: it will prove a snare to your feet. Suffer not yourself to be betrayed with a kiss. Ask yourselves how this gracious reception of our petition com- ports with those warlike preparations which cover our waters and darken our land. Are fleets and armies necessary to a work of love and reconciliation? Have we shown ourselves so unwilling to be reconciled that force must be called in to win back our love? Let us not deceive ourselves, sir. These are the instruments of war and subjugation — the last arguments to which kings resort. I say, gentlemen, what means this martial array, if its purpose be not to force us to submission? Can you assign any other pos- sible motive for it? Has Britain any enemy in this quarter of the world, to call for all this accumulation of navies and armies? Nq, sir, she has none. They are meant for us; they can be meant for no other. They are sent over to bind and rivet upon us those chains which the British Ministry have been so long forging. And what have we to oppose to them? Shall we try argument? Sir, we have been trying that for the last ten years. Have we anything new to offer Sritteb Chains 396 Xlttle Journeys Ube Storm is Comina Upon the subject? Nothing. We have held the subject up in every Ught of which it is capable ; but it has been all in vain. Shall we resort to entreaty and humble supplication? What terms shall we find which have not been already exhausted? Let us not, I beseech you, deceive ourselves longer. Sir, we have done everything that could be done to avert the storm which is now coming on. We have petitioned, we have remonstrated, we have supplicated, we have prostrated ourselves before the throne, and have implored its interposition to arrest the tyrannical hands of the Ministry and Parlia- ment. Our petitions have been slighted; our remonstrances have produced additional violence and insult; our supplications have been disregarded; and we have been spurned with contempt from the foot of the throne. In vain, after these things, may we indulge the fond hope of peace and reconciliation. There is no longer any room for hope. If we wish to be free, if we mean to preserve inviolate those inestimable privileges for which we have been so long contending, if we mean not basely to abandon the noble struggle in which we have been so long engaged, and which we have pledged our- selves never to abandon until the glorious object of our contest shall be obtained — ^we patrfcft Ibenr^ 397 must fight! I repeat it, sir, we must fight! An appeal to arms and to the God of Hosts is all that is left us! They tell us, sir, that we are weak — unable to cope with so formidable an adversary. But when shall we be stronger? Will it be the next week, or the next year? Will it be when we, are totally disarmed, and when a British guard shall be stationed in every house? Shall we gather strength by irreso- lution and inaction? Shall we require the means of effectual resistance by lying supinely on our backs, and hugging the delusive phan- tom of hope until our enemies shall have bound us hand and foot? Sir, we are not weak, if we make a proper use of those means which the God of nature has placed in our power. Three millions of people, armed in the holy cause of liberty, and in such a country as that which we possess, are invin- cible by any force which our enemy can send against us. Besides, sir, we shall not fight our battles alone. There is a just God who presides over the destinies of nations, and who will raise up friends to fight our battles for us. The battle, sir, is not to the strong alone; it is to the vigilant, the active, the brave. Besides, sir, we have no election. If we were base enough to desire it, it is now too late to retire from the contest. ttne must ffigbt 398 Xittle Joumers liberty ot Seatb There is no retreat but in submission and slavery! Our chains are forged; their clank- ing may be heard on the plains of Boston! The war is inevitable — and let it come! I repeat it, sir, let it come! It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry, Peace, peace; but there is no peace. The war is actually begun. The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms. Our brethren are already in the field. Why stand we here idle? What is it that gentlemen wish ? What would they have ? Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it. Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death 1 VII LIFE is a gradual death. There are animals and insects that die on the instant of the culmination of the act for which they were created. Success is death, and death, if you have bargained wisely with fate, is victory. Patrick Henry, with his panther's strength and nerves of steel, had thrown his life into a cause — that cause had won, and now the lassitude of dissolution crept into his veins. We hear of hair growing white in a single day, and we know that men may round out a life-work in an hour. Oratory, like all of God's greatest gifts, is bought with a price. The abandon of the orator is the spending of his divine heritage for a purpose. Patrick Henry had given himself. Even in his law business he was the conscien- tious servant, and, having undertaken a 399 lifeeimotii 400 3Little Sourness iRetitet cause, he put his soul into it. Shame upon those who call this man indolent ! He often did in a day — between the rising of the sun and its setting — what others spread out thin over a lifetime and then fail to accomplish. And now virtue had gone out from him. Four times had Virginia elected him Governor; he had served his State well, and on the fifth nomination he had declined. When Washington wished to make him his Secretary of State, he snuled and shook his head; and to the entreaty that he be Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, he said that there were others who cotild fill the place better, but he knew of no one who could manage his farm. And so again he became the country lawyer, looked after his plantation, at- tended to the education of his children, told stories to the neighbours who came and sat on the veranda; now and again went to rustic parties, played the violin, and the voice that had cried, "Give me liberty or give me death," called off for the merry dancers as in the days of old. In 1799, at the personal request of patrfcft ibenrg 401 Washington, who needed, or thought he needed, a strong advocate at the Capitol, Patrick Henry ran for the Legislature. He was elected, but before the day arrived when he was to take his seat he sickened and died, surrounded by his stricken family. Those who knew him loved him — those who did not love him did not know him. And a Nation mourned his taking oflf. AourneA bt a natfon STARR KING 403 405 The chief diiference between a wise man and an ignorant one is, not that the first is acquainted with regions invisible to the second, away from common sight and interest, but that he understands the common things which the second only sees. Sight and Insight. 1IIIlis&om IF you had chanced to live in Boston in the early nineties, alert for all good things in a mental and spiritual way, you would have made the Sundays sacred to Minot Savage, Phillips Brooks, and Ed- ward Everett Hale. Emerson says that if you know a clergy- man's sect, and behold his livery, in spite of all his show of approaching the subject without prejudice, you know beforehand exactly to what conclusions he will come. This is what robs most sermons of their interest. Preaching, like humour, must have in it the element of surprise. I remember with what a thrill of delight I would sit and watch Minot Savage un- wind his logic and then gently weave it into a fabric. The man was not afraid to follow a reason to its lair. He had a way of saying the thing for the first time — it came as a personal message, con- 407 Slement of Surpritc 4o8 OLfttle Sourness plunoing into a Ubeme tradicting, possibly, all that had been said before on the subject, oblivious of precedent. I once saw a man with a line around his waist leap from a stranded ship into the sea, and strike out boldly for the shore. The thrill of admiration for the act was unforgettable. The joy of beholding a strong and valiant thinker plunge into a theme is an event. Will he make the shore? or will he go down to defeat before these thou- sands of spectators? When Minot Savage ceased to speak you knew he had won — he had brought the line safely to shore and made all secure. Or, if you have heard Rabbi Hirsch or Felix Adler, you know the feeling. These men make a demand upon you — you play out the line for them, and when all is secure, there is a relief which shows you have been tmder an intense strain. To para- phrase Browning, they offer no substitute, to an idle man, for a cushioned chair and cigar. Phillips Brooks made small demand upon his auditors. If I heard Minot Savage in the morning and got wound up Starr IRlng 409 tight, as I always did, I went to vespers at Trinity Church for rest. The soft, sweet playing of the organ, the subdued lights, the far-away voices of the choir, and finally the earnest words of the speaker, worked a psychic spell. The sermon began nowhere and ended no- where — the speaker was a great, gentle personality, with a heart of love for everybody and everything. We have heard of the old lady who would go miles to hear her pastor pronounce the word "Mesopotamia," but he put no more soul into it than did PhiUips Brooks. The service was all a sort of lullaby for tired souls — healing and helpful. But, as after every indulgence there comes a minor strain of dissatisfaction following the awakening, so it was here — it was beautiful while it lasted. Then eight o'clock woiild come and I would be at Edward Everett Hale's. This sturdy old man, with his towering form, rugged face, and echoing bass voice, would open up the stops and give his blessed "Me- sopotamia" like a trumpet call. He never worked the soft pedal. His first words always made me think of "Boots B Urnmpet Call 4IO Xlttle Journeys Aemorial MinMw and Saddles!" Be a man — do something. Why stand ye here all the day idle ! And there was love and entreaty, too, but it never lulled you into forgetfulness. There was intellect, but it did not ask you to follow it. The dear old man did not wind in and out among the sinuosities of thought — no, he was right out on the broad prairie, under the open sky, sotmding "Boots and Saddles!" In Dr. Hale's church is a most beautiful memorial window to Thomas Starr King, who was at one time the pastor of this church. I remember Dr. Hale once rose and, pointing to that window, said: "That window is in memory of a man ! But how vain a window, how absurd a monument, if the man had not left his impress upon the hearts of humanity! That beautiful window only mirrors our memories of the individual." And then Dr. Hale talked, just talked for an hour about Starr King, Dr. Hale has given that same talk or sermon every year for thirty years: I have heard it three times, but never twice exactly alike. I have tried to get a printed copy of the address, but have so far failed. Starr iRing 411 Yet this is sure : you cannot hear Dr. Hale tell of Starr King without a feeling that King was a most royal specimen of human- ity, and a wish down deep in your heart that you, too, might reflect some of the sterling virtues that he possessed. IRotal Specimen 412 II B aitteb Soul STARR KING died in California in 1864. In Golden Gate Park, San Francisco, is his statue in bronze. In the First Uni- tarian Church of San Francisco is a tablet to his memory; in the Unitarian Church at Oakland are many loving tokens to his personality; and in the State-House at Sacramento is his portrait and an engrossed copy of resolutions passed by the Legisla- ture at the time of his death, wherein he is referred to as " the man whose matchless oratory saved California to the Union." "Who was Starr King?" I once asked Dr. Charles H. Leonard of Tufts College. And the saintly old man lifted his eyes as if in prayer of thankfulness and answered : "Starr King! Starr King! He was the gentlest and strongest, the most gifted soul I ever knew — I bless God that I lived just to know Starr King!" Starr IRing 413 Not long after this I asked Dr. C. awwu A. Bartol the same question that I had mt^ asked Dr. Leonard, and the reply was: " He was a man who proved the possible — in point of temper and talent, the most virile personality that New England has produced. We call Webster our greatest orator, but this man surpassed Webster; he had a smile that was a benediction, a voice that was a caress. We admired Webster, but Starr King we loved: one convinced our reason, the other captured our hearts." 414 III aaattet of 9e*(rc THE Oriental custom of presenting a thing to the friend who admires it sjTmbols a very great truth. If you love a thing well enough, you make it yours. Culture is a matter of desire ; knowledge is to be had for the asking, and education is yours if you want it. AH men should have a college education in order that they may know its worthlessness. George Wil- liam Curtis was a very prince of gentle- men, and as an orator he won by his manner and by his gentle voice fully as much as by the orderly procession of his thoughts. "Oh, what is it in me that makes me tremble so at voices! Whoever speaks to me in the right voice, him or her will I foUow," says Walt Whitman. If you have ever loved a woman, and you care to go back to May-time and try Starr "Ring 415 to analyse the why and the wherefore, you probably will not be able to locate the why and the wherefore, but this nega- tive truth you will discover: you were not won by logic. Of course you admired the woman's intellect — it sort of matched your own, and in loving her you compli- mented yourself, for thus by love and admiration do we prove our kinship with the thing loved. But intellect alone is too cold to fuse the heart. Something else is required, and for lack of a better word we call it "personality." This glowing, winning personality that inspires confidence and trust is a bouquet of virtues, the chief flower of which is right intent — honesty may be a bit old-fashioned, but do not try to leave it out. George William Curtis and Starr King had a frank, wide-open, genuine quality that disanned prejudice right at the start. And both were big enough so that they never bemoaned the fact that fate had sent them to the University of Hard Knocks instead of matriculating them at Harvard. I once heard George William Curtis labat Counts 4i6 Xtttle 5ournei?s Bble t« So Knitbout Speak at St. James Hall, Buffalo, on civil service reform — a most appalling subject with which to hold a "popvdar audience." He was introduced by the Hon. Sherman S. Rogers, a man who was known for ten miles up the creek as the greatest orator in Erie Cottnty. After the speech of introduction, Curtis stepped to the front, laid on the reading desk a bundle of manu- script, turned one page, and began to talk. He talked for two hours, and never once again referred to his manuscript — we thought he had forgotten it. He himself tells somewhere of Edward Everett doing the same. It is fine to have a thing and still show that you do not need it. The style of Curtis was in such marked con- trast to the blue-grass article represented by Rogers, that it seemed a rebuke. One was florid, declamatory, strong, ftall of reasons; the other was keyed low — it was so melodious, so gently persuasive, that we were thrown off our guard and did not know we had imbibed rank heresy until we were told so the next day by a man who was not there. As the speaker closed, an old lady seated near me sighed softly, adjusted her Paisley shawl, and said, Starr iRing 417 "That was the finest address I ever heard, excepting one given in this very hall in 1859 by Starr King." And I said, " Well, a speech that you can remember for twenty-five years must have been a good one!" " It was n't the address so much as the man," answered this mother in Israel, and she heaved another small sigh. And therein did the good old lady drop a confession. I doubt me much whether any woman will remember any speech for a week — she remembers the man. And this applies pretty nearly as much to men, too. Is there sex in spirit? Hardly. Thoreau says the character of Jesus was essentially feminine. Herbert Spencer avers, "The high intuitive quality which we call genius is largely feminine in character." " Starr King was the child of his mother, and his best qualities were feminine," said the Rev. E. H. Chapin. When Starr King's father died the boy was fifteen. There were five yotinger children and Starr was made man of the house by destiny's acclaim. Responsi- bility ripens. This slim, slender youth became a maxi in a day. Aanof tbe Douse 4i8 fnsSlri> OooA0 Store Xlttle 5ournei?s The father had been the pastor of the Charlestown Universalist Chvirch. I sup- pose it is hardly necessary to take a page and prove that this clergyman in an tinpopular church did not leave a large forttine to his family. In truth, he left a legacy of debts. Starr King, the boy of fifteen, left school and became clerk in a dry-goods store. The mother cared for her household and took in sewing. Joshua Bates, master of the Winthrop school, describes Starr King as he was when the father's death cut off his school days : " Slight of build, golden-haired, ac- tive, agile, with a homely face which everybody thought was handsome on ac- count of the beaming eyes, the winning smile and the earnest desire of always wanting to do what was best and right." This kind of a boy gets along all right anywhere — God is on his side. The hours in the dry-goods store were long, and on Saturday nights it was nearly midnight before Starr would reach home. But there was a light in the window for him, even if whale oil was scarce; and the mother was at her sewing. Together they Starr "Ring 419 ate their midnight lunch, and coTinted the earnings of the week. And the stirprise of both that they were getting a living and paying oflE the debts sort of cleared the atmosphere of its gloom. In Burke's Essay on the Sublime he speaks of the quiet joy that comes through calamity when we discover that the ca- lamity has not really touched us. The death of a father who leaves a penniless widow and a himgry brood comes at first as a shock — ^the heavens are darkened and hope has fled. I know a man who was in a railroad wreck — ^the sleeping-car in which he rode left the track and rolled down an embank- ment. There was a black interval of horror and then this man found himself, clad in his underclothes, standing on the upttimed car, looking up at the Pleiades and this thought in his naind — "What beauty and peace are in these winter heavens!" The calamity had come — ^he was absolutely untouched — ^he was locat- ing the constellations and surprised and happy in his ability to enjoy them. Starr King and his mother sipped their midnight tea and grew jolly over the llntoucbeb CaUmfts 420 Xittle 5ourneBB Soul an& Service thought of their comfortable home' they were clothed and fed; the children well and sleeping soundly in baby abandon upstairs; the debts were being paid. They laughed, did this mother and son, really laughed aloud, when only a month before they had thought that only gloom and misery could ever again be theirs. They laughed! And soon the young man's salary was increased; people liked to trade with him — customers came and asked that he might wait on them. He sold more goods than any one in his department, and yet he never talked things on to people. He was alert, affable, kindly, and anticipated the wishes and wants of his customers without being subservient, fawning, or domineering. This kind of a helper is needed everywhere — the one who gives a willing hand, who puts soul into his ser- vice, who brings a glow of good cheer into all of his relations with men. The doing things with a hearty enthusi- asm is often what makes the doer a marked person and his deeds effective. The most ordinary service is dignified when it is performed in that spirit. Every employer Starr iRtng 421 wants those who work for him to put heart and mind into the toil. He soon picks out those whose souls are in their service, and gives them evidence of his appreciation. They do not need constant watching. He can trust them in his absence, and so the places of honour and profit naturally gravitate to them. The years went by, and one fine day Starr King was twenty years of age. All of the debts were paid, the children were going to school, and mother and son faced the world from the vantage ground of success. Starr had quit the dry-goods trade and gone to teaching school on less salary, so as to get more leisure for stixdy. Incidentally he kept books at the navy yard. About this time Theodore Parker wrote to a friend in Maiden, "I cannot come to preach for you as I would like, but with your permission I will send Thomas Starr King. This young man is not a regularly ordained preacher, but he has the grace of God in his heart, and the gift of tongues. He is a rare sweet spirit, and I know that after you have met him you will thank me for sending him to you." ®h a Vantage Orounb 422 Xfttle Journess Cbapin an& Xeectex Then soon we hear of Starr King's being invited to Medford to give a Fotirth of July oration, and also of his speaking in the Universalist churches at Cambridge, Waltham, Watertown, Hingham and Salem — sent to these places by Dr. E. H. Chapin, pastor of the Charlestown Uni- versalist Church, and successor to the Rev. Thomas F. King, father of Starr King. Starr seems to have served as a sort of ah assistant to Chapin, and thereby revealed his talent and won the heart of the great man. Edwin Hubbell Chapin was only ten years older than Starr King, and at that time had not really discovered him- self, but in discovering another he found himself. Twenty years later Beecher and Chapin were to rival each other for first place as America's greatest pulpit orator. These men were always fast friends, yet when they met at convention or conference folks came for miles to see the fire fly. "Where are you going?" once asked Beecher of Chapin when they met by chance on Broadway. "Where am I going?" repeated Chapin, "why, if you are right in what you preach, you know- where I am going." But only a few years Starr "Rina 423 were to pass before Chapin said in public in Beecher's presence, " I am jealous of Mr. Beecher — he preaches a better Universalist semion than I can." Chapin made his mark upon the time: his sermons read as though they were written yesterday, and carry with them a deal of the swing and onward sweep that are tisually lost when the orator attempts to write. But if Chapin had done nothing else but discover Starr King, the dry-goods clerk, rescue him from the clutch of commerce and back him on the orator's platform, he deserves the gratitude of generations. And all this I say as a business man who fully recognises that commerce is just as hon- ourable and a deal more necessary than oratory. But there were other men to sell thread and calico, and God had special work for Thomas Starr King. Chapin was a graduate of Bennington Seminary, the school that also graduated the father of Robert IngersoU. On Cha- pin's request, Theodore Parker, himself a Harvard man, sent Starr King over to Cambridge to preach. Boston was a col- lege town — ^filled with college traditions, and when one thinks of sending out this SfSCOVCTCt Of King 424 Xlttle Sourness fjow Ebucateb untaught stripling to address college men we cannot but admire the temerity of both Chapin and Parker. "He has never at- tended a divinity school," writes Chapin to Deacon Obadiah B. Queer of Quincy, "but he is educated just the same. He speaks Greek, Hebrew, French, German, and fairly good English, as you will see. He knows natural history and he knows humanity; and if one knows man and nature, he comes pretty close to knowing God." Where did this dry-goods clerk get his education? Ah, I '11 tell you — he got his education as the lion's whelp gets his. The lioness does not send her cubs away to a lioness that has no cubs in order that he may be taught. The lion-nature gets what it needs with its mother's milk and by doing. Schools and colleges are cumbrous make- shifts, often forcing truth on pupils out of season, and thus making lessons grievous. "The soul knows all things," says Emer- son, "and knowledge is only a remember- ing." " When the time is ripe, men know," wrote Hegel. At the last we cannot teach anything — nothing is imparted. We can- Starr "Ring 42s not make the plants and flowers grow — statr all we can do is to supply the conditions, ^otb'ec and God does the rest. In education, we can only supply the conditions for growth — we cannot impart, or force the germs to imfold. Starr King's mother was his teacher. Together they read good books, and dis- cussed great themes. She read for him and he studied for her. She did not treat him as a child — things that inter- ested her she told to him. The sunshine o£ her soul was reflected up6n his, and thus did he grow. I know a woman whose children will be learned, even though they never enter a school-room. This woman is a companion to her children and her mind vitalises theirs. This does not mean that we should at once do away with schools and colleges, but it does reveal the possible. To read and then discuss with a strong and sympathetic intellect what you read is to make the thought your own — ^it is a form of exercise that brings growth. Starr King's mother was not a wonder- ful or famous person. I find no mention of her in society's doings of the day — 426 X{9M in tbe lOlintow Xittle Joumess nothing of her dress or equipage. If she was "superbly gowned," we do not know it; if she was ever one of the "un- bonneted," history is silent. All we know is, that together they read Bullfinch's Mythology, Grote's History of Greece Plutarch, Dante, and Shakespeare. We know that she placed a light in the win- .dow for him to make his home-coming cheerful, that together they sipped their midnight tea, that together they laughed, and sometimes wept — but not for long. 427 IV IN 1846, Chapin was thirty-two years old. Starr King was twenty-two. A call had reached Chapin to come up higher; but he refused to leave the old church at Charlestown vinless Starr King was to succeed him. To place a young man in the position of pastor where he sat in the pews, his feet not reaching the floor, is most trying. Starr King knew every individual man, woman, and child in the church, and they had known him since boyhood. In appearance he was but a boy, and the dignity that is supposed to send conviction home was entirely want- ing. But Chapin had his way, and the boy was duly ordained and installed as pastor of the First Universalist Church of Charlestown. The new pastor fully expected his congregation to give him "absent treat- installed at Cbaclese town 428 Xfttle 5oumei5s TSbc Ins tellectnal Dnb ment," but instead, the audience grew — folks even came over from Boston to hear the boy preacher. His sermons were carefully written, and dealt in the simple, everyday lessons of life. To Starr King this world is paradise enow; it's the best place of which we know, and the way for man to help himself is to try and make it a better place. There is a flavour of Theo- dore Parker in those early sermons, a trace of Thoreau, and much tincture of Emer- son — and all this was to the credit of the boy preacher. His woman's mind ab- sorbed things. About that time Boston was in very fact the intellectual hub of America.' Emerson was forty-three; his Nature had been published anonymously, and, al- though it took eight years to sell this edition of five hundred copies, the author was in demand as a lecturer, and in some places society conceded him respectable. Wendell Phillips was addressing audiences that alternately applauded and jeered. Thoreau had discovered the Merrimac and explored Walden Woods; little Dr. Holmes was peregrinating in his One Hoss Shay, vouchsafing the confidences of his Starr Ifting 429 boarding-house; Lowell was beginning to violate the rules of rhetoric ; Whittier was making his plea for the runaway slave: and throughout New England the lecture lyceum was feeling its way. A lecture course was then no vaude- ville — five concerts and two lectures to take off the curse — not that! The speak- ers supplied strong meat for men. The stars in the lyceum sky were Emerson, Chapin, Beecher, Holmes, Bartol, Phillips, Ballou, Everett, and Lowell. These men made the New England lyceum a vast pulpit of free speech and advanced thought. And to a degree the lyceum made these men what they were They influenced the times and were influenced by the times. They were in competition with each other. A pace had been set, a record made, and the audiences that gathered expected much. An audience gets just what it deserves and no more. If you have listened to a poor speech, blame yourself. In the life of George Francis Train he tells that in 1840 Emerson spoke in Wal- tham for five dollars and four quarts of oats for his horse — now he received twenty- stars in tbeX^ceum Sfis 43° Xittle 3ournei5s (XaIIe» to ISlsrceetec five dollars. Chapin got the same, and when the committee cotdd not afiford this, he referred them to Starr King, who would lecture for five dollars and supply his own horse-feed. Two years went by and calls came for Starr King to come up higher. Worcester would double his salary if he would take a year's course at the Harvard Divinity School. Starr showed the letter to Chapin, and both laughed. Worcester was satis- fied with Starr King as he was, but what would Springfield say if they called a man who had no theological training? And then it was that Chapin said, "Divinity is not taught in the Harvard Divinity School," which sounds like a paraphrase of Ernest Renan, "You will find God anywhere but in a theological seminary." King declined the call to Worcester, but barkened to one from the HoUis Street Church of Boston. He went over from Universalism to Unitarianism and still remained a Universalist — and this created quite a dust among the theologs. Little men love their denomination with a jealous love; truth is secondary — they see micro- start King scopic difference where big men behold only unity. It was about this time that Starr King pronotmced this classic: "The difference between Universalism and Unitarianism is that Universalists believe that God is too good to damn them and the Unita- rians believe that they are too good to be diamned." At the HoUis Street Church this strip- ling of twenty-four now found himself being compared with the foremost preach- ers of America. And the man grew with his work, rising to the level of events. It was at the grave of Oliver Wendell Holmes that Edward Everett Hale said: "The five men who have influenced the literary and intellectual thought of Amer- ica most, believed in their own divinity no less than in the divinity of Jesus of Nazareth." The destiny of the liberal church is not to become strong and powerful, but to make all other denominations more liberal. When Chapin accused Beecher of preach- ing Universalist sermons, it was a home thrust, because Beecher would never have preached such sermons had not Murray, 431 attbe Street Cbuccb 432 3Little 3ottrnei?s B Aelo&foug Voice Ballou, Theodore Parker, Chapin, and Starr King done so first — and Beecher supplied the goods called for. Starr King's voice was deep, melodious, and far-reaching, and it was not an acqtiired "bishop's voice" — it was his own. The biggest basso I ever heard was just five feet high and weighed one hundred and twenty in his stockings; Brignoli, the tenor, weighed two hundred and forty. Avoirdupois as a rule lessens the volume of the voice and heightens the register— you cannot have both adipose and chest tone. Webster and Starr King had voices very much alike; and Webster, by the way, was not the big man physically that the school readers proclaim. It was his gigantic head and the royal way he carried himself that made the Liverpool stevedores say, "There goes the King of America." There was no pomposity about Starr King. Dr. Bartol has said that when King lectured in a new town his homely, boyish face ahvays caused a small spasm of disappointment, or merriment, to sweep over the audience. But when he spoke he was a transformed being, and his deep Starr fkim 433 mellow voice wotild hush the most inveter- ate whisperers. For eleven years, Starr King remained pastor of the HoUis Street Church. Dur- ing the last years of his pastorate, he was much in demand as a lecturer, and his voice was heard in all the principal cities as far west as Chicago. His lecture "Substance and Show" deserves to rank with Wendell Phillips's "The Lost Arts." In truth it is very much like Phillips's lecture. In "The Lost Arts" Phillips tells in easy conver- sational way of the wonderful things that once existed; and Starr King relates in the same manner the story of some of the wonderful things that are right here and all around us. It reveals the mind of the man, his manner and thought, as well as any of his productions. The gi-eat speech is an evolution, and this lecture, given many times in the Eastern States under various titles, did not really touch high- water mark until King reached California and had cut loose from manuscript and tradition. An extract seems in order: Most persons, doubtless, jf you place before them a paving-stone and a slip of paper with Substance an& Sbow 434 atittle Journeys Substance some writing on it, would not hesitate to say that there is as much more substance in the rock than in the paper as there is heaviness. Yet they might make a great mistake. Sup- pose that the slip of paper contains the sentence, "God is love"; or, "Thou shalt love thy neighbotir as thyself"; or, "All men have moral rights by reason of heavenly parentage" — ^then the paper represents more force and substance than the stone. Heaven and earth may pass away, but such words can never die out or become less real. The word "substance" means that which stands under and supports an3rthing else. Whatever then creates, upholds, classifies anything which our senses behold, though we cannot handle, see, taste, or smell it, is more substantial than the object itself. In this way the soul, which vivifies, moves, and supports the body, is a more potent substance than the hard bones and heavy flesh which it vitalises. A ten-pound weight falling on your head affects you unpleasantly as substance, much more so than a leaf of the New Testament, if dropped in the same direction ; but there is a way in which a page of the New Testament may fall upon a nation and split it, or infuse itself into its bulk and give it strength and permanence. We should be careful, therefore, what test we adopt in Starr TRfng 435 order to decide the relative stability of things. There is a very general tendency to deny that ideal forces have any practical power. But there have been several thinkers whose scepticism has an opposite direction. "We cannot," they say, "attribute external reality to the sensations we feel." We need not wonder that this theory has failed to convince the unmetaphysical common-sense of people that a stone post is merely a stubborn thought, and that the bite of a dog is nothing but an acquaintance with a pugnacious, four-footed conception. When a man falls down-stairs it is not easy to convince him that his thought simply tumbles along an inclined series of perceptions and comes to a conclusion that breaks his head; least of all can you induce a man to believe that the scolding of his wife is nothing but the buzzing of his own waspish thoughts, and her too free use of his purse only the loss of some golden fancies from his memory. We are all safe against such idealism as Bishop Berkeley reasoned out so logically. Byron's refutation of it is neat and witty: When Bishop Berkeley says there is no matter. It is no matter what Bishop Berkeley says. And yet, by more satisfactory evidence than that which the idealists propose, we are warned against confounding the conception Setlielcc's Iftealism 43^ 3LittIe Sourness power o( Invisible Vbinge of substance with matter, and confining it to things we can see and grasp. Science steps in and shows us that the physical system of things leans on spirit. We talk of the world of matter, but there is no such world. Every- thing about us is a mixture or marriage of matter and spirit. A world of matter — there would be no motion, no force, no fdrm, no order, no beauty, in the universe as it now is; organisation meets us at every step and wherever we look; organisation implies spirit, — something that rules, disposes, pene- trates, and vivifies matter. See what a sermon astronomy preaches as to the substantial power of invisible things. If the visible universe is so stupendous, what shall we think of the unseen force and vitality in whose arms all its splendottrs rest? It is no gigantic Atlas, as the Greeks fancied, that upholds the celestial sphere ; all the constella- tions are kept from falling by an impalpable energy that uses no muscles and no masonry. The ancient mathematician Archimedes once said, "Give me a foot of ground outside the globe to stand upon, and I will make a lever that will lift the world." The invisible lever of gravitation, however, without any fulcrum or purchase, does lift the globe, and makes it waltz, too, with its blonde lunar partner, twelve hundred miles a minute to the music Starr Tking 437 of the sun, — ay, and heaves sun and systems and Milky Way in majestic cotillions on its ethereal floor. You grasp an iron ball, and call it hard; it is not the iron that is hard, but cohesive force that packs the particles of metal into intense sociability. Let the force abate, and the same metal becomes like mush ; let it dis- appear, and the ball is a heap of powder which your breath scatters in the air. If the cohesive energy in nature should get tired and unclench its grasp of matter, our earth would instantly become "a great slump"; so that which we tread on is not material substance, but matter braced up by a spirit- ual substance, for which it serves as the form and show. All the peculiarities of rock and glass, diamond, ice, and crystal are due to the work- ing of unseen military forces that employ themselves under ground, — ^in caverns, be- neath rivers, in mountain crypts, and through the coldest nights, drilling companies of atoms into crystalline battalions and squares, and every caprice of a fantastic order. When we turn to the vegetable kingdom is not the revelation still more wonderful? The forms which we see grow out of substances and are supported by forces which we do not see. The stuff out of which all vegetable Cobesfve Enecgs 438 Xfttle Sourness Subtile force at mnsrlt appearances are made is reducible to oxygen, hydrogen, carbon, and nitrogen. How does it happen that this common stock is worked up in such different ways? Why is a lily woven out of it in one place and a dahlia in another, a grape-vine here, and a honey- suckle there, — ^the orange in Italy, the palm in Egypt, the olive in Greece, and the pine in Maine? Simply because a subtile force of a peculiar kind is at work wherever any vegetable structure adorns the ground, and takes to itself its favourite robe. We have outgrown the charming fancy of the Greeks that every tree has its dryad that lives in it, animates it, and dies when the tree withers. But we ought, for the truth's sake, to believe that a life-spirit inhabits every flower and shrub, and protects it .against the prowling forces of destruction. Look at a full-sized oak, the rooted Le'viathan of the fields. Judging by your senses and by the scales, you would say that the substance of the noble tree was its bulk of bark and bough and branch and leaves and sap, the cords of woody and moist matter that compose it and make it heavy. But really its substance is that which makes it an oak, that which weaves its bark and glues it to the stem, and wraps its rings of fresh wood around the trunk every year, and pushes out its boughs and Starr fting 439 clothes its twigs with breathing leaves and sucks up nutriment from the soil continually, and makes the roots clench the ground with their fibrous fingers as a purchase against the storm, and at last holds aloft its tons of matter against the constant tug and wrath of gravi- tation, and swings its Briarean arms in tri- umph, in defiance of the gale. Were it not for this energetic essence that crouches in the acorn and stretches its limbs every year, there would be no oak ; the matter that clothes it would enjoy its stupid slumber; and when the forest monarch stands up in his sinewy lordliest pride, let the pervading life-power, and its vassal forces that weigh nothing at all, be annihilated, and the whole structure would wither in a second to inorganic dust. So every gigantic fact in nature is the index and vesture of a gigantic force; Everything which we call organisation that spots the landscape of nature is a revelation of secret force that has been wedded to matter, and if the spiritual powers that have thus domes- ticated themselves around us should be can- celled, the whole planet would be a huge Desert of Sahara,— a bleak sand-ball without shrub, grass-blade, or moss. As we rise in the scale of forces towards greater subtility the forces become more important and efficient. Water is more Bnetgctic £»«cnce 440 OLittle Journeys Dow Watute Otnaters tbe HOlocIii intimately concerned with life than rock, air higher in the rank of service than water, electric and magnetic agencies more powerful than air, and light, the most delicate, is the supreme magician of all. Just think how much expenditure of mechanical strength is necessary to water a city in the hot summer months. What pumping and tugging and wearisome trudging of horses with the great sprinklers over the tedious pavement! But see by what beautiful and noiseless force nature waters the world! The sun looks steadily on the ocean, and its beams lift lakes of water into the air, tossing it up thousands of feet with their delicate fingers and carefully picking every grain of salt from it before they let it go. No granite reservoirs are needed to hold in the Cochitu- ates and Crotons of the atmosphere, but the soft outlines of the clouds hem in the vast weight of the upper tides that are to cool the globe, and the winds harness themselves as steeds to the silken caldrons and hurry them along through space, while they dis- burse their rivers of moisture from their great height so lightly that seldom a violet is crushed by the rudeness with which the stream descends. Our conceptions of strength and endurance are so associated with visible implenients Starr IRing 441 and mechanical arrangements that it is hard to divorce them, and yet the stream of electric fire that splits an ash is not a ponder- able thing, and the way in which the load- stone reaches the ten-pound weight and makes it jump is not perceptible. You would think the man had pretty good molars that should gnaw a spike like a stick of candy, but a bottle of innocent-looking hydrogen gas will chew up a piece of bar-iron as though it were some favoiuite Cavendish. The prominent lesson of science to men, therefore, is faith in the intangible and in- visible. Shall we talk of matter as the great reality of the world, the prominent substance? It is nothing but the battle-ground of terrific forces. Every particle of matter, the chem- ists tell us, is strained up to its last degree of endurance. The gHstening bead of dew from which the daisy gently nurses its strength, and which a sunbeam may dissipate, is the globular compromise of antagonistic powers that would shake this building in their unchained rage. And so every atom of matter is the slave of imperious masters that never let it alone. It is nursed and caressed, next bandied about, and soon cuffed and kicked by its invisible overseers. Poor atoms! no abolition societies will ever free them from their bondage, no colonisation jTaitb intbs Invisible 442 Xittle Journeys /Batter Sounb to Spirit movement waft them to any physical Liberia. For every particle of matter is bound by eternal fealty to some spiritual lords, to be pinched by one and squeezed by another and torn asunder by a third: now to be painted by this and now blistered by that: now tormented with heat and soon chilled with cold; hurried from the Arctic Circle to sweat at the Equator, and then sent on an errand to the Southern Pole; forced through trans- migrations of fish, fowl, and flesh; and, if in some comer of creation the poor thing finds leisure to die, searched out and whipped to life again and kept in its constant round. Thus the stuff that we weigh, handle, and tread upon is only the show of invisible sub- stances, the facts over which subtile and mighty forces nile. 443 STARR KING was that kind of a plant »"«» which needs to be repotted in order to make it flower at its best. Events kept tugging to loosen his tendrils from his early environments. People who live on Boston Bay like to remain there. We have all heard of the good woman who died and went to heaven, and after a short sojourn there was asked how she liked it, and she sighed and said, "Ah, yes, it is very beautiful, but it is n't East Somerville!" Had Starr King consented to remain in Boston he might have held his charge against the ravages of time, secreted a curate, taken on a becoming buffer of adipose, and glided by imperceptible de- grees on to the superannuated list. But early in that historic month of April, 1861, he set sail for California, having 444 little Sourness pcopbetic Vision accepted a call from the First Unitarian Church of San Francisco. This was his first trip to the Pacific coast, but New England people had preceded him, and, not being able to return, they wanted Boston to come to them. The journey was made by the way of Panama, without any special event. The pilot who met the ship outside of Golden Gate bore them the first news that Sumter had been fired upon, and the bombardment was at the time when the ship that bore Starr King was only a few miles from South Caro- lina's coast. With prophetic vision Starr King saw the struggle that was to come, and the words of Webster, uttered many years before, rushed to his lips : When my eyes shall be turned to behold for the last time the sun in heaven, may I not see him shining on the broken and dishon- oured fragments of a once glorious Union: on states dissevered, discordant, belligerent; on a land rent with civil feuds, or drenched, it may be, in fraternal blood! Let their last feeble and lingering glance rather behold the gorgeous ensign of the republic, now known and honoured throughout the earth. Starr iking 445 * still full high advanced, its arms and trophies streaming in their original lustre, not a stripe erased nor polluted, nor a single star ob- scured, bearing for its motto no such mis- erable interrogatory as "What is all this worth?" nor those other words of delusion and folly, "Liberty first and Union after- wards"; but everywhere, spread over all in characters of living light, blazing on all its ample folds, as they float over the sea and over the land, and in every wind under the whole heavens, that other sentiment, dear to every true American heart — ^Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and inseparable ! Istbattbe /Dan 7 The landing was made on Saturday, and the following day Starr King spoke for the first time in California. An hour before the service was to begin the church was wedged tight. The preacher had much difificulty in making his way through the dense mass of humanity to reach the pulpit. "Is that the man?" went up the smothered exclamation, as Starr King reached the platform and faced his audi- ence. His slight, slender figure and boy- ish face were plainly a disappointment, but this was not to last. The preacher had prepared a sermon — such a sermon as he 446 s California BuMence Xfttle Sourness had given many times to well-dressed, orderly, and cultured Boston. And if this California audience was sur- prised, the speaker also was no less. The men to women were as seven to one. He saw before him a sea of bronzed and bearded faces, earnest, attentive, and hungry for truth. There were occasional marks of dissipation and the riot of the senses, softened by excess into penitence — whipped out and homesick. Here were miners in red flannel shirts, sailors, soldiers in uniform and soldiers of fortune. The preacher looked at the motley mass in a vain attempt to pick out his old friends from New England. The genteel, slightly blase quality of culture that leans back in its cushioned pew and Courteously waits to be instructed was not there. These people did not lean back — ^they leaned forward, and with parted lips they listened for every word. There was no choir, and when "an old familiar hymn" was lined off by a voltmteer who knew his business that audience arose and sang as though it would shake the rafters of heaven. Those who go down to the sea in ships sing; shepherds who tend their flocks by Starr "Ring 447 night sing; men in the forest or those who follow the trackless plains sing. Congre- gational singing is most poptilar among those who live far apart — to get together and sing is a solace. Loneliness, separa- tion and heart-htmger all drive men into song. These men, many of them far from home, lifted up their voices, and the sounds surged through that chtirch and echoed, surged again, and caught even the preacher in their winding waves. He started in to give one sermon and gave another. The audience, the time, the place, acted upon him. Oratory is essentially a pioneer product, a rustic article. Great sermons and great speeches are only given to people who have come from afar. Starr King forgot his manuscript and pulpit manners. His deep voice throbbed and pulsed with emotion, and the tensity of the times was upon him. Without once referring directly to Sumter, his address was a call to arms. He spoke for an hour, and when he sat down he knew that he had won. The next Sunday the place was again packed. a Call to Btms 448 Xlttle Sourness Si&etotbe Question and then followed urgent invitations that he should speak dtiring the week in a larger hall. California was trembling in the balance, and orators were not wanting to give out the arguments of Calhoun. They showed that the right of secession was plainly provided for in the Constitution. Lin- coln's call for troops was coldly received, and from several San Francisco pvilpits orthodox clergymen were expressing deep regret that the president was plunging the country into civil war. The heart of Starr King burned with shame — to him there was but one side to this question — ^the Union must be preserved. One man who had known King in Massachusetts wrote back home saying, "You would not know Starr King — he is not the orderly man of genteel culture you once had in Boston. He is a torrent of eloquence, so heartfelt, so convincing, so powerful, that when he speaks on Sun- day afternoon out on the sand-hills he excites the multitude into a whirlwind of applause, with a basso undertone of dis- sent which, however, seems to grow grad- ually less." Starr ifting 449 Loyalty to the Union was to him the one vital issue. His fight was not with indi- viduals — ^he made no personal issues. And in several joint debates his courteous treat- ment of his adversary won converts for his cause. He took pains to say that personally he had only friendship and pity for the individuals who upheld secession and slavery: "The man in the wrong needs friends as never before, since he has ceased to be his own. Do we blame a blind man whom we see rushing towards a precipice?" From that first Sunday he preached in San Francisco, his life was an ovation wherever he went. Wherever he was advertised to speak, mtdtitudes were there to hang upon his words. He spoke in all the principal towns of California; and often on the plains, in the mountains, or by the sea-shore, men would gather from hundreds of miles to hear him. He gave himself, and before he had been in California a year, the State was safe for the Union, and men and treasure were being sent to Lincoln's aid. The fame of Starr King reached the president, and he found time to write several letters lof alts to tbe "anion 450 Xfttle Journeys H life for tbe innfon to the orator, thanking him for what he had done. It was in one of these letters that Lincoln wrote, "The only sermons I have ever been able to read and enjoy are those of John Murray," — a statement which some have attempted to smile away as showing the rail-splitter's astute diplomacy. Starr King gave his life to the cause. He as much died for the Union as though he had fallen stricken by flying lead upon the field. And he knew what he was doing, but in answer to his warning friends he said, " I have only one life to live and now is my time to spend it. For four years, lacking two months, he spoke and preached several times every week. All he made and all he was he freely gave. For that frail frame this life of intensity had but one end. The emancipation proclamation had been issued, but Lee's surrender was yet to be. "May I live to see imity and peace for my country," was his prayer. Starr King died March 4, 1864, aged forty years. The closing words of his lec- ture on Socrates might well be applied to himself : Starr "Ring 451 Down the river of life, by its Athenian banks, he had floated upon his raft of reason, serene in cloudy as in smiling weather. And now the night is rushing down, and he has reached the mouth of the stream, and the great ocean is before him, dim heaving in the dusk. But he betrays no fear. There is land ahead, he thought; eternal continents there are, that rise in constant light beyond the gloom. He trusted still in the raft his soul had built, and with a brave farewell to the true friends who stood by him on the shore, he put out into the darkness, a moral Columbus, trusting in his haven on the faith of an idea. Sown tbe ■Rivet of Xife HENRY WARD BEECHER 453 45 S You know how the heart is subject to freshets; you know how the mother, always loving her child, yet seeing it in some new wile of affection, will catch it up and cover it with kisses and break forth in a rapture of loving. Such a kind of heart-glow fell from the Saviour upon that yovmg man who said to him, "Good Master, what good thing shall I' do that I may inherit eternal life? " It is said, "Then Jesus, beholding him, loved him." fjeart THE influence of Henry Ward Beecher upon his time Was marked. And now the stream of his life is lost amid the ocean of otir being. As a single drop of aniline in a barrel of water will tint the whole mass, so has the entire American mind been coloured through the existence of this one glowing personality. He placed a new in- terpretation on religion, and we are differ- ent people because he lived. He was not constructive, not administrative. He wrote much, but as literature his work has small claim on immortality. He was an orator, and the business of the orator is to inspire other men to think and act for themselves. Orators live but in memory. Their de- stiny is to be the sweet elusive fragrance of oblivion — ^the thynie and mignonette of things that were. 457 Aatkea Influence 458 Xittle Sourness fntiscce* tion Set to Ausic The limitations in the all-round man are by-products which are used by destiny in the making of orators. The welling emotions, the vivid imagination, the for- getfulness of self, the abandon to feeling — all these things in Wall Street are spurious coin. No prudent man was ever an orator — ^no cautious man ever made a mtiltitude change its mind, when it had vowed it would not. Oratory is indiscretion set to music. The great orator is great on account of his weakness as well as on account of his strength. So why should we expect the orator to be the impeccable man of perfect parts? These essays attempt to give the man — ^they are neither a vindication nor an apology. Edmtind Gosse has recently said some- thing so wise and to the point on the subject of biograpTiy that I cannot resist the temptation to quote him : If the reader will but bear with me so far as to endure the thesis that the first theo- retical object of the biographer should be indiscretion, not discretion, I will concede almost everything practical to delicacy. 'benvg TKaar5 aseecber 459 But this must be granted to me: that the aim of all portraiture ought to be the em- phasising of what makes the man different from, not like, other men. The widow almost always desires that her deceased hero should be represented as exactly like all other re- spectable men, only a little grander, a little more glorified. She hates, as only a bad biographer can hate, the telling of the truth with respect to those faults and foibles which made the light and shade of his character. This, it appears, was the primitive view of biography. The mass of mediasval me- morials was of the "expanded tract" order: it was mainly composed of lives of the saints, tractates in which the possible and the im- possible were mingled in inextricable dis- order, but where every word was intended directly for edification. Here the biographer was a moralist whose hold upon exact truth of statement was very loose indeed, but who was determined that every word he wrote should strengthen his readers in the faith. Nor is this generation of biographers dead to-day. Half the lives of the great and good men which are published in England and America are expanded tracts. Let the bi- ographer be tactful, but do not let him be cow- ardly: let him cultivate delicacy, but avoid its ridiculous parody, prudery. |)r(mft(ve IDiew of Xtogtapbs 460 Xittle Journeys Cuetom in Xiograpbs And I also quote this from James Anthony Froude: The usual custom in biography is to begin with the brightest side and to leave the faults to be discovered afterwards. It is dishonest and it does not answer. Of all literary sins, Carlyle himself detested most a false bio- graphy. Faults frankly acknowledged are frankly forgiven. Faults concealed work always like poison. Burns's offences were made no secret of. They are now forgotten, and Bums stands without a shadow on him, the idol of his countrymen. Byron's diary was destroyed, and he re- mains and will remain with a stain of sus- picion about him, which revives and will revive, and will never be wholly obliterated. "The truth shall make you free" in biography as in everything. Falsehood and conceal- ment are a great man's worst enemies. II 461 HENRY WARD BEECHER was bom at Litchfield, Conn., June 23, 1813. He was the eighth child of Lyman and Roxana Foote Beecher. Like Lincoln and various other great men, Beecher had two mothers : the one who gave him birth and the one who cared for him as he grew up. Beecher used to take with him on his travels an old daguerreotype of his real mother, and in the cover of the case, beneath the glass, was a lock of her hair — fair in colour, and bright as if touched by the kiss of the summer sun. Often he would take this picture out and apos- trophise it: just as he would the uncut gems that he always carried in his pockets. "My first mother," he used to call her; and to him she stood as a sort of deity. "My first mother stands to me for love; my second mother for discipline; my dDotbets 462 little 5oucneB8 Seecber** Ubeme father for justice," he once said to Halliday. I am not sure that Beecher had a well defined idea of either discipline or justice, but love to him was a very vivid and per- sonal reality. He knew what it meant — infinite forgiveness, a lifelong, yearning tenderness, a something that suffereth long and is kind. This he preached for fifty years, and he preached little else. Lyman Beecher proclaimed the justice of God; Henry Ward Beecher told of His love. Lyman Beecher was a logician, but Henry Ward was a lover. There is a task on hand for the man who attempts to prove that nature is kind, or that God is love. Perhaps man himself, with all his imperfections, gives us the best example of love that the universe has to offer. In preaching the love of God, Henry Ward Beecher revealed his own; for oratory, like literature, is only a confession. "My first mother is always pleading for me — she reaches out her arms to me — her delicate, long, tapering fingers stroke my hair — I hear her voice, gentle and low!" Do you say this is the language of o'er- wrought emotion ? I say to you it is simply Denri? 1101315 Beecber 463 the language of love. This mother, dead and ttimed to dust, who passed out when the boy was scarce three years old, stood to him for the ideal. Love, anyway, is a matter of the imagination, and he who cannot imagine cannot love, and love is from within. The lover clothes the be- loved in the garments of his fancy, and woe to him if he ever loses the power to imagine. Have you not often noticed how the man or woman whose mother died before a time the child cotdd recall, and whose memory clusters around a faded picture and a lock of hair — how this person is thrice blessed in that the ideal is always a shelter when the real palls? Love is a refuge and a defence. The law of compensation is kind: Lincoln lived, until the day of his death, bathed in the love of Nancy Hanks, that mother, worn, yellow, and sad, who gave him birth, and yet whom he had never known. No child ever really lost its mother — nothing is ever lost. Men are only grown-up children, and the longing to be mothered is not eflEaced by the pass- ing years. The type is well shown in the life of Meissonier, whose father died in picture 464 Xfttle 3oumeT?0 xonflfiifls his childhood, but she was near him to the last. In his journal he wrote this: " It is the morning of my seventieth birthday. What a long time to look back upon ! This morning, at the hour my mother gave me birth, I wished my first thoughts to be of her. Dear Mother, how often have the tears risen at the remembrance of you ! It was your absence — my longing for you — that made you so dear to me. The love of my heart goes out to you! Do you hear me, Mother, crying and calling for you? How sweet it must be to have a mother!" Ill 465 ONE might suppose that a childless woman suddenly presented by fate with an exacting husband and a brood of nine would soon be a candidate for nervous prostration; but Sarah Porter Beecher rose to the level of events and looked after her household with diligence and a con- scientious heart. Little Henry Ward was four years old and wore a red flannel dress outgrown by one of the girls. He was chubby, with a ftdl-moon face, and yellow curls, which were so much trouble to take care of that they were soon cut off, after he had set the example of cutting off two himself. He talked as though his mouth was ftill of hot mush. If sent to a neighbour on an errand, he usually forgot what he was sent for, or else explained matters in such a way that he brought back the wrong thing. His B (Ebubbc 466 Xlttle Sourness Sister mother meant to be kind; her patience was splendid; and one's heart goes out to her in sympathy when we think of her faithful efforts to teach the lesser cate- chism to this baby savage who much preferred to make mud pies. Little Henry Ward had a third mother who did him much gentle benefit, and that was his sister Harriet, two years his senior. These little child-mothers who take care of the younger members of the family deserve special seats in paradise. Harriet taught little Henry Ward to talk plainly, to add four and fotir, and to look solemn when he did not feel so — and thus escape the strap behind the kitchen door. His bringing-up was of the uncaressing, let-alone kind. Lyman Beecher was a deal better than his religion; for his religion, like that of most people, was an inheritance, not an evolution. Piety settled down upon the household like a paU every Saturday at s'ondown; and the lessons taught were largely from the Old Testament. These big, bustling, strenuous house- holds are pretty good life-drill for the members. The children are taught self- Ibenrs Marb aseecber 467 reliance, to do without each other, to do for others, and the older members educate the younger ones. It is a great thing to leave children alone. Henry Ward Beecher has intimated in various places in his books how the whole Beecher brood loved their father, yet as precaution against misimderstanding they made the sudden sneak and quick side-step when- ever they saw him coming. Village life with a fair degree of pro- sperity, but not too much, is an education in itself. The knowledge gained is not always classic, nor even polite, but it is all a part of the great seething game of life. Henry Ward Beecher was not an educated man in the usual sense of the word. At school he carved his desk, made faces at the girls, and kept the place in a turmoil generally: doing the wrong thing, just like many another bimipkin. At home he carried in the wood, picked up chips, worked in the garden in summer, and shovelled out the walks in winter. He knew when the dish water was worth saving to mix up with meal for chickens, and when it should be put on the asparagus bed or the rose bushes. He could make a Picfeebaup iknowkbge 468 Xfttle Joumeus ®tC to Bmberst lye-leach, knew that it was lucky to set hens on thirteen eggs, realised that hens' eggs hatched in three weeks, and ducks' in four. He knew when the berries rip- ened, where the crows nested, arid could find the bee-trees by watching the flight of the bees after they had gotten their fill on the basswood blossoms. He knew all the birds that sang in the branches — could tell what birds migrated and what not — was acquainted with the flowers and weeds and fungi — knew where the rabbits burrowed — cotild pick the milk- weed that would cure warts, and tell the points of the compass by examining the bark of the trees. He was on familiar terms with all the ragamuffins in the village, and regarded the man who kept the livery stable as the wisest person in New England, and the stage-driver as the wittiest. Lyman Beecher was a graduate of Yale, and Henry Ward would have been, had he been able to pass the preparatory examinations. But he could n't, and finally he was bundled off to Amherst, very much as we now send boys to a business college when they get plucked ibenrs Mar& Beecber 469 at the high school . But it matters little- give the boys time— some of them ripen slowly, and others there be who know more at sixteen than they will ever know again, like street gamins with the wit of debauchees, rareripes at ten, and rotten at the core. "Delay adolescence," wrote Dr. Charcot to an anxious mother — "de- lay adolescence, and you bank energy un- til it is needed. If your boy is stupid at fourteen, thank God! Dulness is a ful- crum and your son is getting ready to put a lever under the world." At Amherst, Henry Ward stood well at the foot of his class. He read everything excepting what was in the curriculum, and never allowed his studies to interfere with his college course. He revelled in the de- bating societies, and was always ready to thrash out any subject in wordy warfare against all comers. His temper was splen- did, his good-nature sublime. If an op- ponent got the best of him he enjoyed it as much as the audience — he coxild wait his turn. The man who can laugh at him- self, and who is not anxious to have the last word is right in the suburbs of greatness. However, the Beechers all had a deal Bttbc Sf OOt of 1)tB Class 47° Xittle Joumeijs jFatbci ans Son of positivism in their characters. Thomas K. Beecher of Elmira, in 1856, declared he would not shave until John C. Fremont was elected president. It is needless to add that he wore whiskers the rest of his life. When Henry Ward was nineteen his father received a call to become President of Lane Theological Seminary at Cincin- nati, and Henry Ward accompanied him as assistant. The stalwart old father had now come to recognise the worth of his son, and for the first time parental author- ity was waived and they were companions. They were very much alike — exuberant health, energy plus, faith and hope to spare. And Henry Ward now saw that there was a gentle, tender, and yearning side to his father's nature, into which the world only caught glimpses. Lyman Beecher was not free — he was bound by a hagiograph riveted upon his soul; and so to a degree his whole nature was cramped and tortured in his struggles between the "natural man" and the "spiritual." The son was taught by antithesis, and inwardly vowed he would be free. The one word that looms large in the life of Beecher is LIBERTY. 471 IV TJENRY WARD BEECHER died aged 1 1 seventy-four, having preached since he was twenty-three. During that time he was pastor of three churches— two years at Lawrenceburg, Indiana, six years in Indianapolis, and forty-three years in Brooklyn. It was in 1837 that he be- came pastor to the Congregational Church at Lawrenceburg. This town was then a rival of Cincinnati. It had six churches — several more than were absolutely needed. The Baptists were strong, the Presbyterians were strenuous, the Episcopalians were exclusive, while the Congregationalists were at ebb-tide through the rascality of a preacher who had recently decamped and thrown a blanket of disgrace over the whole denomination for ten miles up the creek. Thus were things when Henry Ward Beecher assumed his first charge. ffitst Cbatge 472 Xittle Journeys at lawe cencebucg The membership of the church was made up of nineteen women and one man. The new pastor was sexton as well as preacher — he swept out, rang the bell, lighted the candles, and locked up after service. Beecher remained in Lawrenceburg two years. The membership had increased to a hundred and six men and seventy women, I suppose it will not be denied as an actual fact that women bolster the steeples so that they stay on the churches. From the time the women held the rope and let St. Paul down in safety from the wall in a basket, women have maintained the faith. But Beecher was a man's preacher from first to last. He was a bold, manly man, making his appeal to men. Two years at Lawrenceburg and he moved to Indianapolis, the capital of the State, his reputation having been carried thither by the member from Pose}'' County, who incautiously boasted that his dees- trick had the most powerfiil preacher of any town on the Ohio River. At Indianapolis Beecher was a success at once. He entered into the affairs of the people with an ease and a good-nature that v/on the hearts of this semi-pioneer tienvQ Wiavb Beecber 473 population. His Lectures to Young Men delivered Stmday evenings to packed houses, still have a sale. This bringing religion down from the lofty heights of theology and making it a matter of every- day life, -was eminently Beecheresque. And the reason it was a success was because it fitted the needs of the people. Beecher expressed what the people were thinldng. Mankind clings to the creed; we will not bum our bridges — we want the religion of oiir mothers, yet we crave the simple common-sense we can comprehend as well as the superstition we can not. Beecher's task was to rationalise orthodoxy so as to make it palatable to thinking minds. "I can't ride two horses at one time," once said Robert IngersoU to Beecher, "but possibly I '11 be able to yet, for to- morrow I am going to hear you preach." Then it was that Beecher offered to write IngersoU's epitaph, which he proceeded to do by scribbling two words on the back of an envelope, thus: ROBERT BURNS. But these men understood and had a thorough respect for each other. Once at a mass-meeting at Cooper Union, Beecher introduced IngersoU as the "first, fore- Succees fit Inbfans apolte 474 aLfttle Sourness at pltmoutb Cbnrcb most and most gifted of all living orators." And Ingersoll, not to be outdone, re- ferred in his speech to Beecher as the "one orthodox clergyman in the world who has eliminated hell from his creed and put the devil out of church, and still stands in his pulpit." Six years at Indianapolis put Beecher in command of his armament. And Brook- lyn, seeking a man of power, called him thither. His first sermon in Plymouth Church outlined his course — and the prin- ciples then laid down he was to preach for fifty years — ^the love of God; the life of Christ, not as a sacrifice, but as an example — our elder brother ; and liberty — liberty to think, to express, to act, to become. It would have been worth going miles to see this man as he appeared at Plj'mouth Church those first years" of his ministry. Such a specimen of mental, spiritual, and physical manhood nature produces only once in a century. Imagine a man of thirty-five, when manhood had not yet left youth behind, height five feet ten, weight one hundred and eighty, a body like that of a Greek god, and a mind poised, Denrp TKllarb JSeecber sure, serene, with a fund of good-nature that could not be overdrawn ; a face cleanly- shaven; a wealth of blonde hair falling to his broad shoulders ; eyes of infinite blue, — eyes like the eyes of Christ when he gazed upon the penitent thief on the cross, or eyes that flash fire, changing their colour with the mood of the man; a radiant, happy man, the cheeriest, sunniest nature that ever dwelt in human body, with a sympathy that went out to everybody and everything — children, animals, the old, the feeble, the fallen ; a man too big to be jealous, too noble to quibble, a man so manly that he would accept guilt rather than impute it to another. If he had been possessed of less love he would have been a stronger man. The generous nature lies open and unprotected — through its gtiilelessness it allows concrete rascality to come close enough to strike it. "One reason why Beecher had so many enemies was because he bestowed so many bene- fits," said Rufus Choate. Talmage did not discover himself until he was forty-six; Beecher was Beecher at thirty-five. He was as great then as he ever was; it was too much to ask that 475 (>er8onal (Cbatms 476 Xfttle 3oumei?8 five he should evolve into something more — Nature has to distribute her gifts. Had Beecher grown after his thirty-fifth year, as he grew from twenty-five to thirty- five, he would have been a Colossus that would have disturbed the equilibrium of the thinking world, and created revolu- tion instead of evolution. The opposition toward great men is right and natural-*— it is a part of nature's plan to hold the balance true, "lest ye become as godSl" 477 T TRAVELLED with Major James B. maior 1 Pond, one lecture season, and during *""' that time heard only two themes discussed, John Brown and Henry Ward Beecher. These were his gods . Pond fought with John Brown in Kansas, shoulder to shoulder, and it was only through an accident that he was not with Brown at Harper's Ferry, in which case his soul would have gone marching on with that of Old John Brown. From i860 to 1866, Pond belonged to the army, and was stationed in western Misr souri, where there was no commissariat, where they took no prisoners, and where men lived, like Jesse James, who never knew the war was over. Pond had so many notches cut on the butt of his pistol that he had ceased to count them. He was big, brusque, quibbling, insulting, dictatorial, painstaking, considerate, and 478 Xittle Sourness ating anb lovable kind. He was the most exasperating and lovable man I ever knew. He left a trail of enemies wherever he travelled, and the irony of fate is shown in that he was allowed to die peacefully in his bed. I cut my relationship with him because I did not care to be pained by seeing his form dangling from the cross-beam of a telegraph pole. When I lectured at Wash- ington a policeman appeared at the box- oflEice and demanded the amusement licence fee of five dollars. "Your authority?" roared Pond. And, the policeman not being able to explain. Pond kicked him down the stairway, and kept his club as a souvenir. We got out on the midnight train before warrants could be served. He would often push me into the first carriage when we arrived at a town, and sometimes the driver wotild say, "This is a private carriage," or, "This carriage is engaged," and Pond would reply, " What 's that to me ? drive us to the hotel — you evidently don't know whom you are talking to!" And so imperious was his manner that his orders were usually obeyed. Arriving at the hotel, he would hand out double fare. It was his rule to Ibenrs TKHarft JSeecber 479 pay too much or too little. Yet as a manager he was perfection — he knew the trains to a minute, and always knew, too, what to do if we missed the first train, or if the train was late. At the hall he saw that every detail was provided for. If the place was too hot, or too cold, some- body got thoroughly blamed. If the ventilation was bad, and he could not get the windows open, he would break them out. If you questioned his balance sheet he would the next day flash up an expense account that looked like a plumber's bill and give you fifty cents as your share of the spoils. At hotels he always got a room with two beds, if possible. I was his prisoner; he was despotically kind — he regulated my hours of sleep, my meals, my exercise. He would throw intruding visitors down stairs as average men shoo chickens or scare cats. He was a bundle of profanity and tinrest vintil after the lecttire. Then we would go to our room, and he would talk like a windmill. He would crawl into his bed and I into mine and then he would continue telling Beecher stories half the night, comparing me with Beecher to my great disadvantage. perfect Ctanaget 48o aLfttle Jounxegs Iponb anft £eecbet A dozen times I have heard him tell how Beecher would say, "Pond, never consult me about plans or explain details — ^if you do, our friendship ceases." Beecher was glad to leave every detail of travel to Pond, and Pond delighted in assuming sole charge. Beecher never audited an ac- count — he just took what Pond gave him and said nothing. In this Beecher was very wise — he managed Pond and Pond never knew it. Pond had a pride in pay- ing Beecher as much as possible, and found gratification in giving the money to Beecher instead of keeping it. He was immensely proud of his charge and grew to have an idolatrous regard for Beecher. Pond's brusque ways amused Beecher, and the Ossawatomie experience made him a sort of hero in Beecher's eyes. Beecher took Pond at his true value, regarded his wrath as a child's tantrum, and let him do most of the talking as well as the busi- ness. And Beecher's great, welling heart touched a side of Pond's nature that few knew existed at all — a side that he masked with harshness; for, in spite of his per- versity. Pond had his virtues — he was simple as a child, and so ingenuous that Ibenrs 'CClar5 Beecber 481 deception with him was impossible. He could not tell a lie so you would not know it. He served Beecher with dog-like loyalty, and an honesty beyond suspicion. They were associated fourteen years, travelled together over three hundred thousand miles, and Pond paid to Beecher two hundred and forty thousand dollars. 31 lo^ealtB to JSeecbet 482 ffirst Hcquaints ance VI BEECHER and Tilton became acquaint- ed about the year i860. Beecher was at that time forty-seven years old ; Tilton was twenty-five. The influence of the .older man over the younger was very marked. Tilton became one of the most zealous workers in Plymouth Church: he attended every service, took part in the Wednesday evening prayer-meeting, helped take up the collection, and was a constant recruiting force. Tilton was a reporter, and later an editorial writer on different New York -and Brooklyn dailies. Beecher's Sunday sermon supplied the cue for his next day's leader. And be it said to his honour, he usually gave due credit, and in various ways helped the cause of Plymouth Church by booming the reputation of its pastor. Tilton was possessed of a deal of intel- Ibenrs Mar5 aseecber 483 lectual nervous force. His mind was receptive, active, Versatile. His all-round newspaper experience had given him an education, and he could express himself acceptably on any theme. He wrote children's stories, threw off poetry in idle hours, penned essays, skimmed the surface of philosophy, and dived occasionally into theology. But his theology and his phi- losophy were strictly the goods put out by Beecher, distilled through the Tilton cos- mos. He occasionally made addresses at social gatherings, and evolved into an ora- tor whose reputation extended to Staten Island. Beecher's big, boyish heart went out to this bright and intelligent yotmg man — they were much in each other's company. People said they looked alike; although one was tall and slender and the other was inclined to be stout. Beecher wore his hair long, and now Tilton wore his long, too. Beecher affected a wide-brimmed slouch hat; Tilton wore one of similar style, with brim a trifle wider. Beecher wore a large blue cloak; Tilton wrapped himself roimd with a cloak one shade more ultramarine than Beecher's. UHton Seecbet 484 !3LittIe 5ournes0 Bgteeable Company Tilton's wife was very much like Tilton : both were intellectual, nervous, artistic. They were so much alike that they give us a hint of what a hell this world would be if all mankind were made in one mould. But there was this difference between them: Mrs. Tilton was proud, while Tilton was vain. They were only civil toward each other because they had vowed they would be. They did not throw crockery, because to do so would have been bad form. Beecher was a great joker — hilarious, laughing, and both witty and humorous. I was going to say he was wise, but that is not the word. Tilton lacked wit — he never bubbled excepting as a matter of duty. Both Mr. and Mrs. Tilton enjoyed the society of Beecher, for, besides being a great intellectual force, his presence was an antiseptic against jaundice and intro- spection. And Beecher loved them both, because they loved him, and because he loved everybody. They supplied him a foil for his wit, a receptacle for his over- flow of spirit, a flint on which to strike his steel. Mrs. Tilton admired Beecher a lit- tle more than her husband did — she was Ibenris Marb 3Beecber 48s a woman. Tilton was glad that his wife liked Beecher — ^it brought Beecher to his house; and if Beecher admired Tilton's wife — ^why, was not this a proof that Til- ton and Beecher were alike? I guess so. Mrs. Tilton was musical, artistic, keen of brain, emotional, with all a fine-fibred woman's longings, hopes, and ideals. So matters went drifting on the tide, and the years went by as the years will. Mrs. Tilton became a semi-invalid, the kind that doctors now treat with hypo- phosphites, beef -iron-and- wine, cod-liver oil, and massage by the right attendant. They call it congenital anaemia — a scarcity of the red corpuscle. vSome doctors there be who do not yet know that the emotions control the secretions, and a perfect circulation is a matter of mind. Anyway, what can the poor Galenite do in a case like this — his pills are powerless, his potions inane! Tilton knew that his wife loved Beecher, and he also fully realised that in this she was only carrying out a little of the doctrine of freedom that he taught, and that he claimed for himself. For a time Tilton was beautifully magnanimous. Oc- B Semis Invalib 486 Xfttle 5oumegs IRapib IRecovers casionally Mrs. Tilton had spells of com- plete prostration, when she thought she was going to die. At such times her husband would send for Beecher to come and administer extreme tmction. Instead of dying, the woman would get well. After one such attack, Tilton taunted his wife with her quick recovery. It was a taunt that pulled tight on the comers of his mouth; it was lacking in playfulness. Beecher was present at the bedside of the propped-up invalid. They turned on Tilton, did these two, and flayed him with their agile wit and ready tongues. Tilton protested they were wrong — he was not jealous — the idea! But that afternoon he had his hair cut, and he discarded the slouch hat for one with a stiff brim. It took six months for his hair to grow to a length sufficient to indicate genius. VII 487 BEECHER'S great heart was wrung and stung by the tangle of events in which he finally found himself plunged. That his love for Mrs. Tilton was great there is no doubt, and for the wife with whom he had lived for over a score of years he had a profound pity and regard. She had not grown with him. Had she remained in Lawrenceburg, Indiana, and married a well-to-do grocer, all for her would have been well. Beecher belonged to the world, and this his wife never knew: she thought she owned him. To interest her and to make her shine before the world, certain literary productions were put out with her name as author, on request of Robert Bonner, but all this was a pathetic at- tempt by her husband to conceal the truth of her mediocrity. She spied upon him. ICangle of Svents 488 Xlttle Sourness Acs. Seecbec watched his mail, turned his pockets, and did all the things no wife should do, lest perchance she be punished by finding her suspicions true. Wives and husbands must live by faith. The wife who is miserable until she makes her husband "confess all" is never happy afterwards. Beecher cotild not pour out his soul to his wife — he had to watch her mood and dole out to her the platitudes she could digest — ^never with her did he reach abandon. But the wife strove to do her duty — she was a good housekeeper, economical and industrious, and her very virtues proved a source of exasperation to her husband — ^he could not hate her. It was Mrs. Beecher who first discovered the relationship existing between her husband and Mrs. Tilton. She accused her husband, and he made no denial — ^he offered her her liberty. But this she did not want. Beecher promised to break with Mrs. Tilton. They parted — ^parted forever in sweet sorrow. And the next week they met again. The greater the man before the public, the more he outpours himself, the more his need for mothering in the quiet of his ibenri? XKIlar& iBeccber 489 Ccaeb home. All things are equalised and, with I sefote tse the strength of the sublime spiritual natvire ""'*' goes the weakness of a child. Beecher was an undeveloped boy to the day of his death. Beecher at one time had a great desire to stand square before the world. Major Pond, on Beecher's request, went to Mrs. Beecher and begged her to sue for a di- vorce. At the same time TUton was asked to secure a divorce from his wife. When all parties were free, Beecher would marry Mrs. Tilton and face the world an honest man — ^nothing to hide — aright out under the clear blue sky, blown upon by the free winds of heaven! This was his heart's desire. But aU negotiations failed. Mrs. Beecher would not give up her husband, and Tilton was too intent on revenge — ^and cash- to even consider the matter. Then came the crash. 490 VIII Uilton Sues Xeecbet TILTON sued Beecher for one hundred thousand dollars damages for alienat- ing his wife's affection. It took five months to try the case. The best legal talent in the land was engaged. The jury disa- greed and the case was not tried again. Had Mrs. Beecher applied for a divorce on statutory grounds, no cottrt would have denied her prayer. In actions for di- vorce guilt does not have to be proved — it is assumed. But when one man sues another for money damages, the rulings are drawn finer and matters must be proved. That is where Tilton failed in his lawsuit. At the trial, Beecher perjured himself like a gentleman to protect Mrs. Tilton; Mrs. Tilton waived the truth for Beecher's benefit; and Mrs. Beecher swore black Ibenrs Wia.tt> JSeecber 491 was white because she did not want to lose her husband. Such a precious trio of prevaricators is very seldom seen in a court-room, a place where liars much do congregate. Judge and jury knew they lied and respected them the more; for down in the hearts of all men is a feeling that the love affairs of a man and woman are sacred themes, and a bulwark of lies to protect the holy of holies is ever justifiable. Tilton was the one person who told the truth,- and he was universally execrated for it. Love does not leave a person with- out reason. And there is something in the thought of money as payment to a man for a woman's love that is against nature. Tilton lost the woman's love, and he would balm his lacerated heart with lu- cre! Money? God help us — a. man should earn money. We sometimes hear of men who subsist on women's shame, but what shall we say of a man who would turn parasite and live in luxury on a woman's love — and this woman by him now spurned and scorned! The faults and frailties of men and women caught in the swirl of circumstances are not Zbe Qtial 492 Xtttle JoumeijB supiicitB without excuse, but the cold plottings to punish them and the desire to thrive by their faults are hideous. The worst about a double life is not its immorality — ^it is that the relationship makes a man a liar. The universe is not planned for duplicity — ^all the energy we have is needed in our business, and he who starts out • on the pathway of untruth finds himself treading upon brambles and nettles which close behind him and make return impossible. The further he goes the worse the jungle of poison-oak and ivy, which at last circle him ro\md in strangling embrace. He who escapes the clutch of a life of falsehood is as one in a million. Victor Hugo has pictured the situation when he tells of the man whose feet are caught in the bed of birdlime. He attempts to jump out, but only sinks deeper — ^he flounders, caUs for help, and puts forth all his strength. He is up to his knees — ^to his hips — ^his waist — ^his neck, and at last only hands are seen reaching up in mute appeal to heaven. But the heavens are as brass, and soon where there was once a man is only the dumb indifference of nature. Denrs Marb Beecber The only safe cotirse is the open road of truth. Lies, once begun, pile up; and lies require lies to bolster them. Mrs. Tilton had made a written con- fession to her husband, but this she re- pudiated in court, declaring it was given "in terrorem." Now she had only words of praise and vindication for Beecher. Mrs. Beecher sat by her husband's side all through the long trial. For a man to leave the woman with whom he has lived a lifetime, and who is the mother of his children, is out of the question. What if she does lack intellect and spirituality! He has endured her; aye! he has even been happy with her at times ; the relationship has been endurable — 't were imbecility, and death for both, to break it. Beecher and his wife would stand together. Mrs. Tilton's lips had been sanctified by love, and were sealed, though her heart did break. The jury stood nine for Beecher and three against. Major Pond, the astute, construed this into a vindication — Beecher was not guilty! The first lecture after the trial was 493 3urB afsagree 494 Xfttle Joumeus Bt Bletanttia Xas given at Alexandria Bay. Pond had sold out for five hundred dollars. Beecher said it was rank robbery — no one would be there. The lecture was to be in the grove at three o'clock in the afternoon. In the forenoon, boats were seen corning from east and west and north — excursion boats laden with pilgrims; sail-boats, row-boats, skiffs, and even birch-bark ca- noes bearing red-men. The people came also in carts and waggons, and on horseback. An audience of five thousand confronted the lecturer. The man who had planned the affair had banked on his knowledge of humanity — the people wanted to see and hear the individual who had been whipped naked at the cart's tail, and who still lived to face the world smihngly, bravely, undauntedly. Major Pond was paid the five hundred dollars as agreed. The enterprise had net- ted its manager over a thousand dollars — he was a rich man anyway — ^things had turned out as he had prophesied, and in the exuberance of his success he that night handed Mr. Beecher a check for two hundred and fifty dollars, saying, " This is for you with my love — it is outside of any Denrs Traiar& JSeecber 495 arrangement made with Major Pond." After they had retired to their rooms, Beecher handed the check to Pond, and said, as his blue eyes filled with tears, " Major, you know what to do with this?" And Major Pond said, "Yes." Tilton went to Europe, leaving his family behind. But Major Pond made it his business to see that Mrs. Tilton wanted for nothing that money could buy. Beecher never saw Mrs. Tilton, to converse with her, again. She outlived him a dozen years. On her death-bed she confessed to her sister that her denials as to her re- lationship with Beecher were untrue. "He loved me," she said, "he loved me, and I would have been less than woman had I not loved him. This love wiU be my passport to paradise — God tinder- stands." And so she died. ttxe. UHton's. 5>eatb 496 IX Bn mnenca ceseful ADan TILTON was by nature an unsuccessful man. He was proudly aristocratic, lordly, dignified, jealous, mentally wiggling, and spiritually jiggling. His career was like that of a race-horse which makes a record faster than he can ever attain again, and thus is for ever barred from all slow-paced competitions. Tilton aspired to be a novelist, an essayist, a poet, an orator. His performances in each of these lines, unforttinately, were not bad enough to damn him; and his work done in fair weather was so much better than he could do in foul that he was caught by the undertow. And as for doing what Adiron- dack Murray did, get right down to hard- pan and wash dishes in a dishpan — ^he could not do it. Like an Indian, he would starve before he would work — ^and he "toenrg Mar5 Beecber 497 came near it, gaining a garret living, teaching languages and doing hack literary- work in Paris, where he went to escape the accumulation of contempt that came his way just after the great Beecher trial. Before this, Tilton started out to star the country as a lecturer. He evidently thought he could climb to popularity over the wreck of Henry Ward Beecher. Even had he wrecked Beecher completely, it is very likely he would have gone down in the swirl, and become literary flotsam and jetsam just the same. Tilton had failed to down his man, and men who are failures do not draw on the lecture platform. The auditor has failure enough at home, God knows! and what he wants when he lays down good money for a lecture ticket is to annex himself to a success. Tilton's lecture was called The Problem of Life, a title which had the advantage of allowing the speaker to say anything he wished to say on any subject and still not violate the unities. I heard Tilton give this lecture twice, and it was given from start to finish in exactly the same way. It contained much learning — had flights of eloquence, bursts of bathos, Hilton as Xectutet 498 Xittle Sourness platfocm presence puffs of pathos, but not a smile in the whole hour and a half. It was "faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, dead per- fection, no more." It was so perfect that some people thought it great. The man was an actor and had what is called plat- form presence. He would walk on the stage carrying his big blue cloak over his arm, his slouch hat in his hand — ^for he clung to these Beecher properties to the last, even claiming that Beecher was encroaching on his preserve in wearing them. He would bow as stiffly and solemnly as a new-made judge. Then he would toss the cloak on a convenient sofa, place the big hat on top of it, and come down to the footlights, deliberately removing his yellow kid gloves. There was no introduction — ^he was the whole show and brooked no competition. He would begin talking as he removed the gloves; he would get one glove off and hold it in the other hand, seemingly lost in his speech. From time to time he would emphasise his remarks by beating the palm of his gloved hand with the loose glove. By the time the lecture was half over, both gloves ibenrs TKHarft Beecber 499 would be lying on the table; unlike the performance of Sir Edwin Arnold, who, during his readings, always wore one white kid glove and carried its mate in the gloved hand from beginning to end. Theodore Tilton's lectures were con- summate art, done by a handsome, graceful, and cultured man in a red necktie, but they did not carry enough caloric to make them go. They seemed to lack vibrations. Art without a message is for the people who love art for art's sake, and God does not care much for these, otherwise He would not have made so few of them. Hrt vrttbs out a tDcBSage Soo X Sermon on Seatb ot llncoln AS a sample of Beecher's eloquence, this extract from his sermon on the death of Lincoln reveals his quality: The joy of the nation came upon us suddenly, with such a surge as no words can describe. Men laughed, embraced one an- other, sang and prayed, and many could only weep for gladness. In one short hotu-, joy had no pulse. The sorrow was so terrible that it stunned sen- sibility. The first feeling was the least, and men wanted to get strength to feel. Other griefs belong always to some one in chief, but this belonged to all. Men walked for hours as though a corpse lay in their houses. The city forgot to roar. Never did so many hearts in so brief a time touch two such boundless feelings. It was the uttermost of joy and the uttermost of sorrow — noon and midnight without a space between. We Ibenvs iKHarS JSeecber SOI should not mourn, however, because the departure of the president was so sudden. When one is prepared to die, the suddenness of death is a blessing. They that are taken awake and watching, as the bridegroom dressed for the wedding, and not those who die in pain and stupour, are blessed. Neither should we mourn the manner of his death. The soldier prays that he may die by the shot of the enemy in the hour of victory, and it was meet that he should be joined in a com- mon experience in death with the brave men to whom he had been joined in all his sympathy and life. This blow was but the expiring rebellion. Epitomised in this foul act we find the whole nature and disposition of slavery. It is fit that its expiring blow should be such as to take away from men the last forbearance, the last pity, and fire the soul with invincible determination that the breeding-system of such mischiefs and monsters shall be forever and utterly destroyed. We needed not that he should put on paper that he believed in slavery, who, with treason, with murder, with cruelty infernal, hovered round that ma- jestic man to destroy his life. He was him- self the life-long sting with which Slavery struck at Liberty, and he carried the poison that belonged to slavery; and as long as this IRebellion 502 Xittle Sourness Slow jf ails otite ®6iect Nation lasts it will never be forgotten that we have had one martyr- president — never, never while time lasts, while heaven lasts, while hell rocks and groans, will it be for- gotten that slavery by its minions slew him, and in slaying him made manifest its whole nature and tendency. This blow was aimed at the life of the government. Some murders there have been that admitted shades of palliation, but not such a one as this — ^without provocation, without reason, without temp- tation — sprung from the fury of a heart can- kered to all that is pure and just. The blow has failed of its object. The government stands more solid to-day than any pyramid of Egypt. Men love liberty and hate slavery to-day more than ever before. How naturally, how easily, the government passed into the hands of the new president; and I avow my belief that he will be found a man true to every instinct of liberty, true to the whole trust that is imposed in him, vigilant of the Constitution, careful of the laws, wise for liberty, in that he himself for his life long, has known what it is to suffer from the stings of slavery, and to prize liberty from the bitter experience of his own life. Even he that sleeps has by this event been clothed with new influence. His simple and weighty words will be gathered like those t)cnvs W,avb Beecber 5°3 of Washington, and be quoted by those who, were he alive, would refuse to listen. Men will receive a new access to patriotism. I swear you on the altar of his memory to be more faithful to that country for which he perished. We will, as we follow his hearse, swear a new hatred to that slavery against which he warred, and which in vanqtdshing him has made him a martyr and conqueror. I swear you by the memory of this martyr to hate slavery with an unabatable hatred, and to ptirsue it. We will admire the firm- ness of this man in justice, his inflexible conscience for the right, his gentleness and moderation of spirit, which not all the hate of party could turn to bitterness. And I swear you to follow his justice, his moderation, his mercy. How can I speak to that twilight million to whom his name was as the name of an angel of God, and whom God sent before them to lead them out of the house of bondage? O thou Shepherd of Israel, Thou' that didst comfort Thy people of old, to Thy care we commit these helpless and long-wronged and grieved. And now the martyr is moving in triumphal march, mightier than one alive. The nation rises up at every stage of his coming: cities and states are his pall-bearers, and the cannon beat the hours in solemn progression; dead. Ibatret of Slavecc 504 Xittle Sourness a dDfgbts Conauecor dead, dead, he yet speaketh. Is Washington dead? Is Hampden dead? Is David? Four years ago, O Illinois, we took from your midst an untried man from among the people. Behold! we return him to you a mighty conqueror: not thine any more, but the Nation's — ^not ours, but the world's. Give him place, O ye prairies! in the midst of this great continent shall rest a sacred treasure to myriads who shall pilgrim to that shrine to kindle anew their zeal and patriotism. Ye winds that move over mighty spaces of the West, chant his requiem! Ye people, behold the martyr whose blood, as so many articulate words, pleads for fidelity, for law, for LIBERTY! WENDELL PHILLIPS 505 S°7 What world-wide benefactors these "imprudent" men are! How prudently most men creep into nameless graves; while now and then one or two forget themselves into immortality. Speech on Lvuejoy. Immortal names —32 509 M^ [AY the good Lord ever keep me from wishing to say the last word ; and also from assigning ranks or awarding prizes to great men gone. However, it is a joy to get acquainted with a noble, splendid personality, and then introduce him to you, or at least draw the arras, so you can see him as he lived and worked or nobly failed. And if you and I understand this man it is because we are much akin to him. The only relationship, after all, is the spiritual relationship. Your brother after the flesh may not be your brother at all; you may live in different worlds and call to each other in strange tongues across wide seas of misunderstandings. "Who is my mother and who are my brethren?" As you understand a man, just in that Spiritual 'Kinsbip Sio Xtttle Journeys (SteatlDen atef)uman degree are you related to him. There is a great joy in discovering kinship — for in that moment you discover yourself, and life consists in getting acquainted with yourself. We see ourselves mirrored in the soul of another — ^that is what love is — or pretty nearly so. If you like what I write, it is because I express for you the things you already know; we are akin, our heads are in the same strattim — ^we are breathing the same atmosphere. To the degree that you comprehend the character of Wendell Phillips you are akin to him. I once thought great men were all ten feet high, but since I have met a few, both in astral form and in the flesh, I have found out differently. What kind of a man was Wendell Phillips? Very much like you and me. Blessed, very much like you and me. I think well of great people, I think well of myself, and I think well of you. We are all God's children — all parts of the whole — ^akin to divinity. Phillips never thought he was doing much — ^never took any great pride in TKtten&ell pbilUps ju past performances. When what you have -amattet done in the past looks large to you, you pewmTn't have not done much to-day. His hopes were so high that there crept into his life a tinge of disappointment — some have called it bitterness, but that is not the word — ^just a touch of sadness because he was unable to do more. This was a matter of temperament, perhaps, but it reveals the humanity as well as the divinity of the man. There is nothing worse than self-complacency — smugosity is sin. PhiUips was not supremely great — if he were, how could we comprehend him? And now if you will open those folding doors — ^there! that will do — thank you. SI2 II B iBem«r> able Sate WHEN was he born? Ah, I '11 tell you — ^it was in his twenty-fifth year — about three in the afternoon, by the clock, October 21, 1835. It was an Indian summer day, warm and balmy. He sat there reading in the window of his office on Court Street, Boston, a spick-span new law office, with four shelves of law books bound in sheep, a green-covered table in the centre, three arm-chairs, and on the wall a steel engraving of Washington Cross- ing the Delaware. He was a handsome fellow, was this Wendell Phillips — ^it would have been worth your while just to run up the stairs and put your head in the door to look at him. "Can I do anything for you?" he would have asked. " No, we just wanted to see you, that 's all, " we would have replied. Menbell ipbilUps He sat there at the window, his long legs crossed, a copy of Coke on Littleton in his hands. His dress was what it should be— that of a gentleman— his face cleanly shaven, hair long, cut square, and falling to his black stock. He was the only son of Boston's first mayor, both to the manor and manner bom, rich in his own right; proud, handsome, strong; gentle, refined, educated; a Christian gentleman, heir to the best that Boston had to give; a graduate of the Boston Latin School, of Harvard College, of the Harvard Law school — ^living with his widowed mother in a mansion of Beacon Hill, overlooking Boston's forty-three acres of Common! Can you imagine anything more com- plete in way of endowment than all this? Did destiny ever do more for mortal man ? There he sat waiting for clients. About this time he made the acquaintance of a cock-eyed pulchritudinous youth, Ben But- ler by name, who was errand boy in a near-by office. It was a strange friendship — ^peppered by much cross-fire whenever they met in public — ^to endure loyal for a lifetime. Clients are sure to come to the man 5^3 IPetfect Sn&onto ment SH Xittle Journeys Ifioar of a flDob who is not too anxious about them, sure to come to a man like PhiUips — a youth clothed with the graces of a Greek — waiting on the threshold of manhood's morning. Here is his career: a successful lawyer and leader in society; a member of the Legislature; a United States Senator, and then if he cares for it — ^well, well, well! But in the meantime, there he sits, not with his feet in the window or on a chair — ^he is a gentleman, I said, a Boston gentleman — ^the flower of a gracile an- cestry. In the lazy, hazy air is the hum of autumn birds and beetles — ^the hectic beauty of the dying year is over all. The hum seems to grow — ^it becomes a subdued roar. You have sat behind the scenes waiting for the curtain to rise ; a thousand people are there just out of your sight — ^five hundred of them are talking. It is one high-keyed humming roar. The roar of a mob is keyed lower — ^it is guttural and approaches a growl; it seems to come in waves, a brazen roar rising and falling, but a roar, fvill of menace, hate, deaf to reason, dead to appeal. You have heard the roar of men&ell pbilltps SiS the mob in Julius Ccesar, and stay! once I heard the genuine article. It was in eighty-four — ^goodness gracious, I am surely getting old — ^it was in a town out west. I saw nothing but a pushing, crowd- ing mass of men, and all I heard was that deep guttural roar of the beast. I could not make out what it was all about until I saw a man climbing a telegraph pole. He was carrying a rope in one hand. As he climbed higher, the roar subsided. The climber reached the arms that form the cross. He swting the rope over the cross-beam and paid it out until the end was clutched by the uplifted hands of those below. The roar arose again like an angry sea, and I saw the figure of a human being leap twenty feet into the air and swing and swirl at the end of the rope. The roar ceased. The lawyer laid down the brand-new book, bound in sheep, and leaned out of the window. Men were running down the thoroughfare, some hatless, and at Washington Street could be seen a black mass of human beings— beings who had tttx an BngcsSea Si6 Xittle Sourness Confusion forsaken their reason and merged their personality into a mob. The young lawyer arose, put on his hat, locked his office, followed down the street. His tall and muscular form pushed its way through the mass. Theodore Lyman, the mayor, was stand- ing on a barrel importuning the crowd to disperse. His voice was lost in the roar of the mob. From down a stairway caine a pro- cession of women, thirty or so, walking by twos, very pale, but calm. The crowd gradually opened out on a stem order from some unknown person. The young lawyer threw himself against those who blocked the way. The women passed on, and the crowd closed in as water closes over a pebble dropped into the water. The disappearance of the women seemed to heighten the confusion: there were stones thrown, sounds of breaking glass — a crash on the stairway, and down the narrow passage, with yells of triumph, came a crowd of men, half dragging a prisoner, a rope around his waist, his arms pinioned. The man's face was white, his clothing dishevelled and torn. His TKHenbell pbilUps 517 resistance was passive — ^no word of en- wot treaty or explanation escaped his lips. A sudden jerk on the rope from the hund- red hands that clutched it threw the man off his feet — ^he fell headlong, his face struck the stones of the pavement, and he was dragged for twenty yards. The crowd grabbed at him and lifted him to his feet — ^blood dripped from his face, his hat was gone, his coat, vest, and shift were in shreds. The man spoke no word. " That 's him — Garrison, the damned AboUtionist!" The words arose above the din. "Kill him! Hang him!" Phillips saw the colonel of his militia reg- iment, and, seizing him by the arm, said, " Order out the men to put down this riot ! ' ' "Fool!" said the colonel, "don't you see our men are in this crowd!" " Then order them into columns and we will protect this man." " I never give orders unless I know they will be obeyed. Besides, this man Garri- son is a rioter himself — ^he opposes the government. " " But, do we uphold mob law — ^here, in Boston!" Si8 Xtttle Sourness (Barrison " Don't blame me — I have n't any- thing to do with this business. I tell you, if this man Garrison had minded his own affairs this scene would never have occurred." "And those women!" "Oh, they are members of the Anti- Slavery Society. It was their holding the meeting that made the trouble. The children followed them, hooting them through the streets!" "Children?" "Yes, you know children repeat what they hear at home — ^they echo the thoughts of their elders. The children hooted them, then some one threw a stone through a window. A crowd gathered, and here you are!" The colonel shook himself loose from the lawyer and followed the mob. The mayor's counsel prevailed — "Give the prisoner to me — I will see that he is pun- ished!" And so he was dragged to the City Hall and there locked up. The crowd lingered, then thinned out. The shouts grew less, and soon the poHce were able to rout the loiterers. The young lawyer went back to his Men^e^ ©bilUps law office, but not to study. The law looked different to him now — ^the whole legal aspect of things had changed in an hour. It was a pivotal point. He had heard much of the majesty of the law, and here he had seen the entire machinery of justice brushed aside. Law! It is the thing we make with our hands and then fall down and worship. Men want to do things, so they do them, and afterward they legalise them, just as we believe things first and later hunt for reasons. Or we illegalise the thing we do not want others to do. Boston, standing for law and order, will not even allow a few women to meet and discuss an economic proposi- tion ! Abolition is a fool idea, but we must have free speech — ^that is what our con- stitution is built upon! Law is supposed to protect free speech, even to voicing wrong ideas! Surely a man has a legal right to a wrong opinion! A mob in Boston to put down free speech! This young lawyer was not an Abo- litionist — ^not he ; but he was an American, descended from the Puritans, with an- 519 a Difotal ■Point S20 Xittle Jottmeps fattpias cestors who fought in the war of the Revolution — ^he believed in fair play. His cheeks burned with shame. Ill SEEN from Mount Olympus, how small and pitiful must seem the antics of earth — ^all these churches and little se6ts — our laws, our arguments, our courts of justice, our elections, our wars! Viewed across the years, the Abolition movement seems a small thing. It is so thoroughly dead — so far removed from our present interests! We hear a Vir- ginian praise John Brown, Hsten to Henry Watterson as he says, " The South never had a better friend than Lincoln," or brave General Gordon as he declares, " We now know that slavery was a gigantic mistake, and that Emerson was right when he said, 'One end of the slave's chain is always riveted to the wrist of the master.' " We can scarcely comprehend that fifty 521 Bbolition dDovement 522 Xittle Journeys Oarrfson Apposes Slavers years ago the trio of money, fashion, and religion combined in the hot endeavour to make human slavery a perpetuity; that the man of the North who hinted at resisting the return of a runaway slave was in danger of financial ruin, social ostracism, and open rebuke from the pulpit. The ears of Boston were so stuffed with South Carolina cotton that they could not hear the cry of the op- pressed. Commerce was fettered by self- interest, and law ever finds precedents and sanctions for what commerce most desires>. And as for the pulpit, it iis like the law in that scriptural warrant is always forthcoming for what the pew wishes to do. Slavery, theoretically, might be an er- ror, but in America it was a commercial, political, social, and religious necessity, and any man who said otherwise was an enemy of the State. William Lloyd Garrison said otherwise. But who was William Lloyd Garrison? Only an ignorant and fanatical free- thinker from the country town of New- buryport, Mass. He had started four or five newspapers, and all had failed, TKIlenbell pbflUps 523 because he would not keep his pen quiet on the subject of slavery. New England must have cotton, and cotton could not be produced without slaves. Garrison was a fool. All good Christians refused to read his vile sheet, and business men declined to advertise with him or to subscribe to his paper. However, he continued to print things, telling what he thought of slavery. In 183 1, he was issuing a periodical called The Liberator. I saw a partial file of The Liberator recently, at the Boston PubUc Library. They say it is very precious, and a cus- todian stood by and tenderly turned the leaves for me. I was not allowed even to touch it, and when I was through looking at the tattered pages they locked it up in a fire-proof safe. The sheets of different issues were of various sizes, and the paper was of several grades in quality, showing that stock was scarce, and that there was no system in the office. There surely was not much of a sub- scription list, and we hear of Garrison's going around and asking for contribu- Ube libecatoc 524 3Lfttle 5ournei?s a)r. Xtman ffieecbet tions. But interviews were what he really wished, as much as subscribers. He let the preachers defend the peculiar insti- tution — ^to print a man's fool remarks is the most cruel way of indicting him. Among others Garrison called on was Dr. Lyman Beecher, then thundering against Unitarianism. Garrison got various clergymen to com- mit themselves in favour of slavery, and he quoted them verbatim, whereas, on this subject, the clergy of the North wished to remain silent — ^very silent. Dr. Beecher was wary — all he would say was, "I have too many irons in the fire now!" " You better take them all out and put this one in," said the seedy editor. But Dr. Beecher made full amends later — ^he supplied a son and a daughter to the Abolition movement, and this caused Carlos Martyn to say, "The old man's loins were wiser than his head." Garrison had gotten himself thoroughly disliked in Boston. The mayor once replied to a letter inquiring about him, " He is a nobody and lives in a rat hole. " But Garrison managed to print his pa- Ximen2>eU pbfUips per, rather irregularly, to be sure, but he printed it. From one room he moved into two, and a straggling company call- ing themselves " The Anti-Slavery Society " used his office for a meeting-place. And now, behold the office mobbed, the type pitched into the street, the " So- ciety" driven out, and the fanatical edi- tor, bruised and battered, safely lodged in jaU — ^writing editorials with a calm resolution and a wiU that never faltered. And Wendell Phillips? He was pacing the streets, wondering whether it was worth while to be respectable and pro- sperous in a city where violence took the place of law when logic failed. To him, Garrison had won — Garrison had not been answered : only beaten, bul- lied, abused and thrust behind prison bars. Wendell Phillips's cheeks burned with shame. 5*5 BntU Slavers Societs 526 IV Oattison 'Ketea