THE ETHEL CARR PEACOCK 
 
 MEMORIAL COLLECTION 
 
 Matris amori monumentum 
 
 TRINITY COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 
 DURHAM, N. C. 
 
 1903 
 
 Gift of Dr. and Mrs. Dred Peacock 
 

~h b L S 
 
 tiie 
 
 World's Famous Women: 
 
 i« 
 
 A 
 
 SERIES OF SKETCHES 
 
 OF 
 
 Women who have Won Distinction by tiieir Genius and 
 Achievements as Authors, Artists, Actors, Rulers, 
 
 OR WITHIN THE PRECINCTS OF HOME. 
 
 BY JAMES BARTON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 “LIFE AND TIMES OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN,” “LIFE OF THOMAS JEFFER¬ 
 SON,” “LIFE OF VOLTAIRE,” “GENERAL BUTLER IN NEAV ORLEANS,” 
 “LIFE OF AARON BURR,” “PEOPLE’S BOOK OF BIOGRA¬ 
 PHY,” “ LIFE OF ANDREW JACKSON,” ETC. 
 
 A 
 
 ILLUSTRATED. 
 
 1 5 1 9H- 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 
 
 150 Worth Street, corner Mission Place 
 
Copyright, 1890, by Hubbard Brothers. 
 
9 2 0 .-} 
 
 P ^ 7 <+? 
 P 
 C^- I 
 
 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 PACK 
 
 Joan of Arc (Steel) . Frontispiece. 
 
 Charlotte Cushman ^ . 16 
 
 Maria Mitchell.29 
 
 Adelaide Phillips.52 
 
 Lady Franklin ..113 
 
 Harriet Martineau ..192 
 
 Betsey Patterson.. . . 219 
 
 Toru Dutt and Sister.241 
 
 George Sand ..257 
 
 § 
 
 2 i' 7 9 'f 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2018 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 https://archive.org/details/worldsfamouswome01part 
 
TABLE OF CONTENTS. 
 
 T 
 
 J J 
 
 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 Born a tomboy—Her early life in Boston—A great mimic—Her 
 first play—Coriolanus and Macready—Birth of her talent— 
 
 Her father’s bankruptcy—She sings in opera—Failure of her 
 voice—Plays Lady Macbeth—Her arduous toils—Member of 
 the Park Company—Her acting of Goneril—She appears in 
 London—A mutton chop a day—Dazzling success—Return 
 home—During the war—Her patriotism and generosity—Her 
 death. 17 
 
 II. 
 
 MARIA MITCHELL. 
 
 The Mitchells in Nantucket—Maria’s education—In the Nan¬ 
 tucket library—Her first telescope—She discovers a comet— 
 Tour of Europe—Professor at Vassar—Her dome parties—Her 
 liberal opinions.28 
 
 III. 
 
 MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 Cincinnati in 1827—The Trollope family there—Her impres¬ 
 sions of slavery—An evening party in Cincinnati—Her dis¬ 
 like of America—The fourth of July—Her impressions of 
 New Tork—Her remarks upon Church going—Anthony 
 Trollope—His method of working—Mrs. Trollope’s last years. 38 
 
12 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 IV. 
 
 ADELAIDE PHILLIPS. 
 
 Born at Stratford-on-Avon—Removal to Boston—Her first 
 appearance on the stage—A child actress—Anecdote of 
 "Warren—She sings before Jenny Lind—Studies in Italy— 
 
 Her debut—Her career in opera—Her death and burial. . 53 
 
 V. 
 
 TWO QUEENS. THE DAUGHTERS OF JAMES n OF 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 The Countess of Bentinct’s letter-chest—Why James the Second 
 turned Catholic—The Princess Mary argues with him—Wil¬ 
 liam of Orange sails for England—His parting with Mary— 
 
 Her life during his absence—Crowned Queen of England— 
 Queen Anne’s sorrowful life—Death of Queen Mary. . . 60 
 
 VI. 
 
 AN EVENING WITH RACHEL. 
 
 Her training for the stage—Alfred de Musset—He reports the 
 supper—The brass platters—She describes her housekeeping 
 —Tastes of absinthe—She makes punch—Cooks the beef¬ 
 steak—Her love of Racine—Resolves to play Phedre—Her 
 brutal father.. 
 
 VII. . 
 
 JOSEPHINE AND BONAPARTE. 
 
 Their coronation impending—Opposition of the Bonaparte fam¬ 
 ily—Scene at court—Josephine jealous—Noble conduct of 
 her sob, Eugene—The coronation rehearsed. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 LADY MORGAN. 
 
 Her parents and childhood—Her father’s romantic marriage— 
 Early writings—Her father’s bankruptcy—Goes as governess 
 —Anecdote—Interview with a publisher—Her first novel— 
 
 The Wild Irish Girl—Her marriage—Residence in Paris— 
 Visit to Lafayette—Her last years. ..... 83 
 
 68 
 
 78 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 18 
 
 IX. 
 
 MARIA THERESA. 
 
 Her father the Emperor—Frederick of Prussia seizes her Prof, 
 ince—Yields Silesia to the conqueror—Interval of peace— 
 
 The seven years’ war—Her complaisance to Pompadour— 
 Frederick's invasion of Saxony—She abolishes torture— 
 Frederick’s tribute to her. ... 105 
 
 X. . 
 
 LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 Sir John Franklin’s first wife—He marries Jane Griffin—Her 
 life in Van Diemen’s land—His last Arctic expedition—Not 
 heard from—She assists in the search—Her address to the 
 President of the United States—The liberality of Henry 
 Grinnell—Lieutenant de Haven—The “Prince Albert”—Sir 
 Edward Belcher’s attempt—Discovery of relics by Dr. Rae— 
 Lady Franklin’s appeal to Lord. Palmerston—Captain M’Clin- 
 tock’s expedition—Her letter to him—The final success. . 112 
 
 XI. 
 
 MADAME DE MIRAMION. 
 
 Her early life—Her extreme piety—Death of her father—Her 
 wonderful beauty—Her marriage—Death of her husband— 
 
 —The young widow carried off—Devotes her life to charity. 125 
 
 XII. 
 
 PEG O’NEAL. 
 
 The O’Neal Tavern iu Washington—General Jackson and his 
 wife inmates—Peg’s childhood—She marries Purser Timber- 
 lake—Death of her husband—Marries Senator Eaton—The 
 great scandal—General Jackson defends her—Martin Van 
 Buren calls upon her—Efforts of the British and Russian 
 ministers—The Russian ball—The English dinner—General 
 Jackson’s gratitude to Van Buren—Mrs. Eaton’s later years. . 131 
 
 XIII. 
 
 MRS. L. M. MONMOUTH, AND HOW SHE LIVED ON 
 FORTY DOLLARS A YEAR. 
 
 From affluence to poverty—Advice of her neighbors—The strug¬ 
 gle for independence—Her clothing—A cheap dressing-gown 
 V. 
 
14 
 
 CONTEXTS. 
 
 —Her shoes—Her food—Her house a shew—Balzac’s extrava¬ 
 gance—Sir Walter Scott ruined by his house. . . . 138 
 
 XIY. 
 
 TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC, COMMONLY CALLED JOAN 
 
 OF ARC. 
 
 Rome refuses to canonize the Maid—Manuscript reports of her 
 trial—Her native village—France in 1428—A divided allegi¬ 
 ance—The Maid’s real name—Her character in childhood— 
 
 Her youth—Effect of Catholic habits—Her commanding 
 presence—Her voices—A revival of religion in the French 
 army—Politicians—Her brilliant career—Her capture— 
 Attempt to escape—In chains at Rouen Castle—The court 
 convened—The prisoner examined—She relates her early life 
 Her firmness—The public sermon—She recants—Sentenced 
 to perpetual imprisonment—Again in chains—Resumes her 
 man’s dress—She revokes her recantation—Burned at the 
 stake. 1-18 
 
 XV. 
 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 Her philanthropic severity—Anecdote of Sydney Smith—Her 
 sorrowful childhood—Her education—Begins to write—Dis¬ 
 covery of her secret—In the United States—Attends a meet¬ 
 ing of abolitionists—Her speech—Odium resulting—Her 
 religious opinions—Florence Nightingale upon her death. . 193 
 
 XVI. 
 
 THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 Mysterious power of rank—Prince of Wales in New York— 
 Lafayette among the Six Nations—Revisits them in 1784— 
 
 The treaty of Fort Schuyler—Anecdote of Red Jacket—Ori¬ 
 gin of Lafayette’s republicanism—Stationed at Metz—Dines 
 with the Duke of Gloucester—The news from America— 
 Determines to join the insurgents—Ancestry of Madame de 
 Lafayette—Their marriage—He sets sail—Their correspond¬ 
 ence—He describes his wound—He returns to France—Bril¬ 
 liancy of their position at court—The French Revolution— 
 Madame escapes the guillotine—Intercedes for her husband 
 with the Emperor of Austria—Shares his imprisonment—Her 
 premature death—Her descendants.204 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 15 
 
 XVII. 
 
 BETSY PATTERSON, OTHERWISE MADAME JEROME 
 BONAPARTE OF BALTIMORE. 
 
 Career of her father—The richest man in the United States— 
 Jerome Bonaparte in Baltimore—Her father opposes her mar¬ 
 riage—Consents at last—Napoleon refuses to recognize her— 
 
 Her return to Baltimore—She despises her country—Letter 
 to Lady Morgan—Betsy reproved by her father—His will— 
 Close of her life.219 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 Their rage for gambling—Anecdote of the two black aces—The 
 woman’s club of London—Their sense of decency—Our sum¬ 
 mer hotels—Modern chivalry—Anecdote of Lekain—Society 
 in the colonies—A Connecticut village—The tyranny of 
 fashion—Fashion in ancient times—Lord Palmerston’s big 
 boots.228 
 
 XIX. 
 
 TORU DUTT. 
 
 Her genius discovered by Mr. Gosse—Her translations from the 
 French—Toru and Aru in Calcutta—Toru’s description of 
 her garden—Her residence in Europe—Their return to 
 India—Her first writings—Death of Aru—Publication of the 
 Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields—Correspondence with 
 Mile. Bader—Specimens of her poetry—Her novel—Our 
 Casuarina Tree.240 
 
 XX. 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 Her ancestors—Her grandmother—Childhood of George Sand 
 —Her peculiar education—Convent life—Her religious belief 
 —An accomplished young lady—Marries Dudevant—An ill- 
 starred union—She removes to Paris—Her first writings— 
 Success of Indiana—Other works—Alfred de Musset—Her 
 political principles—Her closing years—Her works. . . 256 
 
CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN 
 
CHARLOTTE CUSHMATT. 
 
 WAS born a tomboy,” wrote Miss Cushman once. 
 
 1 By tomboy she meant that she was a girl who pre* 
 ferred boys’ plays, and had boy’s faults. She did not care 
 much to sew upon dolls’ clothes, but could make dolls’ 
 furniture very nicely with tools. She was fend of climb¬ 
 
 ing trees, and it was a custom with her in childhood to 
 
 get out of the way of trouble by climbing to the top of a 
 tall tree. In short, she was a vigorous, strong-limbed, 
 courageous girl, who might have been the mother of heroes 
 if it had not been her fortune to be a heroine herself. 
 
 In 1816, when she was born, her father was a West 
 India merchant, of the firm of Topliff & Cushman, who 
 had a warehouse on Long Wharf in Boston. Her father, 
 at the age of thirteen, was a poor orphan in Plymouth, 
 M issachusetts, though a lineal descendant of Robert 
 Cushman, one of the pilgrim fathers; a descendant, too, 
 of other Cushmans, whose honored graves I have seen 
 upon Burial Hill, in Plymouth. Her father walked to 
 Boston (thirty miles distant) while he was still a boy, and 
 there, by industry and good conduct, saved a capital upon 
 which he entered into business upon his own account, 
 which enabled him for man / years to maintain his family 
 ia comfort. Many a time Charlotte played the tomboy on 
 Long Wharf, in and out of her father’s store, climbing 
 about vessels, and getting up on heaps of merchandise. 
 Once, in jumping on board a vessel, she fell into the water, 
 and was only rescued from drowning by a passer-by, who 
 
 2 
 
18 
 
 CIIARLOTTU CUSHMAN. 
 
 sprang in and helped her out. Her deliverer kept on his 
 way, and she never knew who he was until, many years 
 later, when she was a celebrated actress, a respectable old 
 gentleman called upon her and told her that he was the 
 person, and how honored and delighted he was in having 
 been the means of preserving so valuable a life. 
 
 Two things may be said of all true artists. One is, 
 that the germ of their talent can be discovered in one or 
 more of their ancestors. Another is, that their gift mani¬ 
 fests itself in very early childhood. More than one of 
 her ancestors had wonderful powers of mimicry, as well 
 as well as a happy talent for reading and declamation. 
 One of her grandmothers possessed these gifts. While 
 she was still a little girl Charlotte had a remarkable power 
 of mimicry. Besides catching up a time after once hear¬ 
 ing it, she unconsciously imitated the tones, gestures, and 
 expression of people she met; and this talent she pre¬ 
 served to the end of her life, greatly to the amusement of 
 her friends. She was one of those people who can imitate 
 the drawing of a cork, and give a lively representation 
 with the mouth, of a hen chased about a barn-yard, and 
 being finally caught. She could imitate all brogues and 
 all kinds of voices. 
 
 Born in Puritanic Boston, we should scarcely expect to 
 find such a talent as this nourished and cultivated from 
 her youth up. But so it was. From her mother she 
 learned to sing all the songs of the day, and she learned 
 to sing them with taste and expression. In those days 
 almost every one sang a song or two, and a most delight¬ 
 ful accomplishment it is. If ever I should found an 
 academy I would have in it a teacher of song-singing. 
 Miss Cushman was so lucky, too, as to have a good uncle 
 —a sea captain—who used to take her to places of amuse¬ 
 ment, and with him she saw her first play, Coriolanus, 
 with Macready in the principal part. She saw many of 
 
CHARLOTTE CUSIIMAN. 
 
 19 
 
 tie noted actors and actresses of that time, and the more 
 frequently because her uncle was one of the stockholders 
 of the old Tremont theatre. Through him, too, she 
 became acquainted with some of the performers, and thus 
 obtained a little insight into the world behind the curtain. 
 
 Everything seems to nourish a marked talent in a child. 
 One day at school, in the reading class, it came her turn 
 to read a speech from Payne’s tragedy of Brutus. Before 
 that day she had been bashful about reading aloud in 
 school, and had shown no ability in it whatever. When 
 she began to read this speech her tongue seemed to be 
 suddenly unloosed ; she let out all the power of her voice ; 
 and she read with so much effect that the teacher told 
 her to go to the head of the class. Miss Cushman always 
 assigned the birth of her talent to the moment of her 
 reading the passage from Brutus. The talent was in her 
 before, but the glow of that speech warmed it into sudden 
 development. 
 
 After the war of 1812, commerce, from various causes, 
 declined in Boston; large numbers of merchants with¬ 
 drew their capital from the sea, and invested it in manu¬ 
 factures. Miss Cushman’s father was one of those who 
 did not take this course, and when she was thirteen years 
 of age he failed, and she was obliged to think of prepar¬ 
 ing to earn her own livelihood. Charlotte’s gift for music 
 suggested the scheme of her becoming a music-teacher, 
 and to this end she studied hard for two years under a 
 very good master. When she was about sixteen years of 
 age the famous Mrs. Wood came to Boston to pei'form in 
 concert and opera, and while there inquired for a con¬ 
 tralto voice to accompany her in some duets. Miss Cush¬ 
 man’s name was mentioned to her, and this led to a trial 
 of the young gfrl’s voice. Mrs. Wood was astonished 
 and delighted at it, and told her that, with such a voice 
 properly cultivated, a brilliant career was assured to her. 
 
20 
 
 CHAKLOTTE CUSHMAN’. 
 
 After singing with Mrs. Wood in concerts with encourag¬ 
 ing success, Miss Cushman appeared at Boston as the 
 Countess in Mozart’s Marriage of Figaro. Received by 
 the public in this and other parts with favor, she seemed 
 destined to fulfill Mrs. Wood’s prediction. 
 
 But a few months after, at New Orleans, her voice sud¬ 
 denly deteriorated, and she was obliged to attempt the 
 profession of an actress. She made her first appearance, 
 while still little more than a girl, “ a tall, thin, lanky girl,” 
 as she describes herself, in the difficult part of Lady Mac¬ 
 beth. She was obliged to borrow a dress in which to per¬ 
 form it, and she played the part, as she once recorded, 
 “ to the satisfaction of the audience, the manager, and 
 the company.” . At the end of that season she came to 
 New York, and, by dint of hard work and earnest study, 
 she gradually became the great and powerful artist whom 
 we all remember. Her biography, by her friend, Miss 
 Emma Stebbins, reveals to us in the most agreeable man¬ 
 ner the secret of her power as an actress, as well as the 
 secret of her charm as a woman. Here is the secret, in 
 in her own words : 
 
 “ How many there are who have a horror of my profes¬ 
 sion ! Yet I dearly love the very hard work, the very 
 drudgery of it, which has made me what I am. Despise 
 labor of any kind! I honor it, and only despise those 
 who do not.” 
 
 1 will copy two or three other sentences of hers, to 
 show what a wise and high-minded lady she was: 
 
 “ The greatest power in the world is shown in conquest 
 over self.” 
 
 “ How hard it would be to die if we had all the joys 
 and happiness that we could desire here ! The dews of 
 autumn penetrate into the leaves and prepare them for 
 their fall.” 
 
 “ We cannot break a law of eternal justice, however 
 
CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 21 
 
 ignorantly, but throughout the entire universe there will 
 be a jar of discord.” 
 
 “ To try to be better is to be better.” 
 
 “ God knows how hard I have striven in my time to be 
 good, and true, and worthy. God knows the struggles I 
 have had.” 
 
 “ Art is an absolute mistress; she will not be coquetted 
 with, or slighted; she requires entire self-devotion, and 
 she repays with grand triumphs.” 
 
 But the best thing she ever wrote or said in her life 
 was written to a young mother rejoicing in the glorious 
 gift of a child. 
 
 “ No artist work,” said Miss Cushman, “ is so high, so 
 noble, so grand, so enduring, so important for all time as 
 the making of character in a child. No statue, no paint¬ 
 ing, no acting, can reach it, and it embodies each and all 
 the arts.” 
 
 That is truly excellent, and is a truth which probably 
 all genuine artists have felt; for art has no right to be, 
 except so far as it assists the best of all arts—the art of 
 living. 
 
 I remember this fine actress when I was a school-boy, 
 at home from school, and she was a member of the com¬ 
 pany of the old Park theatre in New York, acting for 
 twenty dollars a week. I remember her playing Goneril, 
 in King Lear, with so much power that I hated her, mak¬ 
 ing no distinction between her and the part she played. 
 New York was a very provincial place then, and could 
 not give prestige to any artist, and therefore it was not 
 until she went to England, and electrified the Londoners 
 with her powerful acting, that she made any great head¬ 
 way in the world ; although for years she had maintained 
 her mother, and been the mainstay of the family. In 
 England she made a considerable fortune, which, towards 
 the close of her life, was much increased in her native 
 
22 
 
 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 land. She was always glad, in the days of her prosperity, 
 to recall the period of poverty and anxiety which preceded 
 her great success in England, when she was living in the 
 vast, strange city of London, with no companion save her 
 faithful maid, Sallie Mercer, with no present prospect of 
 an engagement, and with almost no money. The strictest, 
 severest economy was necessary; and she used to relate 
 with great amusement and no small pride the ingenious 
 shifts to which she and Sallie were driven in matters of 
 housekeeping, and how they both rejoiced over an occa¬ 
 sional invitation to dine out. Sallie herself bears wit¬ 
 ness to their straitened circumstances. 
 
 “ Miss Cushman lived on a mutton-chop a day,” she once 
 said, “ and I always bought the baker’s dozen of muffins 
 for the sake of the extra one, and* we ate them all, no 
 matter how stale they were; and we never suffered from 
 want of appetite in those days.” 
 
 In spite of all their economies, things went from bad 
 to worse, and Miss Cushman was actually reduced to her 
 last sovereign, when Mr. Maddox, the manager of the 
 Princess Theatre, came to secure her. Sallie, the devoted 
 and acute (whom Miss Cushman had first engaged on 
 account of what she called her “ conscientious eyebrows 
 was on the look-out, as usual, and descried him walking 
 up and down the street upon the opposite side of the 
 way, too early in the morning for a call. 
 
 “ He is anxious,” said Miss Cushman joyfully, when 
 this was reported to her. “ I can make my own terms! ” 
 
 She did so, and her ddbut took place shortly afterward, 
 her r61e being Bianca, in Milman’s tragedy of Fazio. 
 Her success was complete and dazzling. The London 
 Times of the next day said of it: 
 
 “ The early part of the play affords no criterion of 
 what an actress can do; but from the instant where she 
 suspects that her husband’s affections arc wavering, and 
 
CHAHLOTTU CUSHMAN. 
 
 23 
 
 with a flash of horrible enlightenment exclaims, ‘ Fazio, 
 thou hast seen Aldobella ! ’ Miss Cushman’s career was 
 certain. The variety which she threw into the dialogue 
 with her husband—from jealousy dropping back into ten¬ 
 derness, from hate passing to love, while she gave an 
 equal intensity to each successive passion, as if her whole 
 soul were for the moment absorbed in that only—was 
 astonishing, and yet she always seemed to feel as if she 
 had not done enough. Her utterance "was more and 
 more earnest, more and more rapid, as if she hoped the 
 very force of the words would give her an impetus. The 
 crowning effort was the supplication to Aldobella, when 
 the wife, falling on her knees, makes the greatest sacrifice 
 of her pride to save the man she has destroyed. Nothing 
 could exceed the determination with which, lifting her 
 clasped hands, she urged her suit—making offer after 
 offer to her proud rival, os if she could not give too 
 much and feared to reflect on the value of her conces¬ 
 sions—till at last, repelled by the cold marchioness and 
 exhausted by her own passion, rhe sank huddled into a 
 heap at her feet.” 
 
 This was the climax of the plaj r , and Miss Cushman 
 was in reality so overcome by the tremendous force of 
 her own acting, as well as by the agitation consequent 
 upon the occasion, that it was long before sh could 
 muster sufficient strength to rise; and the thunderous 
 applause which burst from all parts of the house was 
 even more welcome as granting her a breathing space 
 than as an evidence of satisfaction. When at last she 
 slowly rose to her feet, the scene was one which she could 
 never afterward recall without experiencing a thrill of the 
 old triumph. The audience were all standing, some 
 mounted upon their seats; many were sobbing; more 
 were cheering, and the gentlemen were waving their hats 
 and the ladies their handkerchiefs. 
 
24 
 
 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 “ All my successes put together since I have been upon 
 the stage,” she wrote home, “ would not come near my 
 success in London, and I only wanted some one of you 
 thereto enjoy it with me, to make it complete.” 
 
 She and Sallie were no longer filled with gratitude for 
 a chance invitation to dinner. Invitations came in show¬ 
 ers and they were overrun with visitors. It soon became 
 a joke that Miss Cushman was never in a room with less 
 tli in six people. She sat to five artists, and distinguished 
 P':o[de of all kinds overwhelmed her with attentions. 
 
 “ 1 hesitate to write even to you,” she says in a letter 
 to her mother, " the agreeable and complimentary things 
 that are said and done to me here, for it looks monstrously 
 like boasting. 1 like you to know it, but I hate to tell it 
 t,o you myself.” 
 
 After a splendid career of success on both sides of the 
 Atlantic, she took up her abode at Rome, returning occa¬ 
 sionally to her mtive land. It so chanced that she was 
 obliged to resume her Roman residence soon after the 
 war broke out, and she deeply lamented that she was 
 called away from her country at such a time. But she 
 bore her share in the struggle. It is hard to imagine how 
 she could have been spared from her post in Rome, where 
 she was the light and consolation of the desponding little 
 American colony. In the darkest days, when the news 
 from home was of defeat following defeat, her faith never 
 wavered for an instant. She was sure the Union cause 
 would prove victorious. 
 
 Her countrymen in the city called her “ the Sunbeam” ; 
 and in after days many of them confessed to having 
 walked the streets again and again, in the mere hope of 
 meeting her and getting a passing word of cheer. A year 
 before this, in London, she held with her banker, Mr. 
 Piabody, a little conversation which perhaps displays her 
 feenng better than anything else. He told her that tho 
 
CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 25 
 
 war could not go on ; the business men of the world 
 would not allow it 
 
 “ Mr. Peabody,” she replied, “ I saw that first Maine 
 regiment that answered to Lincoln's call march down 
 State Street in Boston with their chins in the air, singing: 
 
 ‘ John Brown’s soul is ruarcliing on,’ 
 
 and, believe me, this war will not end till slavery is 
 abolished, whether it be in five years or thirty.” 
 
 In 1862, in a letter from Rome written when news of 
 the early Union successes began at last to be received, she 
 lets us perceive how sorely this high confidence had been 
 tried. 
 
 “ It has been so hard,” she wrote, “ amid the apparent 
 successes of the other side, the defection, the weakness 
 of men on our side, the willingness of even the best to 
 take advantage of the needs of the government, the 
 ridicule of sympathizers with the South on this side, the 
 abuse of the English journals, and the utter impossibility 
 of beating into the heads of individual English that there 
 could be no right in the seceding party—all has been so 
 hard, and we have fought so valiantly for our faith, have 
 so tired and tried ourselves in talking and showing our 
 belief, that when the news came day after day of our 
 successes, and at last yonr letter, I could not read the 
 account aloud, and tears—hot but refreshing tears ol joy, 
 fell copiously upon the page. 0, I am too thankful; and 
 I am too anxious to come home! ... I never cared half 
 so much for America before ; but I feel that now I love 
 it dearly, and want to see it and live in it.” 
 
 To live in it was impossible just then, but the long¬ 
 ing to see it became too strong to be resisted. She 
 resolved to return at least long enough to act for the 
 benefit of the Sanitary Fund; and in June, 1863, she 
 sailed for home. Five performances were given—one 
 
26 
 
 CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 each in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, and 
 Washington—and were so successful that she had the 
 pleasure of sending to Dr. Bellows, president of the Sani¬ 
 tary Commission, from the vessel in which she left to 
 return to Europe, a check for the sum of eight thousand 
 two hundred and sixty-seven dollars. 
 
 “I know no distinction of North, East, South, or West,” 
 she wrote in the letter which accompanied this generous 
 gift; “ it is all my country, and where there is most 
 need, there do I wish the proceeds of my labor to be 
 given.” 
 
 One more extract, taken from a letter written to Miss 
 Fanny Seward when the final triumph came, may fittingly 
 close Miss Cushman’s record as a patriot. It is her song 
 of exultation : 
 
 “With regard to my own dearly beloved land, of which 
 I am so proud that my heart swells and my eyes brim 
 over as I think to-day of her might, her majesty, and the 
 power of her long-suffering, her abiding patience, her 
 unequaled unanimity, her resolute prudence, her ina¬ 
 bility to recognize bondage and freedom in our constitu¬ 
 tion, and her stalwart strength in forcing that which she 
 could not obtain by reasoning. . . . To-day my pride, my 
 faith, my love of country, is blessed and satisfied in the 
 news that has flashed to us that ‘ the army of Lee has 
 capitulated! ’ that we are and must be one sole, undi¬ 
 vided— not common, but mcommon — country; great, 
 glorious, free; henceforth an honor and a power among 
 nations, a sign and a symbol to the down-trodden peoples, 
 and a terror to evil-doers upon earth.” 
 
 After a long period of retirement, she returned to the 
 scene of her former triumphs. People wondered why she 
 should continue to act during her last years, when she 
 was tormented by the pain of an incurable disease, and 
 when she had a beautiful home at Newport, where there 
 
CHARLOTTE CUSHMAN. 
 
 27 
 
 was everything to cheer and charm her declining years. 
 A single sentence in one of her last letters explains it, 
 wherein she says: 
 
 “ I am suffering a good deal more pain than I like to 
 acknowledge, and only when I am on the stage or asleep 
 am I unconscious of it.” 
 
 She died at Boston in 1876, aged sixty. There have 
 been a few greater actresses than Charlotte Cushman, but 
 a better woman never trod the stage. The very soul of 
 goodness dwelt in her heart, and inspired her life. 
 
MARIA MITCHELL. 
 
 ROFESSOR MARIA MITCHELL, the distinguished 
 
 I astronomer, whose face is so vividly remembered by 
 Vassar students of recent years, is of Quaker parentage, 
 and a native of the island of Nantucket. 
 
 She was born on the first of August, 1818, one of a 
 numerous family. During her childhood she attended 
 with her brothers and sisters, the school taught hy their 
 father, who had the pleasure of finding them his best 
 pupils. The little Mitchells, quick and intelligent as they 
 showed themselves to be, were as well constituted physic¬ 
 ally as mentally; they romped, raced, and shouted as 
 healthy children do. In appearance they differed widely, 
 some being fair-liaired and of blonde complexion, while 
 others were strongly marked brunettes ; but all possessed 
 the family characteristics of intelligence and perseverance. 
 They were, as one of them afterwards expressed it, “ all 
 alike inside.” Maria, a brown-skinned, dark-eyed, lively 
 little girl, was not considered by the family to display any 
 greater ability than the others, although at the age of 
 eleven, while still her father’s pupil, she became his 
 assistant teacher. Nor did she rate her intellectual gifts 
 as highly as without vanity she might. 
 
 “ Born of only ordinary capacity, but of extraordinary 
 persistency,” she said of herself in later years, looking 
 back upon her career. But she added with a simplicity 
 as rare as it is pleasing: 
 
 “ I did not quite take this in myself, until I came to 
 
 28 
 

 MARIA MITCHELL. 
 

 
MARIA MITCHELL. 
 
 31 
 
 mingle with the best girls of our college, and to be aware 
 how rich their mines are, and how little they have been 
 worked.” 
 
 Her education, both in and out of school, was of the 
 best and most suitable kind. In the intelligent home of 
 which she was a member the news of the day was eagerly 
 gathered and discussed; scientific topics received a fair 
 share of attention; and many strange facts, not to be 
 found in books, were related and commented upon. She 
 learned, moreover, to use her hands helpfully and skill¬ 
 fully, to dress tastefully but simply, and to live con¬ 
 tentedly a plain, frugal life, brightened by study, affec¬ 
 tion, and society. She had many good friends upon the 
 island, and visitors of distinction who landed upon its 
 shores seldom failed to call at her father’s house, where a 
 hospitable welcome awaited them, as well as the pleasure 
 of imparting whatever store of knowledge or anecdote 
 they might possess to a group of curious young people 
 with a gift for listening. 
 
 At sixteen she left school, and at eighteen accepted the 
 position of librarian of the Nantucket library. Her duties 
 were light, and she had ample opportunity, surrounded as 
 she was by books, to read and study, while leisure was 
 also left her to pursue by practical observation the science 
 in which she afterwards became known. 
 
 Those who dwell upon the smaller islands learn almost 
 of necessity to study the sea and sky. The Mitchell family 
 possessed an excellent telescope. From childhood Maria 
 had been accustomed to the use of this instrument, search¬ 
 ing out with its aid the distant sails upon the horizon by 
 day, and viewing the stars by night. Her father possessed 
 a marked taste for astronomy, and carried on a series of 
 independent observations. He taught his daughter all 
 he knew, and she studied for herself besides. 
 
 At half past ten in the evening, on the first of October, 
 
32 
 
 MARIA MITCHELL. 
 
 1847, slie made the discovery which first brought her 
 name before the public. She was gazing through her 
 glass with her usual quiet intentness, when suddenly she 
 was startled to perceive “ an unknown comet, nearly ver¬ 
 tical above Polaris, about five degrees.” At first she 
 could not believe her eyes; then hoping and doubting, 
 scarcely daring to think that she had really made a dis¬ 
 covery, she obtained its right ascension and declination. 
 She then told her father, who, two days later, sent the 
 following letter to his friend, Professor Bond of Cam¬ 
 bridge : 
 
 Nantucket, 10th mo., 3d. 1847. 
 
 My dear Friend1 write now merely to say that Maria 
 discovered a telescopic comet at half-past ten, on the 
 evening of the first instant, at that hour nearly above 
 Polaris five degrees. Last evening it had advanced west¬ 
 erly; this evening still further, and nearing the pole. It 
 docs not bear illumination. Maria has obtained its right 
 ascension and declination, and will not suffer me to 
 announce it. Pray tell me whether it is one of Georgia ; if 
 not whether it has been seen by anybody. Maria sup¬ 
 poses it may be an old story. If quite convenient just 
 drop a line to her ; it will oblige me much. I expect to 
 leave heme in a day or two, and shall be in Boston next 
 week, and I w r ould like to have her hear from you before 
 I can meet you. I hope it will not give thee much 
 trouble amidst thy close engagements. Our regards are 
 to all of you most truly, 
 
 William Mitchell. 
 
 The answer to this letter informed them that the comet 
 was indeed a discovery. Meanwhile it had been observed 
 by several other astronomers, including Father da Vico 
 at Rome, and another lady, Madam Runker, at Hamburg; 
 but Miss Mitchell was able to prove without difficulty that 
 she had been the first to observe it. There was another 
 
MARIA MITCHELL. 
 
 33 
 
 thing to be considered, however. Frederick VI of Den¬ 
 mark had, about fifteen years before this time, established 
 a gold medal of twenty ducats’ value to be bestowed upon 
 any person who should first discover a telescopic comet ; 
 and this prize Miss Mitchell might fairly claim. But the 
 provisions concerning the award required that the dis¬ 
 coverer should comply with several conditions. “ If a 
 resident of Great Britain or any other quarter of the globe 
 except the continent of Europe,” he was to send notice, “ by 
 first post after the discovery,” to the astronomer-royal of 
 London. 
 
 Miss Mitchell, desiring to be certain that her discovery 
 was indeed original, had omitted to do this, and she was 
 therefore in doubt whether she might claim the medal. 
 But as the intent of this neglected formality could have 
 been nothing more than to insure the medal’s falling into 
 the right hands, and as proof existed that she was the 
 earliest discoverer, she succeeded, with the assistance of 
 Edward Everett, who warmly took her part, in obtaining 
 her well-merited distinction. 
 
 For ten years after this event she retained her position 
 in the library, faithfully discharging her duty toward the 
 institution, and at the same time performing, to the satis¬ 
 faction of the government, much difficult mathematical 
 work in connection with the coast survey. She also 
 assisted in the compilation of the American Nautical 
 Almanac. 
 
 In 1857 she went abroad and visited most of the 
 famous observatories of Europe. She was everywhere 
 received with distinction, and acquired the friendship of 
 many of the leading astronomers of the day, besides 
 being elected a member of several important scientific 
 societies. On her return home she had the pleasure of 
 finding that her friends had caused an excellent observa¬ 
 tory to be fitted up for her iu her absence, and here she 
 
34 
 
 MARIA MITCHELL. 
 
 continued her astronomical pursuits until the year 1865, 
 when she was invited to become Professor of Astronomy 
 at Yassar College, in the State of New York. She did 
 not feel certain that she could suitably fill this interest¬ 
 ing post, and hesitated some time before accepting it. It 
 is certain that the institution has never regretted her 
 favorable decision. 
 
 She at once proved herself an excellent teacher, and 
 the course in astronomy soon came to be regarded as 
 one of the pleasantest, as well as one of the best that the 
 college afforded. It is elective and informal, her classes 
 being the only ones that are not begun and ended at the 
 tap of an electric gong. The course consists, besides a 
 few lectures in the Sophomore year, of regular lessons 
 during the Junior and Senior years. It is chiefly practi¬ 
 cal and mathematical; including, however, some popular 
 astronomy. The practical portion is that which most 
 interests the professor, who is continually urging her 
 pupils to use their eyes. She encourages them to make 
 use also of the smaller telescopes every fair night, and 
 allows the Seniors some independent use of the great 
 Equatorial telescope in the observatory. She is apt to 
 display some anxiety on these occasions, however, and 
 seldom fails to warn a student who is going up to take 
 an observation, not to hit her head against the telescope. 
 Her fears, as she explains, are not for the head, but for 
 the instrument. Drawings of the observations are inva¬ 
 riably required. 
 
 In class, Miss Mitchell is abrupt but kindly, expecting 
 and obtaining from each student the nest that she can 
 do. With the plodding, modest girl, possessed of no 
 brilliant qualities, but willing to work, she is always 
 patient, and ready to give encouragement and assistance. 
 To the superficial and the conceited she shows little 
 mercy, considering it a part of her duty to abate their 
 
MARIA MITCHELL. 
 
 35 
 
 ranity. She has, as a Vassar girl remarks, “little 
 patience with fancy theories.” 
 
 She lodges at the observatory with one or two assist¬ 
 ants, and takes her meals at the college. Men are 
 employed at the observatory only for heavy lifting, 
 all the intellectual work being accomplished by Miss 
 Mitchell and her students. It is the duty of one of these 
 to photograph the sun at noon every pleasant day, and 
 daily observations are several times taken upon the tem¬ 
 perature, clouds, and rainfall. 
 
 Miss Mitchell’s “ Dome Party” which recurs every 
 June a few days before commencement, is the unique 
 social event of the college year. All present and former 
 students who are in town receive an invitation to attend, 
 and are expected to appear with mathematical accuracy 
 at the appointed hour. The guests are received in a 
 pretty parlor, whose furniture satisfies the requirements 
 of both society and science. Behind a railing at one 
 end stand the chronograph and sidereal clock, while 
 between them in a window framed with vines, is placed 
 a bust of Mrs. Somerville, presented to the college by 
 Frances Power Cobbe. Near by are two tall bookcases 
 containing a miscellaneous collection of books, including 
 a little of everything from poetry to the Principia. 
 
 When all have arrived breakfast is announced, and the 
 company form in a procession, ranging themselves accord¬ 
 ing to the year of graduation. Two large baize doors 
 then swing open, and the party, mounting a short flight 
 of stairs, find themselves in the dome itself, with the 
 great equatorial telescope overhead, pointing to the sky.. 
 Here the repast is served, upon tables arranged in a 
 circle around the walls, a rosebud and a tiny photograph 
 of the dome being laid at each plate. The meal is pleas¬ 
 ant both to the palate and to the social sense; but it is 
 not until the tables are cleared that the most enjoyable 
 part of the entertainment begins. 
 
36 
 
 MARIA MITCHELL. 
 
 Every one receives a motto paper, containing a few 
 amusing lines about some membei of the company, writ¬ 
 ten by Miss Mitchell or her assistants. These are often 
 witty but never caustic, and their reading is productive 
 of much mirth. When they have all been read, the host¬ 
 ess brings out a good sized basket which, during the few 
 days preceding the dome party, has been filled with some¬ 
 what similar effusions, dropped in anonymously by college 
 poets. Songs follow, by the “Pleiades” Glee Club, and 
 to this impromptu rhyming by those present succeeds / 
 the subjects selected being personal or scientific, and the 
 best verses composed are hastily set to familiar tunes, 
 and sung by a chorus of girls perched above their fellows 
 on the movable observatory stairs. Sometimes the spirit 
 of poetizing becomes so prevalent that no one speaks 
 except in rhyme, Miss Mitchell herself, whom all pro¬ 
 nounce to be the most delightful of hostesses, bearing a 
 leading part in the game. 
 
 Beside her constant and successful labors in teaching, 
 the public is indebted to Miss Mitchell for several import¬ 
 ant essays upon scientific subjects. Until a short time 
 ago she edited the Astronomical Notes in the Scientific 
 American. These appeared every month, and were based 
 on calculations made by her students. At one time also 
 she made a journey to Colorado to observe a solar eclipse. 
 At another she had traveled as far as Providence on her 
 way to visit friends in Boston, when she learned of the 
 discovery of a new comet, and at once renounced the 
 expedition and returned to Yassar to observe it. For 
 five nights all went well; on the sixth a large apple tree 
 obstructed her view, but she promptly summoned a man 
 to cut it down, and carried her observations to a satisfac¬ 
 tory conclusion. 
 
 She has always been noted for her liberal and enlight¬ 
 ened opinions upon religious and social affairs, and has 
 
MARIA MITCHELL. 
 
 37 
 
 taken of course deep interest in the advancement of her 
 sex. She once read before the Society for the Advance¬ 
 ment of Women an interesting paper upon the Collegiate 
 Education of Girls, a subject which few people could be 
 more competent than she to discuss. She is a member of 
 the New England Women’s Club of Boston, which in the 
 Winter of 1881-2 held a reception in her honor, and, 
 moreover, voted that the same tribute should be rendered 
 to her yearly. The meeting, it was decided, should be 
 held in the holidays between Christmas and New Year’s, 
 and the day should be called “ Maria Mitchell’s Day.” 
 
MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 INCINNATI, fifty-five years ago,-was a city of twenty 
 
 thousand inhabitants. As the center of the grow¬ 
 
 ing business of the Ohio valley, it enjoyed a European 
 celebrity which drew to it many emigrants, and some 
 visitors of capital and education. The Trollope family, 
 since so famous in literature, were living there at that 
 time in a cottage just under the bluff which overhangs 
 the town. Fresh from England, and retaining all their 
 English love of nature and out-of-door exercise, the whole 
 family, parents, two sons and two daughters, often climbed 
 that lofty and umbrageous height, since pierced by an 
 elevator, and now crowned by one of the most beautiful 
 streets in the world. 
 
 Mrs. Trollope, her two daughters, and her second son, 
 Henry, then a lad of twelve, had reached Cincinnati by 
 the Mississippi River, and were joined there afterwards by 
 her eldest son and her husband, who w r as a London 
 lawyer of some distinction. In her work upon the 
 “Domestic Manners of the Americans,” the lady does 
 not mention the motive of this visit to America. We 
 have the liberty of guessing it. She was an ardent friend 
 of Miss Frances Wright, an English lady of fortune and 
 benevolence, who came to this country with the Trollopes 
 in 1827, with the view of founding a Communal Home 
 according to the ideas of Owen and Fourier. Miss Wright 
 afterwards lectured in New York and elsewhere, but her 
 ideas were deemed erroneous and romantic, and she had 
 
MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 39 
 
 very little success in paining adherents. She was part 
 of the movement which led to Brook Farm, New Har¬ 
 mony, and similar establishments founded on principles 
 which work beautifully so long as they are confined to the 
 amiable thoughts of their founders. 
 
 It is probable that Mrs. Trollope, without being a 
 dreamer of this school, came to America a sentimental 
 republican, expecting to find here the realization of a 
 dream not less erroneous than that of Frances Wright. 
 She was wofully disappointed. In New Orleans, where 
 she landed, she saw slavery, and shuddered at the 
 spectacle. 
 
 “At the sight,” she says, “ of every negro man, woman, 
 and child that passed, my fancy wove some little romance 
 of misery as belonging to each of them; since I have 
 known more on the subject, and become better acquainted 
 with their real situation in America, I have often smiled 
 at recalling what I then felt.” 
 
 This was one great shock. She was, perhaps, not less 
 offended, as an Englishwoman and the daughter of a 
 clergyman of the church of England, to find that the 
 white people were living together on terms approaching 
 social equality. She found in New Orleans a milliner 
 holding a kind of levee in her shop, to whom she was 
 formally introduced, and who.spoke of the French fashions 
 to the ladies, and of metaphysics to the gentlemen. Mrs. 
 Trollope was not severely afflicted at this instance of 
 republican equality ; but the free and easy manners pre¬ 
 vailing on board of the Mississippi steamboats disgusted 
 her entirely, particularly the frightful expectorating of 
 the men, and their silent voracity at the dinner table. 
 
 And here she fell into her great mistake. She attribu¬ 
 ted the crude provincialisms of American life to the 
 institutions of the country, and not their true cause, the 
 desperate struggle in which the people were engaged with 
 
40 
 
 MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 savage nature. If she had carried out her original inten¬ 
 tion, and passed some months with Miss Wright on the 
 tract of primeval wilderness which that lady bought in 
 Tennessee, she might have learned what it costs >o settle 
 and subdue a virgin continent. She might have dis¬ 
 covered that when human beings subdue the wilderness, 
 the wilderness wreaks a revenge upon them in making 
 them half wild. Many of the arts of domestic life are 
 lost in the struggle. Grace of manners is lost. The art 
 of cookery is lost. Comfort is forgotten. Men may gain 
 in rude strength, but must lose in elegance and agreeable¬ 
 ness. Mrs. Trollope, whether from perversity or want of 
 penetration, perceived nothing of this, and conceived for 
 the people of the United States an extreme repugnance. 
 
 “ I do not like them,” she frankly wrote, after a stay 
 among us of three or four years. “ I do not like their 
 principles, I do not like their manners, I do not like their 
 opinions, I do not like their government.” 
 
 She expanded these sentiments into two highly amusing 
 volumes, which contain some pure truth, some not unfair 
 burlesque, and an amount of misstatement, misconception, 
 prejudice, and perversity absolutely without example. She 
 had her work illustrated with a dozen or two of carica¬ 
 tures, not ill-executed, which can now be inspected as 
 curious relics of antiquity. In America half a century 
 ago is antiquity. 
 
 But I left the Trollopes in Cincinnati in 1828, father, 
 mother, and four children. They had then been in the 
 country more than a year, quite long enough for Mrs. 
 Trollope to discover that Cincinnati had little in common 
 with the republic of her dreams. She had had enough 
 of America. How she abhorred and detested Cincinnati, 
 the first place at which she had halted long enough for 
 much observation ! She says : 
 
 “ Were I an English legislator, instead of sending 
 
MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 41 
 
 •Sedition to the Tower, I would send her to make a tour of 
 the United States. 1 had a little leaning towards sedition 
 myself when I set out, but before I had half completed 
 my tour I was quite cured.” 
 
 She admits that everybody at Cincinnati had as much 
 pork, beef, hominy, and clothes as the animal man 
 required. Every one reveled in abundance. But — 
 
 “The total and universal want of manners, both in 
 males and females, is so remarkable, that I was constantly 
 endeavoring to account for it.” 
 
 She was sure it did not proceed from want of intellect. 
 On the contrary, the people of Cincinnati appeared to her 
 to have clear heads and active minds. But— 
 
 “There is no charm, no grace in their conversation. I 
 very seldom, during my whole stay in the country, heard 
 a sentence elegantly turned and correctly pronounced 
 from the lips of an American.” 
 
 She gives her recollections of the evening parties in 
 Cincinnati sixty years ago: 
 
 “ The women invariably herd together at one part of 
 the room, and the men at the other; but in justice to 
 Cincinnati, I must acknowledge that this arrangement is 
 by no means peculiar to that city, or to the western side 
 of the Allcghanies. Sometimes a small attempt at music 
 produces a partial reunion ; a few of the most daring 
 youths, animated by the consciousness of curled hair and 
 smart waistcoats, approached the piano-forte, and began 
 to mutter a little to tlie half-grown pretty tilings, who 
 are comparing with one another ‘how many quarters’ 
 music they have had.’ Where the mansion is of sufficient 
 dignity to have two drawing-rooms, the piano, the little 
 ladies, and the slender gentlemen are left to themselves, 
 and on such occasions the sound of laughter is often 
 heard to issue from among them. But the fate of the more 
 dignified personages, who are left in the other room, is 
 
42 
 
 MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 extremely dismal. The gentlemen spit, talk of elections 
 and the price of produce, and spit again. The ladies 
 look at each other’s dresses till they know every pin by 
 heart; talk of parson somebody’s last sermon on the day 
 of judgment, on Dr. t’otlierbody’s new pills for dyspepsia, 
 till the “tea” is announced, when they will all console 
 themselves for whatever they may have suffered in keep¬ 
 ing awake, by taking more tea, coffee, hot cake, and 
 custard, hoe cake, johnny cake, waffle cake, and dodger 
 cake, pickled peaches, and preserved cucumbers, ham, 
 turkey, hung beef, apple sauce, and pickled oysters, than 
 ever were prepared in any other country of the known 
 world. After this massive meal is over, they return to 
 the drawing-room, and it always appeared to me that they 
 remained together as long as they could bear it, and then 
 they rise en masse , cloak, bonnet, shawl, and exit.” 
 
 One day of the year in America she enjoyed, namely, 
 the Fourth of July, because on that day the people around 
 her seemed to be happy, and on that day alone. 
 
 “ To me,” she remarks, “ the dreary coldness and want 
 of enthusiasm in American manners is one of their great¬ 
 est defects, and I therefore hailed the demonstrations of 
 general feeling which this day elicits with real pleasure. 
 On the Fourth of July, the hearts of the people seem to 
 awaken from a three hundred and sixty-four days’ sleep; 
 they appear high spirited, gay, animated, social, generous, 
 or at least liberal in expense ; and would they but refrain 
 from spitting on that hallowed day, I should say that on 
 the Fourth of July, at least, they appeared to be an 
 amiable people. It is true that the women have little to 
 do with the pageantry, the splendor, or the gayety of the 
 day ; but, setting this defect aside, it was indeed a glorious 
 sight to behold a jubilee so heartfelt as this ; and had 
 they not the bad taste and bad feeling to utter an annual 
 oration, with unvarying abuse of the mother country. 
 
MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 43 
 
 to say nothing of the warlike manifesto called the 
 Declaration of Independence, our gracious king himself 
 might look upon the scene and say that it was good ; nay, 
 even rejoice, that twelve millions of bustling bodies, at 
 four thousand miles distance from his throne and his 
 altars, should make their own laws, and drink their own 
 tea, after the fashion that pleased them best.” 
 
 In the city of New York she found more agreeable 
 society, but even there she thought the ladies were terri¬ 
 bly under the influence of fanatical ideas. She spent a 
 Sunday afternoon at Hoboken, and describes what she 
 saw there: 
 
 “ The price of entrance to this little Eden is the six 
 cents you pay at the ferry. We went there on a bright 
 Sunday afternoon, expressly to see the humors of the 
 place. Many thousand persons were scattered through 
 the grounds; of these we ascertained, by repeatedly 
 counting, that nineteen-twentieths were men. The ladies 
 were at church. Often as the subject has pressed upon 
 my mind, I think I never so strongly felt the conviction 
 that the Sabbath-day, the holy day, the day on which 
 alone the great majority of the Christian world can spend 
 their hours as they please, is ill passed (if passed entirely) 
 within brick walls, listening to an earth-born preacher, 
 charm he never so wisbly. 
 
 “How is it that the men of America, who are reckoned 
 good husbands and good fathers, while they themselves 
 enjoy sufficient freedom of spirit to permit their walking 
 forth into the temple of the living God, can leave those 
 they love best on earth, bound in the iron chains of a 
 most tyrannical fanaticism ? How can they breathe the 
 balmy air, and not think of the tainted atmosphere so 
 heavily weighing upon breasts still dearer than their own ? 
 How can they gaze upon the blossoms of the spring, and 
 not remember the fairer checks of their young daughters, 
 
44 
 
 MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 waxing pale, as they sit for long, sultry hours, immured 
 with hundreds of fellow victims, listening to the roaring 
 vanities of a preacher canonized by a college of old 
 women ? They cannot think it needful to salvation, or 
 1 hey would not withdraw themselves. Wherefore is it ? 
 Do they fear these self-elected, self-ordained priests, and 
 offer up their wives and daughters to propitiate them ? 
 Or do they deem their hebdomadal freedom more com¬ 
 plete because their wives and daughters are shut up four 
 or five times in the day at church or chapel ? ” 
 
 But enough of these specimens. The republic being 
 insupportable, and Mrs. Trollope’s Diary being still 
 incomplete, it was necessary for the family to come to a 
 resolution. Their eldest son, Thomas Adolphus, nineteen 
 years of age, was old enough to be entered at Oxford 
 University, and it was necessary for his father to go with 
 him to England. After family consultations, they 
 resolved upon a brief separation, the father and eldest 
 son to go to England, the mother with her two daughters 
 and younger son to visit the Eastern portions of the 
 country, and fill up the Diary. That second son, then 
 about fourteen years of age, was Henry Trollope, after¬ 
 wards the famous English novelist, whose recent death 
 was lamented in America not less than in England. 
 
 No sooner had they come to this resolution than a piece 
 of news reached Cincinnati which induced the gentlemen 
 to postpone their departure. General Jackson, President¬ 
 elect, was on his triumphal journey to Washington, and 
 was expected to stop a few hours at Cincinnati on his 
 way up the Ohio. They determined to wait and get pas¬ 
 sage on board of the steamboat that bore so distinguished 
 a personage. Mrs. Trollope and her family walked down 
 to the landing to see the arrival of the old hero, and she 
 almost enjoyed the spectacle. 
 
 “The noble steamboat which conveyed him was flanked 
 
MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 43 
 
 on each side by one of nearly equal size and splendor; 
 the roofs of all three were covered by a crowd of men; 
 cannon saluted them from the shore as they passed by to 
 the distance of a quarter of a mile above the town. 
 There they turned about and came down the river with a 
 rapid but stately motion, the three vessels so close 
 together as to appear one mighty mass upon the ■water.” 
 
 Mrs. Trollope was so happy as to catch a view of the 
 Hero of New Orleans as he walked bareheaded between a 
 silent lane of people on his way from the steamboat to 
 the hotel, where he was to hold a reception. 
 
 “ He wore his gray hair carelessly,” she remarks, “ but 
 not ungracefully arranged, and, spite of his harsh, gaunt 
 features, he looks like a gentleman and a soldier.” 
 
 Her husband and her son conversed much with the 
 general on board the steamboat. 
 
 “ They were pleased,” she says, “ by his conversation 
 and manners, but deeply disgusted by the brutal familiar¬ 
 ity to which they saw him exposed at every place on 
 their progress at which they stopped.” 
 
 Mrs. Trollope and her children returned to England in 
 1830, carrying with her, as she te.lls us, six hundred 
 pages of manuscript notes similar to the specimens 1 have 
 given. They were speedily published, ran through three 
 editions in three months, were republished in New York, 
 and called forth an amount of comment of all kinds, from 
 eulogistic to vituperative, which has rarely been paral¬ 
 leled. The work set her up in the business of an author¬ 
 ess. She followed it by a very long list of works of 
 travel and fiction, most of which were tolerably suc¬ 
 cessful. 
 
 Both her sons became voluminous writers, and some of 
 her grandchildren 1 believe, have written books. Her 
 husband, too, is the author of legal works and a History 
 of the Church. If all the works produced by this family 
 
46 
 
 MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 during the last sixty years were gathered together in 
 their original editions, they would make a library of fivo 
 or six hundred volumes. Several English journalists 
 have been counting up the works of the late Anthony 
 Trollope. If at some future time a compiler of statistics, 
 should take the census of the people he called into being 
 on the printed page, it will be found that he was the 
 author of more population than some of our Western 
 counties can boast. 
 
 Anthony Trollope was born in 1815, but as he did not 
 begin to publish till 1847, when he was thirty-two years 
 of age, he was a public writer for thirty-five years, and 
 during that period he gave the world fifty-nine works, of 
 which thirty-seven were full-fledged novels. Some of his 
 publications, such as his life of Cicero, and others, 
 involved a good deal of research, and all of them show 
 marks of careful elaboration. They give us the impres¬ 
 sion that, if ever he failed in his purpose, it was not from 
 any lack of painstaking in the author. 
 
 This amount of literary labor would be reckoned 
 extraordinary if he had done nothing else in his life. 
 When we learn that until within the last eight years he 
 held an important and responsible post in the English 
 Post-office department, which obliged him to give attend¬ 
 ance during business hours, from eleven to four, and that 
 he was frequently sent on long journeys and ocean 
 voyages on Post-office business, involving many months’ 
 continuous absence, we may well be amazed at the cata¬ 
 logue of his publications. 
 
 Of late years, too, he was constantly in society, a fre¬ 
 quent diner out, a welcome guest everywhere, as well as 
 a familiar personage in the hunting-field. Hunting was 
 his favorite recreation, as walking was that of Charles 
 Dickens. Like most Englishmen, he loved the country, 
 country interests, and country sports. For many years, 
 
MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 47 
 
 although a stout man, difficult to mount, he rode after 
 the hounds three times a week during the hunting season. 
 His readers do not need to be told that lie utilized his 
 hunting experience in working out his novels. His 
 knowledge of horse-flesh was something like Sam Weller’s 
 knowledge of London, “ both extensive and peculiar,” for 
 he was obliged to look sharply to the points of a horse 
 destined to gallop and leap under more than two hundred 
 pounds’ weight. A reader cannot go far in his pages 
 without being reminded that he was a horseman and a 
 hunter. 
 
 All this increases the wonder excited by the mere 
 number of his printed works. How did he execute them ? 
 and above all, when did lie execute them ? 
 
 He was often in this country, mingling freely with lit¬ 
 erary men, and he more than once in New York described 
 his daily routine. He rose so early in the morning as to 
 sit down to write at five o’clock, and he wrote steadily on 
 until eight. He had such complete command of his 
 powers that lie could depend upon producing a certain 
 number of pages every morning. He rarely failed to do 
 his stint. It made little difference whether the scene 
 under his hand was of a tranquil or a thrilling nature, 
 whether lie was writing the critical chapter of his work 
 or one of its most commonplace portions. He wrote his 
 daily number of pages before people in general had sat 
 down to breakfast, and having done so, he laid his manu¬ 
 script aside, and thought no more of it till the next 
 morning. 
 
 He told the late Mr. George Ripley that he could pro¬ 
 duce in this way two long novels per annum, for which lie 
 received (if 1 remember rightly) three thousand guineas 
 each, or fifteen thousand dollars each. This was certainly 
 doing very well, and deprives him of any excuse for over¬ 
 working. One of his friends writes in the London Times: 
 
48 
 
 MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 “We can not resist a melancholy suspicion that if he 
 had relaxed a little sooner he might have been spared to 
 us longer. Anxiety, rather than actual work, may have 
 been injurious, when he began to grow nervous under the 
 strain of keeping engagements against time.” 
 
 Not one man in many thousands could have lived his 
 life for a single year without destruction. Nature had 
 given him an admirable constitution. He had a sound 
 digestion, tranquil nerves, a cheerful disposition, and a 
 taste for rural pleasures. lie should V.Lve lived to “ four 
 score and upward.” 
 
 America may claim some property in this gifted and 
 genial man. He used to berate us soundly (and justly, 
 too) for republishing his works without paying him copy¬ 
 right for the same. I have the impression, however, that 
 he owed his place in the Post-office, in a/, indirect way, 
 to the American people. We have seen above that as a 
 boy of twelve, he arrived with his mother and sisters, on 
 Christmas day, 1827, at the mouth of the Mississippi, and 
 made with them a three years’ tour of the United States. 
 It is possible mat lie may have assisted in the drawing of 
 the comic pictures with which his mother enlivened her 
 work upon the “ Domestic Manners of the Americans,” 
 and doubtless he nad his share in the numberless anec¬ 
 dotes that figure in its pages. The youth escorted his 
 mother to some of those “ large evening parties ” which 
 she describes, where there was “ no ecartt, no chess, very 
 little music, and that lamentably bad,” and where “to eat 
 inconceivable quantities of cake, ice, and pickled oysters, 
 and to show half their revenue in silks and satins, seemed 
 to be the chief object of the ladies.” 
 
 We are sure that he passed, with his mother, those 
 “four days of excitement and fatigue at Niagara,” where, 
 as she says, “ we drenched ourselves in spray, we cut our 
 feet on the rocks, we blistered our faces in the sun, we 
 
MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 49 
 
 looked up the cataract and down the cataract, we perched 
 ourselves on every pinnacle we could find, we dipped our 
 fingers in the flood at a few yards’ distance from its 
 thundering fall.” In all these delights the future novelist 
 had his part. 
 
 Let us hope, too, that he shared with his parent the 
 pleasure she took in the Hudson River, in Manhattan 
 Island, and even in the city of New York, a city which 
 she really seemed to enjoy. At that time, 1830, Man¬ 
 hattan Island was one of the most beautiful suburban, 
 regions in the world. It was dotted all over with pretty 
 villas and cottages, and showed many a stately mailsion 
 on the slopes of the two rivers. Greenwich, Blooming- 
 dale, Yorkville, and Harlem were pleasant country vil¬ 
 lages. The island was New York and Newport in one. 
 Anthony Trollope heard of these agreeable scenes, and, 
 possibly, shared the indignation of his mother on being 
 charged by a New York hackman two dollars and a half 
 for a twenty minutes’ ride. 
 
 But how did we render him a pecuniary benefit ? When 
 his mother published in London her satirical work, it w’as 
 hailed by the enemies of republicanism with delight. They 
 seem to have felt that American principles w r ere discredited 
 forever. I think it highly probable that the son of the 
 authoress owed his appointment in the Post-office to the 
 favor in which the work was held by the appointing 
 power. 
 
 England had not then reformed her civil service so as 
 to make appointments depend on the comparative merit 
 of applicants. But she has always known enough to 
 retain in her service men of intelligence and capacity. 
 Having got Anthony Trollope, she kept him during all the 
 best years of his life, and then gave him honorable retire¬ 
 ment. It was he wdio completed the postal arrangements 
 between this country and Great Britain, by which it is 
 
50 
 
 MRS. TROLLOPE. 
 
 quite as easy, and almost as cheap, to send a letter to 
 any part of the British empire as it is from New York to 
 Albany. 
 
 That is the substance of a true civil service: first, get 
 a man, and then keep him. 
 
 Mrs. Trollope died in Florence in 1863, aged eighty- 
 three years. In private life she was a very friendly and 
 good soul, much admired and sought in the society of 
 Florence, where she passed the last twenty years of her 
 long life. 
 
ADELAIDE PHILLIPS. 
 
 T the tender age of eight years, Miss Phillips was 
 
 f \ already an actress. She never knew why her 
 parents chose that profession for her, nor could she 
 remember her first appearance. Her earliest recollec¬ 
 tion of the theatre dated back to some play in which she 
 was required to jump out of a window. She feared to 
 take the leap; she hesitated, until an actor standing at 
 the wings held up a big orange before her eyes, an 
 inducement which she could not resist. She jumped, 
 was caught safely in his arms, and received the fruit as 
 her reward. 
 
 Miss Phillips, whose family ties all bound her to 
 America, and the greater part of whose professional 
 career was passed in this country, scarcely liked to 
 acknowledge that she was not an American. She was 
 born in England, at Stratford-on-Avon, about the year 
 1835 ; her father English, her mother Welsh. When she 
 was seven years of age her family came to America, 
 going first to Canada, and thence to Boston, where they 
 established their home. It was in this city that the little 
 girl made her ddbnt in January, 1842, appearing at the 
 Tremont Theatre in the comedy of “ Old and Young,” 
 in which she was required to personate five characters, 
 and introduce several songs and dances. A year later 
 she joined the Boston Museum and amused the public 
 with her representation of “ Little Pickle ” in “ The 
 Spoiled Child,” and soon after she was promoted to take 
 
 4 
 
 53 
 
54 
 
 ADELAIDE PHILLIPS. 
 
 part in a number of fairy spectacles. With the company 
 her bright sayings, her simple manners, and obliging 
 temper made her a favorite. 
 
 “ They were so kind to me,” she said in later years ; 
 “ they took such care of me, for I was but a child when 
 I first appeared there, so much of a child that I used to 
 drive my hoop back and forth to the rehearsals. The 
 work was play to me ; I learned my parts easily and was 
 petted and praised, which was very pleasant.” 
 
 She was so much a child, too, that one day she arrived 
 at the theatre crying so bitterly that for some time she 
 was unable to explain what was the matter. Her trouble 
 proved to be that a beautiful doll in a shop window that 
 she passed every day, a doll which she had set her heart 
 upon possessing, had that morning vanished from its 
 usual station. Somebody else had bought it, and Ade¬ 
 laide was disconsolate. It was long before she could be 
 comforted, and her happiness was not fully restored until 
 the good-natured stage-manager presented her with 
 another doll, even prettier than the one she had longed 
 for. 
 
 As she grew older she had many characters assigned 
 her, and worked faithfully in her profession. A farce 
 always followed the play in those days, and she frequently 
 appeared in both. Often, too, she sustained a part in 
 fairy spectacles such as Fair Star and Cinderella —pieces 
 in which her graceful dancing as well as her beautiful 
 voice fitted her to shine. 
 
 Never but once did she lose command of her counte¬ 
 nance upon the stage, and that was in these early days at 
 the Museum. 
 
 “ It was,” she said, “ in some farce where Mr. Warren 
 was shut up in a pantry closet, while I, apparently uncon¬ 
 scious of the fact, was playing the piano accompaniment 
 to a song. He suddenly opened the door and looked out, 
 
ADELAIDE PHILLIPS. 
 
 55 
 
 bis face revealing (hat lie had been solacing his imprison¬ 
 ment by helping himself to some of the sweetmeats on 
 the shelves, and he assumed such a look as only he could 
 call up. It was all over with me and my song; fortu¬ 
 nately, the audience also were too much convulsed with 
 laughter to notice my inability to proceed, until it was 
 possible for the play to go on.” 
 
 Those who have seen Mr. Warren at his funniest will 
 not wonder at Miss Phillips’ loss of self-control. 
 
 When she was sixteen or seventeen years of age, her 
 parents and relatives, recognizing I he unusual power and 
 beauty of her voice—a rich contralto—decided that she 
 would do wisely to leave the stage for a time and study 
 for the Italian opera. Her teachers had the utmost faith 
 in her success. 
 
 Jenny Lind was then in Boston, and Adelaide Phillips 
 was introduced, and sang to her. The next day she 
 received a friendly letter in which Miss Lind recommended 
 Emanuel Garcia, her own instructor, as the most suitable 
 teacher for her young friend, and added much wise and 
 kindly advice concerning the career to which she aspired. 
 Enclosed in the letter was a check for a thousand dollars. 
 
 In 1852, Adelaide Phillips went to London, and 
 remained there nearly two years pursuing her studies 
 under Garcia. From London she went to Italy, accom¬ 
 panied by her father and sister, that she might better 
 acquire the Italian language, and receive the training of 
 Signor Profondo in operatic acting. While in Italy she 
 kept a journal—a brief, business-like record, encumbered 
 with very few of the raptures, sentiments, and gay non¬ 
 sense that fill the pages of most young girls’ diaries. 
 Here is an extract from the first entry : 
 
 “Mr. Biandi came and asked me if I wanted an 
 engagement; he had spoken of me to one of the agents 
 who wanted a contralto. The agent came accordingly. 
 
56 
 
 ADELAIDE PHILLIPS. 
 
 I sang to him ‘ Pcnsa alia Patria .’ He seemocl very 
 much pleased with my voice. The place is Brescia, in 
 Lombardy. They offer four hundred dollars a month for 
 four months. The first part to appear in, Arsace. Papa 
 will give an answer in a few days. Mr. Biandi brought 
 me the opera of Semiramide and gave me some good 
 ideas. I commenced studying Arsace.” 
 
 The offer thus mentioned was accepted, and she made 
 her debut at Brescia. It was customary that the last 
 rehearsal of an opera should be in full dress, but in a fit 
 of girlish obstinacy, she refused to put on the armor of 
 Arsace until the evening of the performance. The direc¬ 
 tors and musical critics, who were present in force, 
 showed their displeasure; she retaliated by singing 
 through the part in demi-voice. Her manager was in 
 despair, and it certainly was a foolish thing for her to do, 
 although she by no means realized its importance. The 
 next night the house was crowded, and when she entered 
 as Arsace, in full armor, she was l’eceived in silence. No 
 applause followed her recitative and andante, and it was 
 not until, provoked by their coldness to the utmost exer¬ 
 tion, she gave the caballetta with superb power and pas¬ 
 sion, that the audience, unable to resist longer, broke into 
 a tempest of cheering. Her success was complete and 
 triumphant. 
 
 Other engagements followed; then many disappoint¬ 
 ments. Whenever she sang she pleased, but she could 
 not always find an opportunity to sing, and sometimes 
 when she did the managers could not or would not pay 
 her. Cheers and tears from the enthusiastic Italian audi¬ 
 ences continued to greet her wherever she Avent, and 
 sonnets and flowers were showered upon the stage, but 
 money was so difficult to obtain that in 1855 she left Italy 
 to try her fortune again in America. Her operatic d6but 
 in this country was made in Philadelphia, once more in 
 
ADELAIDE PHILLIPS. 
 
 57 
 
 the part of Arsace, and was in every way successful. 
 Her popularity soon became assured. During the next 
 few years she visited all parts of this country, and 
 appeared successfully in Paris and other European cities. 
 In Poland she was much struck by the appearance of her 
 audience, all the ladies being attired in black. They 
 were in mourning for their country. In Cuba, where she 
 learned to speak Spanish like a native, she was received 
 with a favor which she reciprocated. 
 
 “ My greatest artistic success, my true appreciation,” 
 she used to say, “was in Havana.” 
 
 During one of her visits to Havana with an opera 
 troupe, a young girl of the chorus with whom she had 
 made acquaintance during the voyage, was attacked by 
 the yellow fever. Without a moment’s thought of her¬ 
 self, Miss Phillips went to her and nursed her throughout 
 the whole of her illness. She took the disease herself, 
 nearly died of it, lost all her beautiful hair, and was never 
 again the strong, healthy woman she had been. 
 
 This was of course an exceptional act, but her kindness, 
 her generosity, and sympathy made her peculiarly dear to 
 her friends. Her devotion to the interests of her family 
 was unfailing. She was never so happy as when she 
 lived with her brothers and sisters in the lovely country 
 home at Marshfield, which she helped to beautify with her 
 hands and her money. There she loved to be, whenever 
 her arduous profession allowed her to rest. There sho 
 watched the growth of fruit and flowers, spent half her 
 days out of doors, and enjoyed the society of half a dozen 
 favorite dogs. There, too, she gave occasional entertain¬ 
 ments, when her beautiful voice, her powers of mimicry, 
 and her rare talent as a story teller, were all called into 
 play to charm her guests. Although her heart was in 
 this quiet country place, and the constant activity and 
 frequent journeys which her engagements necessitated 
 
58 
 
 ADELAIDE PHILLIPS. 
 
 wore often distasteful to her, she held her profession in 
 honor, and loyally resented all imputations cast upon it. 
 
 “ The actual work behind the scenes,” she used to say, 
 “ leaves no time for the sort of things people imagine ; we 
 are too busy, often too anxious, to attend to anything but 
 our parts. The heroes and the heroines of the opera are 
 seldom the lovers they enact; often quite the reverse.” 
 
 Nor did she undervalue the applause of the public. It 
 was most welcome toiler, and she labored with scrupulous 
 fidelity to deserve it, taking infinite pains with little things 
 as well as great, never for a moment inattentive or care¬ 
 less. She learned from an officer in the army the best way 
 tj sheathe her sword, and for many other such details she 
 sought out and consulted those who she thought would 
 be able to instruct her. 
 
 The praise she most enjoyed, however, was that of her 
 friends; and the most precious tribute to her powers was 
 not that of the critics. She always looked back with 
 peculiar pride to one evening at an entertainment in a 
 fashionable house in New York, when she sang “ Kathleen 
 Mavourneen ” to a large company. While she was singing 
 a young Irish serving maid entered the room with a tray 
 in her hand, and was so overcome with emotion, that for¬ 
 getting her duties and her deportment alike, she sank 
 down in a chair and burst into tears. At another time, 
 at a hotel in the mountains, where Miss Phillips had 
 refused to sing in public, having gone there in search of 
 rest, she was found seated in the kitchen surrounded 
 by guides and servants, all crying heartily at her pathetic 
 singing of “ Auld Robin Gray.” 
 
 The same magnetic power that characterized her sing¬ 
 ing was exerted by her voice in speaking, when she chose 
 to coax or command. Its influence was once acknowl¬ 
 edged by a naughty little girl, who, having successfully 
 resisted her parents and relatives, came and seated herseif 
 meekly at Miss Phillips’ feet, saying: 
 
ADELAIDE PHILLIPS. 
 
 59 
 
 “ You have made me good, though I did not mean you 
 should.” 
 
 Miss Phillips -worked excessively hard, and after her 
 health began to give way she kept on too long. She went 
 abroad with her sister in 1882, hoping that restand change 
 would restore her. It was too late ; she died at Carlsbad, 
 October 3, 1882, not fifty years of age. She lies buried 
 in the cemetery at Marshfield in Massachusetts, near the 
 grave of Daniel Webster. She was a conscientious artist 
 and high-principled, too generous woman. There is per¬ 
 haps no vocation so arduous as hers, for a public singer, 
 besides serving an exacting, fastidious, inconsiderate, and 
 capricious master, the public, is also a slave to her voice. 
 She rests in peace after a life of arduous toil, and her 
 memory is dear to many who knew her worth.* 
 
 * Adelaide Bliiltips, a Heeorii. By Mrs, li. (J. Waterston. Boston, 
 
TWO QUEENS. THE DAUGHTERS OF JAMES II OF 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 T is interesting to turn over a chestful of old family 
 
 1 letters stored away in a garret which has been closed, 
 perhaps, for a century. There is a lady living in Holland 
 called the Countess of Bentinct, who has long possessed 
 a rare treasure of this kind, a box of old letters -written 
 by James II of England and his two daughters, Mary 
 and Anne, both of whom reigned after their father lost 
 his crown by turning Catholic. Recently, the Countess 
 of Bentinct has published these letters in Holland, and 
 now all the world can read what these royal personages 
 thought in the crisis of their fate, in the very years (1G87 
 and 1688) when James was estranging all his Protestant 
 subjects, and when his daughters, Mary of Orange and 
 the Princess Anne, were looking on and watching the events 
 which were to call them to the throne of Great Britain. 
 
 The Princess Mary, a beautiful woman twenty-six years 
 of age, was then living in Holland in the palace of her 
 husband, William, Prince of Orange, whom she devot¬ 
 edly loved. The Princess Anne, married to a son of the 
 King of Denmark, lived in England. Both sisters, if we 
 may judge by their letters, were warmly attached to the 
 Church of England. Nevertheless, upon reading Mary’s 
 letters, some uncharitable persons might use the language 
 of Shakespeare and say, “ The lady doth protest too 
 much.” As to the King, her father, he gave proof of his 
 sincerity by sacrificing his throne to his convictions. 
 The first letter of importance in this collection is one 
 
 60 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF JAMES II OF ENGLAND. 
 
 6l 
 
 written by James II to his eldest daughter Mary, giving 
 her, in compliance with her request, the reasons why he 
 had changed his religion. This letter was written Novem¬ 
 ber 4,1687, about a year before William of Orange invaded 
 England and seized the crown. 
 
 “ I must tell you first,” wrote the King, “ that I was 
 brought up very strictly in the English Church by Dr. 
 Stuart, to whom the King, my father, gave particular 
 instructions to that end, and I was so zealous that when 
 the Queen, my mother, tried to rear my brother, the 
 Duke of Gloucester, in the Catholic religion, I did my 
 utmost (preserving always the respect due her) to keep 
 him firm in his first principles, and as young people often 
 do, I thought it was a point of honor to be firmly attached 
 to the sentiments in which I was reared.” 
 
 He proceeds to tell her that, after the dethronement 
 of his father, Charles I, and all the time he lived an exile 
 in foreign countries, no Catholic ever attempted to con¬ 
 vert him; and he assures her that his change of faith 
 began within himself. The first thing that attracted his 
 attention, he tells his daughter, was the great devotion 
 that he remarked among Catholics of all ranks and con¬ 
 ditions, and the frequent reformation of Catholic young 
 men who had previously been dissolute. 
 
 “ I observed also,” he says, “ the becoming manner of 
 their public worship, their churches so well adorned, and 
 the great charities which they maintained ; all of which 
 made me begin to have a better opinion of their religion, 
 and compelled me to enquire into it more carefully.” 
 
 Having reached this point, he began to study the doc¬ 
 trines in dispute, as they were presented in well-known 
 books, and particularly in the New Testament, which, he 
 says, plainly reveals “ an infallible Church,” against 
 which the gates of hell shall not prevail. This was 
 his main position, which he fortified by quoting the usual 
 
62 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF JAMES II OF ENGLAND. 
 
 tests. He writes on this subject at great length to his 
 daughter, and it is impossible to doubt that he gave utter¬ 
 ance to what he really believed and warmly felt. All 
 these letters, I should explain, are written in the French 
 language, which had probably been the language of the 
 family since the time of their ancestor, Mary, Queen of 
 Scots, great-grandmother to James II. Princess Mary 
 kept even her private diary in French, wrote to her sister 
 Anne in French, and probably knew the French language 
 much better than she did the English. In the public 
 library at the Hague there is a splendid English Bible, 
 which was handed to her when she was crowned Queen 
 in Westminster Abbey, on the title-page of which are 
 these words, in her own hand : 
 
 “ This book was given the king and I at our coronation. 
 Marie R.” 
 
 Her French is better than this, and even the spelling 
 is no worse than was common among educated French 
 ladies of that period. She answered the King’s letter at 
 inordinate length, and employed all the forms of respect 
 then used towards monarchs, beginning her letter with 
 “ Sire,” and always addressing her father as “ V. M.,” 
 which signifies Votre Majeste. She showed a good deal 
 of skill and tact in meeting his arguments, and it is 
 possible that she had the aid of some learned doctor of 
 divinity. Upon the question of the infallibility of the 
 Roman Church, she says : 
 
 “ 1 have never understood that it has been decided, 
 even by Catholics themselves, whether this infallibility 
 rests in the Pope alone, or in a General Council, or in 
 both together; and I hope Your Majesty will be willing 
 to permit me to ask where it was when there were three 
 popes at once, each of whom had his Council called General, 
 and when all the popes thundered anathemas against one 
 another ? ” 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF JAMES II OF ENGLAND. 
 
 63 
 
 She argued this point at considerable length, because, 
 as she remarked, “ if the infallibility be conceded, every 
 other claim follows as a matter of course.” The King 
 ordered his ambassador to Holland to supply the Princess 
 with the best Catholic books, in which the points of differ¬ 
 ence were treated by theologians. This command was 
 obeyed, and the Princess dutifully read some of them, and 
 wrote her opinion of them to her father. She would 
 have made a very good reviewer, so apt w'as she to seize 
 the weak places of a book. One of the Catholic authors 
 remarked that people could never bo convinced by insults 
 and violence. 
 
 “ I must believe, then,” said she, “that the first edition 
 of his book was published before the King of France 
 (Louis X1Y) began to convert people by fiis dragoons, 
 since toward the end of his work lie gives high praise to 
 that king.” 
 
 The same author objected to the circulation of the 
 Bible on the ground that “ women and ignorant people ” 
 could not understand it. Without stopping to remark 
 upon the contemptuous allusion to the intellect of her sex, 
 she observes, in reply, that “ our souls are as precious in 
 the eyes of God as the wisest, for before Him there is 
 no respect of persons.” And, besides, as she continues : 
 
 “ God requires of each person according to what he has, 
 and not according to wdiat he has not; through His mercy 
 He has left us a written Word which is clear and exact.” 
 
 She also quoted the texts relied on by Protestants, such 
 as, “ Search the Scriptures,” and others ; showing a sur¬ 
 prising familiarity with the controversies of the time, 
 which indeed were to her and her sister of the most 
 vital interest. More than a crown was at stake. If their 
 father held on his course, Mary might at any moment 
 be called upon to fill a vacant throne, or be the nominal 
 head of a rebellion against her own father. Anne, mean- 
 
64 THE DAUGHTEHS OF JAMES II OF ENGLAND. 
 
 while, was full of anxiety and apprehension. It was her 
 cruel fate to become the mother of seventeen children, 
 all of whom died in childhood; so that for many years 
 she lived in almost continual anxiety, each child bringing 
 new hopes, which were soon changed to apprehension and 
 despair. At this very time she wrote to her sister from 
 her palace in London, called the Cockpit: 
 
 “ I cannot say half of what I wish because I am obliged 
 to return immediately to my poor child, for I am more 
 anxious when I am absent from her.” 
 
 It was nearly twenty years before she ceased to hope. 
 All her children perished in infancy except one, who 
 lived to be eleven years old; so that the sentence just 
 quoted represents a great part of the history of her 
 married life. In October, 1688, William, Prince of 
 Orange, with a fleet of six hundred vessels, sailed for 
 England, leaving his wife in Holland to pray for his suc¬ 
 cess. She relates in her diary the manner of their part¬ 
 ing, which was certainly peculiar. 
 
 “In case,” said the Prince, “it pleases God that I 
 never more see you, it will be necessary for you to marry 
 again.” 
 
 These words, she says, surprised her and rent her 
 heart. 
 
 “ There is no need,” continued the Prince, “for me to 
 tell you not to marry a Papist.” 
 
 On uttering these words he burst into tears, and as 
 soon as he could command his voice he assured her that 
 it was only his anxiety for the reformed religion which 
 made him speak as he had done. She did not know what 
 to reply. But at last she said: 
 
 “ I have never loved any one but you, and should not 
 know how to love another. Besides, as I have been 
 married so many years without having the blessing of a 
 child, I believe that that is sufficient to exempt me from 
 ever thinking of what you propose.” 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF JAMES II OF ENGLAND. 65 
 
 t 
 
 She accompanied the Prince to his ship and saw the 
 fleet set sail. A month passed before she heard news of 
 him, during which she spent most of her time in public 
 and private prayers, as did also all her court, and a great 
 number of the people of Holland. 
 
 “ Every morning,” she records, “I attended the French 
 prayers which were held in my own house. At noon, I 
 joined in the English prayers; and at five in the after¬ 
 noon, I attended church to hear a sermon ; at half-past 
 seven in the evening, I was present at evening prayers. 
 All this I did constantly, God by His grace giving mo 
 health to be able to do it. Every Friday we had a par¬ 
 ticular solemnity in my house, where I then had an Eng¬ 
 lish sermon preached. But my enemy, the devil, found 
 means to stir up within me scruples and fears, causing 
 mo to apprehend that by all these public devotions I was 
 attracting the praises of men, and that that would excite 
 my vanity. I feared also that if I should abstain from 
 them and remain at home, I should not give them that 
 good example and encouragement to devotion which was 
 my duty in the rank in which it had pleased God to place 
 me. Hence, whether I went to prayers or abstained, 
 1 saw something to fear. Nevertheless, thanks be to 
 God, I resolved to do my duty without troubling myself 
 as to the consequences.” 
 
 During that month of suspense, the Princess received 
 no company. When at length she was assured that her 
 husband had made a safe landing, she resumed her recep¬ 
 tions, four days in the week, at which, however, as she 
 herself records, “ I did not play at cards.” A young 
 lady has seldom been so cruelly situated as she was then ; 
 her husband having invaded the dominions of her father 
 with the deliberate intention to drive him from his throne 
 and country. It is evident from these letters that she 
 had no scruples of conscience in the matter, but gave all 
 
66 
 
 THE DAUGHTERS OF JAMES II OF ENGLAND. 
 
 her heart and approval to her husband. She opposed her 
 father, not merely because he was a Catholic, but wished 
 to make England Catholic. She believed that he was 
 trying to pass off upon the people of England a spurious 
 child, who would continue the work which he had begun, 
 and fasten upon Great Britain a line of Catholic kings. 
 
 Success rewarded the efforts of the Prince of Orange, 
 and in a few weeks Mary joined him in England. In 
 April, 1689, William and Mary were crowned at West¬ 
 minster Abbey, King and Queen of England. As she was 
 not merely Queen by right of marriage, but by right of 
 birth, she was crowned in all respects as a monarch, being 
 girt with a sword, placed upon the throne, and presented 
 with a Bible, a pair of spurs, and a small globe. 
 
 | The gracious manners of Queen Mary, her pronounced 
 piety, and her noble presence went far towards reconcil¬ 
 ing the people to the ungenial demeanor of her husband. 
 It was she who introduced into England the taste for 
 collecting china, which has been often since revived, and 
 wnich prevails even at this day. She continued to write 
 letters to her old friends in Holland, and to make entries 
 into her diary, some of which are printed in the volume 
 under consideration. Her husband did not find Ireland 
 so easy to conquer as England, and it was not till the 
 summer of 1691 that the Catholic Irish were finally sub¬ 
 dued. When the news of victory reached England, the 
 churches opened, and the people thronged to them to offer 
 thanks to God. Queen Mary, at the Palace of Kensing¬ 
 ton, wrote thus in her diary : 
 
 “ What thanks ought I to render, 0 my soul, to thy 
 Lord for all His bounties ? They are indeed new every 
 morning, and I can well say: it is of thy mercy, 0 Lord, 
 that we are not consumed, for Thy mercy enduretli for¬ 
 ever. But what are we, thy poor sinful people of this 
 country, what is my husband, and what am I, that we 
 
THE DAUGHTERS OF JAMES II 07 ENGLAND. 67 
 
 should receive so many favors ? 0 my God, to thee be all 
 
 the glory ! May we learn to humble ourselves truly 
 before Him, and may all those poor people in Ireland, as 
 well as ourselves here, being delivered from our enemies, 
 serve Thee in holiness and justice all the days of our 
 lives! ” 
 
 Queen Mary did not long enjoy her royal state. At 
 the early age of thirty-two, in the very bloom and lustre 
 of her maturity, she was seized with small-pox, and died 
 in a few days. The King, her husband, was led, almost 
 insensible, from the chamber of death, and when he 
 died, eight years after, a gold ring, containing a lock of 
 Mary’s hair, was found next to ais person suspended by 
 a black silk ribbon. The childless Anne then succeeded 
 to the throne. So much for this box of royal letters, 
 now opened for the first time in this country. 
 
AN EVENING WITH RACHEL. 
 
 T was the evening of May 29,1839, when this suppef 
 
 I occurred, of "which the reader, after the lapse of 
 thirty-eight years, is invited to partake. Mademoiselle 
 Rachel had performed in Voltaire’s tragedy of “ Tancr&de” 
 to a crowded and enraptured audience, for she was then 
 in the flush of her first celebrity, only eleven months 
 having elapsed since her first appearance in classic 
 tragedy. 
 
 The real name of this “ sublime child,” as the French 
 poets love to style her, was Elizabeth Rachel Felix, and 
 she was born in Switzerland, the daughter of a Jewish 
 peddler. In her early days she used to sing in the cafes 
 of Paris, accompanying herself on an old guitar. She 
 was about eleven years of age when her voice caught the 
 ear of one cf the founders of the Royal Conservatory of 
 Music, who placed her in one of its classes, and agreed 
 to defray the expenses of her education. Her voice not 
 proving to be as promising as her benefactor imagined, he 
 procured an admission for her into a declamation class, 
 where her wonderful talent was trained and developed. 
 
 She made her first appearance at the Theatre Fran^ais, 
 in September, 1838, and she was speedily accepted as the 
 first actress of the age. The fortunes of the theater, 
 which had been at the lowest ebb, were restored, and her 
 father demanded for her, and in time obtained, a revenue 
 of eighty thousand francs per annum. 
 
 It was a night, as I have just said, of Voltaire’s 
 
 68 
 
AN EVENING WITH RACHEL. 
 
 69 
 
 “ TancrMc,” in which she played the part of the heroine, 
 Amenaide , the beloved of Tancrede , a part in which she 
 produced thrilling effects. In the audience, on that occa¬ 
 sion, sat Alfred de Musset, one of the most admired of 
 recent French poets, who had been for some time a friend 
 of the new actress and of her family, as well as one of 
 the warmest appreciators of her genius. At the end of 
 an act he went behind the scenes to compliment her upon 
 the beauty and fitness of her costume. Toward the close 
 of the play she was to read a letter from her lover, 
 mortally wounded upon the field of battle, who was dying 
 under the impression that she had betrayed him. The 
 letter runs thus: 
 
 “ I could not survive your perfidy. I die on the battle¬ 
 field, but I die of wounds inflicted by you. I wished, 
 cruel woman, in exposing myself for you, to save at once 
 your glory and your life.” 
 
 Never before had she read this letter with such tender 
 pathos; and she said afterwards that she had been moved 
 to such a degree herself, that she could scarcely go on 
 with the part. At ten o’clock the play ended, for a 
 French tragedy only lasts about an hour and a half. De 
 Musset on leaving the theater met her by chance in the 
 street, going home with one of her friends, and followed 
 by a crowd of her special admirers, members of the press, 
 artists, and others. The poet saluted her, and she 
 responded by saying: 
 
 “ Come home to supper with us.” 
 
 So he joined the throng, and they were soon all seated 
 in her parlor—Rachel, her sister Sarah, their mother, 
 Alfred de Musset, and several others. The events of the 
 evening were afterwards recorded by the poet, as he says, 
 “ with the exactness of shorthand,” and the narrative 
 has been published since his death in a volume of his 
 last writings and familiar letters. After some trifling 
 
70 
 
 AN EVENING WITH RACHEL. 
 
 conversation, Rachel discovered that she had left her 
 rings and bracelets at the theater, and she sent her ser¬ 
 vant back for them. But she had only one servant, and, 
 behold! there was no one to get the supper ready. 
 Rachel, nothing abashed, took off some of her finery, put 
 on a dressing sacque and night cap, and went into the 
 kitchen. Fifteen minutes passed. She reappeared, “ as 
 pretty as an angel,” carrying a dish in which were three 
 beefsteaks cooked by herself. She placed the dish in the 
 middle of the table, and gaily said: 
 
 “ Regale! ” 
 
 She then went back to the kitchen and returned with 
 a tureen of smoking soup in one hand, and in the other 
 a saucepan full of spinach. That was the supper. No 
 plates, no spoons; for the servant had carried away the 
 keys of the cupboard. Rachel opened the sideboard, 
 found a salad dish full of salad, discovered one plate, took 
 some salad with the wooden salad spoon, sat down and 
 began to eat. 
 
 “ But,” cried her mother, who was very hungry, “ there 
 are some brass platters in the kitchen.” 
 
 Rachel dutifully brought them and distributed them 
 among the guests; and while they were eating, as best 
 they could, the following conversation took place: 
 
 Mother—My dear, your steaks are overdone. 
 
 Rachel—It is true ; they arc as hard as wood. "When 
 I did our housekeeping I was a better cook. It is one 
 talent the less. No matter; I have lost on one side, but 
 I have gained on the other. You don’t eat, Sarah. 
 
 Sarah—No, I cannot eat from brass plates. 
 
 Rachel—Oh! It is since I bought a dozen silver plates 
 with my savings that you can no longer endure brass! 
 If I become richer, you will want one servant behind your 
 chair and another before it. Never will I turn those old 
 platters out of our house. They have served us too long 
 for that. Haven’t they, mother? 
 
AN EVENING WITH IIACIIEL. 
 
 71 
 
 Mother (Jicr mouth full )—What do you say, child ? 
 
 Rachel (to the poet )—Just think; when I played at 
 the Theater Moliere, I had only two pairs of stockings, 
 and every morning— 
 
 Here Sarah began to gabble German, in order to pre¬ 
 vent her sister from going on Avith her story. 
 
 Rachel—No German here! There is nothing to be 
 ashamed of! I had, I say, only two pairs cf stockings, 
 and I was obliged to wash one pair every morning to 
 wear on the stage. That pair was hanging in my room 
 upon a clothes horse, while I Avore the other pair. 
 
 The Poet—And you did the housekeeping? 
 
 Rachel—I Avas up at six every morning, and by eight 
 all the beds were made. Then I AA r cnt to market to buy 
 our dinner. 
 
 The Poet—And did you keep a little change out cf the 
 market money ? 
 
 Rachel—No. I was a very honest cook. Was I not, 
 mother ? 
 
 Mother (still stuffing') —0, yes ; that you were indeed. 
 
 Rachel—Once only I Avas a thief for a month. When 
 I bought four sous’ worth, I called it five, and when I 
 paid ten sous I put it down twelve. At the end of the 
 month I found myself mistress of three francs. 
 
 The Poet (in a severe tone) —Mademoiselle, what did 
 you do Avith those three francs ? 
 
 Rachel was silent. 
 
 Mother—She bought the works of Moliere with them. 
 
 The Poet—Did you, really ? 
 
 Rachel—Yes, indeed. I had already a Corneille and a 
 Racine; I had to haA’c a Moliere. I bought it Avith my 
 three francs, and then I confessed my crimes. 
 
 At this point of the conversation some of the company 
 rose to go, and soon all the guests departed, except De 
 Musset, and two or three intimate friends. The servant 
 
7 2 
 
 AN EVENING WITH RACHEL. 
 
 returned from the theater and placed upon the table some 
 brilliant rings, two magnificent bracelets and a golden 
 coronet, many thousand francs’ worth of jewelry, all glit¬ 
 tering in the midst of the brass plates and the remains of 
 the supper. The poet, meanwhile, startled at the idea of 
 her keeping house, working in the kitchen, making beds, 
 and undergoing the fatigues incident to poverty, looked 
 at her hands, fearing to find them ugly or spoiled. He 
 observed, on the contrary, that they were small, white, 
 and plump, with the slenderest fingers. She had the 
 hands of a princess. 
 
 Her sister Sarah, who did not cat, continued to scold 
 in German. That morning, indeed, she had been guilty 
 of some escapade a little too far from the maternal wing, 
 and she had obtained her pardon and her place at the 
 table only in consequence of her sister’s entreaties. 
 
 Rachel (replying to the German growls ')—You plague 
 me! For my part, I like to recall my youth. I remem¬ 
 ber that one day I wanted to make some punch in one of 
 these very brass plates. I held my plate over a candle, 
 and it melted in my hand. Speaking of that, Sophie, 
 bring mo some cherry brandy. Let us have some punch. 
 There ! 1 have had enough. I have done my supper. 
 
 The maid returned, bringing a bottle. 
 
 Mother—Sophie has made a mistake. That is a bottle 
 of absinthe. 
 
 The Poet—Give me a little of it. 
 
 Rachel—0, how glad I should be to have you take some¬ 
 thing in our house. 
 
 Mother—They say that absinthe is very wholesome. 
 
 The Poet—Not at all. It is pernicious and detestable. 
 
 Sarah—Then why do you ask for some ? 
 
 The Poet—In order to have it to say that I took some¬ 
 thing here. 
 
 Rachel-—I wish to drink a little of it. 
 
AN EVENING WITH RACHEL. 
 
 73 
 
 So saying, she poured some absinthe into a glass of 
 water and drank it. They brought her a silver bowl, into 
 which she put sugar and cherry brandy, after which she 
 set fire to her punch, and made it blaze. 
 
 Rachel—I love that blue flame. 
 
 The Poet—It is much prettier when there is no light in 
 the room. 
 
 Rachel—Sophie, take away the candles. 
 
 Mother—Not at all; not at all! What an idea ! 
 
 Rachel ( aside )—This is unsupportable ! Pardon, dear 
 mother; you are good, you are charming (kissing her) ; 
 but I want Sophie to carry away the candles. 
 
 Upon this, the poet himself took the two candles and 
 put them under the table, which produced the effect of 
 twilight. The mother, by turns green and blue from the 
 glimmer of the blazing punch, leveled her eves upon Pe 
 Musset, and watched all his movements. He put the 
 candles back upon the table. 
 
 A Flatterer—Mademoiselle Rabat was not beautiful 
 this evening. 
 
 The Poet—You are hard to please. I thought her 
 pretty enough. 
 
 Another Flatterer—She has no intelligence. 
 
 Rachel—Why do you say that ? She is not so stupid 
 as many others ; and, besides, she is a good girl. Let 
 her alone. I do not like to have my comrades spoken of 
 in that way. 
 
 The punch was ready. Rachel filled the glasses and 
 handed them about to the company. She poured the rest 
 of the punch into a soup plate, and began to drink it with 
 a spoon. Then she took the poet’s cane, drew the sword 
 from it, and picked her teeth with the point. 
 
 Here ended, for that evening, all common talk and 
 child’s play. A single word sufficed to change the char¬ 
 acter of the scene, and to convert this unformed child 
 into an artist. 
 
74 
 
 AN EVENING WITH RACHEI 
 
 The Poet—How you read that letter, this evening! 
 You were really moved. 
 
 Rachel—Yes ; it seemed to me as if something within 
 me was going to give way. But it is no matter ; I do 
 not like that piece much. It is false. 
 
 The Poet—Do you prefer the plays of Corneille and 
 Racine ? 
 
 Rachel—I like Corneille very much ; and yet, he is 
 sometimes trivial, sometimes bombastic. He comes short 
 of the truth. 
 
 The Poet—0 ! gently, mademoiselle! 
 
 Rachel—Let us see. When in Horace, for example, 
 Sabine says: “ One can change a lover, but not a hus¬ 
 band ; ” well, I don’t like it. It is gross. 
 
 The Poet—You will confess, at least, that it is true. 
 
 Rachel—Yes ; but is it worthy of Corneille ? Talk to 
 me of Racine! There is a man I adore! All that he 
 says is so beautiful, so true, so noble. 
 
 The Poet—Speaking of Racine, do you remember 
 receiving some time ago an anonymous letter which gave 
 you advice respecting the last scene in “ Mithridate ” ? 
 
 Rachel—Perfectly ; I followed the advice given me, and 
 ever since I have always been applauded in that scene. 
 Do you know the person that wrote to me ? 
 
 The Poet—Very well; she is the woman in all Paris 
 who has the greatest mind and the smallest foot. What 
 part are you studying now ? 
 
 Rachel—We are going to play this summer, “ Marie 
 Stuart,” and afterwards, “ Polyeucte,” and, perhaps— 
 
 The Poet—Well ? 
 
 Rachel ( striking the table )—Well, I wish to play 
 Phedre! They tell me I am too young, that 1 am too 
 thin, and a hundred other follies. I simply reply : It is 
 the most beautiful role of Racine; I aspire to play it. 
 
 Sarah—My dear, perhaps you are wrong. 
 
AN EVENING WITH RACHEL. 
 
 7 5 
 
 Rachel—Never mind! If people think that I am too 
 young, and that the part is not suitable to me, what then, 
 parlleu! There were many -who thought the same when 
 I played Hoxane; and what harm did it do me ? If they 
 say I am too thin, I maintain that it is a betise. A woman 
 who has an infamous passion, but dies rather than yield 
 to it; a woman who has been dried up in the fires of 
 affliction, such a woman cannot have a chest like Madam 
 Paradol. It would be a contradiction in nature. I have 
 read the part ten times in the last eight days. IJow I 
 shall play it I do not know ; but I tell you that I feel it. 
 In vain the newspapers object; they will not disgust me 
 with the part. The newspapers, instead of helping mo 
 and encouraging me, exhaust their ingenuity in injuring 
 me. But I will play that part if only four persons como 
 to see me! Yes (turning to De Musset), I have read 
 certain articles full of candor and of conscience, and 1 
 know nothing better or more useful; but there are people 
 who use their weapons only to lie, to destroy ! They are 
 worse than thieves or assassins. They kill the soul with 
 pin pricks ! 0, it seems to me that I could poison them. 
 
 Mother—My dear, you do nothing but talk; you tire 
 yourself out. This morning you were up at six o’clock ; 
 I do not know what your legs are made of. After talking 
 all day you played this evening. You will make yourself 
 sick. 
 
 Rachel ( eagerly )—No ; let me alone! I tell you, no ! 
 It is that which keeps me alive. Would you like me 
 (turning to De Musset) to go and get the book ? We 
 will read the piece together. 
 
 The Poet—Would I like it! You could propose noth¬ 
 ing more agreeable to me. 
 
 Sarah—But, my dear, it is half-past eleven. 
 
 Rachel—Very well; who hinders you from going to 
 bed ? 
 
7 6 
 
 AN EVENING WITH RACHEL. 
 
 Sarah went to bed. Rachel rose and left the room, 
 returning in a moment carrying the volume of Racine in 
 her hands, with something in her air and step which 
 seemed to the poet to savor of the solemn and religious. 
 It was the manner of a celebrant approaching tlie altar 
 bearing the sacred vessels. She took a seat next De Mus¬ 
 set, and snulfed the candles. Her mother fell into a doze. 
 
 Rachel ( opening the hook in a manner expressive of pro¬ 
 found respect , and bending over if) —Howl love this man ! 
 When I put my nose into this book, I could remain two 
 days without eating or drinking. 
 
 The poet and the actress then began to read that 
 “ Plied re ” which French critics, from Voltaire to Sainte 
 Beuve, unite in thinking the supreme product of the 
 French drama. The book lay open between them. The 
 rest of the company, one after the other, took their leave, 
 Rachel nodding a slight farewell as each withdrew, and 
 continuing to read. At first she repeated the lines in a 
 monotonous tone, as though she was saying a litany. 
 Gradually she kindled. They exchanged remarks and 
 ideas upon each passage. She came at last to the dcc- 
 1 iration. She extended one arm straight upon the table, 
 and with her forehead leaning upon her left hand she 
 abandoned herself entirely to the reading. Nevertheless, 
 she still spoke only in half voice. Suddenly her eyes 
 sparkled. The genius of Racine lighted up her counte¬ 
 nance. She grew pale and red by turns. Never had her 
 companion seen anything so beautiful, so moving; at the 
 theater she had never produced such an effect upon him. 
 All the circumstances concurred to deepen.the impres- 
 ! ion ; her fatigue, a slight hoarseness, the evident stimu¬ 
 lus of the punch, the lateness of the hour, the almost 
 levcrish animation of that little face with the pretty 
 night cap over it, the brilliancy of her eyes, a certain 
 infantile smile which occasionally flitted across her counte- 
 
AN EVENING WITH RACHEL. 
 
 "7 
 
 nance—even the disordered table, the unsnuffed candle, 
 the dozing mother—all made up a picture worthy of 
 Rembrandt, a chapter that might figure in Wilhelm 
 Mcister, and a reminiscence of artist life never to be 
 effaced. 
 
 Ilalf-past twelve arrived. The father of the family 
 came in from the opera. As soon as he was seated ho 
 ordered his daughter, in tones which seemed brutal to 
 the poet, to stop her reading. Rachel closed the book, 
 and said in a low tone, “ This is revolting; I will buy a 
 book-holder and read in bed.” Do Musset looked at her 
 and saw large tears rolling from her eyes. It was to him, 
 indeed, most revolting to hear this wonderful creature 
 addressed in such a manner; and he took his leave full of 
 admiration, respect, and emotion. 
 
 Brutal as may have been the father’s manner, we are 
 obliged to confess that he was substantially right; and if 
 this gifted girl had taken his advice, only so far as to go 
 to bed when her work was done, she would not have died 
 at the age of thirty-seven, when, in the course of nature, 
 she would not have reached the full development of her 
 powers. Alfred Dc Musset began soon after to write a 
 play for her which lie did not live to complete ; for he, 
 too, was one of the brilliant people who burn the candle 
 of life at both ends, and live in disregard of those phys¬ 
 ical conditions of welfare which no man or woman can 
 violate with impunity. 
 
 In Paris, that night, there were a thousand suppers 
 more sumptuous and splendid. The chance presence of 
 a sympathetic reporter, by preserving a record of this 
 one, reveals to us the sublime child herself and the atmos¬ 
 phere in which she lived. Strange that our cherished 
 apparatus of education should give us mediocrity, while 
 genius is generated under the rudest conditions, and 
 develops itself, not merely without help, but in spite of 
 the harshest hind ranee ! 
 
JOSEPniXE AND BONAPARTE. 
 
 E get much light upon Josephine, and upon Napo* 
 
 V V Icon’s general brutality towards women from 
 the Memoirs of Madame de R<jmusat, which the people 
 of Paris have been reading lately with so much inter¬ 
 est. This lady was a member of the household cf the 
 Empress Josephine for several years, and she gives 
 us an inside view of Napoleon’s court which is highly 
 edifying. A particularly interesting chapter is that in 
 which the coronation of Bonaparte and Josephine is 
 related; a scene which Thiers has described with extr - 
 ordinary splendoi and graphic power. Thiers gives us 
 the outside of the wondrous show ; Madame de Remusat 
 the inside. 
 
 It was November, 1804. The new emperor and empress 
 were at the palace of Saint-Cloud, with the ladies and 
 gentlemen of their “ households,” a great company of 
 noted persons, all looking forward with intenscst interest 
 to the coming spectacle. The brothers and sisters cf 
 Napoleon were there with their families and retinue. A 
 great preliminary question agitated the circle, respecting 
 the position of Josephine in the ceremony of the corona¬ 
 tion. Should she be a spectator or a participant ? All 
 in a word : Was she about to be crowned or divorced '! 
 Bonaparte himself passionately desired an heir to his new 
 throne, which Josephine could never give him. In his 
 address to the Senate, formally accepting the throne, he 
 used such language as this: 
 
 78 
 
JOSEPHINE, WIFE OF NAPOLEON I. 
 
 79 
 
 “ My descendants will long preserve this throne. In 
 the field, they will be the first soldiers of the army, 
 sacrificing their lives for the defence of their country. 
 As magistrates, they will never lose sight of the truth 
 that contempt for the laws and of the social order are 
 only the results of the weakness and indecision of princes.” 
 
 To the people of France the full significance of these 
 words was not apparent; but Josephine and all the family 
 of Bonaparte knew very w T ell what they meant. His 
 brothers and sisters, who had nothing of Napoleon but his 
 littleness, urged him with excessive importunity to seize 
 this occasion to set Josephine aside. If they had been 
 less persistent, they might have succeeded, for the 
 emperor was strongly tempted to begin his reign with 
 tins act of baseness. Josephine herself was torn with 
 anxiety, for she loved the pomps and splendors of a 
 court, and was really attached to her husband. In the 
 crisis of these family intrigues an incident occurred which 
 came near deciding the question against Josephine. 
 
 Imagine a large drawing-room at Saint-Cloud, with 
 windows looking out upon the beautiful gardens of that 
 royal chateau, and commanding a view of the opposite 
 wing, in which were the emperor’s own rooms. Imagine 
 this drawing-room filled with the ladies belonging to the 
 household of the empress, occupied in various idle employ¬ 
 ments. One of the ladies suddenly leaves the apartment, 
 and Josephine, who had been for some weeks very jealous 
 of her, looks out of the window, and sees her enter the 
 emperor’s cabinet. She took Madame de Remusat aside, 
 and said to her in fierce whispers: 
 
 1 am going this very hour to know the truth of the 
 matter. Remain in this saloon with ail my circle, and if 
 any one asks what has become of me, you will say that 
 the emperor has sent for me.” 
 
 The lady strove to retain her, but she was beside her- 
 
8 o 
 
 JOSEPHINE, WIFE OF NAPOLEON I. 
 
 self with passion, and would not listen to her. Josephine 
 left the room, and was gone for half an hour. Then 
 returning, she ordered Madame de Remusat to follow her 
 into her chamber. 
 
 “ All is lost! ” cried the empress, as soon as they were 
 alone ; “ and what I suspected is only too true. I sought 
 the emperor in his cabinet. lie was not there! Then I 
 went by the secret staircase to the little suite of rooms 
 above. I found the door shut, but through the keyhole I 
 heal'd their voices. I knocked very loud, saying who I 
 was. When the door was opened I burst into reproaches, 
 and she began to cry. Bonaparte flew into a passion so 
 violent that I scarcely had time to escape from his resent¬ 
 ment. In truth, I am still trembling; for I do not know 
 to what excess he would have carried his fury. No doubt 
 he will come here, and I expect a terrible scene.” 
 
 “ Do not commit a second fault,” said Madame de 
 Re mu sat; “ for the emperor would never forgive your 
 making a confidante of any one whatever in this matter. 
 Let me leave you, madame. lie must find you alone, 
 and do try to soften him, and repair so great an 
 imprudence.” 
 
 There was indeed a terrible scene between the most 
 arbitrary of men and his jealous wife. As soon as he was 
 gone, Josephine called Madame de Remusat to her and 
 told her that Bonaparte in his anger had broken some of 
 the furniture, and given her notice to prepare to leave 
 Saint-Cloud, as he was tired of being watched by a jeal¬ 
 ous woman. He was resolved, he said, to shake off such 
 a yoke, and then do what his policy required—marry a 
 woman who could give him children. Upon leaving her, 
 he sent to Paris for her son Eugene to come and take 
 charge of his mother’s departure from the palace. 
 
 “ I am lost beyond resource,” said Josephine. 
 
 Eugene arrived. lie behaved nobly, refusing all 
 
JOSEPHINE WIFE OF NAPOLEON I. 
 
 81 
 
 recompense and benefits of every kind, and declaring that 
 he would devote himself to his mother, even if he had to 
 go back with her to Martinique, her native island. Bona¬ 
 parte appeared struck with this generous devotion, and 
 listened to the young man in “ ferocious silence.” A few 
 days passed. Josephine acted upon the advice of her 
 lady, and played the part of the contrite and submissive 
 wife. Napoleon, who had really loved her after his fash¬ 
 ion, was soon mollified, and he then endeavored to per¬ 
 suade her to spare him the pain of sending her away by 
 going away herself. 
 
 “ I have not the courage,” said he to her, “ to take the 
 last resolution, and if you exhibit too much sorrow, and 
 if you only obey me, I feel that I shall never be firm 
 enough to compel you to leave me; but, I confess, I 
 greatly desire that you should resign yourself to the 
 interest of my policy, and that you yourself should 
 relieve me of the embarrassment of this painful separa¬ 
 tion.” 
 
 To all suen words as these, Josephine only replied by 
 the penetrating eloquence of tears. These might net 
 have succeeded if the other Bonapartes had not urged 
 the divorce with the vehemence of personal jealously and 
 dislike. They thought they had succeeded, and boasted 
 of their triumph a little too openly and confidently. 
 Napoleon perceived this, and suddenly determined to 
 disappoint them. He told her one evening that the Pope 
 was about to arrive, who would crown them both in the 
 cathedral of Notre Dame. 
 
 The preparations now went forward with great rapidity. 
 There were private rehearsals of the coronation, attended 
 by the artist David, who directed the positions of each 
 performer, and arranged all the details of the scene. It 
 was on one of these occasions that Napoleon announced 
 his intention of putting the crown upon his own head; 
 for, said lie: 
 
82 
 
 JOSEPHINE, WIFE OF NAPOLEON I. 
 
 “ T found the crown of France on the ground, and I 
 picked it up.” 
 
 On the great day, the sisters of Napoleon were forced 
 to carry the train of the empress; a duty which they per¬ 
 formed with so much repugnance, and so badly, that she 
 could scarcely walk, until the emperor growled a sharp 
 reproof through his clenched teeth. 
 
 The most startling anecdote which these Memoirs 
 have so far given, is one showing that Napoleon was will¬ 
 ing at one time to palm off on the French people a falso 
 heir to the throne. Attempts of this kind have been the 
 subject of more than one popular novel; but here it 
 figures as a fact. Josephine, to save her crown, (rave 
 her consent to the fraud, and Bonaparte sent for his chief 
 physician, Corvisart, to arrange with him the details. 
 Dr. Corvisart proved to be a man of courage and honor. 
 He refused to lend himself to the deception, and the nota¬ 
 ble project was of necessity given up. It was not until 
 after the marriage of Bonaparte with Marie Louise and 
 the birth of her son, that Dr. Corvisart confided this 
 secret to Madame de Rdmusat. 
 
 Such is personal government. Such are courts. Such 
 are the consequences of resting the honor and safety of a 
 nation upon one man. 
 
LADY MORGAN. 
 
 N naming one of her early novels “ The Wild Irish 
 
 I Girl,” Lady Morgan gave the public an inkling of her 
 own character. The world Wild, however, has acquired 
 opprobrious meanings, none of which apply to her inno-* 
 cent and high-bred vivacity. She was a true specimen of 
 the Irish race, gay, witty, liberal, but ever loyal to friends 
 and duty. No contrast could be greater than her exuber¬ 
 ant gayety with the constrained existence and despotic 
 formalism to which we are accustomed; and hence the 
 interest she excites in us. Here is her strange, eventful 
 history, a history possible only to a child of Erin. 
 
 On Christmas eve, 1783, a party was gathered in Dub¬ 
 lin at the house of a popular Irish actor, by name Robert 
 Owenson. His wife was not present, having excused her¬ 
 self on the plea of indisposition; but the feast progressed 
 merrily, with singing, toasts, and story-telling, and it was 
 already Christmas morning when a breathless messenger 
 appeared on the threshold to inform the host of the 
 arrival of an unexpected Christmas present from his 
 wife. He hastily quitted the room on receiving the 
 announcement, and an hour later returned beaming to 
 his guests (who had not thought of dispersing in the 
 meantime) bringing word that all was going well, and he 
 was the proud father of “a dear little Irish girl,” the 
 blessing he had long wished for. This intelligence was 
 greeted with a half-suppressed cheer by the company, who 
 
 83 
 
8 4 
 
 LADY MORGAN. 
 
 arranged before they left to meet again a month later and 
 celebrate the christening, one of them, Edward Lysaght, 
 a noted lawyer and wit of that day, agreeing to stand 
 sponsor. 
 
 The party then broke up, and made the best haste they 
 could to their several homes, for the night was cold and the 
 snow was falling. Lysaght, who had the farthest to go, 
 trudged steadily onward, his mind yet filled with thoughts 
 of the feast just over and of the little baby who was to be 
 his goddaughter, while the notes of a Christmas carol, 
 sung by a child whose form he could dimly perceive some 
 distance in advance, floated back to his ears and fell in 
 pleasantly with his thoughts. Overtaking the child, he 
 was enabled to catch the last wox'ds of her song. They 
 were the well-known refrain: 
 
 “ Christmas comes but once a year, 
 
 And when it comes it brings good cheer.” 
 
 As the song died away the singer sank down suddenly 
 upon the steps of a brilliantly lighted house resounding 
 with music and laughter. He went up to her and found 
 that she was dead, still grasping her ballad in her hand. 
 
 This pathetic story of her birth night was almost the 
 first story told to Robert Owenson’s little daughter, and a 
 short poem upon the subject by Lysaght was the first 
 thing she ever learned by heart. 
 
 Her christening took place according to agreement, a 
 month after her birth, and the occasion was one of rejoic¬ 
 ings truly Irish in their character. A branch of shillalah 
 graced the table, and Mr. Owenson, who was a fine musi¬ 
 cian, sang, first in Irish and then in English, the famous 
 song of “ O'Rourke’s Noble Feast,” the whole company 
 joining enthusiastically in the chorus : 
 
 “ Oh you are welcome heartily, 
 
 Welcome, gramachree, 
 
 Welcome heartily, 
 
 Welcome joy!” 
 
LADY MORGAN. 
 
 85 
 
 Later, the extremely young lady was lierself brought 
 in, and her health drunk standing with three times 
 three, and the significant accompanying words, “Foglun 
 Fall,” or “ wait awhile.” It was an appropriate toast, 
 for a ‘ while ’ not very long raised the little Sydney Owt 11 - 
 son, who was thus cordially greeted upon her first appear¬ 
 ance in society, to a position where few of her early 
 friends expected to find her. 
 
 Robert Owenson was a gifted and hospitable Irishman; 
 the only son of "Walter MacOwcn or Owenson, a Con¬ 
 naught farmer, and Sydney Crofton, the orphan grand¬ 
 daughter of Sir Malby Crofton of Longford House. His 
 parents had made an indiscreet and romantic marriage. 
 They met first at a hurling-match, where Miss Crofton 
 was the Queen of Beauty who awarded the prize, and 
 young Owenson the handsome athlete who won it. A 
 few weeks after, they ran away together and were mar¬ 
 ried, but the union did not prove a happy one, and the 
 bride, who was a woman of talent, consoled herself as 
 best she could with music and poetry. So well were her 
 efforts appreciated by the neighboring peasants that they 
 nicknamed her Clasagh-na-Valla, or Harp of the Valley. 
 Her eloquence, however, was of more practical benefit to 
 her son, since a certain Mr. Blake was so impressed by 
 her recital of the wrongs inflicted by one of his ancestors 
 upon a long dead MacOwen, that he carried off young 
 Robert to London with him by way of amends. After a 
 time a love affair with a pretty singer brought the young 
 man into disgrace with his patron, and he took to the 
 stage to support himself. A few years later, following 
 the family custom, he ran away with and married Miss 
 Jane Hill, the sister of a college friend. 
 
 It was from her father that Sydney Owenson, the name¬ 
 sake of poor Clasagh-na-Valla, derived those brilliant and 
 winning qualities that made her famous; but it was her 
 
 t> 
 
86 
 
 LADY MORGAN. 
 
 English mother from whom she inherited her practical 
 sense and business capacity, and perhaps also what she 
 herself describes as her “ sacred horror of debt.” 
 
 During her early years the family fortunes were 
 extremely unsettled, her father striving vainly to earn a 
 respectable income by the combined pursuits of wine mer¬ 
 chant and manager of a theatre. She and her younger 
 sister Olivia received an irregular education, partly from 
 their mother, partly at school. But they did not progress 
 satisfactorily, and Sydney in particular was the despair 
 of her mother, who had set her heart upon having her 
 eldest daughter equal the achievements of a precocious 
 little child of Rowland Hill’s, wdio had read the Bible 
 through twice before she was five, and knitted all the 
 stockings worn by the coachman. Happily for the public 
 good Mrs. Owenson’s ambition was disappointed; her elfish 
 little girl found it quite impossible to master the genealogy 
 of the patriarchs, and could not be made to sit still and 
 sew, but nothing that was going on about her escaped her 
 inquisitive, bright eyes. She w r as deeply interested in all 
 the trades carried on in the neighborhood, and did her 
 best to become acquainted with their mysteries. 
 
 She even went so far as to set up a shop with her 
 father’s theatrical wigs, choosing for the purpose the 
 only window fronting upon the street, and inscribing upon 
 it, in her best and biggest hand-writing, Sydney Owen- 
 sox, System, Tete and Peruke Maker —which was the 
 proper form of advertising at that period. What is 
 more, she could have carried on the trade had she been 
 permitted, having acquired the art through observing 
 her father's hair-dresser. 
 
 She was also tolerably well instructed in chimney¬ 
 sweeping, having closely observed the proceedings of a 
 number of young sweeps who lived in a cellar across the 
 way. On one occasion, when the school chimney caught 
 
LADT MORGAN. 
 
 *7 
 
 fire, she clashed out into the street and summoned in the 
 the whole tribe of them to the rescue. They put out the 
 fire, but filled the room with soot, greatly to the indigna¬ 
 tion of the school-mistress, who turned them all out into 
 the street for their pains, and Sydney with them. 
 
 It was at about this time that she made her first liter¬ 
 ary venture. She was the happy owner of a large number 
 of pets, chiefly among which was a great yellow cat, 
 named Ginger. Ginger and Mrs. Owcnson were not on 
 the best of terms, and the discerning animal was glad to 
 keep herself out of that lady’s way, in a snug nook 
 arranged for her underneath the sideboard by her little 
 mistress. One evening, as Sydney was kneeling at her 
 mother’s knee, concluding her nightly prayer, with a 
 blessing invoked upon her various friends, a soft purr was 
 heard issuing from this retreat. Moved by so touching 
 an appeal, she added to her usual petition the words, 
 “ God bless Ginger the cat! ” Mrs. Owcnson, much 
 shocked, caught her by the shoulder and shook her, say- 
 ing: 
 
 “ What do you mean by that, j'ou stupid child ?” 
 
 “ May I not say, ‘ bless Ginger ? ’ ” asked Sydney. 
 
 “ Certainly not,” replied Mrs. Owenson. 
 
 “ Why mama ? ” 
 
 “ Because Ginger is not a Christian ! ” 
 
 “ Wlcy is not Ginger a Christian ?” 
 
 “ Why ? Because Ginger is only an animal.” 
 
 “Am I a Christian, mama, or an animal?” 
 
 At this point Molly, the devoted household servant, 
 was abruptly requested to take those troublesome children 
 to bed, and teach them not to ask foolish questions. But 
 even bed did not end the matter. Sydney’s warmest 
 feelings were aroused in sympathy with her poor un- 
 Christian favorite, and while lying awake she composed 
 a poem in its honor, which was next morning recited in 
 
88 
 
 LADY MORGAN. 
 
 the kitchen amid great applause. James the butler took 
 it down from the lips of the young poet; Molly corrected 
 the proof; and at breakfast it was read to the family, 
 winning praise from Mr. Owenson, and, which was 
 more important, a pardon for both Sydney and Ginger. 
 Here it is: 
 
 “ My dear pussy cat, 
 
 Were I a mouse or rat 
 
 Sure I never would run off from you; 
 
 You're so funny and gay 
 With your tail when you play, 
 
 And no song is so sweet as your mew. 
 
 “ But pray keep in your press, 
 
 And don’t make a mess 
 When you share with your kittens our posset; 
 
 For mama can’t abide you, 
 
 And I cannot hide you, 
 
 Except you keep close in your closet.” 
 
 Tn spite of Mrs. Owcnson’s antipathy to Ginger, and to 
 most other things which her daughter particularly liked, 
 Sydney was very fond of her mother, and her death a few 
 years later was a terrible blow to her. It was thought 
 best for the children to be out of the way for a few days 
 after the event, and they were sent to stay with a friend 
 who lived some miles distant. Sydney was not content 
 to be separated from her father in his time of trouble. 
 Twice she was captured and detained when about to 
 return, but the third time she succeeded in squeezing 
 herself through a hole cut in the barn-door for the dog, and 
 ran the whole way home, never pausing till she found 
 her father and threw herself into his arms. 
 
 During the next few years the condition of Mr. Owcn- 
 son's business became worse and worse, till it at last 
 resulted in bankruptcy, and he went away to Limerick to 
 await a final meeting of his creditors. It was the girls' 
 
LADY MORGAN. 
 
 89 
 
 vacation at the time, and they were left at home under 
 (he guardianship of the faithful Molly until their school 
 should reopen, the true cause of their father’s journey 
 being unknown to them. But Sydney was not easily kept 
 in the dark, and it was not long before her father received 
 a letter from her, containing a strange mingling of fore¬ 
 sight and simplicity. 
 
 “ Mr. O’F-has been here,” she wrote. “ lie has 
 
 told me all, and I have seen your name on the list of 
 Statutes of Bankruptcy. He said it was the best and 
 lioncstest, indeed, the only thing that could be done, and 
 that you will come out of this terrible dilemma as well 
 considered and respected as you have hitherto lived ; but 
 that time, and great economy, and your resuming your 
 theatrical position with Mr. Daly at the Theatre Royal, 
 were indispensable. Now, for all this, dear sir, we must 
 relieve you from the terrible expense you have been at 
 for our education. Of this, I am resolved to relieve you, 
 and to earn money for you instead of spending the little 
 you will have for some time to come.” 
 
 An important statement in italics, follows: “ Now, 
 
 dear papa, I have tivo novels nearly finished ! ” 
 
 Her plan was to go out as a governess while she 
 finished llicsc works, and she had already heard of two 
 situations, either of which she thought she could fill. A 
 short postscript to the letter shows that her talent for 
 being agreeable had already begun to be recognized. 
 
 “ P. S. Captain Earle and Captain White Benson, who 
 you may remember at Kilkenny were always running 
 after us, called yesterday ; but Molly would not let them 
 in, which I thought was rather impertinent of her. 
 However, as things arc at present, I believe it was all for 
 the best.” 
 
 Her next letter shows the manner in which she faced 
 the embarrassments of her position. She begins by com- 
 
90 
 
 LADY MORGAN. 
 
 plaining of a certain “ odious Mrs. Anderson,” who 
 wanted her bill paid, and was “ insolent ” about it, and 
 also of the landlady, who not only detained their piano, 
 a hired one, when they wished to return it to the owners, 
 but gave them warning to leave next week. Molly the 
 dauntless defended the rights of her young charges, and 
 the contest of words threatened at one time, greatly to 
 their terror, to become a passage of arms. When this 
 excitement was over the three sat down and indulged in 
 a hearty cry, in the midst of which arrived M. Fontaine, 
 Mr. Owenson’s old ballet-master, and a devoted friend. 
 He was in a carriage on his way to Dublin Castle, where 
 he had recently been appointed Master of Ceremonies. 
 
 “ Poor darling old gentleman,” wrote Sydney to her 
 “dearest Dad,” “I thought he was going to cry with us 
 (for we told him everything), instead of which, however, 
 he threw up the window and cried out, ‘Come up then, 
 Martin my son, with your little violin ’ ; and up comes 
 Martin, more ugly and absurd than ever, with his little 
 ‘ kit ’ ; and what docs dear old Fontaine do but put us in 
 v circle, that we might dance a cliassez-a-la-ronde , saying, 
 
 ‘ enliven yourselves, my children, that is the only thing 
 and only think, there we were ; the next minute we were i 
 all of us—Molly, Martin, and Monsieur included—danc¬ 
 ing away to the tune ‘What a Beau your Granny is’ 
 (the only one that Martin can play), and we were all 
 laughing ready to die until Livy gave Molly, who was in 
 the way, a kick behind ; she fell upon Martin, who fell 
 upon his father, who fell upon me—and there we were, 
 all sprawling like a pack of cards and laughing; and 
 then, dear papa, Fontaine sent off Martin in the carriage 
 to the confectioner’s in Grafton street for some ices and 
 biscuits ; so that we had quite a feast and no time to 
 think or be sorrowful.” 
 
 Better even than this, the merry and wise old French- 
 
LADT MOItGAN. 
 
 91 
 
 man carried the girls off with him to the Castle, where 
 they spent a triumphant evening, listening to songs and 
 readings, observing tlie noted people present, and finally 
 (owing to a judicious word from M. Fontaine to their 
 hostess, Countess O’Haggerty) themselves singing a duet 
 which took the company by storm. 
 
 Twice disappointed in her hope of obtaining a situa¬ 
 tion—both the places mentioned in her letter to her father 
 being denied her on account of her youth—Sydney 
 Owenson was at last engaged as governess and com¬ 
 panion for the daughters of Mr. Fcatherstone, two pleas¬ 
 ant girls of about her own age. The arrangement was 
 made by their mother, 'while visiting in Dublin, and it 
 was settled that Miss Owenson should join the family a 
 few days later at their country seat, Bracklin Castle. 
 
 She was to leave Dublin by the night coach, and M. 
 Fontaine, ever gay and ever friendly, gave a farewell party 
 in her honor on the very evening of her departure. 
 There was no danger of her missing the coach, he assured 
 her, since it passed close by at the head of the street, and 
 the driver had promised to blow his horn. She could 
 bring her traveling dress with her in her bag, and change 
 her costume before starting. 
 
 The party took place, and was highly successful. 
 Indeed, so great was the general hilarity that the passage 
 of time was forgotten, and in the midst of the dance, 
 just as Miss Owenson was flying merrily through “ Money 
 in Both Pockets,” with her favorite partner, the horn 
 sounded its warning blast from the corner. There was 
 not a moment to lose ; a change of dress was not to be 
 thought of. With her own bonnet hastily clapped on her 
 head, and Molly’s long cloak thrown over her shoulders, 
 she dashed out of the door, accompanied by her partner 
 bearing her valise, and escorted on her way by the whole 
 excited company in a body. She made the best speed 
 
92 
 
 LADY MORGAN. 
 
 she could, her pink silk shoes glancing over the icy pave¬ 
 ment, and her muslin ball dress fluttering in the wind— 
 and reached the stage just as the grumbling driver was 
 preparing to go on without her. 
 
 At Kinigad, where she arrived late at night very tired 
 and sleepy, she retired at once to her room in the inn, 
 too confused to remember her baggage, and sure that she 
 would have plenty of time to change her dress in the morn¬ 
 ing, before the carriage from Bracklin came to her. But 
 what washer dismay when she rose and asked for her bag, 
 to find that it had gone on with the stage ! She could but 
 resign herself to the inevitable, and towards noon, after 
 a long drive, she presented herself in the drawing-room 
 of the Castle, “ pinched, cold, confused, and miserable,” 
 to claim her new position. The whole family was assem¬ 
 bled, and a general titter greeted her appearance, Mr. 
 Featherstone alone regarding her fantastic attire Avith 
 severe disapproval. For a moment she was daunted, 
 but her native courage soon revived, and she told her 
 story with such vividness and spirit, that her audience 
 Avere completely overcome with mingled mirth and com¬ 
 passion for her sad plight, and as soon as she had con¬ 
 cluded she was born off in a gale of laughter by the two 
 girls, who ransacked their wardrobes to find her some¬ 
 thing to wear. 
 
 Nor was this all. At dinner, Mrs. Featherstone intro¬ 
 duced her to two tutors, the parish priest, and the 
 Protestant curate of the neighboring village, and she 
 kept the table in a roar during the whole meal, while the 
 servants who Availed nearly choked themselves by stuff¬ 
 ing napkins in their mouths, in a vain attempt to refrain 
 from laughing. So pleased were her companions, that at 
 dessert the priest, Father Murphy, arose with a glass of 
 port Avine in his hand to drink her health. After a polite 
 bow and a “ By your leave, Madame,” to the hostess, he 
 turned to the neAV governess, exclaiming: 
 
LADY MOIIOAX. 
 
 93 
 
 “ This is a hearty welcome to ye to "Westmeath, Miss 
 Owenson; and this is to your health, mind, and body ! ” 
 
 Music followed, and she delighted her hearers with 
 “ Barbara Allen,” and her favorite Irish song, “Ned of 
 the Hills.” The applause with which these selections 
 were received was interrupted by the entrance of the but¬ 
 ler, who announced that a piper had come from Castle¬ 
 town, “ to play in Miss Owenson.” At once the young 
 ladies proposed a dance in the hall; partners were chosen; 
 the music struck up ; the servants crowded about the 
 open doors to look on ; and Sydney Owenson, always one 
 of the lightest and most graceful of dancers, concluded 
 her first day as a governess with an exultant Irish jig. 
 
 Imagine such a debut as this in a staid English or 
 American family ! 
 
 In spite, however, of her startling entrance upon the 
 scene, she fulfilled the duties of her position conscien¬ 
 tiously and successfully, and devoted most of her leisure 
 time to the completion of one of the two half-finished 
 novels. The work was finally concluded in Dublin, where 
 the Feathcrstones spent a portion of each year, and she 
 determined to see it safely in the hands of the printer 
 before returning to Bracklin Castle. The novel had 
 been accomplished alone and unaided, and she resolved 
 to keep her secret to the last, though she did not even 
 know the difference between a publisher and a book¬ 
 seller. 
 
 She rose early one morning, glided quietly down the 
 stairs, appropriated to her own use the cloak and market- 
 bonnet of the cook, which she found hanging in the hall, 
 and slipped out of tho house unperceivcd, carrying her 
 manuscript neatly tied with a rose-colored ribbon under 
 her arm. She had not the least idea where to go, and 
 wandered about the business streets of the city, frightened 
 and uncertain, until her eye fell upon a sign bearing tho 
 
94 
 
 LADY MORGAN. 
 
 words: “ T. Smith, Printer and Bookseller.” As she 
 entered the doorway, the impish shop-boy, who was sweep¬ 
 ing out the place, sent a cloud of dust into her face, then 
 dropping his broom leaned his elbows on the counter and 
 inquired : 
 
 “ What do you plaize to want, Miss ? ” 
 
 “ The gentleman of the house,” she managed to reply. 
 
 “ Which of them, young or ould ? ” asked the boy ; but 
 before she could answer an inner door opened, and a 
 young soldier in full uniform, his musket over his 
 shoulder, entered whistling “ The Irish Volunteers,” and 
 stopped short, surprised at the unexpected apparition of 
 an exceedingly pretty girl in an exceedingly ugly bonnet. 
 
 To add to the discomfort of the situation, the shop-boy, 
 with a wink, put in his word : “ Ilere’s a young Miss wants 
 to sec ver, Master James;” whereupon Master James, 
 much flattered by the announcement, advanced smilingly 
 and chucked Miss Owenson under the chin. Before she 
 could find words to resent this familiarity, an elderly 
 gentleman in a great passion burst into the room, half- 
 shaved, and still holding his razor and shaving cloth in 
 his hand, and ordered the young soldier to be off “ like a 
 sky-rocket” to join his company, which was about to 
 march. He then turned to poor Miss Owenson, and 
 addressing her as “ Honey,” bade her sit down and he 
 would be back in a jiffy. He vanished, but soon returned 
 in a more presentable condition, and inquired what he 
 could do for her. She was too confused to reply immedi¬ 
 ately, but after he had repeated the question she answered 
 faintly, beginning to untie the rose-colored ribbon : 
 
 “ I want to sell a book, please.” 
 
 “To sell a book, dear? An ould one? for I sell new 
 ones myself. And what is the name of it, and what is it 
 about ? ” 
 
 The title, she told him, was St. Clair, and it was a novel 
 
LADY MORGAN. 
 
 95 
 
 of sentiment, after the manner of TVerter. But, unfor¬ 
 tunately, Mr. Smith had never heard of “Wertcr,” and, 
 moreover, he was not a publisher at all. He told her so 
 very good-naturedly, and the young authoress, “ hot, 
 hungry, flurried, and mortified,” as she says in describing 
 the incident, began to tie up her manuscript with unsteady 
 fingers. She tried to meet the blow bravely, but tears 
 came into her eyes in spite of herself, and kind-hearted 
 Mr. Smith melted at once. 
 
 “ Don’t cry, dear—don’t cry,” he said consolingly. 
 “ There’s money bid for you yet! But you're very young 
 to turn author, and what’s your name, dear?” 
 
 “ OwQnson, sir,” she replied. 
 
 The name acted like an charm. Mr. Smith, who was 
 an old friend of her father, asked her into the parlor and 
 wrote a letter recommending her to Mr. Brown, a noted 
 publisher of novels. So, courtesying, blushing, and wiping 
 her eyes, she took her leave and set forth in search of 
 Mr. Bro wn. 
 
 She found him without much trouble—a little old man 
 in a bob-wig, looking over papers at a counter—and pre¬ 
 sented her letter, which he seemed by no means pleased 
 to receive. lie was still frowning at it when his wife 
 entered from an inner room where breakfast was prepared, 
 exclaiming : 
 
 “ Mr. Brown, your tea is as cold as ice ! ” 
 
 Then, taking possession of the note, she asked what 
 that was. 
 
 “ A young lady who wants me to publish her novel, 
 which I can’t do,” was the discouraging reply; “ my 
 hands are full already.” 
 
 Poor Miss Owenson raised her handkerchief to her 
 eyes ; but Mrs. Brown, pitying her distress, told her to 
 leave the book and she would see that it was carefully 
 read. St. CLir, p’nk ribbons and all, remained on Mr. 
 
9 6 
 
 LADY MORGAN. 
 
 Brown’s counter, and a little later its venturous young 
 author entered her house unnoticed, returned her bor¬ 
 rowed garments to their place, and joined the Feather- 
 stones at breakfast. Next day she went with the family 
 to Bracklin, having forgotten to leave her address with 
 the publisher. 
 
 She heard no more of St. Clair, until, during her next 
 visit to Dublin, she accompanied Mrs. Featherstone to 
 call on an invalid friend, and found a printed copy of her 
 novel lying upon the window seat. She promptly com¬ 
 municated with Mr. Brown, who presented her with four 
 copies—and nothing more. The book had some success, 
 and was even translated into German with a remarkable 
 preface, stating that the writer had strangled herself with 
 a handkerchief for love. She afterwards rewrote it, and 
 the new version was published in England. 
 
 She left the Feathcrstones in 1801, and in 1805 pub¬ 
 lished her second novel, “The Novice of St. Dominic.” 
 Iler handwriting was extremely illegible, and the work 
 (it was in six volumes) was copied out for her as fast as 
 she wrote it by Francis Crossley,a youth of eighteen, ono 
 of the most devoted of her many admirers. The book 
 was issued in London, and she was promptly paid for it. 
 Of the sum she received—her first literary earnings—the 
 greater part was sent to her father; the rest she spent in 
 purchasing a winter cloak and an Irish harp. 
 
 Her next effort, “ The Wild Irish Girl,” was in a new 
 vein. It treated of the Irish scenes with which she was 
 familiar, and described them with the humor, the fervor, 
 and the patriotic feeling that marked her own truly Irish 
 character. The plot was based upon an incident in her 
 own life, and the fact that public opinion identified her 
 with her heroine, is shown by the letters she received 
 from her friends, in which she is quite as often addressed 
 by the name of Crljrvina, as by that of Sydney. Some 
 
LADY MORGAN. 
 
 97 
 
 of her notes from Lord Abercorn begin simply “ Dear 
 Little Glo.” The book had an immediate and triumphant 
 success, and from that time until her death she was one 
 of the most conspicuous figures in the literature and 
 society of her day. 
 
 In 1810, after much hesitation, she once more resigned 
 her liberty to accept the pressing invitation of Lord and 
 Lady Abercorn to become a member of their household. 
 This decision affected the course of her whole life, since 
 it was at their house that she met her future husband, Sir 
 Charles, then plain Doctor Morgan. Lady Abercorn, a 
 benevolent but not very adroit woman, equally attached 
 to her sprightly companion and her handsome young 
 physician, soon determined to arrange a match between 
 them. It was sonic time before they met; but she made 
 such good use of her opportunities to praise each to the 
 other, that Miss Owenson (at her request) had already 
 written a humorous mock “Diploma of the University of 
 Saint Glorvina”for the doctor, before ever seeing him; 
 while that gentleman on his part conceived so deep a 
 prejudice against a woman whom lie pictured as an 
 uncomfortable paragon, that he determined to avoid her 
 at all hazards. But fate decreed otherwise. One day, as 
 he was quietly seated talking with Lady Abercorn, the 
 door opened and a servant announced “ Miss Owenson.” 
 lie started to his feet at once, intent upon flight; there 
 was but one door ; and, as Miss Owenson entered it, she 
 caught a glimpse of the dismayed Doctor just escaping by 
 the window. 
 
 This was a little too much to be borne. Her vanity Mas 
 touched, and when they were at last brought together she 
 exerted herself to the utmost to please him, with such 
 alarming success that he fell desperately in love with her; 
 and, Lord and Lady Abercorn helping him to urge his 
 suit, he was engaged to her at the end of a month. But 
 
LADY MORGAN. 
 
 9$ 
 
 the Wild Irish Girl had been taken by surprise, not fairly 
 won, and no sooner had she given him her promise than 
 she took fright at the terrible suddenness of the event. 
 She begged leave of absence to visit her father, who was 
 ill, promising to come back in a fortnight, although she 
 had inwardly resolved to remain away several months at 
 Least, if ever she returned at all. Indeed, in after life 
 she used frankly to say that for her perversity at this 
 period she had deserved to miss marrying the best hus¬ 
 band that ever woman had. 
 
 One excuse followed another, and still she did not 
 come, while the poor Doctor grew every day more angry 
 and miserable. His letters to her are filled with mingled 
 reproach, jealousy, tenderness, and despair, with an occa¬ 
 sional standing on liis dignity ; hers to him are all evasion, 
 contradiction, persuasion, affection, and petulance. The 
 secret of the situation is summoned up in a single one of 
 her sentences: 
 
 “ There was so much of force in the commencement of 
 this business, that my heart was frightened back from the 
 course it would naturally have taken.” 
 
 She returned at last, but even then she would set no 
 day for the wedding, and finally Lady Abercorn took the 
 matter into her own hands. One bitter January morning 
 she entered the library where her intractable protege was 
 seated before the fire in her morning wrapper, and said, 
 taking her by the arm : 
 
 “ Glorvina, come up stairs directly and be married; 
 there must be no more trifling.” 
 
 Poor Glorvina, too astonished to protest, submitted 
 meekly to be led into another room, where Sir Charles 
 (he had been knighted at Lord Abercorn’s request) stood 
 awaiting her, in company with a chaplain attired in full 
 canonicals. She was married there and then, and not 
 even the guests in the house knew anything about it until 
 
LADY MORGAN. 
 
 99 
 
 several days later, when Lord Abercorn, after dinner, 
 filled his glass and invited them to drink to the health of 
 “ Sir Charles and Lady Morgan ! ” 
 
 Lady Morgan’s married life was unusually happy. Her 
 husband was devoted to her, and, far from being jealous 
 of her fast increasing fame, was extremely proud of it, 
 and rendered her valuable assistance in her literary labors. 
 
 She in her turn always noted with peculiar pleasure 
 any complimentary reference to his medical works, for 
 he, too, was an excellent writer in his own province, and 
 rejoiced in the attentions paid him. 
 
 They soon became familiar figures in society, where 
 Lady Morgan’s agreeable talents had always made her 
 popular, and when they visited the continent they were 
 received at once into the most brilliant circles of Paris, 
 Florence, Rome, and Brussels. In her “ France ” and 
 Italy,” Lady Morgan describes in her usual vivid manner 
 many of the interesting people whom they met. In 
 France she associated on terms of intimacy with the 
 Marquise do Villette (the Belle et Bonne of Yoltaire), 
 who obtained her admission to the order of Free Masons. 
 She was much with Talma, who gave his most famous 
 recitations in her salon ; with Humboldt, of whom she 
 always speaks with reverent affection ; and with that most 
 un-American of Americans, Madame Patterson-Bonaparte. 
 To us, perhaps, the most interesting of all her friends is 
 Lafayette. She gives us a delightful reminiscence of the 
 Lafayette family at La Grange, where she was for some 
 time a favored guest. 
 
 “We arrived at sunset last evening,” she w T rites, “and 
 the old tower covered with the ivy planted by Charles 
 Fox shone out in strong relief from the dark woods 
 behind; but the brightest of all sunshine was the dear 
 Lafayette’s own noble countenance, beaming with smiles 
 and cordiality as he stood at the castle gate to receive us, 
 
IOO 
 
 LADY MOKGAN. 
 
 surrounded by his children and grandchildren and other 
 members of his family.” 
 
 The grandchildren were twelve in number; yet during 
 the whole time she was there, Lady Morgan mentions 
 that she never heard the cry of a child, nor observed any 
 symptoms of a dispute. Besides this large family there 
 were several visitors at the castle. Two American gentle¬ 
 men were there ; and Carboncl, who composed the music 
 for Beranger’s songs; and Scheffer, then a rising young 
 artist, who painted Lady Morgan’s picture. At dinner, 
 where there were seldom fewer than from twenty to thirty 
 guests, Lafayette was always placed at the center of the 
 table between his two youngest grandchildren. In fine 
 weather they spent much of the day out of doors, wander¬ 
 ing about the beautiful grounds, lying upon the grass, or 
 fishing in the pools. 
 
 In the evening, every one gathered about a huge wood 
 fire, roaring upon the cavernous stone hearth, and listened 
 to Lafayette’s anecdotes of historic personages, or Lady 
 Morgan’s Irish stories, or Carbonel’s music. Sometimes, 
 in one of Berangcr’s spirited songs — La Sainte Alliance 
 was a great favorite — the whole company would join in 
 the chorus, till the roof rang. 
 
 Sunday, Lady Morgan tells us, was always a peculiarly 
 joyous day at La Grange. 
 
 “ On Sunday,” she writes to her sister Olivia, “ there 
 was a village festival, and we all walked down to the 
 village to join it. It was completely such a scene as one 
 sees at the opera. The villages here are very straggling, 
 and x-esemble English hamlets rather than towns; but the 
 scene of action was principally in a little square before 
 the gates of a little nunnery, where all the nuns were 
 assembled in their habits, in the midst of the fun. . . . 
 The beaux had their hair powdered as white as snow, with 
 immense queues, and dimity jackets and trousers: the 
 
LADY MORGAN. 
 
 IOl 
 
 women in such caps as I brought over, with a profusion 
 of lace, gold crosses, white gowns, and scarlet aprons. At 
 four o’clock the ball began on the green. It is astonish¬ 
 ing to see with what perfection men, women, and children 
 dance the quadrilles, which are here called country dances, 
 and how serious they all look. We left them hard at it, 
 and retired to dinner at five. They all came up to the 
 General to speak to him. He shook hands with all the 
 old folk, and talked to them of their farms. It was one 
 of the most delightful scenes you can imagine. My 
 English dress excited great amazement, especially a long 
 grey cloak I brought from London. In the evening there 
 was (as there is every Sunday evening) a ball at the 
 castle. After coffee we all went down to the hall, and 
 there children, guests, masters, mistresses, and servants 
 joined together in the dance, as they had done in the 
 morning at prayers; for there is a chapel belonging to the 
 chateau, where the priest of the parish officiates. The serv¬ 
 ants danced in the quadrilles — six femmes-de-chambre, 
 and all the lacqueys. Oscar and Octavie, the two young 
 ones, three and four years old, danced every quadrille, 
 and never once were out; in short, these scenes of 
 innocence and gaiety and primitive manners are daily 
 repeated.” 
 
 Lafayette himself, while the dancing went on, “ stood 
 looking on and leaning on his stick, the happiest of the 
 happy.” 
 
 The books which Lady Morgan published during her 
 married life — including the novels of “O’Donnel” and 
 “Florence McCarthy” — were far more generally read 
 than any of her previous works, with the exception of 
 “ The Wild Irish Girl.” Her career was one of almost 
 uninterrupted success and happiness, until the death ol 
 her husband in 1843. After that, although her wit and 
 mirth remained to her, there was always a certain under- 
 
102 
 
 LADY MORGAN. 
 
 tone of sorrow in Lady Morgan’s longer letters; and, as 
 she grew older, it is sad to find her noting the death of 
 one old friend after another, always with a few words of 
 genuine appreciation. 
 
 She was fond of society until the end, and on St. 
 Patrick’s Day, a week before the beginning of her last 
 illness, she gave a musical morning party, of which she 
 was herself the life and soul. 
 
 She was not aware until the last that her illness was 
 serious, and she dictated cheerful notes to her friends 
 relative to her condition. On the very day of her death 
 she called for her desk and tried to write a letter, but was 
 obliged to give up the attempt. Shortly after, her breath 
 began to fail her, and she turned to her favorite niece, 
 who was supporting her, and asked, “ Sydney, is this 
 death ?” 
 
 After that she only spoke a few times to thank her 
 friends and her servants, who were also her friends, for 
 the services they rendered her. She died quietly and 
 painlessly, in the evening of April 16, 1859, aged about 
 seventy-six years. 
 
 So lived and so died the Wild Irish Girl. She was the 
 joy of every circle she entered, and her works, some of 
 which are still read with pleasure, form an agreeable part 
 of the record of her time. 
 
MARIA THERESA. 
 
 UGHT women to vote ? This is one of the questions 
 
 w of the day. Many men would be disposed to favor 
 the admission of women to the ballot but for one objection. 
 If, say they, women can vote for President, why should 
 they not be eligible to the office of President? Very 
 well; suppose they were. When we consider that the two 
 greatest empires of modern times have been governed by 
 women, and when we consider also how many of the 
 nations of the earth have been governed badly by men, 
 why should we think it so terrible a thing to have a woman 
 at the head of this Republic ? It is true, we are not 
 likely to witness such an event, but if it should occur, 
 the nation would probably survive it. 
 
 Let us see in what manner the great Maria Theresa 
 ruled for forty years the extensive and ill-assorted empire 
 of Austria. 
 
 Born in 1717, the eldest daughter of the Emperor, 
 Charles YI, she married in her nineteenth year, Francis, 
 the Duke of Lorraine, and in her twenty-third year, upon 
 the death of her father, was proclaimed Empress of the 
 sixteen different states and territories which made up the 
 Austrian empire. Her father was a man of limited 
 capacity, though of respectable character, and left to his 
 daughter an empty treasury, a small, disorganized army, 
 and a disputed succession. Although all the great pow¬ 
 ers, during the lifetime of the Emperor, had solemnly 
 engaged to recognize his daughter as the legitimate heir, 
 
 !°5 
 
106 MARIA THERESA. 
 
 no sooner had the news of his death spread over Europe, 
 than all of them, except the King of England, questioned 
 her claims, and several of them took measures to seize 
 portions of her inheritance. It was the general opinion 
 of Europe that the impoverished empire, under the sway 
 of a young woman, would fall to pieces almost of itself, 
 and that the only question was, respecting the division of 
 its provinces among adjacent states. 
 
 While the other powers were negotiating and arming with 
 a view to the dismemberment of Austria, Frederick II, the 
 young King of Prussia, availing himself of the splendid 
 army and the vast treasures accumulated by his father, 
 suddenly invaded the Austrian province of Silesia, and 
 marched with such rapidity that, in a few weeks, he had 
 possessed himself of almost the whole province. Fred¬ 
 erick then offered to the young Empress to establish her 
 in the possession of all her other states, and to give her 
 a subsidy of five million of francs, on the single condition 
 of her ceding to Prussia the province of Silesia, which 
 Frederick claimed as rightfully belonging to his kingdom. 
 Threatened as she was by France, Holland, and Spain, 
 it would have been only prudent in her to have accepted 
 this offer. But with the Imperial crown, she inherited 
 also an Imperial pride. She rejected the proposal with 
 as much promptitude and disdain, as though she hud 
 been the mistress of powerful armies and inexhaustible 
 treasuries. 
 
 In this extremity she repaired to Hungary, where the 
 celebrated scene occurred with the Diet of that country. 
 Presenting to the assembled nobles her infant child, she 
 appealed to their compassion and their loyalty, saying, 
 with tears in her eyes: 
 
 “ I have no allies but you in the world.” 
 
 Whereupon, her husband shouted : 
 
 “ Life and blood for our Queen and kingdom.” 
 
MARIA THERESA. IOJ 
 
 “ Yes,” exclaimed the members of the Diet, “ our life 
 and blood.” 
 
 Some timely help, too, came from George II of 
 England, and it was with English guineas and Hungarian 
 horsemen that she endeavored to expel Frederick from 
 Silesia, and keep at bay the armies of France and Spain. 
 Such enthusiasm was there for her in England, that a 
 public subscription was started for her benefit. The 
 Duchess of Marlborough subscribed the extraordinary 
 sum of forty thousand pounds sterling, and other ladies 
 of London a hundred thousand more — so touched were 
 the susceptible hearts of the English people at the spec¬ 
 tacle of a young and beautiful woman defending her 
 hereditary rights against such numerous and powerful 
 eneinies. The Empress, however, thought it due to her 
 dignity to decline this friendly succor, and said to the 
 ladies, that she would defend her states by the help of 
 her loyal subjects alone. It added to the general interest 
 in her fortunes, that she was about again to become a 
 mother, and knew not, as she said, whether there would 
 remain to her a city in which she could give birth to her 
 child. 
 
 Despite the heroic efforts of the Hungarians, she was 
 compelled to yield Silesia to the King of Prussia in order 
 to detach him from the coalition against her. She then 
 waged successful war against her other enemies until, in 
 the eighth year of her reign, she concluded a treaty of 
 peace which left her mistress of all the ancient posses¬ 
 sions of her house, excepting alone the fine province 
 wrested from her by the invincible Frederick. 
 
 After this eight years of most desperate and desolating 
 warfare, Maria Theresa enjoyed a precious interval of 
 seven years of peace ; which is about the duration of two 
 presidential terms. Then it was that, for the first time, 
 she could display the gentler and benevolent traits of her 
 
io8 
 
 MARIA THERESA. 
 
 character. She employed her power to encourage agri 
 culture and reanimate trade. She removed tariffs and 
 other barbarous restrictions from the commerce with 
 foreign nations. She caused new and better roads to ba 
 constructed. She decorated her capital with grand and 
 useful edifices. Directly through her encouragement, her 
 subjects began to manufacture woolen cloths, silk, and 
 porcelain, which remain to this day important branches 
 of the national industry. Not content with these merely 
 material works, she founded a University, several colleges, 
 schools of architecture and design, and three observato¬ 
 ries. She took great pains to make her subjects 
 acquainted with improved methods of healing the sick. 
 For the old soldiers who had shed their blood in her 
 cause, she erected hospitals and asylums. She pensioned 
 the widows and dowered the daughters of officers who 
 had fallen in war. Above all, in her own life, and in the 
 government and education of her family, she set an 
 example of purity, wisdom, and devotion, which every 
 mother in the world could study with profit. She did 
 not think that the labors of governing an empire exempted 
 her from the ordinary responsibilities of life. She became 
 the mother of ten children, four sons and six daughters, 
 all of whom survived her, and all of them, I believe, did 
 honor to the character of their mother. 
 
 But she could not reconcile herself to the loss of her 
 darling Silesia. Always looking forward to the time 
 when she should be in a position to recover that province, 
 she strengthened and disciplined her army continually, 
 and founded military schools where officers could be 
 trained capable of coping with the veterans of the Prus¬ 
 sian king. At the same time she prepared the way, by 
 able diplomacy, to combine the powers of Europe against 
 the ambitious Prussians. She stooped even to flatter the 
 mistress of the King of France, Madame de Pompadour, 
 
MARIA THERESA. 
 
 IOg 
 
 whom, in notes still existing, she styled “ my dear friend.” 
 The great Frederick, on the contrary, would never con¬ 
 descend to notice, officially, the existence of Madame de 
 Pompadour, and made her his bitter foe by his contemptu¬ 
 ous silence and stinging sarcasm. He used to call her 
 “ Petticoat III,” in allusion to the fact that she was the 
 third mistress of Louis XV; and there were always 
 about the two courts busy adherents of the Empress to 
 convey to the ears of Pompadour the sneering wit of the 
 Prussian monarch. 
 
 By such arts, and others more legitimate, Maria Theresa 
 united against Frederick the sovereigns of France, Eng¬ 
 land, Russia, and of several of the States of Germany, 
 not doubting for a moment that a kingdom of five mil¬ 
 lions of souls must of necessity succumb before a com¬ 
 bination of States, the united population of which was 
 more than a hundred and fifty millions. 
 
 But she did not know her enemy. Informed of the 
 secret treaty for the destruction of his kingdom and its 
 division among his enemies, Frederick suddenly marched 
 with sixty thousand men, and overran Saxony and Bohe¬ 
 mia, and thus began the famous Seven Years’ War, 
 which only ended when the enemies of Frederick, 
 exhausted of men and money, were compelled to leave 
 him in peaceful possession of the province he had seized. 
 It must be avowed, however, that, in all probability, 
 Frederick would have been overwhelmed and finally 
 defeated, but for the accession to the throne of Russia of 
 Peter III. This emperor had conceived such a passionate 
 admiration of the character and exploits of the Prussian 
 king that the moment he came upon the throne he aban¬ 
 doned the coalition, and withdrew his armies from the 
 seat of war. This event occurred in the very nick of 
 time. It relieved Frederick and completed the discour¬ 
 agement of his enemies. 
 
I IO 
 
 MARIA THERESA. 
 
 After the restoration of peace, Maria Theresa renewed 
 her exertions for the welfare of her people. Though a 
 devout Roman Catholic, she resisted the efforts of the 
 Pope to control the ecclesiastical affairs of her empire, 
 and so checked the power of the Inquisition that her 
 successors were able to suppress that terrible institution. 
 One of her best acts was the abolition of torture in the 
 administration of justice—a reform which was greatly 
 due to the eloquent and pathetic denunciations of Vol¬ 
 taire. At that time, in almost every country, criminals 
 were put to the torture, either to compel them to confess 
 their own guilt or to reveal the names of their accom¬ 
 plices. The unhappy prisoner, pale and trembling with 
 terror, was conducted to a vault underground, and there, 
 in the presence of a magistrate and recording clerks, he 
 was subjected to increasing degrees of anguish, until the 
 attending surgeon decided that he could bear no more 
 without danger of his life. Many poor wretches, to gain 
 a moment’s respite from agony, accused innocent persons, 
 who, denying their guilt, were in turn subjected to the 
 same infernal cruelty. The first monarch of continental 
 Europe to abolish this most irrational and horrid system 
 was Frederick the Great; the second was Catherine II, 
 of Russia; the third was Maria Theresa; the fourth was 
 Louis XVI, of France. Readers may remember that 
 v hen the benevolent Howard made his tours among the 
 jails of Europe, about the time of the American Revolu¬ 
 tion, he found the torture chamber in almost every city 
 that he visited, and in many of them it was still employed. 
 
 It used to be considered a stain upon the administra 
 tion of the Empress Maria Theresa that she consented to 
 the dismemberment of Poland, and to accept a large por¬ 
 tion of that country as her share of the spoil. More 
 recent writers, however, who have looked into that affair 
 closely, are disposed to think the act justifiable and even 
 
MARIA THERESA. 
 
 I I I 
 
 necessary. One thing is pretty certain ; if a country can 
 be dismembered, it soon will be, unless it is the interest 
 of some great power or powers to protect it. 
 
 Mary Theresa died in 1780, aged 63, bequeathing to 
 her son, Joseph, an empire far more united, prosperous, 
 and powerful than the Austria which she inherited from 
 her father. When the news of her death was brought to 
 Frederick, the greatest of her enemies, he wrote to his 
 friend, D’Alembert, the French author: 
 
 “ I have shed some very sincere tears at her death. 
 She has done honor to her sex and to the throne. I have 
 made war upon her, but I have never been her enemy.” 
 
 Of the female sovereigns of Europe in modern times, 
 Maria Theresa was, probably, the ablest and the most 
 virtuous. Her errors were those of her rank and blood ; 
 her good actions were the result of her own noble heart 
 and generous mind. Austria still styles her the Mother 
 of her country, and remembers with fondness one of her 
 sayings: 
 
 “ I reproach myself for the time I consume in sleep; 
 it is so much taken away from the service of my people.” 
 
LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 HREE women have a claim to be associated with 
 
 JL the name of Sir John Franklin. The lady whom 
 he first married, Miss Eleanor Porden, is one of them. 
 It was she who, knowing how fatal a brief delay may be 
 to an arctic expedition, bade her husband set sail for the 
 northern seas at the appointed time, although she was 
 then in the last stages of consumption. He sailed, and it 
 proved to be her last wish that he obeyed, for she died 
 the day after his departure. 
 
 His second wife was the Lady Franklin of whom all 
 the world has heard. It was to her untiring efforts (in 
 all of which she was devotedly aided by Sir John’s niece, 
 the late Miss Sophia Cracroft), that the solution to the 
 mystery which so long shrouded the fate of the explorer 
 and his ill-starred vessels, was due. 
 
 Lady Franklin, whose maiden name was Jane Griffin, 
 was born in 1794, and was married to Sir John Franklin 
 in 1828, when she was thirty-four years of age. Ten 
 years later she accompanied him to Van Dieman’s Land, 
 (now Tasmania,) of which he had been appointed gov¬ 
 ernor. She early gained the good will of the inhabitants, 
 and was noted among them both for her many deeds of 
 private beneficence, and for the active, efficient aid which 
 she rendered her husband in his public duties. She 
 showed especial interest in the welfare of poor emigrants, 
 and of the convicts who, after transportation to New South 
 Wales was abolished, were sent to Tasmania from all 
 
 112 
 
LADY FRANKLIN’, 
 
LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 US 
 
 parts of the British Empire. That Sir John and Lady 
 Franklin acquired, not only the approval,but the affection of 
 the colonists, is shown by the comments of the local press 
 upon their departure for England at the expiration of 
 Sir John’s administration. A few years later Lady 
 Franklin had llie melancholy pleasure of receiving from 
 them a large sum of money to assist her in prosecuting 
 her search for her lost husband and the records of his 
 expedition, and they further testified their remembrance of 
 him by erecting a statue in his honor at Hobart Town. 
 
 Sir John’s success as an arctic discoverer led the 
 English government in 1845 to offer him the command 
 of an expedition to sail in search of the Northwest pas¬ 
 sage, a duty which he gladly accepted. Two ships, the 
 “ Erebus” and“ Terror,” were provided, and an additional 
 transport to convey stores as far as Disco, in Greenland. 
 These three vessels sailed from Greenhithe on the nine¬ 
 teenth of May. 
 
 The “ Erebus ” and “ Terror,” which were fine ships 
 fitted expressly for arctic service, and victualled for three 
 years, were last seen in Baffin’s Bay by a whaler, lying 
 moored to an iceberg. All was then going well. In 
 letters written home a few days previous to this, the 
 officers of the expedition expressed ardent hope and per¬ 
 fect confidence in their commander, while Sir John him¬ 
 self, writing to Lady Franklin, assured her cheerfully of 
 his well-being, and dwelt upon the future with joyous 
 anticipations of success. Not one of his hundred and 
 thirty-four officers and men lived to return. 
 
 At the end of two years, nothing further having been 
 heard from the expedition, preparations were begun for 
 the too probable necessity of sending them assistance. 
 As time passed the feeling of uneasiness deepened, and 
 at last was begun that noble series of attempts made by 
 both English and Americans, which resulted after four¬ 
 teen years only in the sad discovery of the truth. 
 
LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 I 16 
 
 In 1848 three expeditions, expensively fitted out and 
 ably commanded, were sent by the government in search 
 of the missing explorers. They all failed ; but the failure 
 did not cause discouragement cither to the government 
 or the people of England. It served instead as a spur, 
 urging them to new efforts, made on a scale that would 
 insure success. The first step was taken by the Lords 
 of the Admiralty, who in March, 1849, offered a reward 
 of twenty thousand pounds to any man or party who 
 should render efficient aid to Sir John Franklin or his 
 men. A second reward of three thousand pounds was 
 offered by Lady Franklin, who also, at her own expense, 
 sent a supply of coal and provisions to be deposited on 
 the coast of Lancaster Sound. These were landed upon 
 the conspicuous promontory of Cape Hay, for the use of 
 the missing party, should they visit that region. She had 
 already sent, by a ship of one of the earlier expeditions, 
 a large quantity of similar stores, which had been buried 
 at prominent points along the coast, the place being 
 marked in each case by a tall signal post, with an arrow 
 painted upon it, pointing out the exact spot where the 
 articles were concealed. 
 
 It was in this year also that she addressed to the Presi¬ 
 dent of the United States her well-known appeal, in which 
 she called upon the Americans as a “ kindred people to 
 join heart and hand in the enterprise of snatching the 
 lost navigators from a dreary grave.” After referring to 
 the reward offered by the British Government, she said: 
 
 “ This announcement, which, even if the sum offered 
 had been doubled or trebled, would have met with public 
 approbation, comes, however, too late for our whalers 
 which had unfortunately sailed before it was issued, and 
 which, even if the news should overtake them at their 
 fishing grounds, are totally unfitted for any prolonged 
 adventure, having only a few months’ provisions on board, 
 
LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 II7 
 
 and no additional clothing. To the American whalers, 
 both in the Atlantic and Pacific, I look with more hope 
 as competitors for the prize, being well aware of their 
 number and strength, their thorough equipment, and the 
 bold spirit of enterprise that animates their crews. But 
 1 venture to look even beyond these. I am not without 
 hope that you will deem it not unworthy of a great and 
 kindred nation to take up the cause of humanity in which 
 I plead in a national spirit, and tln.s generously make it 
 your own.” 
 
 The Secretary of State, Mr. Clayton, at once sent an 
 encouraging reply to Lady Franklin, and President Taylor, 
 calling the attention of Congress to the matter in a special 
 message, stated his earnest desire that all possible assist¬ 
 ance should be rendered. lie had already caused notice 
 of the rewards offered, and information regarding the 
 probable means of finding the lost vessels, to be circulated 
 among whalers and seafaring men all over the country. 
 Popular feeling favored Lady Franklin and her cause, 
 and when Mr. Henry Grinnell of New York offered to 
 provide two fully equipped vessels at his own expense, 
 asking only that the government would transfer to them 
 some thirty men from the navy, there was a general 
 desire that the proposition should be accepted. Memo¬ 
 rials to that effect were sent to Congress from the cities 
 of New York and Philadelphia. The matter was not 
 decided, however, for a year. 
 
 In 1850 the two Grinnell vessels, the “ Advance ” and 
 “ Rescue,” sailed under the command of Lieutenant De 
 Haven. In the same year and for the same purpose there 
 went from England, in all, ten other vessels. Of these 
 two, the “ Lady Franklin,” a fine vessel of two hundred and 
 twenty tons, and the“ Sophia” (named after Miss Cracroft), 
 a brig of one hundred and twenty tons, were fitted out at 
 Lady Franklin’s desire and mainly at her own expense. 
 
118 
 
 LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 They were placed under the command of Captain Penny. 
 A third vessel, the “ Prince Albert,” was paid for by Lady 
 Franklin and her friends. She defrayed two-thirds of the 
 expense by means of selling out of the funds all the 
 money which she could legally dispose of. The com¬ 
 mander of the “Albert ” was Captain Forsyth, who volun¬ 
 teered for the service and would accept no pay. Indeed, 
 the number of volunteers who desired no other compensa¬ 
 tion than the honor of aiding in tho search was a marked 
 feature in the long scries of arctic voyages made with 
 the intent of learning Sir John Franklin’s fate. 
 
 The result of (he daring and persistent explorations of 
 these twelve vessels may be summed up in a few words. 
 Captain Ommaney, commanding the “Assistance,” dis¬ 
 covered at Beachy Head traces of an encampment which 
 lie supposed to be Franklin’s. Lieutenant De Haven, 
 of the American expedition, landed and confirmed the 
 discovery. Captain Penny of tho “ Lady Franklin ” visited 
 (he same place, explored it thoroughly, and found all tho 
 indications of a winter encampment, and the graves of 
 three of Franklin’s men. The dates upon tho headboards 
 showed that the party had been there during the winter 
 of 1845-G—that is, the first winter after leaving England. 
 
 In the summer of 1851 the twelve vessels returned 
 home, one after another. The “ Prince Albert,” however, 
 was not allowed to remain long in English waters. Lady 
 Franklin caused her to be elaborately and expensively 
 refitted, her bow and stern sheathed with wrought iron, 
 her sides protected by planking, and sent her forth again 
 to brave the perils of the North. She sailed in June, 
 1851, from Stromness, and Lady Franklin herself came 
 down to see her off. After a touching farewell to officers 
 and men, sue watched her standing out to sea, the Union 
 Jack streaming from her peak and the French flag flying 
 at the fore. This was in honor of Lieutenant Bellot 
 
LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 up 
 
 (second in command), a young Frenchman whom a 
 romantic love of adventure had led to leave his native 
 country and offer his services to Lady Franklin. 
 
 In 1852 the English government sent out another expe¬ 
 dition of five vessels under the command of Sir Edward 
 Belcher. In the same year, in consequence of a rumor 
 received through an Esquimaux interpreter, that Sir John 
 and his crews had been murdered at Wolstenholme 
 Sound, Lady Franklin refitted the screw steamer “ Isabel ” 
 and sent her to investigate the report, which proved to be 
 wholly false. The next year this steamer was again 
 refitted at her expense, and carried supplies to Captains 
 Collinson and M’Clurc of the government expedition at 
 Behring Strait. 
 
 But it was not untill 1854 that further authentic tidings 
 were obtained of the missing explorers. In that year 
 Dr. Rae, at the head of a land party sent by the Hudson's 
 Bay Company, learned from the Esquimaux that, in 1850, 
 about forty white men had been seen dragging a boat 
 near the north shore of King William’s Island, and that, 
 later in the season, they had all died from cold and 
 hunger. The story was confirmed by the finding among 
 the Esquimaux of articles once the property of Sir John 
 and his officers, all of which Dr. Rae secured and brought 
 back with him. He obtained the reward of ten thousand 
 pounds offered by the Admiralty to whomsoever should 
 first ascertain the fate of the missing expedition. A 
 search party sent next year by the government to the 
 spot mentioned by the Esquimaux, recovered many 
 further relics. 
 
 Lady Franklin was not satisfied. She had given up 
 all hope of her husband’s life. He had been ten years 
 lost; his party was provisioned for but three years ; and 
 he was sixty years old when he sailed. But her feelings 
 did not permit her to rest until she had rescued any possi- 
 
120 
 
 LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 ble survivor and recovered the records of the expedition, 
 if they yet existed. She appealed to Lord Palmerston to 
 make one further attempt. In her memorial she dwelt with 
 especial emphasis upon the incident of the “ Resolute,” 
 abandoned by the English during a government search 
 expedition, found by an American whaler, refitted, and 
 presented by Congress to the Queen. 
 
 “ My Lord,” she says, “ you will not let this rescued and 
 restored ship, emblematic of so many enlightened and 
 generous sentiments, fail even partially in her signifi¬ 
 cant mission. I venture to hope that she will be 
 accepted in the spirit in which she is sent. I humbly 
 trust that the American people, and especially that phil¬ 
 anthropic citizen who has spent so largely of his private 
 fortune in the search for the lost ships, and to whom 
 was committed by his government the entire charge of 
 the equipment of the ‘ Resolute,’ will be rewarded for 
 this signal act of sympathy by seeing her restored to her 
 original vocation, so that she may bring back from the 
 Arctic seas, if not some living remnant of our long-lost 
 countrymen, yet at least the proofs that they have nobly 
 perished.” 
 
 She adds, that should her request be denied, she will 
 herself send out a vessel. The Government, busy with 
 affairs in the east, was not willing to fit out another expe¬ 
 dition. 
 
 She kept her word. The last and most successful of 
 this long series of adventures and perilous searches, was 
 due solely to her heroic persistence. Aided by subscrip¬ 
 tions from her friends, she bought and refitted for Arctic 
 service the screw yacht “Fox.” Captain M’Clintock. 
 already distinguished in former search expeditions, was 
 placed in command of her, and she sailed upon the last 
 day of June, 1857. Lady Franklin, accompanied by Miss 
 Cracroft, came on board to bid the officers farewell. 
 
LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 121 
 
 Captain M’Clintock, observing her agitation, tried to 
 repress the enthusiasm of his men, but in vain. As she 
 left the vessel she was saluted by the crew with three 
 prolonged, thundering cheers. 
 
 Her letter of instruction to Captain M’Clintock i3 so 
 characteristic that I give it in full: 
 
 “ My dear Captain 3T Clintock: 
 
 “ You have kindly invited me to give you ‘ instructions,’ 
 but I cannot bring myself to feel that it would be right 
 in me in any way to influence your judgment in the con¬ 
 duct of your noble undertaking; and indeed I have no 
 temptation to do so, since it appears to me that your 
 views are almost identical with those which I had inde¬ 
 pendently formed before I had the advantage of being 
 thoroughly possessed of yours. But had this been other¬ 
 wise, I trust you would have found me ready to prove 
 the implicit confidence I place in you by yielding my own 
 views to your more enlightened judgment; knowing, too, 
 as I do, that your whole heart also is in the cause, even 
 as my own is. As to the objects of the expedition and 
 their relative importance, I am sure you know that the 
 rescue of any possible survivor of the ‘ Erebus ’ and 
 ‘ Terror * would be to me, as it would to you, the noblest 
 result cf our efforts. 
 
 “ To this object I wish every other to be subordinate ; 
 and, next to it in importance, is the recovery of the 
 unspeakably precious documents of the expedition, pub¬ 
 lic and private, and the personal relics of my dear hus¬ 
 band and his companions. 
 
 “ And lastly, I trust it may be in your power to confirm, 
 directly or inferentially, the claims of my husband’s expe¬ 
 dition to the earliest discovery of the passage, which* if 
 Dr. Rae’s report be true (and the Government of our 
 country has accepted and rewarded it as such), these 
 martyrs in a noble cause achieved at their last extremity 
 8 
 
I 22 
 
 LADY FUANKLIN. 
 
 after five long years of labor and suffering, if not an 
 
 earlier period. 
 
 “ I am sure you will do all that man can do for the 
 attainment of all these objects ; my only fear is that you 
 may spend yourselves too much in the effort; and you 
 must therefore let me tell you how much dearer to me 
 even than any of them is the preservation of the valuable 
 lives of the little band of heroes who are your compan¬ 
 ions and followers. 
 
 “ May God in his great mercy preserve you all from 
 harm amidst the labors and perils which await you, and 
 restore you to us in health and safety, as well as honor! 
 As to the honor I can have no misgiving. It will he 
 yours as much if you fail (since you may fail in spite of 
 every effort) as if you succeed; and be assured that, 
 under any and all circumstances whatever , such is my 
 unbounded confidence in you, you will ever possess and 
 be entitled to the enduring gratitude of your sincere 
 and attached friend, Jane Franklin.” 
 
 The confidence expressed in this letter was not mis¬ 
 placed. Captain M’Clintock’s heart was indeed in the 
 work, and his enthusiasm was shared alike by officers 
 and crew. It was a bitter disappointment to them all 
 when in August their vessel was caught in the ice in 
 Melville Bay, and they were obliged to remain in the 
 pack, drifting with it when it drifted, until the next spring. 
 During this long detention Lady Franklin was often in 
 their thoughts, and they spoke sorrowfully of the grief 
 she would experience when she learned of the delay. 
 The feeling of the crew towards her was described by 
 Captain M’Clintock as “ veneration.” She was remembered 
 on all their holidays, and at their Christmas dinner her 
 health and that of Miss Cracroft were drunk with accla¬ 
 mations. It was also unanimously resolved, after the 
 
LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 123 
 
 killing of the first bear, that its skin should he presented 
 to her as a joint gift from the officers and crew, all of 
 whom had assisted in the hunt. 
 
 At last the “ Pox ” escaped from the ice and proceeded 
 upon her way. In May, 1859, one of her officers, Lieu¬ 
 tenant Hobson, discovered a cairn containing a record of 
 tbe lost expedition. This record consisted of a note, 
 written in 1847, stating their success up to that time, and 
 adding that all were well. But around the margin another 
 hand, writing a year later, gave a sadly different story. 
 
 Prom this writer, who was Captain Fitzjames, we learn 
 that Sir John Franklin died June eleventh, 1847, and 
 that in April of the next year, only two days before the 
 date of this record, the “Erebus” and “Terror” were 
 abandoned, and their crews landed under the command 
 of Captain Crozier. A note in Captain Crozier's hand¬ 
 writing added that they were to start the next day for 
 Back’s Fish River. 
 
 To this river, accordingly, the searchers of the “ Fox ” 
 proceeded ; and there they found numerous relics of the 
 party, including silver articles marked with Sir John 
 Franklin’s crest, a boat, watches, clothing, and several 
 skeletons. The Esquimaux of the region remembered 
 the coming of these strangers, and said that all of them 
 had perished of cold and hunger; which was, indeed, but 
 too evident. 
 
 “ They would fall down and die as they walked along 
 the ice,” said an oi l Esquimaux woman to Captain 
 M’Clintock. 
 
 With this news the “ Fox” returned to England. Sad 
 as the certainty was, it must have been a relief to Lady 
 Franklin to receive it. She learned from the earlier of 
 the two notes in the cairn, that her husband had attained 
 the great object of his expedition ; he had discovered the 
 Northwest Passage. From the second note she learned 
 
124 
 
 LADY FRANKLIN. 
 
 that it had been his great good fortune to die on board 
 his ship, escaping all the horrors of that terrible overland 
 march. Indeed, he died before the expedition had 
 experienced anything other than brilliant and striking 
 success. 
 
 In 1860, Lady Franklin was presented with a gold 
 medal by the Royal Geographical Society. She died in 
 1875. The monument erected to her husband in West¬ 
 minster Abbey records, after his exploits and his fate, her 
 name, her devotion, the date of her death, and tha 
 inseparable connection of her fame with his. 
 
MADAME DE MIRAMION. 
 
 HARITY is of no age, race, or country. Travelers 
 
 among the most savage tribes find kind and com¬ 
 passionate hearts, and some of the most excellent institu¬ 
 tions of benevolence have been founded in times of the 
 grossest corruption of manners and morals. In the worst 
 periods' there are always some who preserve their integrity, 
 and assert by their conduct the dignity of human nature. 
 
 Madame de Miramion, a French lady of rank and 
 fortune, born in 1629, passed the whole of her life near 
 the showy and licentious court of Louis XIY, and in the 
 society of Paris, when that society was most devoted to 
 pleasure. But from her childhood she was drawn 
 irresistibly to a nobler life, and she spent the greater part 
 of her existence in alleviating human anguish, and found¬ 
 ing institutions which have continued the same beneficent 
 office ever since. A beauty and an heiress, she turned 
 away from the pleasures of her circle at the age when 
 they are usually most alluring. At nine years of age the 
 death of her mother, a woman devoted to piety and good 
 works, saddened her life and made her for a while morbid 
 in her feelings. In the midst of a gay and brilliant circle 
 of relations and friends, the child was moody, sorrowful, 
 and averse to society. 
 
 “I think constantly of death,” she said one day to her 
 governess, “ and ask myself, should I like to die ? should 
 I like to die at this moment ? ” 
 
 The governess encouraged these feelings, and dissuaded 
 
126 
 
 MADAME DE MIRAMION. 
 
 the child from indulging in the sports proper to her years, 
 telling her of eminent saints who denied themselves all 
 pleasures, and even inflicted pain upon themselves by 
 wearing hair shirts and girdles of iron. She saved her 
 money, bought secretly a thick iron chain, and wore it 
 around her waist next her skin, whenever she thought she 
 might be in danger of becoming too much interested in 
 pleasure. This was, indeed, a common practice in France 
 two hundred years ago. Like Florence Nightingale, she 
 had, even in her childhood, a remarkable love of nursing 
 and amusing the sick. In a large household, such as the 
 one of which she was a part, there are always some 
 invalids, and it was her delight, during her play hours, to 
 steal away to their bedrooms to entertain them by read¬ 
 ing, and assist in taking care of them. She would even 
 glide from the ball-room on festive occasions to visit a 
 sick servant, happier to mitigate suffering than to enjoy 
 pleasure. 
 
 When she was fourteen her father died, leaving her, an 
 orphan and an heiress, to the care of an ambitious aunt, 
 whose only thought concerning her was to secure her a 
 brilliant match and see her distinguished in society. The 
 young lady had no such thoughts. Grief-stricken at the 
 loss of her father, and weaned from fashionable pleasure 
 still more by that event, she would have entered a con¬ 
 vent, if she had not felt that she must be a mother to her 
 younger brothers. For their sakcs the continued iii the 
 world. Her aunt, to dispel what she deemed the gloomy 
 thoughts of an unformed girl, endeavored to distract her 
 mind by causing her to be presented at court, by taking 
 her often to the theatre, and making parties for her 
 entertainment. She succeeded for a time, and the young 
 lady gave herself up to the enjoyments provided for her. 
 
 She had grown, meanwhile, into a beauty. Her figure 
 was tall, finely formed, and exceedingly graceful; and her 
 
MADAME DE MIXAMIOX. 
 
 127 
 
 face, of a noble loveliness, with a complexion of dazzling 
 purity and eyes of heavenly blue, was set off by a great 
 abundance of nut-brown ringlets, which fell down about 
 her shoulders and neck. But the great charm of her 
 countenance was an expression of mingled love and 
 benevolence, such as usually, though not always, marks 
 the features of those who naturally delight in doing good. 
 Among the young ladies of her time there was none more 
 beautiful than she, and to her charms of face and form 
 was added the attraction of broad estates and fair 
 chateaux, all her own. 
 
 As she again showed symptoms of discontent with a 
 life of pleasure, even recurring occasionally to the iron 
 chain, her aunt urged her to signify a preference for 011c 
 of the numerous eligible lovers who had been flitting 
 round her ever since her entrance into society. One of 
 them, it seems, had attracted her regard. It was M. de 
 Miramion, who, as she had observed at church and else¬ 
 where, was particularly attentive to his mother, which 
 led her to believe he was a worthy young man, who 
 would sympathize with her desire to hold aloof from 
 the frivolous life of her class. He was rich, and of noble 
 rank, well looking, and in love with the beautiful Mad¬ 
 emoiselle de Rubelle. They were married — he twenty- 
 seven, sated with the pleasures of the world; she sixteen, 
 superior to them. All went happily for a few months. 
 
 “ I gave up playing cards,” she wrote, “ and going to 
 balls and theaters, which caused great surprise. I began 
 a regular life ; I won over my husband, and persuaded him 
 to live like a good Christian. We were very much united, 
 and much beloved by our family, with whom we never 
 had any disagreement, except from their efforts to make 
 me amuse myself.” 
 
 This harmonious married life was rudely terminated, 
 at the end of six months, by the d'rnh of the husband, 
 after an illness <?f a week. At seventeen Madame de 
 
123 
 
 MADAME DE MIRAMION. 
 
 Miramion was a widow, and about to be a mother. The 
 blow was so sudden and severe that nothing, perhaps, 
 would have availed to recall her to an interest in mun¬ 
 dane affairs but the birth of her daughter. When she 
 reappeared in the great world, she was lovelier than ever 
 in her face and person, and her fortune had been increased 
 by her portion of her husband’s estate. She was a very 
 rich and beautiful widow of eighteen, with only the 
 incumbrance of an infant in arms. Lovers again sur¬ 
 rounded her, but she encouraged none of them; and, 
 indeed, she was firmly resolved to dedicate her life to 
 the education of her daughter. Among her suitors was 
 a roue of high rank and wasted fortune — a widower with 
 three daughters, who felt how advantageous it would be 
 to add the lady’s estate to his own. Rejected by her, he 
 was given to understand by a friend of the family that 
 she really liked him, and was only prevented from marry¬ 
 ing him by the fear of offending her relations. This was 
 false, but he believed it, and he determined to carry her 
 off in the style of an old-fashioned romance. 
 
 On a certain day, as the young widow and her mother- 
 in-law were going in a carriage to a church near Paris, 
 the vehicle was suddenly surrounded by a band of horse¬ 
 men wearing masks. They stopped the carriage and 
 opened the door. The young lady screamed with terror, 
 which the horsemen attributed to her desire to keep up 
 appearances before her mother-in-law, and therefore pro¬ 
 ceeded to execute their purpose. The old lady and one 
 servant were left in the road to make their way home as 
 best they could, while the carriage containing the prize 
 was driven rapidly away, surrounded by the gentlemen on 
 horseback, led by the lover. All day the party galloped 
 on until, at the close of the afternoon, they reached an 
 ancient castle, with wall, moat, and draw-bridges, as we 
 find them in the novels of the period. Here a party of 
 two hundred of the abductor’s friends were in waiting, 
 
MADAME DE MIKAMION. 
 
 129 
 
 all armed, and all possessed with the idea that the abduc¬ 
 tion was undertaken with the full and free consent of the 
 lady. She soon undeceived them. She utterly refused to 
 enter the castle or leave the carriage. At length one of 
 the gentlemen, a knight of a religious order, gave her his 
 word of honor that if she would alight and remain in the 
 castle for the night, she should be set free at daybreak, 
 and conveyed in safety to her friends. She then con¬ 
 sented to accept the shelter proffered her. She passed 
 the night in solitude, and in the morning was replaced in 
 her carriage and set free. 
 
 Such was the state of the law at that time in France, 
 and such the power of the nobility, that the perpetrators 
 of this outrage escaped punishment, and people generally 
 seem to have thought it a gallant and high-spirited adven¬ 
 ture, and one that ought to have been rewarded with 
 success. 
 
 From this time to the end of her life, Madame de 
 Miramion thought no more of lovers. After recovering 
 from the serious illness caused by that day and night of 
 terror, she entered upon the way of life which has caused 
 her name to be remembered with honor and affection for 
 two centuries. She became austerely religious. She 
 economized her large income, so as to have the largest 
 possible sum to expend in works and institutions of 
 charity — discarding all the gay costumes and decora¬ 
 tions of her sex, and wearing always a plain, peculiar 
 dress, like that of a religious order. She personally 
 superintended her affairs, and showed a particular talent 
 for business, making the most of all her sources of 
 income. The education of her daughter was her own 
 work, and so successfnl was she wich her, that when she 
 was married at fifteen, she was regarded and treated as 
 a mature woman, and proved worthy of the confidence 
 reposed in her. 
 
130 
 
 MADAME DE MIRAMION. 
 
 Madame dc Miramion was the first lady in Europe who 
 ever tried systematically to reclaim the fallen of her own 
 sex. She hired a spacious house in Paris, into which she 
 received those who wished to reform, and there she main¬ 
 tained and taught them, and for such as persisted in 
 leading an honest life, she procured places or husbands. 
 Other ladies of rank joined her the King assisted, and 
 the establishment continues its benevolent work to the 
 present day. She also founded a dispensary, which not 
 only supplied the poor with medicines, but instructed a 
 number of women in the art of preparing them, and in 
 the making of salves and plasters. An excellent institu¬ 
 tion founded by her was an industrial school for young 
 girls, where they were taught sewing, household arts, 
 reading, writing, and the catechism, all the pupils being 
 furnished every day with a good plain dinner. In all 
 these establishments, Madame de Miramion labored with 
 her own hands and head, setting an example of devotion 
 and skill to all who assisted her. Her singular aptitude 
 for managing business, and her knowledge of finance, 
 stood her in good stead. During one of those times of 
 famine which used to desolate France, she hit upon the 
 expedient of selling a piece of bread and a certain 
 quantity of soup at cost, or a little below cost, by which 
 many thousands were carried over the period of scarcity 
 who would not have been reached by charity. 
 
 She spent her life in labors like these, devoting herself 
 and all she possessed to the mitigation of human woe, 
 reserving literally nothing for her own enjoyment. It 
 was she who gave that impulse to works of charity which 
 has rendered Paris the city of Europe most abounding in 
 organizations for the alleviation of poverty and pain. 
 She died in 1694. Recently her memoirs have been 
 published in Paris by a member of her family, and the 
 work, I hope, will find its way, through a translation, to 
 readers in America. 
 
PEG O’NEAL. 
 
 IXTY years ago, there used to be in Washington a 
 
 o spacious tavern in the old-fashioned Southern style, 
 kept by William O’Neal, who had lived in the neighbor¬ 
 hood before the capital was built on the shores of the 
 Potomac. This landlord had a pretty daughter named 
 Peg, who was the pet of the house from babyhood to 
 womanhood. She was somewhat free and easy in her 
 manners, as girls are apt to lie who grow up in such cir¬ 
 cumstances ; and it did not immediately occur to her that 
 a young lady of twenty cannot behave with quite the free¬ 
 dom of a girl of twelve, without exciting ill-natured 
 remark. 
 
 Among the boarders of this old tavern, whenever he 
 came to Washington, was General Andrew Jackson, of 
 Tennessee, who had known the landlord in the olden time 
 when he used to pass through that region on his way from 
 Nashville to his seat in Congress at Philadelphia. Mrs. 
 Jackson, also, occasionally accompanied the general to 
 the seat of government, wdiere she became warmly 
 attached both to Mrs. O’Neal and to her daughter, Peg. 
 The general nowhere in Washington felt himself so much 
 at home as in this old tavern. No one could make him 
 and his plain, fat little wife so comfortable as Mrs. O'Neal, 
 and no one could fdl the general’s corn-cob pipe more 
 acceptably than the lively and beautiful Peg. 
 
 In due time, Peg O’Neal, as she was universally called, 
 became the wife of a purser in the navy, named Timber- 
 
 ! 3i 
 
132 
 
 PEG O'NEAL. 
 
 lake, who, while on duty in the Mediterranean, committed 
 suicide, in consequence, it was supposed, of a drunken 
 debauch on shore. He left his widow with two children 
 and little fortune, but still young and beautiful. 
 
 Early in 1829, Senator Eaton of Tennessee, one of 
 General Jackson’s most intimate friends and political 
 allies (an old boarder, too, at the O’Neal tavern), was 
 disposed to marry the widow ; but, before doing so, com 
 suited General Jackson. 
 
 “ Why, yec, Major,” replied the general, “ if you love 
 the woman, and she will have you, marry her by all 
 means.” 
 
 Major Eaton observed that the young widow had not 
 escaped reproach, and that even himself was supposed to 
 have been too fond of her. 
 
 “Well,” said the general, “your marrying her will dis¬ 
 prove these charges, and restore Peg’s good name.” 
 
 They were married in January, 1829; and a few weeks 
 after, General Jackson was inaugurated President of the 
 United States. In forming his cabinet, the President 
 assigned the Department of War to his old friend and 
 neighbor, Major Eaton. This appointment suddenly 
 invested his wife with social importance. Extravagant 
 stories circulated in Washington respecting Mrs. Eaton, 
 and the ladies made up their minds with one accord that 
 they would not call upon her, nor in any way recognize 
 her existence as the wife of a cabinet minister. 
 
 Meanwhile, General Jackson remained in ignorance of 
 this new outbreak of scandal; but before he had been a 
 month at the White House a distinguished clergyman of 
 Philadelphia, Dr. Ely, wrote him a long letter detailing 
 the slander at great length, and calling upon him to 
 repudiate Mrs. Eaton. General Jackson had his faults, 
 but he never did a mean thing nor a cowardly thing in 
 his life. The manner in which he set about defending the 
 
PEG O’NEAL. 
 
 r 33 
 
 daughter of his old friend, and his wife’s old friend, does 
 him as much honor as one of his campaigns. He replied 
 to Dr. Ely in a letter of several sheets, in which he exam¬ 
 ined the stories with something of the coolness of an old 
 lawyer, and very much of the warmth of a friend. One 
 of the charges was that the deceased Timberlake believed 
 all this scandal, and cherished deep resentment against 
 Eaton. The general met this in a triumphant manner: 
 
 “ How can such a tale be reconciled with the following 
 facts ? While now writing, I turn my eyes to the mantel¬ 
 piece, where I behold a present sent me by Mr. Timber- 
 lake of a Turkish pipe, about three weeks before his death, 
 and presented through Mr. Eaton, whom in his letter he 
 calls Ms friend” 
 
 In a similar way he refuted the other accusations, and 
 he kept up the defence in letter after letter, witli the same 
 energy and fire that he had displayed in hurling the Eng¬ 
 lish troops back from New Orleans. I have had in my 
 hands hundreds of pages of manuscript in General Jack¬ 
 son’s writing, or caused to be written by him, all relating 
 to this affair, and all produced in the early weeks of a 
 new administration. lie brought it before his cabinet. 
 He summoned the chief propagator of the scandals; he 
 moved heaven and earth. But, for once in his life, the 
 general was completely baffled ; the ladies would not call 
 upon Mrs. Eaton ; not even the general’s niece, Mrs. 
 Donclson, the mistress of the White House. 
 
 “ Any thing else, uncle,” she said, “ I will do for you, 
 but I will not call upon Mrs. Eaton.” 
 
 The general was so indignant that he advised her to go 
 back to Tennessee ; and she went back, she and her 
 husband, private secretary to the President. General 
 Jackson’s will was strong, but he discovered on this occa¬ 
 sion that woman’s won’t was stronger. 
 
 In the midst of this controversy, when the feelings of 
 
134 
 
 PEG O'NEAL. 
 
 the general were exasperated to the highest pitch, there 
 arrived in Washington Martin Van Buren to assume the 
 office of Secretary of State. Mr. Van Buren, beside 
 being one of the most good-natured of men, and a worthy 
 gentleman in all respects (to whom justice has not been 
 done), had no ladies in his family. He was a widower 
 without daughters. lie was also the friend and close ally 
 of Major Eaton. Soon after his arrival in Washington, 
 he called upon Mrs. Eaton as a matter of course, but 
 treated her with particular respect as a victim of calumny. 
 He did a great deal more than this. He used the whole 
 influence of his position as Secretary of State to set her 
 right before the world. 
 
 Among the diplomatic corps, it chanced that the British 
 Minister Mr. Vaughan, and the Russian Minister Baron 
 Krudener were both bachelors, and Mr. Van Buren easily 
 enlisted them in the cause. Balls were given by them at 
 which they treated the lady with the most marked atten¬ 
 tion, and contrived various expedients to get the other 
 ladies into positions where they would be compelled to 
 speak civilly to her. All was in vain. The ladies held 
 their ground with undaunted pertinacity, yielding neither 
 to the Pi'esident’s wrath nor to the Secretary’s devices. 
 
 The nickname given to Mrs. Eaton by the hostile faction 
 was Bellona, the goddess of war. A letter-writer of the 
 day sent to one of the New York papers amusing accounts 
 of the gallant efforts of the three old "bachelors to “ keep 
 Bellona afloat ” in the society of the capital. 
 
 “ A ball and supper,” he says, “ were got up by his 
 excellency, the British Minister, Mr. A T aughan, a particu- 
 lar friend of Mr. Van Buren. After various stratagems 
 to keep Bellona afloat during the evening, in which almost 
 every cotillion in which she made her appearance was 
 instantly dissolved into its original elements, she was at 
 length conducted by the British Minister to the head of 
 
PEG O’NEAL. 
 
 135 
 
 the table, where, in pursuance of that instinctive power 
 of inattention to whatever it seems improper to notice 
 the ladies seemed not to know that she was at the table. 
 This ball and supper were followed by another given by the 
 Russian Minister. To guard against the repetition of the 
 spontaneous dissolution of the cotillions and the neglect 
 of the ladies at supper (where you must observe, none 
 but ladies had scats), Mr. Van Buren made a direct and 
 earnest appeal to the lady of the Minister from Holland, 
 Mrs. Iluygens, whom lie entreated to consent to be intro¬ 
 duced to the accomplished and lovely Mrs. Eaton. 
 
 “ The ball scene arrived, and Mrs. Huygens, with uncom¬ 
 mon dignity, maintained her ground, avoiding the 
 advances of Bellona and her associates until supper was 
 announced, when Mrs. Huygens was informed by Baron 
 Krudener that Mr. Eaton would conduct her to the table. 
 She declined and remonstrated, but in the meantime Mr. 
 Eaton advanced to offer his arm. She at first objected, 
 but to relieve him from his embarrassment walked with 
 him to the table, where she found Mrs. Eaton seated at 
 the head, beside an empty chair for herself. Mrs. 
 Huygens had no alternative but to become an instrument 
 to the intrigue, or decline taking supper; she chose the 
 latter, and taking hold of her husband's arm withijrew 
 from the room. This was the offence for which General 
 Jackson afterwards threatened to send her husband home. 
 
 “ The next scene in the drama was a grand dinner, given 
 in the cast room of the palace where it was arranged that 
 Mr. Vaughan was to conduct Mrs. Eaton to the table and 
 place her at the side of the President, who took care by 
 his marked attention to admonish all present (about 
 eighty, including the principal officers of the government 
 and their ladies) that Mrs. Eaton was one of his favorites, 
 and that he expected her to be treated as such in all 
 places. Dinner being over (lie company retired to the 
 
I3 6 
 
 FEG O'NEAL. 
 
 coffee room to indulge in the exhilarating conversation 
 which wine and good company usually excite. But all 
 would not do. Nothing would move the inflexible ladies.” 
 
 Mr. Van Buren’s conduct completely won the affection 
 of General Jackson, of which during the summer of 1830 
 he gave a most extraordinary proof. Being exceedingly 
 sick, and not expected to live through his first term, he 
 wrote a letter strongly recommending Mr. Van Buren as 
 his successor to the presidency, and denouncing his rival, 
 Calhoun, as signally unfit for the position. The letter 
 was confided to the custody of Major William B. Lewis, 
 of Nashville, who permitted me to copy it in 1858 for use 
 in my Life of Jackson. It had lain in a green box, with 
 other private documents of a similar nature, for twenty- 
 eight years; for, as the general in part recovered his 
 health, it was never used for the purpose intended. Not 
 the less, however, did General Jackson, by a long series 
 of skillful maneuvres, secure for Mr. Van Buren the 
 succession to the presidency. 
 
 Finding the ladies resolute, and being himself consti¬ 
 tutionally unable to give up, General Jackson broke up 
 his cabinet, quarreled with Calhoun, drove him into nulli¬ 
 fication, sent Van Buren abroad as Minister to England, 
 and, in short, changed the course of events in the United 
 States for half a century; all because the Washington 
 ladies would not call upon Mrs. Eaton. Some time after 
 the close of the Jackson administration Mrs. Eaton was 
 again left a widow; but this time, she was left a rich 
 widow. For many years she lived in Washington in very 
 elegant style, in a house all alive and merry with children 
 and grandchildren. In her old age she was so unfor¬ 
 tunate as to marry a young Italian dancing-master, who 
 squandered her fortune, and brought her gray hairs in 
 poverty and sorrow to the grave. She died in Washing¬ 
 ton a few years ago, aged about eighty-four years. 
 
rEG O'NEAL. 
 
 137 
 
 Was General Jackson right in carrying his defence of 
 Mrs. Eaton to this extreme ? We may say of General 
 Jackson that he often did a right thing in a wrong way. 
 If he did not succeed in making the ladies call upon Mrs. 
 Eaton, he gave the politics of the country a turn which, 
 upon the whole, was beneficial. 
 
MRS. L. N. MONMOUTH, AND now SHE LIYEI' ON 
 FORTY DOLLARS A YEAR. 
 
 ERE is a true tale of a lady, still living among us, 
 
 J_L who rescued her home, her life, her happiness, and 
 
 her dignity as a gentlewoman, from an abyss of circum¬ 
 stances that threatened to engulf them all. She is that 
 Mrs. L. II. Monmouth, of Canterbury, New Hampshire, of 
 whom the reader may have casually heard, who in mid¬ 
 dle age, half disabled, and an invalid, suddenly lost her 
 fortune. She had been living in comfort and apparent 
 security in the receipt of a modest, but sufficient income, 
 much of which she spent in charity. She aw’oke one 
 morning and found herself without a dollar — every¬ 
 thing gone but the old homestead that sheltered her. 
 
 Too ill to work, afflicted with a crippled arm and one 
 blind eye, and dazed by the suddenness of her misfor¬ 
 tune, she was at her wits’ end to know what to do. In 
 this emergency, friends were not backward in offering 
 their advice. 
 
 “Take boarders,” said one. 
 
 “ Sell your place and buy a cottage,” said another. 
 
 “Let it, and hire your board,” said a third. 
 
 Others, perhaps as well-meaning, but even less prac¬ 
 tical, counseled her to be resigned, to rely on Providence, 
 to trust and pray. A few added the vague though kindly 
 phrase: 
 
 “ When you want anything, be sure and let us know.” 
 
 If these various suggestions were of any assistance to 
 Mrs. Monmouth in her trouble, it was only in showing 
 
 138 
 
MRS. L. N. MONMOUTH. 
 
 139 
 
 her that she must think and act for herself. Take hoard¬ 
 ers she would not, on account of her health. Her house, 
 if she sold it, would not bring more than six hundred 
 dollars, a sum too small for the purchase of a cottage, 
 and which, if used for paying board, would soon have 
 slipped away and left her dependent upon charity. 
 
 The house was old, dreary, and dilapidated. “ The 
 roofs leaked,” she says, “the windows were rickety, 
 the chimney discharged a mournful brickbat in every 
 driving storm.” But it was a shelter; it was dear to 
 her; and she resolved to keep it. The land upon which 
 it stood yielded twenty dollars a year in hay, twelve for 
 pasture, and in good years three for apples. By knitting 
 and making artificial flowers, the only work she was ablo 
 to do, she could depend upon earning fifteen dollars more. 
 These sums together equaled an income of exactly fifty 
 dollars, ten of which would be required for taxes. Upon 
 the remaining forty she determined to live, and did 
 live. 
 
 She did not enter upon this desperate experiment with¬ 
 out serious misgivings. Her first thought was to assign 
 twenty dollars out of the precious forty for food, but this 
 sum she soon reduced to seventeen. Better starve the 
 body than the mind, she thought, and the three dollars 
 thus saved were used to continue her subscription to hei 
 favorite weekly newspaper. She did better even than 
 this; for in her final apportionment of expenditures wo 
 find ten dollars — one-quarter of her whole income exclu¬ 
 sive of taxes — set apart for the purchase of reading mat¬ 
 ter ; the only other item in the list, besides food, being 
 thirteen dollars for fuel. 
 
 Not a single penny did she devote to dress, and the 
 ingenious shifts by which she succeeded in clothing her¬ 
 self respectably and sufficiently upon nothing a year, for 
 three years, arc worthy of study, and cannot fail to excite 
 
140 MRS. L. N. MONMOUTH. 
 
 admiration. Her wardrobe, at the time of her loss of 
 fortune, contained but one suit in really good condition, 
 and but one outer garment of any kind, a waterproof 
 cloak much worn and defaced. But she possessed a 
 palm-figured dressing-gown lined with purple flannel, the 
 outside of which was soiled and torn, while' the lining 
 was still quite good. This she ripped to pieces, and, 
 after washing and ironing the flannel, made a new gown 
 from it which she trimmed with the palm-leaf figures cut 
 from the sound parts of the other material, and placed in 
 three bands round the skirt and sleeves. She then 
 raveled out au old red undersleeve and edged each 
 band with a narrow fluting made from tl>e worsted thus 
 obtained. 
 
 “ I took genuine comfort,” she tells us, “ in planning 
 and piecing it out, day after day, with half-mittens on my 
 cold hands, sitting close to a cold fire. I was more than 
 a week about it, for owing to shortness of firewood my 
 days were .very short, and my lame hand was decrepit 
 and painful. I recollected that when I had made this 
 wrapper out of an abundance of nice new materials I had 
 been quite impatient at having to sew on it for two days, 
 and called in help to finish it off. People wdio saw it 
 after it was remodeled said it was handsomer than when 
 it was new, and it is certain I thought a good deal more 
 of it.” 
 
 Even a Yankee woman might well be proud of such a 
 triumph; but it was by no means the greatest which this 
 undaunted lady achieved. She had now two dresses, but 
 an outside garment was necessary, since the waterproof 
 was quite unpresentable. In an outer room of the house 
 hung an old, rusty overcoat of her father. It had been 
 there undisturbed for fifteen years, in company with a 
 pair of big boots, partly through an affectionate liking of 
 hers to sec it around, partly as a wdiolesome suggestion 
 
MRS. L. N. MONMOUTH. 
 
 141 
 
 to tramps of a possible masculine protector. It was 
 destined now to resume a more active career of useful¬ 
 ness. With great difficulty Mrs. Monmouth lifted it from 
 its peg and dragged it to her room to examine at her 
 ease. 
 
 It proved a mine of wealth to her. The lining alone, 
 of the finest and glossiest black lasting, quilted in dia¬ 
 monds, was a great treasure; then, when this had been ^ 
 ripped away, the reverse side of the coat itself was 
 revealed to be dark gray, clean, whole, and as good as 
 new. 
 
 With this gray cloth cut in strips, the old waterproof 
 newly washed, pressed, and mended, was so trimmed and 
 pieced as to make a very respectable garment for winter 
 service. Better still, the same stuff — a kind of fulled 
 cloth—was so thick, warm, and pliable that Mrs. Mon¬ 
 mouth, after having ripped up an old shoe, for a pattern, 
 was enabled to make herself an excellent pair of shoes 
 out of it, comfortable, neatly fitting, and not unsightly. 
 
 “ These home made shoes,” she says with pardonable 
 pride, “ shut off the shoe bill at the store, and gave me 
 Harper's Magazine." 
 
 But let us not forget the quilted lining. From this, 
 long, shining, and almost exactly of the fashionable 
 shape, a cloak was made which, when lined and trimmed 
 with a few odds and ends of cashmere, proved so hand¬ 
 some and at a little distance so like satin, that its skillful 
 and modest owner dared not wear it much abroad, for 
 fear of being accused of wild extravagance. It was 
 reserved to put on in the house on very cold days, and on 
 Thanksgivings, “ to give thanks in.” 
 
 From some plaid black and white flannel which had 
 lined the waterproof before its renovation, another cloak 
 was made, less elegant, but still, when decorated with 
 pressed gros-gram ribbon, and a fluting and ball-fringe 
 
142 
 
 MRS. L. N. MONMOUTH. 
 
 made from a pair of raveled stockings, it -was an article 
 of apparel by no means to be despised. This served for 
 use in spring and fall. 
 
 The problem of shoes had been mainly solved by the 
 discovery of the old overcoat, although, to spare any 
 unnecessary use of objects so difficult to manufacture, the 
 soles of old rubbers, lined with flannel and laced sandal- 
 wise upon the feet, often answered for household wear. 
 The problem of stockings remained. It was finally solved 
 by means of a knitted shawl and some ancient homespun 
 underclothes, all of which had been long since cast aside. 
 They were a mass of ends and ravclings, but the yarn, 
 though torn and in a few places moth-eaten, was other¬ 
 wise quite sound and very strong. This was carefully 
 washed, wound into skeins, colored, rinsed, and rewound 
 into balls for knitting—a labor of weeks. When it was 
 completed Mrs. Monmouth found herself supplied with 
 sufficient material to afford stockings for a lifetime. 
 
 Her summer clothing gave less trouble than the heavier 
 garments required for winter. She was fortunate enough 
 to find an old chocolate and white print gown of her 
 mother’s, which merely demanded altering over. A 
 second dress—a very pretty one—was made from a bed- 
 ticking, and trimmed with blue drilling taken from a pair 
 of overalls left on the place by some careless workman, 
 years before. A pair of checkered table-cloths were held 
 in reserve to be used should occasion require. Linen 
 articles were supplied from fifteen mottoes, worked upon 
 muslin and cotton flannel, that the house contained. 
 These were soaked and boiled clean before being used. 
 Hats and bonnets were deemed superfluous. When, how¬ 
 ever, it was necessary to pass the limits of the little farm 
 and appear in public, a battered straw ruin from the attic 
 fulfilled the demands of propriety, its forlorn condition 
 being concealed beneath the folds of a barege veil. 
 
MRS. L. N. MONMOUTH. 
 
 143 
 
 In the matter of food Mrs. Monmouth relied much upon 
 corn meal. Four and a half cents would support her 
 very well for a day and a half; one cent for a quarter of 
 a pound of meal, one and a half for a quarter of a pound 
 of dried beans, and two for a bit of salt pork. This was 
 her customary bill of fare for three days out of the seven 
 Rice she made great use of, and a pound of oatmeal 
 cooked on Monday served as a dessert throughout the 
 week, a cup of molasses taking the place of sauce. 
 Occasionally, when they were at their cheapest, she 
 bought several eggs ; at rare intervals she even indulged 
 herself with a beet, a turnip, or a few cents worth of 
 butcher’s scraps. Once a month she luxuriated in baking 
 gingerbread or frying doughnuts, one at a time, over her 
 little oil stove. 
 
 “ I always enjoyed the frying of doughnuts,” she says, 
 “ and looked forward to it with a zest of anticipation ; 
 they generally came u.p plump and round, and quite filled 
 the little cup of boiling lard. I picked them out with a 
 fork and invariably ate the first while the second was 
 cooking. After that I let them congregate upon a plate, 
 and watched their numbers increase to five, six, seven—- 
 never more than that.” 
 
 Now and then she was haunted by visions of the savory 
 cakes and pies baking in her neighbors’ ovens ; but when¬ 
 ever the contrast became too strong between these fancied 
 delicacies and the lonely pot of oatmeal in her own 
 cupboard, she hastened to forget her deprivations in a 
 book. 
 
 Her usual provision of winter fuel was three cords of 
 wood, which she sawed herself, despite her lame arm, 
 “ worrying off,” as she expresses it, “ a few sticks each 
 day ” During the milder seasons of the year she burned 
 only such dried moss, branches, and pine cones as she 
 could gather in the neighborhood. For almost all cooking 
 
144 
 
 MRS. L. N. MONMOUTH. 
 
 she used an oil stove. Her lame arm, ■which was easily 
 affected by the weather, became almost useless during 
 periods of intense cold. At these times, feeling that 
 when nothing could be earned something might at least 
 be saved, she would spare her fuel by creeping into bed 
 with a book and a hot freestone, and spend the day 
 beneath the clothes. 
 
 She had no money to spare for incidental expenses. 
 When the roof of her shed let in too much rain upon the 
 wood-pile, the wood-pile was moved to a drier spot. When 
 a front window was ruined by some reckless sportsman 
 putting thirty shot holes through it, the blinds were closed 
 and it was left unmended. When the plaster dropped 
 down into the rooms its place was supplied by patches of 
 cloth pasted over the bare brown laths. Yet, while her 
 poverty reduced her to such makeshifts as these, while 
 she denied herself even the lotion which would alleviate 
 the condition of her crippled arm, Mrs. Monmouth always 
 managed to keep a dollar or two on hand for charitable 
 purposes, and never failed to manufacture some simple 
 Christmas presents for a few children and faithful friends 
 who were accustomed to bring her occasionally during the 
 year what she gratefully terms “ baskets of benefaction.” 
 
 She succeeded, moreover, in finding time and strength 
 to render pleasing and attractive the old home which she 
 could not afford to repair, and which became, in the 
 course of a few years, a veritable museum of ingenious 
 and beautiful handiwork. At last the people around her 
 became interested; the place began to be talked of, and 
 its fame spread into the neighboring towns. Visitors 
 arrived, few at first, and later in such numbers that Mrs. 
 Monmouth was obliged to charge an admittance fee, and 
 afterwards to issue a circular containing prices and 
 regulations. 
 
 “ Children, seven cents; Ladies, ten; Gentlemen, fif- 
 
MRS. L. N. MONMOUTH. 
 
 145 
 
 teen; ” says this interesting little document, adding that 
 “ No gentlemen unaccompanied by ladies will be admitted, 
 and strangers must bring an introduction.” 
 
 It also states, very prudently, that “ Ladies are 
 requested not to come with horses they cannot manage. 
 Such as wish to remain most of the day can do so by 
 bringing lunch and paying twenty-five cents.” 
 
 Besides her other labors, Mrs. Monmouth has written 
 a small pamphlet relating her experiences, which she 
 entitles, “ Living on Half a Dime a Day.” 
 
 Let no one undervalue these trifling details, for they 
 convey to this extravagant age a lesson of which it 
 stands in need. Some of the brightest spirits of our time 
 have passed or are passing their lives in miserable bond¬ 
 age, solely through disregard of Mrs. Monmouth’s princi¬ 
 ple of preserving her independence by living within her 
 means. An English poet of great celebrity has a costly 
 mansion unfinished, which has for years made him a 
 bond-slave to publishers and architects. 
 
 The French novelist, Balzac, as we see by his Letters, 
 spent his life in a mere struggle to pay off enormous 
 debts incurred in building, improving, and furnishing. 
 He was a man of almost unequaled strength of constitu¬ 
 tion, one who could work sixteen hours a day, for months 
 at a time, without obvious exhaustion; but it killed him 
 at last. The disease of which he died was called con¬ 
 sumption, but its correct name was House and Grounds ; 
 and he seemed quite helpless in the clutch of this dread 
 malady. When he began to write he used to receive for 
 a small volume one hundred and twenty dollars, and he 
 endeavored to write one of these every month. In the 
 course of a year or two his price rose to four hundred 
 dollars for a volume, which would have yielded him a 
 tolerable income without excessive labor. But now, 
 presuming upon his strength and ability, he began to get 
 
146 
 
 MRS. L. N. MONMOUTH. 
 
 into debt, and, in six years, he owed twenty-five thousand 
 dollars. From that time to the end of his life, he was 
 possessed of two raging manias—a mania to get into 
 debt, and a mania to work out of debt. But it is so easy 
 to spend! Ho sometimes received five thousand dollars 
 a month for literary labor, and sold one story to a news¬ 
 paper for four thousand dollars. Rising from his bed at 
 midnight, he kept at work all the rest of the night, and 
 most of the next day, till five in the afternoon; but his 
 debts grew apace and speedily reached a total of fifty 
 thousand dollars. 
 
 Then, of course, he must needs buy a house and set 
 about improving its garden. He appears not to have 
 known what was the matter. He wondered that he 
 should be so pestered with debts. “ Why am I in debt?” 
 he asks. He died insolvent, after making millions by his 
 pen, and at the very moment almost of his death he was 
 buying an antique costume for thirty thousand francs, 
 and concluding bargains for pictures and ancient needle¬ 
 work. 
 
 There is an interesting passage in the memoirs of 
 George Ticknor, where he speaks of his two visits to 
 Abbotsford, the big house that brought low the magnifi¬ 
 cent head of Sir Walter Scott. When Mr. Ticknor 
 first visited the author of “ Marmion,” his abode was a 
 modest, comfortable establishment, quite sufficient for a 
 reasonable family of liberal income. When he paid his 
 second visit, Sir Walter having in the interval made and 
 lost a great fortune, Abbotsford had grown into a costly, 
 extensive, nondescript, preposterous mansion. The 
 moment his eyes fell upon it he understood Sir Walter's 
 ruin. That toy house was his ruin. The American 
 visitor discovered among its grandeurs the apartment he 
 had occupied twenty years before, reduced in rank aud 
 office, but still recognizable, and he could not but lament 
 
MRS. L. N. MONMOUTH. 
 
 147 
 
 the fatal mania which had lured so great a man to spoil a 
 modest country house by incrusting it over with an eccen¬ 
 tric, tawdry palace. 
 
 A leaf from Mrs. Monmouth’s book might have saved 
 these men from misery and despair. She made the most 
 of small means, and they made the least of large. I 11 the 
 midst of poverty she preserved her independence and her 
 dignity; with superabundant means, they threw both 
 away. 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC, COMMONLY CALLED 
 JOAN OF ARC. 
 
 OME refuses to canonize the Maid of Orleans. At the 
 
 _L\ beginning of the year 1876, Monseigneur Dupan- 
 loup, bishop of the diocese in which she began her career 
 in arms, went to Rome, and asked, on behalf of his 
 Catholic countrymen, that the maiden who, four hundred 
 and fifty-three years ago, assisted to restore the inde¬ 
 pendence of France, might be added to the roll of the 
 saints. The power that sent the golden rose unasked to 
 Isabella of Spain refused this costless favor to the urgent 
 request of Frenchmen. 
 
 It had no other choice. The Historical Society of 
 France has given to the reading world the means of know¬ 
 ing what power it was that consigned her to the fire. It 
 was no other than the Church which so recently was 
 asked to canonize her. After a five months’ trial, in 
 which sixty ecclesiastics, and none but ecclesiastics, par¬ 
 ticipated, she was condemned as an “ excommunicated 
 heretic, a liar, a seducer, pernicious, presumptuous, credu¬ 
 lous, rash, superstitious, a pretender to divination, blas¬ 
 phemous toward God, toward the saints male and the 
 saints female, contemptuous of God even in His sacra¬ 
 ments, distorter of the Divine law, of holy doctrine, of 
 ecclesiastical sanctions, seditious, cruel, apostate, schis¬ 
 matic.” It were much, even after the lapse of four hun¬ 
 dred and fifty years, to forgive such sins as these. 
 
 The proceedings of this long trial were recorded from 
 
 148 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 151 
 
 day to day with a minuteness which only a short-hand 
 report could have surpassed, and when the last scene was 
 over, the record was translated into official Latin by 
 members of the University of Paris. Five copies of this 
 translation were made, in the most beautiful writing of 
 the period—one for Henry VI, King of England, one 
 •for the Pope, one for the English cardinal, uncle to Henry 
 VI, and one for each of the two presiding ecclesiastics. 
 Three of these manuscript copies exist to-day in Paris, 
 as well as a considerable portion of the original draft — 
 le plumitif, as the French lawyers term it—written in 
 the French of 1430. The very copy designed for the boy 
 King of England, the ill-starred child of Henry V and 
 Catherine of France, has remained at Paris, where its 
 presence attests the reality of the Maid’s exploits, and 
 recalls her prophetic words, uttered often in the hearing 
 of the English nobles: “ You will not hold the kingdom 
 of France. In seven years you will be gone.” This 
 report, edited with care and learning by M. Jules Qui- 
 cherat, has been printed verbatim in five volumes octavo, 
 and these have been since reduced to two volumes by the 
 omission of repetitions, under the zealous editorship of 
 Mr. E. Reilly, a distinguished lawyer of Rouen, where the 
 trial took place. The record is therefore ineffaceable. 
 The Church could not canonize in 187G a personage whom 
 the Church is known to have cast beyond her pale in 1430 
 to be mercifully burned alive. She was abandoned to 
 “the secular arm,” which was besought to act toward 
 her with sweetness — aveo douceur. In thirty minutes 
 the secular arm bound her to a stake in the market¬ 
 place of Rouen, and sweetly wreathed about her virgin 
 form a shroud of flame. 
 
 France no longer possesses Domremy, the remote and 
 obscure hamlet of Lorraine where the Maid first saw the 
 light. The house in which she was born, the little church 
 
152 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 of St. Remi in which she knelt., and the church-yard 
 wall against which her abode was built, are all standing. 
 The village is commonly called Domrenr>-la-Pucelle, in 
 remembrance of her, and every object in the neighborhood 
 speaks of her: the river Meuse gliding past, the hill of 
 the fairies upon which her companions danced, and where 
 they laughed at her for liking better to go to church, the 
 fountain where the sick were healed by miracle, and the 
 meadows in which she sat spinning while she watched the 
 village herd on the days when it was her father’s turn to 
 have it in charge. These remain little changed; but 
 they are now part of the German Empire — part of the 
 price France has had in our time to pay for Louis XIV 
 and the Bonapartes. To such a people as the French it is 
 not a thing of trifling import that France does not own 
 the birthplace of the Maid of Orleans. 
 
 Nor was Lorraine a French possession when Jeanne 
 Dare kept the village herd on the banks of the Meuse 
 in 1425. For a long period it had been a border-land 
 between France and the empire, during which the inhabit¬ 
 ants of chat sequestered nook had been as passionately 
 French in their feelings as the people of Eastern Tennes¬ 
 see were warm for the Union in 18G3. In a border-land 
 there is no neutrality. And during the childhood of this 
 maiden, France had fallen under the dominion of the 
 English. She was three or four } r ears of age when ZTenry 
 Y won the battle of Agincourt, and by the time she was 
 ten, France as an independent power had ceased to be. 
 It was not merely that Harry Y and his bowmen had 
 overthrown in battle the French armies, but, apart from 
 this conquest of the country, there were grounds for the 
 claim of his son to the French throne which even a patri¬ 
 otic and conscientious Frenchman might have admitted. 
 The French King himself, Charles YII, indolently doubted 
 the right of his line to the throne, and doubted also his 
 own legitimacy. 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 153 
 
 What could a Frenchman think of the rival claimants 
 of 1428? Paris was in the power of the English, and 
 apparently content to be; two-thirds of France were 
 strongly held by English troops, and Uie remainder was 
 not safe from incursion for a day; the uncles of the 
 English King, who ruled France in his name, were men 
 of energy and force, capable of holding what their valiant 
 brother had won; and as to the King, Henry VI, boy as 
 he was, he was a French Prince as well as English, the 
 son of English Harry and the Princess Catherine, whose 
 pretty courting scenes so agreeably close Shakspeare’s 
 play. “Shall not thou and 1,” says blunt King Hal to 
 the Princess, who happily understood him not, “ com¬ 
 pound a boy, half French, half English, that shall go to 
 Constantinople, and take the Turk by the beard ?” The 
 boy had been compounded; he was now called Henry 
 VI, of France and England King; and many thousand 
 Frenchmen owned him sovereign in their hearts. 
 
 The person whom we commonly style Joan of Arc, 
 and the French Jeanne d’Arc, would have written her 
 name, if she had ever known how to write, Jehannette 
 Rommee. “ My mother,” she said, upon her trial, “ was 
 named Rommde, and in my country girls bear the surname 
 of their mothers.” Her father was a farm laborer named 
 Jacques Dare, originally D’Arc — James of the Bow, or, 
 as we might say, if he had been an English peasant, 
 James Bowman. A learned descendant of the family — 
 for she had several brothers and sisters — who has written 
 a book on the Maid, writes her name and his own Dare; 
 and although there is an inclination in France to give her 
 still the aristocratic apostrophe, it is probable that history 
 will now accept plain Jeanne Dare as the name nearest 
 the truth. Whether her father was a free laborer or a 
 6erf was not known even to the persons who drew up her 
 patent of noLility in 1428. and is still uncertain. We 
 
154 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEaNNL DARC. 
 
 know, however, that lie was an agricultural laborer, who 
 “went to the plow,” which plow this daughter may have 
 assisted to draw. As I propose, however, to give those 
 portions of her testimony in which she relates her own 
 story, I will merely recall a few of the circumstances of 
 her lot needful to the elucidation of her words. These 
 were mostly gathered from the lips of her companions, 
 years after her death, when the mother of the Maid of 
 Orleans, from whom she probably derived her cast of 
 character, cried to France, and cried not in vain, to do 
 justice to her daughter’s memory. 
 
 The Dare cottage was so near the village church that a 
 religious girl residing in it would always feel herself in 
 the shadow of the altar. She could look from her home 
 into the church’s open door. She was familiar with the 
 sexton from her childhood, and used to remind him of 
 his duty when lie forgot to ring the bell for prayers, even 
 bribing him to be punctual by gifts of wool and yarn. Of 
 knowledge derived from books she possessed none, unless 
 we except her Paternoster, her creed, and a few short 
 prayers and invocations, she not differing in this par¬ 
 ticular from nine-tenths of the people of the kingdom. 
 Probably not one of her race had ever been able to read. 
 She was, nevertheless, a person cf native superiority of 
 mind and character, capable of public spirit, yearning for 
 the deliverance of her country, fervid, energetic, of dex¬ 
 terous hand, well skilled in all the arts and industries 
 appertaining to her lot, and proud to excel in them. It 
 is not true that she was an inn servant, who rode the 
 horses to water, and saddled them for travelers. Sho 
 lived honorably in her father’s house, earning her share 
 of the family’s subsistence by honest toil, spinning, weav¬ 
 ing, bread-making, gardening, and field-work, “taking 
 her spinning-wheel with her to the fields when it was her 
 father’s turn to tend the village herd” — a faithful helper 
 
THE TIIIAL OF JEANNE DAUC. 
 
 155 
 
 to her parents. She was a well-grown girl, robust, strong, 
 and vigorous. Of the numerous portraits known to have 
 been taken of her during the two years of her glory, I 
 know not if any one has been preserved. Probably not; 
 else why do not Martin, Guizot, and the other French 
 historians give some authority for the radiant beauty of the 
 pictures they present to us of the Maid ? Beautiful she 
 probably was. Pitiful and devout we know she was from 
 the testimony of all her village, as well as from that of 
 her pastors, who heard her in confession, and witnessed 
 her life from day to day and from hour to hour. We 
 know, also, that her heart was wrung with sorrow for her 
 desolated country, and her careless, self-indulgent King, 
 whom she ignorantly thought a peerless hero and a 
 Christian knight without reproach. 
 
 Such traits as these, subdued by Catholic habits, impart 
 to youth and beauty, untutored though it be, an assured 
 serenity of demeanor which impresses and charms. By 
 Catholic habits I mean such as the habit of remaining 
 still and silent in one attitude for a long time, the habit 
 of walking at a measured pace with the hands in a pre¬ 
 scribed position, the habit of pausing several times a day 
 and collecting the soul in meditation on themes remote 
 from the day’s toil and trouble. The effect of these 
 habits upon the nervous system, and consequently upon 
 the demeanor, is such as to give convent schools an 
 obvious advantage, which keeps them full of pupils all 
 over the world. Granting that the effect is chiefly phys¬ 
 ical, and that it is often overvalued, we must still admit 
 that it often confers personal power and personal charm. 
 
 The story of this village maiden is incomprehensi¬ 
 ble, unless we allow her the might and majesty of 
 such a presence as we still see in pure-minded and 
 nobly purposed women. Many of those who executed 
 her will at critical moments could only explain their 
 
156 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 obedience by dwelling upon the power of her demeanor, 
 which was at once impassioned and serene. Rude men- 
 at-arms could not swear in her presence, and the 
 nobles of a dissolute court yielded to the force of her 
 resolve. They told her that her road to the king was 
 infested with enemies. “ I do not fear them,” replied 
 this peasant girl, not yet eighteen. “ If there are enemies 
 upon my road, God is there also, and He will know how 
 to prepare my way to the Lord Dauphin. I was created 
 and put into the world for that!” The Comte de Dunois 
 in his old age, twenty-six years after the campaigns in 
 which he had fought by her side, bore testimony to the 
 commanding power of her words. She said one day to 
 the king, in the hearing of Dunois: “When I am 
 annoyed because my message from God is not more 
 regarded, I go apart and pray to God; I lay my com¬ 
 plaint before Him; and when my prayer is finished I 
 hear a Voice which cries to me, ‘ Child of God, go, go; I 
 will be your helper; go!’ And when I hear that Voice 
 I am glad exceedingly, and I wish to hear it always.” 
 After repeating these sentences of the Maid, old Dunois 
 would add, “ And what was more wondrous still, while 
 she uttered these words her eyes were raised to heaven 
 in a marvelous transport.” This Maid, I repeat, is inex¬ 
 plicable, unless we think of her as one of those gifted 
 persons who have natural power to sway and to impress. 
 
 She spoke to the king of a Voice that cheered and 
 guided her. Usually she used the plural, mes voix. These 
 Voices play the decisive part both in her life and death, 
 and they furnish also the chief difficulty of her history. 
 Most of us moderns have ceased to be able to believe in 
 audible or visible supernatural guidance such as she 
 claimed to enjoy, and we at once suspect imposture in 
 the person who pretends to it. She shall tell her own 
 story, and the reader, must judge it according to the light 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 157 
 
 which he possesses. Those who are inclined to set down 
 all such pretensions as conscious frauds must not forget 
 that Socrates spoke familiarly of his daemon, whose voice 
 he thought he heard, and whose behests he professed to 
 obey from early life to his last hours. They should also 
 recall the case of Columbus, who distinctly heard a voice 
 in the night bidding him to be of good cheer, and hold¬ 
 ing out hopes of success which were Met fulfilled. Jeanne 
 Dare was quick enough to distrust and detect other 
 claimants to supernatural visitations. The woman who 
 pretended to receive nightly visitations from a Lady in 
 White was quickly put to the test. Jeanne Dare resorted 
 to the simple expedient of passing two nights with her, 
 and when the vision did not appear, told her to go home 
 and take care of her husband and children. This Maid 
 also gave two proofs of genuineness not to be looked for 
 in impostors. In her village home she was noted for her 
 skill as well as for her fidelity in the labors belonging to 
 her position ; and when she had entered upon her public 
 life, she was ever found in the thick of the battle, banner 
 in hand, not indeed using her sword, but never shrinking 
 from the post where swords were bloodiest. The false 
 knaves of this world neither excel in homely duties nor 
 lead the van in perilous ones. 
 
 France had never —has never—been so near extirpa¬ 
 tion. “ The people,” as the historian Martin expresses it, 
 “ were no longer bathed in their sweat, but ground in 
 their blood, debased below the beasts of the forest, among 
 which they wander, panic-stricken, mutilated, in quest of 
 an asylum in the wilderness.” This fervent and sympa¬ 
 thetic girl came at length to see the desolation of her 
 country; her own village was laid waste and plundered 
 by a marauding band. From childhood she had been 
 familiar with the legend, “ France, lost through a maid, 
 shall by a maid bo saved.” 
 
I5« 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE PARC. 
 
 The story of her exploits at court, in camp, in the field, 
 is tamiliar to all the world. A thousand vulgar fictions 
 obscure and degrade its essential truth. What this 
 untaught girl did for her country was simply this: she 
 brought to bear upon the armies of France the influence 
 of what our own Western preachers would call a “ power¬ 
 ful revival of religion.” From bands of reckless and 
 dissolute plunderers, she made French soldiers orderly, 
 Jecent, moral, and devout. Hope revived. She made 
 the king believe in himself; she made the court believe 
 in the cause. Men of faith saw in her the expected vir¬ 
 gin savior: men of understanding perceived the advant¬ 
 age to their side of having her thus regarded. She may, 
 too (as some of her warrior comrades testified in later 
 years), have really possessed some military talent, as well 
 as martial ardor and inspiration. They said of her that 
 she had good judgment in placing artillery. Later in 
 her short public career she showed herself restless, rash, 
 uncontrollable ; she made mistakes; she incurred dis¬ 
 asters. But for many months, during which France 
 regained a place among the powers of Europe, she was a 
 glorious presence in the army—a warrior virgin, in bril¬ 
 liant attire, splendidly equipped, superbly mounted, nobly 
 attended ; a leader whom all eyes followed with confiding 
 admiration, as one who had been their deliverer, and 
 was still their chief. The lowliness of her origin was an 
 element in her power over a people who worshiped 
 every hour a Saviour who was cradled in a manger. We 
 can still read over the door of an ancient inn at Rhcims, 
 the Maison Rouge, this inscription: “In the year 1429, 
 at the coronation of Charles VII, in this tavern, then 
 called The Zebra, the father and mother of Jeanne Dare 
 lodged, at the expense of the City Council.” 
 
 Her career could not but bo brief. When she left home 
 to deliver her country, she had lived, according to the 
 
TIIE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 159 
 
 most recent French authorities, seventeen years and two 
 months. Fifteen months later, May 24, 1439, after a 
 series of important victories followed by minor defeats, 
 she was taken prisoner under the walls of Compidgnc, 
 which she was attempting to relieve. French troops, 
 fighting on the side of the English, captured her and 
 held her prisoner. French priests, in the metropolitan 
 church of NcStre Dame at Paris, celebrated her capture 
 by a “ Tc Deum.” It is doubtful if her own king 
 lamented her; for this devoted, deluded girl belonged to 
 the order of mortals whom the powers of this world often 
 find it as convenient to be rid of as to use. It is proba¬ 
 ble that she had expended her power to be of service and 
 had become unmanageable. Small, needless failures, 
 chargeable to her own rash impetuosity, had lessened her 
 prestige. For the fair and wanton Agnes Sorel the idlo 
 King of France would have attempted much ; but I 10 
 made no serious effort to ransom or to rescue the Maid 
 to whom he owed his crown and kingdom. 
 
 Politicians are much the same in every age, since the 
 work they have to do is much the same in every age. 
 Two parties as well as two kings were contending for the 
 possession of France, and one of these, by the prompt 
 and adroit use of the Maid of Orleans, had gained for 
 their side the conquering force of a religious revival. 
 Bedford, the regent of the kingdom, who had seen his 
 conquests falling away from him before the banner of a 
 rustic girl, felt the necessity of depriving his rival of this 
 advantage. If there were two powers contending for the 
 kingdom of France, were there not two powers contending 
 for the kingdom of this world ? Loyal France had accepted 
 the Maid as sent from God ; it now devolved upon the 
 •English regent to demonstrate that she was an agent of 
 Satan. He bought her of her captors for ten thousand 
 pounds—a vast sum for that period—and had her brought 
 
i6o 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 to Rouen, a chief seat of the English power, where to this 
 day the bones of the regent lie magnificently entombed 
 in the cathedral. There he caused a trial to be arranged, 
 of a character so imposing as to command the attention 
 of Europe. No homage rendered her by her adherents 
 conveys to us such a sense of her importance as this trial 
 contrived by an able ruler to neutralize her influence. 
 
 A politician who had the bestowal of church prefer¬ 
 ments could as easily find ecclesiastics to execute his will 
 as a politician, who has only tri\ ial, precarious offices to 
 give, can pack a convention and control a caucus. Bed¬ 
 ford’s written promise of the archbishopric of Rouen 
 made Cauchon, Bishop of Beauvais, his superserviccable 
 agent, through whom all that was most imposing and 
 authoritative in the Church convened at Rouen to try the 
 Maid. Bishops, abbds, priors, six representatives of the 
 University of Paris, the chief officer of the Inquisition, 
 learned doctors, noted priests—in a word, sixty of the 
 elite of the Church in English France, all of them French¬ 
 men—assisted at the trial. 
 
 The castle at Rouen, a vast and impregnable edifice 
 in the style of the period, was the scene of these transac¬ 
 tions. The great tower is still in good preservation; 
 the rest of the structure has disappeared. This gloomy- 
 looking extensive edifice, Jeanne Bare’s prison and court¬ 
 house, was the centre of interest to two kingdoms 
 during her half year’s detention. It swarmed with in¬ 
 habitants. As if to nullify the Maid's effective stroke 
 of the Rhcims coronation, the uncles of the English 
 king, who was not yet ten years of age, had brought 
 him once more to France, and lie remained an inmate 
 of the castle of Rouen during the trial. A Norman 
 chronicler, who saw his entry into Rouen in July, 
 1430, speaks of him as a very beautiful hoy (ung tres 
 lean Jilz'), and adds that the streets through which he 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 l6l 
 
 passed were more magnificently decorated than they had 
 ever been before on sacramental days. At the gate were 
 banners on which were blazoned the arms of England 
 and France; and on his way to the cathedral the people 
 cheered him so loudly that the little king told them to 
 cease, for they made too much noise. Shows were exhib¬ 
 ited in the streets, and the king looked at them; and 
 when at last Ire entered his castle, the bells rang out a 
 peal as if God himself had descended from heaven. There 
 he remained for a year with his uncle Bedford, the regent, 
 his grand-uncle Beaufort, Cardinal of Winchester, his 
 governor, the Earl of Warwick, and the chief officers of 
 both the royal and the vice-royal courts, all intent upon 
 undoing in France what a village maiden had wrought in 
 fifteen months. The castle was pervaded with intense 
 life, and an ill-disciplined host of guards and men-at-arms 
 were posted about it. 
 
 Jeanne Dare, treated by her French captors with 
 decency and consideration, and detained in a lordly 
 chateau more as a guest than a prisoner, bore the first 
 months of her confinement with patience and dignity. 
 On one point only she showed herself obstinate: she 
 refused to lay aside her man’s dress. The people of that 
 day, if we may judge from these old records, held in par¬ 
 ticular horror the wearing of man’s clothes by a woman. 
 The ladies of the chateau, knowing what an advantage 
 this costume gave her enemies, provided her with woman’s 
 clothes, and besought her to put them on. She could not 
 be persuaded to so, alleging that she had assumed her 
 man’s dress by Divine command, and had not yet received 
 Divine permission to change it. In other respects she 
 was tractable, and seemed absorbed in the events of the 
 war, ever longing to be again in the field. 
 
 The news reached her at length that she had been sold 
 to the English—the dreadful English !—and was about to 
 
162 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 be given np to them. “ I would rather die,” she cried, in 
 despair, “than be surrendered to the English!” Then 
 her thoughts recurred to her work unfinished—her coun¬ 
 try not yet delivered. “ Is it possible,” she added, “ that 
 God will let those good people of Compiegne perish, who 
 have been and arc so loyal to their lord ? ” Some days of 
 anguish passed. Then she took a desperate resolution. 
 “ I could bear it no longer,” she afterwards said; and so, 
 “ recommending herself to God and our Lady,” she sprang 
 one night from the tower in which she was confined to 
 the ground, a height, as M. Quicherat computes, of 
 between sixty and seventy feet. It was her only chance, 
 and it was a chance, for she was found the next morning 
 lying at the foot of the tower, insensible, indeed, but with 
 no bones broken, and not seriously injured. She soon 
 revived, and in three days was able to walk about. The 
 English claimed their prey, and soon had her safe in the 
 castle of Rouen. 
 
 Her new masters did not mean that she should escape. 
 They assigned her a room in the first story of the castle, 
 “ up eight steps,” placed two pair of shackles upon her 
 legs, and chained her night and day to a thick post. It was 
 their policy to degrade as well as to keep her, and they 
 accordingly gave her five guards of the lowest rank, three 
 of whom were to be always in her room, night and day, 
 and two outside. In this woful plight, manacled, chained, 
 watched, but not protected, by soldiers, with only a bed 
 for all furniture, was she held captive for three months, 
 awaiting trial—she who had until recently shone resplen¬ 
 dent at the head of armies, and to whom mothers had 
 held up their children as she passed through towns, hop¬ 
 ing to win for them the benediction of her smile. 
 
 Her room, we are told, had three keys, one of which 
 was kept by the Cardinal of Winchester, one by the 
 Inquisitor, anu the other by the manager of the trial; 
 
THE TRIAL OP JEANNE DARC. 
 
 I63 
 
 and yet, as it seems, almost any one who chose could 
 enter her room, gaze upon her, and even converse with 
 her. The little king saw her. The king’s advocate 
 visited her, and jested with her upon her condition, saving 
 that she would not have come to Rouen if she had not 
 been brought thither, and asking if she had known before¬ 
 hand if she should be taken. 
 
 “ I feared it,” said she. 
 
 “ If you feared it,” he asked, “ why were you not upon 
 your guard ? ” 
 
 She replied, “ I did not know the day nor the hour.” 
 
 After preliminaries that threatened to be endless, the 
 public part of the trial began on Wednesday, February 
 21, 1431, at eight in the morning, in the great chapel of 
 the chateau. The Bishop of Beauvais presided, and of 
 the sixty ecclesiastics summoned forty-four were present. 
 Three authorized reporters were in their places, and there 
 were some other clerks, concealed by a curtain, who took 
 notes for the special use of the English regent. There 
 was a crowd of spectators, “ a great tumult ” in the 
 chapel, and very little order in the proceedings. At a 
 time when lords took their dogs and hawks into church 
 with them, and merchants made their bargains in the 
 naves of cathedrals, we need not look for a scrupulous 
 decorum in a court convened to try a girl for the crime of 
 being “ vehemently suspected of heresy.” That was Ihe 
 charge: vehementement suspccte d'heresie. And such a 
 grand tumult was there in the chapel that day that the 
 subsequent sessions were held in a smaller hall of the 
 castle. 
 
 The prisoner was brought in, freed from her chains, and 
 was allowed to sit. No one of the many pens employed 
 in recording the events of this day has given us any hint 
 of her appearance. We have, indeed, the enumeration of 
 the articles oi her man’s attire, which was made such a 
 
164 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 heinous charge against her: “ The hair cut round like 
 that of young men, shirt, breeches, doublet with twenty 
 points reaching to the knee, hat covering only the top of 
 the head, boots and gaiters, with spurs, sword, dagger, 
 cuirass, lance, and other arms carried by soldiers.” This 
 was her equipment for the field. She still wore man’s 
 dress, and doubtless her person showed the effects of nine 
 months’ imprisonment and three months of chains and 
 fetters. 
 
 The presiding bishop told her to place her hands upon 
 the Gospel and swear to answer truly the questions that 
 would be proposed to her. “ I do not know,” said she, 
 “ upon what you wish to question me. Perhaps you will 
 ask me tilings which I ought not to tell you.” “ Swear,” 
 rejoined tfie bishop, “ to tell the truth upon whatever may 
 be asked of you concerning the faith and the facts within 
 your knowledge.” 
 
 “ As to my father and mother,” she said, “ and what I 
 did after setting out for France, I will swear willingly; 
 but the revelations which have come to me from God, to 
 no one have I related or revealed them, except alone to 
 Charles, my king; and I shall not reveal them to you 
 though you cut off my head, because I have received them 
 by vision and by secret communication, with injunction 
 not to reveal them. Before eight days have passed I shall 
 know if I am to reveal them to you.” 
 
 The bishop urged her again and again to take the oath 
 without conditions. She refused, and they were at length 
 obliged to yield the point, and accept a limited oath. 
 Upon her knees, with both hands placed upon a missal, 
 she swore to answer truly whatever might be asked of 
 her, so far as she could, concerning the common faith of 
 Christians, but no more. Being then questioned concern¬ 
 ing her name and early life, she answered thus: 
 
 “ In my own country I was called Jeannette; since I 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 165 
 
 have been in France I have been called Jeanne. As to 
 my surname I know nothing. I was born at the village 
 of Domremy, which makes one with the village of Gtreux. 
 The principal church is at Greux. My father is named 
 Jacques Dare; my mother Ysabelle. I was baptized in 
 the church of Domremy. One of my godmothers was 
 named Agnes, another Jeanne, a third Sibylle. One of 
 my godfathers was Jean Lingud, another Jean Yarrey. 
 I had several other godmothers, as I have heard my 
 mother say. I was baptized, I believe, by Messire Jean 
 Minet. 1 think he is still living. I think I am about 
 nineteen years of age. From my mother I learned my 
 Pater, my Ave Marie, and my Credo. 1 learned from my 
 mother all that I believe.” 
 
 “ Say your Pater,” said the presiding bishop. 
 
 “ Hear me in confession, and I will say it for you will- 
 ingly.” 
 
 Several times she was asked to say the Lord’s Prayer, 
 but she always replied, “ No, I will not say my Pater for 
 you unless you hear me in confession.” 
 
 “ We will willingly give you,” said flic bishop, “one or 
 two notable men who speak French; will you say your 
 Pater to them ? ” 
 
 “ I shall not say it,” was her reply, “ unless in con¬ 
 fession.” 
 
 As the session was about to close, the bishop forbade 
 her to leave the prison which had been assigned her in the 
 castle, under pain of being pronounced guilty of heresy, 
 the crime charged. 
 
 “I do not accept such an injunction,” she replied. “If 
 ever I escape, no one shall be able to reproach me with 
 having broken my faith, as I have not given my word to 
 any person whatever.” She continued to speak, in 
 language not recorded, complaining that they had bound 
 her with chains and shackles. 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 166 
 
 “You tried several times,” said the bishop, “to escapu 
 from the prison where you were detained, and it was to 
 keep you more surely that you were ordered to be put in 
 irons.” 
 
 “ It is true,” was her reply, “ I wished to get away, and 
 I wish it still. Is that not a thing allowed to every 
 prisoner ?” 
 
 She was then removed to her chamber, and the court 
 broke up. The next morning at eight, in the robing-room 
 of the chateau—a large apartment near the great drawing¬ 
 room—the court again convened, forty-seven .dignitai’ies 
 of the Church being assembled. Again the captive was 
 unchained and brought in. Again she sat in the presence 
 of this convocation of trained men, alone, without 
 advocate, counsel, or attorney. She understood the issue 
 between herself and them. The managers of the trial 
 meant to make France believe that this girl was an 
 emissary of the devil, and thus she felt herself compelled 
 to fail back upon her claim to be the chosen of God, and 
 to insist upon this with painful repetition. We must bear 
 in mind that she was absolutely severed from all active, 
 efficient human sympathy. It was a contest between one 
 poor, ignorant girl and the managers of the court, paid 
 and backed by the power that governed all England and 
 half France, with the stake as the certain consequence to 
 her of an erroneous line of defence. In all the trial she 
 was the only witness examined. 
 
 Again the bishop required her to take the oath without 
 conditions; to which she replied, “ I swore yesterday; 
 that ought to suffice.” 
 
 “ Every person,” said the bishop, “ though he were a 
 prince, being required to swear in any matter relating to 
 the faith, cannot refuse.” 
 
 “ I took the oath yesterday,” said she; “ that ought to 
 be sufficient for you. You ask too much of me.” The 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 I67 
 
 contest ended as on the day before. She was then inter¬ 
 rogated by Jean Beaupere, a distinguished professor of 
 theology. 
 
 “ How old were you when you left your father’s house ? ” 
 “As to my age, I cannot answer ” 
 
 “ Did you learn any trade in your youth ? ” 
 
 “ Yes ; I learned to spin and sew. In sewing and spin¬ 
 ning I fear no woman in Rouen. For fear of the 
 Burgundians* I left my father’s house and went to the 
 city of Neufchateau, in Lorraine, to the house of a woman 
 named La Rousse, where I remained about fifteen days. 
 While I was at my father’s I assisted at the usual labors 
 of the house. I was not accustomed to go to the fields 
 witli the sheep and other animals. Every year I con¬ 
 fessed to my own pastor, and, when he was engaged, to 
 another priest with his permission. Sometimes, also—• 
 two or three times, I believe—I confessed to religious 
 mendicants. That was at Neufchateau. At Easter I 
 received the sacrament of the Eucharist.” 
 
 “Did you receive the sacrament of the Eucharist at 
 other festivals besides Easter ? ” 
 
 “ No matter. I was thirteen years old when I had a 
 voice from God, which called upon me to conduct myself 
 well. The first time I heard that voice I was terrified. 
 It was noom, in summer, in my father’s garden. I had 
 not fasted the evening before. I heard that voice at my 
 right, toward the church. I seldom heard it when it was 
 not accompanied by a flash. This flash came from the 
 same side as the voice. Usually it was very brilliant. 
 Since I have been in France I have often heard that 
 voice.” 
 
 “ But how could you see the flash which you mentioned, 
 since it was on one side ? ” 
 
 * French faction siding with the English. 
 
i68 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 She did not answer this foolish question, but immedi¬ 
 ately resumed, thus: 
 
 “ If I was in a forest I would hear the voice, for it 
 would come to me. It appeared to me to come from lips 
 worthy of respect; I believe it was sent to me by God. 
 When I heard it for the third time I recognized that it 
 was the voice of an angel. That voice has always guarded 
 me well, and I have always well understood it. It told 
 me to behave well and to go often to church; it said to 
 me that I must go into France. Do you ask me in what 
 form that voice appeared to me ? You will not have more 
 about it from me this time. Two or three times a week 
 it said to me, ‘ You must go into France!’ My father 
 knew nothing about my going. The voice said to mo, 
 ‘ Go into France! ’ I could bear it no longer. It said to 
 me: ‘ Go; raise the siege of the city of Orleans. Go,’ 
 it added, £ to Robert de Laudricourt, commandant of 
 Yaucouleurs; he will furnish people to accompany you.’ 
 Rut I am a poor girl, who knows neither how to ride on 
 horseback nor make war! I went to my uncle’s house, 
 and told him my wish to remain with him some time ; 
 and there I remained eight days. To him I said I must 
 go to Yaucouleurs. lie took me there. When I arrived 
 I knew Robert de Baudricourt, although I had never seen 
 him. I knew him, thanks to my voice, which caused me 
 to know him. I said to Robert, ‘ I must go into France.’ 
 Twice Robert refused to hear me, and repelled me. The 
 third time he received me, and furnished me men ; the 
 voice had said that it would be so. The Due de Lorraine 
 sent orders to have me brought to him. I went; I said 
 to him that I wished to go into France. The duke ques¬ 
 tioned me upon his health, and I told him I knew nothing 
 about it. I spoke to him little about my journey. I told 
 him he had to furnish me his son and some people to 
 conduct me into France, and that I would pray to God for 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 169 
 
 his health. I went to him with a safe-conduct; thence I 
 returned to Vaucouleurs. From Vaucouleurs I set one 
 dressed like a man, with a sword given me by Robert de 
 Baudricourt, without other arms. I had with me a 
 knight, a squire, and four servants, with whom I reached 
 the city of St. Urbain, where I slept in an abbey. On the 
 way I passed through Auxerre, where I heard mass in tire 
 principal church. At that time I often had my voices.” 
 
 “ Who advised you to wear men’s clothes ? ” 
 
 Again and again she refused all answer to this question; 
 but at last she said, “I charge no one with that.” Then 
 cite ran on in this manner: ‘‘Robert de Baudricourt 
 made the men who accompanied me swear to conduct me 
 safely and well. ‘Go,’ said he to me—‘ go, let come of 
 it what will! ’ I well know that God loves the Due 
 d’Orldans; I have had more revelations about the Due 
 d’Orldans than about any living man except my king. I 
 had to change my woman’s dress for a man’s. Upon that 
 point my counsel advised me well. I sent a letter to the 
 English before Orleans, telling them to depart, as appears 
 from a copy of my letter which has been read in this city 
 of Rouen; but in that copy there are two or three words 
 which are not in my letter. ‘ Yield to the Maid,’ ought 
 to be changed to ‘ Yield to the king.’ These words also 
 are not in my letter—‘ body for body,’ and ‘chief of war.’ 
 I went without difficulty to the king. Having arrived at 
 the village of St. Catherine de Ficrbois, I sent for the 
 first time to the chateau of Chinon, where the king was. 
 I reached Chinon toward noon, and took lodgings at first 
 at an inn. After dinner I went to the king, who was in 
 the chateau. When I entered the room where lie was, I 
 knew him among many others by the counsel of my 
 voice, which revealed him to me. I told him that I 
 wished to go and make war against the English.” 
 
 “ When the voice showed you the king, was there any 
 fight there ? ” 
 
170 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 “ Pass on.” 
 
 “ Did you see any angel above the king?’* 
 
 “ Spare me; pass on. Before the king sent me to the 
 field, he had many apparitions and beautiful revelations.” 
 “ What revelations and apparitions did the king have ? ” 
 “ I shall not tell you. This is not the time to answer 
 you; but send to the king; he will tell you. The voice 
 had promised me that as soon as I had reached the king, 
 he would receive me. Those of my party knew well that 
 the voice was sent me from God; they saw and knew 
 that voice. I am certain of it. My king and several 
 others have heard and seen the voices which came to me; 
 there was Charles de Bourbon and two or three others. 
 No day passes in which I do not hear that voice, and I 
 have much need of it. But never have I demanded of it 
 any recompense except the salvation of my soul. The 
 voice told me to remain at St. Denis, in Prance, and I 
 wished to do so; but against my will the lords mad? me 
 set out thence. If I had not been wounded, I should not 
 have gone. After having left St. Denis, I was wounded 
 in the defences of Paris; but I was cured in five days. 
 It is true that I made a skirmish before Paris ” 
 
 “ Was not that on a holy day?” 
 
 “ I believe it was.” 
 
 “ Was it well to make an assault on a holy day ? ” 
 
 To this she only replied by saying: 
 
 “ Pass on,” and the questioning then ceased for the 
 day. The next morning, for the first time, a full court 
 was present, the presiding bishop and sixty-two alibis, 
 priors, and other priests. Little was extracted from her 
 during this day’s examination, although she made some 
 spirited answers. Being asked if she knew that she was 
 in a state of grace, she said, “ If I am not, God put me in 
 it! if I am, God keep me in it! ” They asked her if the 
 people of her village were not of the French party. 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 171 
 
 The old village partisanship blazed up in her answer: 
 “ If I had known one Burgundian at Domremy, I should 
 have been willing to have his head cut off — that is, if it 
 had pleased God.” 
 
 The next day was Sunday, and the Monday following 
 was probably some holy day of Lent, for the next session 
 of the court occurred on Tuesday, when she was exam¬ 
 ined by the same “ Master Bcaupere,” distinguished 
 theologian. He questioned her long, and led her on to 
 admissions which her enemies knew well how to uso 
 against her. 
 
 “ How have you been since Saturday last ? ” 
 
 “You see well how I have been; I have been as well 
 as I could be.” 
 
 “ Ho you fast every day during this Lent ?” 
 
 “ Has that anything to do with the case? No matter: 
 yes, I have fasted every day during this Lent.” 
 
 “ Have you heard your voice since Saturday ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, indeed, and several times.” 
 
 “ On Saturday did you hear it in this hall where you 
 are questioned?” 
 
 “ That has nothing to do with your case. No mailer : 
 yes, I heard it.” 
 
 “ What did it say to you last Saturday ? ” 
 
 “ I did not well understand it, and I heard nothing 
 that I can repeat to you until I had gone to my chamber.” 
 
 “ What did it say to you in your chamber on your 
 return ?” 
 
 “ It said to me, ‘ Answer them boldly.’ I take counsel 
 of my voices upon what you ask me. I shall willingly 
 tell you what I shall have from God permission to reveal; 
 but as to the revelations concerning the King of France, 
 I shall not tell them without the permission of my voicu.** 
 
 “Has your voice forbidden you to reveal all ?” 
 
 “ I have not well understood it.” 
 
 11 
 
172 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 “ What did the voice tell you last?” 
 
 “ I asked advice of it upon certain things which you 
 asked me.” 
 
 “ Did it give you that advice ?” 
 
 “ Upon some points, yes ; upon others you may ask me 
 information which I shall not give you, not having 
 received permission. For if I should respond without 
 permission, I should have no more voices to second me. 
 When I shall have permission from our Lord, I shall not 
 fear to speak, because I shall have warrant so to do.” 
 
 “ Was the voice which spoke to you that of an angel, 
 of a saint, or of God directly?” 
 
 “ It was the voice of St. Catherine and St. Margaret. 
 Their heads were adorned with beautiful crowns, very 
 rich and very precious. I have permission from our 
 Lord to tell you so much. If you have any doubt of this, 
 send to Poitiers, where I was formerly interrogated.” 
 
 “ How did you know that they were saints ? How did 
 you distinguish one from the other ? ” 
 
 “ I know well that they were saints, and I easily dis¬ 
 tinguish one from the other.” 
 
 “How do you distinguish them?” 
 
 “ By the salute which they make me. Seven years 
 have passed since they undertook to guide me. I know 
 them well, because they have named themselves to me.” 
 
 “ Were those two saints clad in the same fabric ?” 
 
 “ For the moment I shall tell you no more; I have not 
 permission to reveal it. If you do not believe me, go to 
 Poitiers. There are some revelations which belong to 
 the King of France, and not to you who interrogate me.” 
 
 “Are the two saints of the same age?” 
 
 “ I am not permitted to tell.” 
 
 “ Did both speak at once, or one at a time ? ” 
 
 “I have not permission to tell you; nevertheless, I 
 have always had counsel from both.” 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 173 
 
 « Which appeared to you first ? ” 
 
 “ I distinguished them one from the other. I knew 
 how I did it once, but I have forgotten. If I receive per¬ 
 mission I will willingly tell you; it is written in the 
 record at Poitiers. I have received comfort also from 
 St. Michael.” 
 
 “Which of those two apparitions came to you first?” 
 
 “ St. Michael.” 
 
 “Was it a long time ago that you heard the voice of 
 St. Michael for the first time ?” 
 
 “ I did not mention the voice of St. Michael; I told you 
 that I had great comfort from him.” 
 
 “ What was the first voice that came to you when you 
 were about thirteen years of age ? ” 
 
 “ It was St. Michael. I saw him before my eyes; he 
 was not alone, but w'as surrounded by angels from heaven. 
 I only came into France by the command of God.” 
 
 “ Did you see St. Michael and those angels in a bodily 
 form, and in reality ?” 
 
 “ I saw them with the eyes of my body as well as I can 
 see you. When they left me I wept, and wished to be 
 borne away with them.” 
 
 “I 11 what form was St. Michael ?” 
 
 “ You will have no other answer from me ; I have not 
 yet license to tell you.” 
 
 “ What did St. Michael say to you that first time ?” 
 
 “ You will have no answer to-day. My voices said to 
 me, ‘Answer boldly.’ I told the king at once all that 
 was revealed to me, because that concerned him; but I 
 'lave not yet permission to reveal to you all that St. 
 Michael said to me. I should be very glad if you had a 
 lopy of that book which is at Poitiers, if it please God.” 
 
 “ Have your voices forbidden you to make known your 
 ’cvelations without permission from them ? ” 
 
 “ I do not answer you upon that point. So far as I 
 
174 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 have received permission I shall answer willingly. I did 
 not quite understand if my voices forbade me to reply.” 
 
 “ What sign do you give that you received that revela¬ 
 tion from God, and that it was St. Catherine and St. Mar¬ 
 garet who conversed with you ? ” 
 
 “ I have told you it was they; believe me if you wish.” 
 
 “ Is it forbidden you to tell it ? ” 
 
 “ I did not quite understand whether it was forbidden 
 me or not.” 
 
 “ How can you distinguish the things which you have 
 permission to reveal from those which you are forbidden?” 
 
 “Upon certain points I have asked permission, and 
 upon some I have obtained it. Rather than have come 
 into France without God’s permission, I would have been 
 torn asunder by four horses.” 
 
 “ Did God command you to dress like a man ? ” 
 
 “ As to that dress, it is a trifle—less than nothing. I 
 did not take it by the advice of any living man; neither 
 put on this dress nor did anything else except by the 
 command of our Lord and the angels.” 
 
 “ Does the command to wear a man’s dress seem to you 
 lawful [licite] ?” 
 
 “ All that I have done was by the command of our 
 Lord. If lie had told me to wear another dress, I should 
 have worn it, because it was His command.” 
 
 “ Did you not assume this costume by the order of 
 Robert de Baudricourt ? ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ Do you think you did well to wear a man’s dress ? 
 
 “All that I did was by our Lord’s order: I believe 1 
 did do well. I expect from it good security and good 
 succor.” 
 
 “ In this particular case, the wearing of a man’s dress, 
 do you think you did well ? ” 
 
 “ I have done nothing in the world except by the com¬ 
 mand of God.” 
 
THE TRIAL OB' JEANNE DARC. 175 
 
 “ When you saw that voice come to you, was there any 
 light ? ” 
 
 “ There was much light on all sides, as there should 
 have been.” (To the interrogator). “There does not 
 come as much to you.” 
 
 “ Was there an angel above your king’s head when you 
 saw him for the first time ? ” 
 
 “ By our Lady ! if there was one, I know nothing about 
 it. I did not see him.” 
 
 “Was there any light?” 
 
 “ There were more than three hundred knights, and 
 more than fifty torches, without counting the spiritual 
 light. I rarely have revelations without light.” 
 
 “ How was your king enabled to believe in your 
 claims ? ” 
 
 “ He had good signs, and the learned clergy rendered 
 me good testimony.” 
 
 “ What revelations did your king have ? ” 
 
 “ You will not have them from me this year. I was 
 interrogated for three weeks by the clergy at Chinon and 
 at Poitiers. Before being willing to believe me, the king 
 had a sign of the truth of my statement, and the clergy 
 of my party were of opinion that there was nothing but 
 good in my undertaking.” 
 
 “ Were you at St. Catherine do Fierbois ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, and there I heard three masses in one day; then 
 I went to the chateau of Chinon, whence I sent a letter 
 to the king to know if he would grant me an interview, 
 ^telling him that I had traveled a hundred and fifty 
 leagues to come to his assistance, and that I knew many 
 things favorable to him. I think I remember saying in 
 my letter that I should know how to recognize lnm among 
 all others. I had a sword which I obtained at Vau- 
 couleurs. Whilst I was at Tours or at Chinon, I sent to 
 seek a sword which was in the church of St. Catherine do 
 
i;6 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 Fierbois, behind tlic altar ; and there it was immediately 
 found, covered with rust. That sword was in the earth 
 rusty; above it there were five crosses; I knew by my 
 voice where the sword was. I never saw the man who 
 w'ent to find it. I wrote to the priests of the place asking 
 them if I might have that sword, and they sent it to me. 
 It was under the ground, not very deep, behind the altar, 
 as it seems to me. I am not quite sure whether it was 
 before or behind the altar, hut I think I wrote it was 
 behind. As soon as it was found, the priests of the 
 church rubbed it, and at once, without effort, the rust fell 
 off. It was an armorer of Tours who went to find it. 
 The priests of Fierbois made me a present of a scabbard, 
 those of Tours of another; one was of crimson velvet, 
 the other of cloth of gold. I caused a third to be made 
 of very strong leather. When I was taken I had not that 
 sword on. I always wore the sword of Fierbois from the 
 time I had it until my departure from St. Denis, after the 
 assault upon Paris.” 
 
 “ What benediction did you pronounce, or cause to be 
 pronounced, upon that sword ? ” 
 
 “ I neither blessed it nor had it blessed; I should not 
 have known how to do it. Much I loved that sword, 
 because it was found in the church of St. Catherine, 
 whom I warmly love.” 
 
 “Did you sometimes place your sword upon an altar, 
 and in so placing it was it that your sword might be more 
 fortunate ? ” 
 
 “ Not that I remember.” 
 
 “Did you sometimes pray that it might be more for¬ 
 tunate ? ” 
 
 “ Beyond question, I wished iny arms to be very for¬ 
 tunate.” 
 
 “ Had you that sword on when you were taken ? ” 
 
 “ No; I had one that had been taken from a Bur¬ 
 gundian.” 
 
TIIE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 177 
 
 “ Where was the sword of Fierbois ? ” 
 
 “ I offered a sword and some arms to St. Denis, but it 
 was not that sword. The sword I then w r ore I got at 
 Lagny, and wore it from Lagny even to Compiegne. It 
 was a good sword for service; excellent to give good 
 whacks and wipes [torchons]. As to what has become 
 of the other sword, it does not regard this trial, and I 
 shall not now reply thereupon. My brothers have all my 
 property, my horses, my sword, as I suppose, and the rest, 
 worth more than twelve thousand crowns.” 
 
 “ When you were at Orleans, had you a standard or 
 banner, and of what color was it ?” 
 
 “ I had a banner, the ground of which was covered with 
 lilies; and there was a picture upon it of the world, with 
 an angel on each side. It was white, of the white fabric 
 called fustian [ boucassin ]. There was written upon it, I 
 think, ‘ Jhesus Maria,’ and it was fringed with silk.” 
 
 “ Were the names of Jhesus Maria written on the 
 upper or the under part, on the lower, or on one side ?” 
 
 “Upon one side, I believe.” 
 
 “ Which did you love best, your banner or your sword ?” 
 
 “ Much better, forty times better, my banner than my 
 sword.” 
 
 “ Who caused you to have that picture made upon your 
 banner ?” 
 
 “ Often enough I have told you that I did nothing 
 except by the command of God. It was myself who 
 carried that banner when I attacked the enemy, in order 
 to avoid killing any one, for I have never killed a single 
 person.” 
 
 “ What force did your king give you when he accepted 
 your services ? ” 
 
 “ He gave me ten or twelve thousand men. At first I 
 went to Orleans, to the tower of St. Loup, and afterward 
 to that of the bridge.” 
 
i;8 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 “ At the attack of which tower was it that you with- 
 drew your men ? ” 
 
 “ I do not remember. I was very sure of raising the 
 seige of Orleans ; 1 had had a revelation on the subject; 
 I told the king before going there I should raise it.” 
 
 “ Before the assault, did you tell your people that you 
 alone would receive the javelins and the stones thrown 
 by the machines and cannons?” 
 
 “ No; a hundred of my people, and even more were 
 wounded. I said to them, ‘ Fear not, and you will raise 
 the siege.’ At the assault of the bridge tower I was 
 wounded in the neck with an arrow or lance; but I had 
 great comfort from St. Catherine, and I was cured in less 
 than fifteen days. I did not cease on that account to ride 
 on horseback and to labor. I knew well I should be 
 wounded ; I told my king so, but that, notwithstanding, J 
 should keep at work. They had been revealed to me by 
 the voices of my two saints, blessed Catherine and blessed 
 Margaret. It was I who first placed a.ladder against the 
 tower, and it was in raising that ladder that I was 
 wounded in the neck by the lance.” 
 
 The session ended soon after, and the prisoner was 
 removed. There were six of these public examinations, 
 but nothing further of much importance was elicited by 
 them. 
 
 The public examinations being at an end, the court 
 took a week to review and consider the evidence obtained. 
 They decided that further light was needed on somo 
 points, and ordered that she should be examined in secret 
 by seven learned doctors, and her answers recorded for 
 the subsequent use of the whole court. There were nine 
 of these secret questionings, but she adhered to her fatal 
 line of defence, ever insisting upon her supernatural pre¬ 
 tensions, and adding particulars which placed her more 
 hopelessly than before in the power of her enemies. To 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 179 
 
 complete the reader’s view of this portion of the trial, I 
 select one of these secret examinations (the fourth) for 
 translation, in which she overtasked the credulity even of 
 her adherents, and made her well-wishers in the court 
 powerless to serve her. 
 
 “ What was the sign which you gave your king?” 
 
 “ Would you like me to perjure myself ?” 
 
 “ Have you promised and sworn to St. Catherine not to 
 reveal that sign ?” 
 
 “ I have sworn and promised not to reveal that sign, 
 and of my own accord, too, because they pressed me too 
 much to reveal it; and then I said to myself: I promise 
 not to speak of it to any man in the world. The sign 
 was that an angel assured my king, -when bringing him 
 the crown, that he would possess the whole kingdom of 
 France, through the help of God and my labor. The 
 angel told him also to set me at work, that is to say, give 
 me some soldiers, or otherwise he would not be crowned 
 and anointed so soon.” 
 
 “ Have you spoken to St. Catherine since yesterday ? ” 
 
 “ I have heard her since yesterday, and she told me 
 several times to answer the judges boldly concerning 
 whatever they should ask me touching my case.” 
 
 “ How did the angel carry the crown ? and did lie place 
 it himself upon your king’s head ? ” 
 
 “ The crown was given to an archbishop, namely, the 
 Archbishop of Rheims, I believe in my king’s presence. 
 The archbishop received it, and remitted it tb the king. 
 I was myself present. The crown was afterward placed 
 in my king’s treasury.” 
 
 v Where was it that the crown was brought to the 
 king?” 
 
 It was in the king’s chamber at tlvc chateau of 
 Chinon.” 
 
 “ What day and hour ? ” 
 
l8o 
 
 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 “ As to the I day, know not; in regard to the hour it 
 was early. I have no further recollection concerning it. 
 For the month, it was March or April, it seems to me, 
 two years from the present month. It was after Easter.” 
 
 “ Was it the first day of your seeing this sign that 
 your king saw it also ? ” 
 
 “ Yes, he saw it the same day.” 
 
 “ Of what material was the said crown ? ” 
 
 “ It is good to know that it was fine gold; so rich was 
 it that I should not know how to estimate its value, nor 
 appreciate its beauty. The crown signified that my king 
 should possess the kingdom of France.” 
 
 “ Were there any precious stones in it ? ” 
 
 “ I have told you what I know of it.” 
 
 “ Did you handle or kiss it?” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “Did the angel who brought that crown come from 
 heaven or earth ? ” 
 
 “He came from on high, and I understand he came 
 by the command of our Lord. He entered by the door 
 of the chamber. When he came before my king, lie 
 paid homage to him by bowing before him, and by pro¬ 
 nouncing the words which I have already mentioned, and 
 at the same time recalled to his memory the beautiful 
 .patience with which he had borne his great troubles. 
 The angel walked from the door, and touched the floor in 
 coming to the king.” 
 
 “ How faT was it from the door to the king ? ” 
 
 “ My impression is that it was about the length of a 
 lance ; and he returned by the same way he had entered. 
 When the angel came, I accompanied him, and went with 
 him up the staircase to the king’s chamber. The angel 
 entered first, and then myself, and I said to the king, 
 ‘ Sire, here is your sign: take it.’ ” 
 
 “ In what place did the angel appear to you ? ” 
 
THE THIAL OF JEANXE DAEC. 
 
 18 r 
 
 “ I was almost continually in prayer that God would 
 send a sign to the king, and I -was in my lodgings at a 
 good woman’s house near the chateau of Chinon when 
 he came; then we went together toward the king; he 
 was accompanied by other angels whom no one saw. If 
 it had not been for love of me, and to put me beyond the 
 reach of those who accused me, I believe several who saw 
 the angel would not have seen him.” 
 
 “ Did all who were with the king see the angel ?” 
 
 “ I believe the Archbishop of Rheims saw him, as well 
 as the lords D’AlenQon, La Tr^mouille, and Charles de 
 Bourbon. As to the crown, many churchmen and others 
 saw it who did not see the angel.” 
 
 “ Of what countenance, of what stature, was that 
 angel ? ” 
 
 “ I have not permission to say ; to-morrow I will answer 
 that.” 
 
 “ Were all the angels who accompanied him of the same 
 countenance ? ” 
 
 “ Some of them were a good deal alike, others not, at 
 least from my point of view. Some had wings ; others 
 had crowns. In their company were St. Catherine and 
 St. Margaret, who were with the angel just mentioned, 
 and the other angels also, even in the king’s chamber.” 
 
 “ How did the angel leave you ? ” 
 
 “ He left me in a little chapel. I was very angry at 
 his going. I wept. Willingly would I have gone away 
 with him—that is to say, my soul.” 
 
 “ After the angel’s departure, did you continue joyful ? ” 
 
 “ He did not leave me fearful or frightened, but I was 
 angry at his departure.” 
 
 “ Was it on account of your merit that God sent to you 
 His angel ? ” 
 
 “ He came for a great purpose, and I was in hopes that 
 the king would take him for a sign, and that they would 
 
182 
 
 THE TRIAL OP JEANNE DARC. 
 
 cease arguing about my carrying succor to the good peo¬ 
 ple of Orleans. The angel came, also, for the merit of 
 the king and of the good Due d’Orleans.” 
 
 “ Why to you rather than another ? ” 
 
 “ It pleased God to act thus by means of a simple 
 maid in order to repel the enemies of the king.” 
 
 “ Has he told you whence the angel brought that 
 crown ? ” 
 
 “ It was brought from God, and there is no goldsmith 
 in the world who could make it so rich or so beautiful.” 
 
 “ Where did he get it ? ” 
 
 “ I attribute it to God, and know not otherwise wdience 
 it was taken.” 
 
 “Did a good smell come from the crown? Did it 
 shine ? ” 
 
 “ I do not remember; I will inform myself.” Resum¬ 
 ing after a pause : “ Yes, it smelled well, and will always, 
 provided it is w T ell taken care of, as it should be. It was 
 in the style of a crown.” 
 
 “ Did the angel write you a letter ? ” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 “ What sign had your king, the people who were with 
 him, and yourself, to make you think it was an angel ? ” 
 
 “ The king believed it through the instruction of the 
 churchmen who were there, and by the sign of the 
 crown.” 
 
 “ But how did the clergy themselves know that it was 
 an angel ?” 
 
 “ By their learning, and because they were clergymen.” 
 
 The session closed soon after, and she was conducted 
 once more to her apartment. The learned doctors 
 questioned her closely, and even skillfully, during these 
 nine secret sessions, and she often answered them with 
 vivacity and force. They asked her one day why she had 
 thrown herself from the tower. She told them that she 
 
/ THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 1 83 
 
 had heard the people of Compiegne were to be put to the 
 sword, even to children seven years of age, and that she 
 preferred to die rather than to survive such a massacre 
 of good people. “ That,” she added, “ was one of the 
 reasons. The other was, I knew I had been sold to the 
 English, and I held it better to die than fall into the 
 hands of my adversaries.” On another occasion she 
 declared that she had not sprung from the tower in 
 despair, but in the hope of escaping, and of going to the 
 succor of the brave men who were in peril. She owned, 
 however, that it was a rash and wrong action, of which 
 she had repented. As she often expressed a desire to 
 hear mass, they asked her one day which she would pre¬ 
 fer, to put on a woman's dress and hear mass, or retain 
 her man’s clothes and not hear it. Her answer was, 
 “ First assure me that X shall hear mass if I put on 
 woman’s clothes, and then I will answer you.” 
 
 “ Very well,” said the questioner, “ I engage that you 
 shall hear mass if you will put on a woman’s dress.” 
 
 She replied that she would wear a woman’s dress to 
 mass, but that on her return she should resume her man’s 
 clothes. 
 
 They asked her finally, and the trial turned upon this 
 point, if she was willing to submit all her words and 
 deeds to the judgment of the holy mother Church. 
 
 “ The Church! ” she exclaimed. “ I love it, and desire 
 to sustain it with my whole power, for the sake of our 
 Christian faith. It is not I who should be hindered from 
 going to church and hearing mass.” But she would not 
 answer this decisive question in a way to increase her 
 chances of escape. As to what she had done for her king 
 and country, she said she submitted it all to God, who 
 had sent her, and then she wandered into a prediction 
 that the French were on the eve of a great victory. The 
 priest repeated liis question, but she only replied that slio 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 I84 
 
 submitted all to God, our Lady, and the saints. “ An d 
 my opinion is,” said she, “ that God and the Church are 
 one.” The questioner then explained to her that there 
 was a Church militant and a Church triumphant, and 
 that it was to the Church militant—consisting of the 
 Pope, cardinals, bishops, priests, and all good Catholics— 
 to which her submission was required. 
 
 But she could not be brought to submit to the Church 
 militant. To the end of these nine incisive questionings 
 she held her ground firmly, claiming supernatural war¬ 
 rant for all that she had done for her king and party, 
 glorying in it, protesting her warm desire to renew her 
 labors in the field, and refusing to resume the dress of her 
 sex. She said that if they condemned her to the stake, 
 she would wear at the last hour a long woman’s garment, 
 but till then she should retain the attire assigned her by 
 Divine command. She refused, a few days after, even to 
 change her dress for the mass. 
 
 Further deliberation followed, and at length the charges 
 against her were drawn up, to the number of seventy, 
 each of which was read to her in open court, and her 
 answer required. Many weary days were thus consumed 
 without result. When the last charge had been read and 
 answered, she was asked again the question upon which 
 her life depended, “If the Church militant says to you 
 that your revelations arc illusory or diabolical, will you 
 submit to the decision of the Church ? ” Ilcr answer was 
 the same as before : “ I submit all to God, whose com¬ 
 mand I shall always obey.” 
 
 The seventy charges were then condensed to twelve, for 
 the convenience of the court. These charges were chiefly 
 drawn from her own avowals. The first article, for 
 example, accused her of saying that she had been visited 
 and. guided by St. Michael, St. Catherine, and St. Marga¬ 
 ret. Her leap from the tower, as related by herself, was 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DAKC. 
 
 I8 5 
 
 one of the charges, her inscribing sacred names on her 
 banner was another. The charges, in short, were the 
 condensed statement of her own answers, the chief point 
 of offence being that she claimed for her mission super¬ 
 natural authorization and aid. The outward and visible 
 sign of this pretension was the wearing of men’s clothes. 
 
 The patience of the court with their contumacious 
 prisoner was remarkable, and seems to indicate that the 
 court as a body meant to try her fairly, and that there 
 were members who desired her acquittal. Eight learned 
 doctors were next appointed to visit her in her room, and 
 give her a solemn and affectionate admonition, and urge 
 her, by timely submission and repentance, to save her 
 body from the fire and her soul from perdition. They 
 performed this duty well. They offered to send her other 
 learned men, if she would designate them, who would 
 visit her, instruct her, resolve her doubts, and guide her 
 into the true way. She thanked them for their pains, 
 adhered to all her pretensions, and refused to change her 
 dress. “ Let come what will,” said she, “ I shall not say 
 or do otherwise.” 
 
 After days of further deliberation, they caused her to 
 be conducted to a chamber of the great tower, in which 
 were the apparatus of the torture, and the men in official 
 costume who usually applied it. “Truly,” said she, as 
 she looked upon the hideous implements, “ if you tear me 
 limb from limb, and separate soul from body, I should 
 say nothing other than I have said; and even if I should, 
 I should forever maintain that you made me say it by 
 force.” And she went on to speak of her voices in her 
 usual manner. The court decided that, considering “the 
 hardness of her heart,” the punishment of the torture 
 would profit her little, and that therefore it might be dis¬ 
 pensed with, at least for the present. One learned and 
 pious doctor thought that the torture would be a “ salu- 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 186 
 
 tary medicine for her soul,” but the general opinion was 
 that she had already confessed enough. As a Catholic 
 she had indeed put herself fatally in the wrong, and given 
 her enemies all the pretext for her condemnation which 
 the age required. 
 
 More deliberations followed. The University of Paris 
 was formally consulted, and would give but one answer : 
 either the events related by the prisoner occurred, or they 
 did not occur; if they did not occur, she is a contuma¬ 
 cious liar; if they did occur, she is a sorceress and a 
 servant of the devil. She must therefore confess, recant, 
 renounce, submit, or suffer a penalty proportioned to her 
 crimes. This decision was also communicated to the Maid 
 with the utmost solemnity, and she was again exhorted and 
 entreated to submit. The address delivered to her on this 
 occasion was eloquent and pathetic, and the argument 
 presented was one which should have convinced a Catholic. 
 The orator, however, expended his main strength in ten¬ 
 der entreaty, begging her, for her immortal’s soul’s sake, 
 not to persist in setting her own uninstructed judgment 
 against that of the University of Paris, and so great a 
 body of eminent clergy. It was of no avail. “ If,” said 
 she, “ I was already condemned, if I saw the brand lighted, 
 the fagots ready, and tlie executioner about to kindle the 
 fire, and if I was actually in the flames, I should say only 
 what I have said, and maintain all that I have said, till 
 death. 
 
 She was to have one more opportunity to escape the 
 fire. On Thursday morning, May 24th, the scene of the 
 trial was changed from a room in Rouen castle to the 
 public cemetery of the city. A spacious platform was 
 erected for the prisoner. The “ Cardinal of England ” 
 attended, and there was a vast concourse of excited 
 people, now admitted for the first time to witness the 
 proceedings. The Maid was conveyed to the spot in a 
 
THE TRIAL OP JEANNE DARC. 
 
 I8 7 
 
 cart, and placed upon the stand prepared for her, the cart 
 remaining to take her to the castle or to the stake, accord¬ 
 ing to the issue of this day’s session. When all were in 
 their places, a preacher of great renown rose, and, taking 
 his place opposite to the prisoner, preached a sermon upon 
 the text, “ A branch can not bear fruit of itself except it 
 abide in the vine,” which he concluded by a last solemn 
 exhortation to the prisoner to yield submission to the 
 Church. 
 
 She was not shaken. In her first reply, however, she 
 tried a new expedient, saying, “ Send to Rome, to our holy 
 father the Pope, to whom, after God, I yield submission.” 
 Three times she was asked if she was willing to renounce 
 those of her acts and words which the court condemned. 
 Her last reply was, “ I appeal to God and our holy father 
 the Pope.” 
 
 The presiding bishop then began the reading of her 
 sentence. The reading had proceeded two or three 
 minutes, when suddenly her courage failed her, and she 
 yielded. She interrupted the reading. “ I am willing,” 
 she cried, “ to hold all that the Church ordains, all that 
 you judges shall say and pronounce. I will obey your 
 orders in everything.” Then she repeated several times: 
 “ Since the men of the church decide that my apparitions 
 and revelations arc neither sustainable nor credible, I 
 do not wish to believe nor sustain them. I yield in every' 
 thing to you and to our holy mother Church.” 
 
 This submission had been provided for by the manager 
 of the trial. He at once produced a formal recantation 
 and abjuration, which she was required to sign. 1 can 
 neither read nor write,” she said. The king’s secretary 
 placed the document before her, put a pen in her hand, 
 and guided it while she wrote “ Jchannc,” and appended 
 the sign of the cross. 
 
 The bishop then produced another sentence which had 
 
iSS 
 
 TIIE TRIAL OP JEANNE DARC. 
 
 been prepared beforehand in view of her possible abjura¬ 
 tion. This document, after recounting her errors and her 
 submission, relieved her from excommunication, and 
 urged her to a true repentance; but it ended with a few 
 words of crushing import to such a spirit: “ Since you 
 have rashly sinned against God and holy Church, finally, 
 definitively, we condemn you to perpetual imprisonment, 
 with the bread of grief and the water of anguish, to the 
 end that you may mourn your faults and commit no 
 more.” Then she was conveyed to the castle. That 
 afternoon, in the presence of six or seven ecclesiastics, 
 after exhortation, she took off her man’s dress with 
 apparent willingness, and put on that of a woman. She 
 also allowed some locks of hair, which she had worn 
 hitherto in the fashion of men, to be cut off and taken 
 away. 
 
 And thus, on that Thursday afternoon, May 24th, exactly 
 one year after her capture, in the sixth month of her 
 confinement in the castle, and fourth of her public trial, 
 she found herself still in prison, chained as before, 
 guarded as before by men, and deprived of the one solace 
 that captives know— hope. She had saved her life, but 
 not regained her darling liberty. She was not in the 
 field. She was a captive, shorn, despoiled, degraded, 
 hopeless, lacerated by fetters, and weighed down by heavy 
 chains, with men always in her cell, and liable every hour 
 to the taunts of hostile and contemptuous visitors. 
 
 She bore it Friday, Saturday, Sunday. When she rose 
 on Monday morning, she put on her man’s dress. The 
 bishop and several other members of the court arrived 
 but too soon ; for this was welcome news to the English 
 party. They asked her why she had resumed that dress. 
 “ Because,” said she, “ being with men, it is mors decent. 
 1 have resumed it, too, because you have not kept your 
 promises that I should hear mass, and receive my Saviour, 
 
THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 189 
 
 and have my irons taken off. I prefer to die than be in 
 irons. Let me go to mass, take off my chains, put me 
 in a proper prison, let me have a woman for companion, 
 and then I will be good, and do what the Church desires.” 
 They asked her if her voices had revisited her, if she 
 still believed that they were St. Catherine and St. Mar¬ 
 garet, if she adhered to what she had said with regard to 
 the crown given to her king by St. Michael. To all such 
 questions she replied bluntly in the affirmative, as if court¬ 
 ing death. “ All that I revoked and declared on the 
 scaffold,” said she, “ I did through fear of the fire. I 
 prefer to die than endure longer the pain of imprison¬ 
 ment. Never have I done anything against God or the 
 faith. I did not understand what was in the act of 
 abjuration. If the judges desire it, I will wear woman’s 
 dress ; beyond that I will yield nothing.” 
 
 To reassemble the court, and bring this erring, tor¬ 
 tured, devoted child to the stake, required but two days. 
 On Wednesday morning, May 30,1431, there was another 
 open-air session of the court, in a market-place of Rouen, 
 where there was erected a platform of another kind for the 
 prisoner. On that last morning of her life her demeanor 
 was not stoical nor histrionic, but simply human—the 
 demeanor of a terrified girl of nineteen who was nerving 
 herself to a frightful ordeal which she herself had chosen. 
 
 She bewailed her fate with cries and sobs. They gave 
 her a priest to hear her in confession, after which the 
 sacrament was brought to her by the usual procession of 
 priests chanting a litany, and bearing many candles. She 
 received it “ very devoutly, and with a great abundance 
 of tears,” and passed her remaining time in prayer. The 
 same cart conveyed her to the market-place, guarded by 
 “ a hundred and twenty ” English men-at-arms. Another 
 sermon was preached, upon the text, “ If one member 
 suffer, the other members suffer also.” The bishop then 
 
190 THE TRIAL OF JEANNE DARC. 
 
 read a long sentence, of -which a few words are given at 
 the beginning of this article, which he ended by handing 
 her over to the secular arm. The members of the court 
 departed, and then, without any other legal formality, she 
 was bound to the stake and burned. Tradition gives us 
 many particulars of her last moments, but as they were 
 not gathered till 1456, twenty-five years after her ashes 
 were thrown into the Seine, we must receive them with 
 caution. It is credible enough that she died embracing a 
 cross, and with her eyes fixed upon another cross held up 
 before her by a sympathizing priest. In 1456, the period 
 of her “ rehabilitation,” that man was accounted happy 
 who had something pleasing or glorious to tell of the 
 Maid whom France then revered as a deliverer. 
 
 It is difficult for us to conceive the importance attached 
 to this trial at the time. The English government, by a 
 long circular letter, notified all the sovereigns of Europe 
 of the result of the trial, and gave them an outline of 
 the proceedings. The University at Paris sent a par¬ 
 ticular account of the trial to the Pope, to the cardinals, 
 and to the chief prelates of Christendom. But five years 
 later Paris surrendered to the King of France, and 
 twenty-five years later Normandy itself owned allegiance 
 to Charles YU. 
 

HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
IIARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 •• "I I"OW I detest benevolent people!” Sydney Smith 
 I I is reported to have said, on looking up from a 
 book he had been reading. 
 
 “ Why ? ” asked his daughter. 
 
 “Because they are so cruel,” was his reply. 
 
 I was reminded of this anecdote upon looking over a 
 book lately published, entitled “Harriet Martineau’s Auto¬ 
 biography,” which is full of the personal gossip that amuses 
 readers, but gives extreme pain to large numbers of worthy 
 persons who cannot possibly set themselves right with the 
 public by correcting the misconceptions of a writer no 
 longer among the living. Miss Martineau was, doubt¬ 
 less, a lady who strongly desired the happiness of man¬ 
 kind, and who had some correct ideas of the manner 
 in which human happiness is to be promoted. She ren¬ 
 dered much good service in her day and generation, but 
 she left this book to be published after her death, which 
 is unjust to almost every individual named in it, and, 
 most of all, unjust to herself. 
 
 And the worst of it is, no effective answer can be made 
 to it. The gifted family of the Kembles, for example, and 
 particularly Mrs. Kemble, a lady still living, with children 
 and other relations, are held up to the contempt of mam 
 kind as vain, vulgar, and false. Perhaps the Kembles 
 thought Miss Martineau vain, vulgar, and false; but 
 they have not had the indecency to tell the public so. 
 Macaulay, Miss Martineau tells us, had “no heart,” and 
 
 ! 93 
 
194 
 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 Ins nephew, Trevelyan, “ no head.” Lord Althorp was 
 “ one of nature’s graziers; ” Lord Brougham was a creat¬ 
 ure obscene and treacherous; Earl Russell and the whole 
 Whig party were a set of conceited incapablcs; Thack¬ 
 eray, the satirist of snobs, was himself a snob; N. P. 
 Willis, a lying dandy; Eastlake an artist of “limited” 
 understanding; and so she deals out her terrible gossip, 
 which might have been harmless enough spoken at a tea- 
 table to a confidential friend, but was not proper to be 
 printed during the lifetime of the individuals named, nor 
 during the lifetime of their immediate descendants. 
 
 Things go by contraries in this world. We often find 
 high Tories who, in their practical dealings with their 
 fellow-men, are perfectly democratic; and it is well known 
 that some of the most positive democrats this country has 
 ever produced have been, in their personal demeanor, 
 haughty and inhuman. It is much the same with philan¬ 
 thropists and misanthropists. A person may snarl at 
 mankind in a book and be the soul of kindness in his 
 own circle, and he may deluge the world with benevolent 
 “gush,” without having learned to be agreeable or good- 
 tempered in his own home. 
 
 Miss Martineau, however, has been to no one so unjust 
 as to herself; for she lias not had the art to make her 
 readers feel and realize the disadvantages under which 
 she labored. She was deaf; she had no sense of smell, 
 and only a very imperfect sense of taste. She could hear, 
 it is true, by the aid of a trumpet, but she was cut off 
 from all that higher, easier, constant intercourse with her 
 kind which people enjoy who rarely know what silence is, 
 and who hear human speech of some kind at almost every 
 moment when they are awake. And she had a childhood 
 which disarms censure. During the first thirty years of 
 her life, she scarcely enjoyed one day of health or peace, 
 all in conseouence of her mother’s neglect. The child, 
 
HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 195 
 
 booh after it was born, was sent out of the way to a wet- 
 nurse in the country, who nearly starved her to death, 
 having an insufficiency of milk, and being unwilling to 
 lose the charge of the child by telling the truth. Her 
 deafness and her bad health during the first third of her 
 life were always ascribed by her mother to this starva¬ 
 tion. 
 
 The story of her childhood is almost incomprehensible 
 to American parents, who are apt to watch their children 
 with even an excessive care and tenderness. Her parents 
 seemed never to have suspected what she suffered, nor 
 did she ever have confidence enough in them to attempt 
 to make known to them her miseries. Milk, for example, 
 always disagreed with her, and to such a degree that she 
 had “a horrid lump at her throat for hours every morn¬ 
 ing, and the most terrible oppression in the night.” 
 Nevertheless, as English children are always fed upon 
 milk, she continued to drink it morning and night, with¬ 
 out mentioning her sufferings, until she was old enough 
 to drink tea, which, in England, is usually about the six¬ 
 teenth year. How amazing is this! On what strange 
 terms children must live with their elders where such a 
 thing could be! 
 
 During all her childhood she was tormented by fear 
 and shame. She was afraid of everything and everybody. 
 Sometimes, at the head of the stairs, she would be panic- 
 stricken, and feel sure she could never get down. In 
 going a few steps into the garden she would be afraid to 
 look behind her, dreading an imaginary wild beast. She 
 was afraid of the star-lighted sky, having an awful dread 
 of its coining down upon her, crushing her, and remaining 
 upon her head. She was afraid of persons, and declares 
 that, to the best of her belief, she never met with an 
 individual whom she was not afraid of until she was six¬ 
 teen years of age. The exhibition of a magic lantern was 
 
iq6 
 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 awful to her, and she was terrified beyond measure by 
 seeing the prismatic colors in the glass drops of a chande¬ 
 lier. There were certain individuals whom she met 
 occasionally in the town, of whom she knew nothing, 
 neither their name nor their occupation, and yet she could 
 never see them without experiencing the most intense 
 fear. At the same time she was bitterly ashamed of this 
 weakness, and seems never to have thought of mentioning 
 it to a living creature, least of all to her mother and 
 sisters. Fur a long course of years—from about eight to 
 fourteen—she tried with all her might to pass a day 
 without crying. 
 
 “ I was a persevering child,” she says, “ and I knew I 
 tried hard; but I failed. I gave up at last, and during 
 all those }'cars I never did pass a day without crying.” 
 
 She thinks her temper must have been “ excessively 
 bad,” and that she was “ an insufferable child for gloom, 
 obstinacy, and crossness.” But she also thought that if 
 her parents and brothers and sisters had shown ever so 
 little sympathy with her unhappiness, she should have 
 responded with joyous alacrity. When her hearing began 
 to grow dull, it did not excite sympathy in the family, 
 but distrust and contempt. She would be told that ' l none 
 arc so deaf as they who do not wish to hear; ” and when 
 it could no longer be doubted that she was growing deaf, 
 the best help she got was from her brother, who told her 
 that he hoped she would never make herself troublesome 
 to other people. What a delightful family ! Such treat¬ 
 ment, however, had one good effect: she made up her 
 mind, and she kept her resolution, never to make her 
 deafness a burthen to others. She never asked any one 
 to repeat a remark in company which she had not caught, 
 and always trusted her friends to tell her wiiat it was 
 necessary for her to know. 
 
 During the generation which saw the beginning and 
 
HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 197 
 
 the end of Napoleon’s career, a kind of savageness seems 
 to have pervaded human life. All Europe was fighting; 
 school-boys were encouraged and expected to fight, and 
 the softer feelings of our nature were undervalued or 
 despised. Bonaparte made life harder for almost every 
 one in the civilized world ; and this may partly explain 
 how an intelligent, virtuous, and even benevolent family 
 could have lived together in a manner which seems to us 
 heartless and savage. 
 
 Her parents gave her an excellent education. She 
 could make shirts and puddings; she could iron and 
 mend; she acquired all household arts, as girls did in 
 those days ; but at the same time she became a considera¬ 
 ble proficient in languages and science, and very early 
 began to show an inclination to composition. The circum¬ 
 stance which made her a professional writer was interest¬ 
 ing. She had secretly sent an article to a monthly 
 magazine, and a few days after, as she was sitting after 
 tea in her brother’s parlor, he said: 
 
 “ Come now, we have had plenty of talk; I will read 
 you something.” 
 
 He took the very magazine that contained her contri¬ 
 bution, and opening it at her article lie glanced at it, 
 and said: 
 
 “ They have got a new hand here. Listen.” 
 
 He read a few lines, and then exclaimed : 
 
 “ Ah ! This is a new hand ; they have had nothing as 
 good as this for a long while.” 
 
 He kept bursting out with exclamations of approval as 
 he continued to read, until, at length, observing her 
 silence, he said: 
 
 “ Harriet, what is the matter with you ? I never knew 
 you so slow to praise anything before.” 
 
 She replied in utter confusion : 
 
 “ I never could baffle anybody. The truth is, that 
 paper is mine.” 
 
HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 ig8 
 
 Her brother said nothing, but finished the article in 
 silence, and spoke no more until she rose to go home. 
 Then he laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, in a 
 serious tone: 
 
 “ Now, dear ” (he had never called her dear before), 
 “ now, dear, leave it to other women to make shirts and 
 darn stockings, and dc you devote yourself to this.” 
 
 And so she did. With immense perseverance, and 
 after encountering every sort of discouragement, she 
 reached the public ear, by writing stories in illustration 
 of the truths of political economy. For a time she was 
 the most popular story-writer in England, and the aid of 
 her pen was sought by cabinet ministers, as well as by 
 the conductors of almost every important periodical. She 
 was so good and useful a woman, that we must forgive 
 whatever mistakes of judgment and temper we may lament 
 in her autobiography. She loved America almost as 
 though she had been born upon its soil, and Americans 
 must take her censures in good part. 
 
 During her residence in the United States, she sacrificed 
 her popularity, and even risked her personal safety, by 
 openly espousing the cause of the detested abolitionists. 
 At one of their meetings in Boston, in 1835, to attend 
 which she braved the fury of a mob, she deliberately, and 
 with full knowledge of what her action involved, spoke 
 in defence of their principles. Her own narrative of the 
 event, as given in her Autobiography, is of singular 
 interest: 
 
 “ In the midst of the proceedings of the meeting, a 
 note was handed to me written in pencil on the back of 
 the hymn which the party were singing. It was from 
 Mr. Loring, and these were his words: 
 
 “ • Knowing your opinions, I just ask you whether you 
 would object to give a word of sympathy to those who 
 are suffering here for what you have advocated elsewhere. 
 It would afford great comfort.’ 
 
HAKHIbT MAKTi.NEiY'J. 
 
 I99 
 
 “ The moment of reading this note was one of the 
 most painful of my life. I felt that I could never bo 
 happy again if I refused what was asked of me; but to 
 comply was probably to shut against me every door in 
 the United States but those of the Abolitionists. I 
 should no more sec persons and things as they ordinarily 
 were. I should have no more comfort or pleasure in my 
 travels; and my very life would be, like other people’s, 
 endangered by an avowal of the kind desired. George 
 Thompson was then on the sea, having narrowly escaped 
 witli his life, and the fury against ‘foreign incendiaries’ 
 ran high. Houses had been sacked; children had been 
 carried through the snow from their beds at midnight; 
 travelers had been lynched in the market-places, as well 
 as in the woods; and there was no safety for any one, 
 native or foreign, who did what I was now compelled to 
 do. Having made up my mind, I was considering how 
 the word of sympathy should be given, when Mrs. Loring 
 came up, with an easy and smiling countenance, and said : 
 
 “ ‘ You have had my husband’s note. He hopes you 
 Avill do as he says; but you must please yourself, of 
 course.’ 
 
 “ I said, ‘ No ; it is a case in which there is no choice.’ 
 
 “ ‘ Oh, pray do not do it unless you like it. You must 
 do as you think right.’ 
 
 “' Yes,’ said I, ‘ I must.’ 
 
 “ At first, out of pure shyness, I requested the president 
 to say a few words forme; but, presently, remembering 
 the importance of the occasion and the difficulty of set¬ 
 ting right any mistake the president might fall into, I 
 agreed to that lady’s request, that I should speak for 
 myself. Having risen, therefore, with his note in my 
 hand, and being introduced to the meeting, I said, as was 
 precisely recorded at the time, what follows: 
 
 “ ‘ I have been requested by a friend present to say 
 eomething—if only a word—to express my sympathy in 
 
200 
 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 the objects of this meeting. I had supposed that my 
 presence here would be understood as showing my sym¬ 
 pathy with you. But as I am requested to speak, I will 
 say what I have said through the whole South, in every 
 family where I have been; that I consider slavery as 
 inconsistent with the law of God and as incompatible 
 with the law of his Providence. I should certainly say 
 no less at the North than at the South concerning this 
 utter abomination, and I now declare that in your princi¬ 
 ples I fully agree.’ ” 
 
 “ As I concluded, Mrs. Chapman bowed down her glow¬ 
 ing head on her folded arms, and there was a murmur of 
 satisfaction through the room, while, outside, the growing 
 crowd (which did not, however, become large) was hoot¬ 
 ing and yelling, and throwing mud and dust against the 
 windows.” 
 
 It was bravely done. Happily, the present generation 
 can form but an imperfect idea of the sacrifice she made 
 in taking sides with a party then held in equal abhorrence 
 and contempt. Several days passed before this action of 
 Miss Martineau was known to the public. Gradually, 
 however, it circulated, and, at length, the little speech 
 itself was printed verbatim in a report of the Anti- 
 Slavery Society. Precisely that happened which Miss 
 Martineau had anticipated. Every door was closed 
 against her, except those of the Abolitionists. No more 
 invitations littered her table. She was a lion no longer. 
 Houses where she was known to be staying were avoided, 
 as though they had shown to the passer-by the warning 
 signal of contagion. The Boston Advertiser opened upon 
 her its provincial thunder, and Boston society shuddered 
 at the awful fate which the brave woman had brought 
 upon herself. The press in general denounced her, and 
 even some of the Abolitionists felt that, being a stranger, 
 she need not have incurred this obloquy. 
 
 Miss Martineau’s tranquility was not for a moment 
 
HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 201 
 
 disturbed, and she was glad that, in so critical a moment, 
 she had been able to preserve her self-respect. 
 
 During the greater part of her mature life she felt her¬ 
 self compelled to embrace the unpopular side of most of 
 the questions which deeply stirred the human mind. For 
 some years she retained the faith of her parents, which 
 was the Unitarian ; but, as her intelligence matured, she 
 found the beliefs and usages of that sect less and less 
 satisfactory, until she reached the settled conviction that 
 all the creeds and religions of the earth were of purely 
 human origin. She rejected the idea of a personal deity, 
 and regarded the belief in immortality as an injurious 
 delusion. It is a proof, at once, of the profound excel¬ 
 lence of her character and the advanced catholicity of 
 her generation, that these opinions, which she never con¬ 
 cealed and never obtruded, estranged none of her friends, 
 even those of the most pronounced orthodoxy. Miss 
 Florence Nightingale, for example, a devoted member of 
 the Church of England, wrote, on hearing of her death : 
 
 “The shock of your tidings to me, of course, was 
 great; but, 0,1 feel how delightful the surprise to her! 
 How much she must know now! How much she must 
 have enjoyed already ! I do not know what your opinions 
 are about this; I know what hers were, and for a long 
 time, I have thought how great will be the surprise to her 
 —a glorious surprise! She served the Right, that is, 
 God, all her life.” 
 
 In a similar strain wrote other friends, who were 
 believers in immortal life. Miss Martineau died at her 
 own house at Amblcside, in 1876, aged seventy-four years. 
 She expressed the secret of her life in a sentence of her 
 Autobiography. 
 
 “ The real and justifiable and honorable subject of 
 interest to human beings, living and dying, is the 
 welfare OF their fellows, surrounding or surviving 
 them ” 
 
202 
 
 HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 For twenty years after she had written her autobiography 
 in momentary expectation of death, she continued to live 
 and work for the welfare of her fellows. In her own words, 
 “Literature, though a precious luxury, was not, and never 
 had been, the daily bread of her life. She felt that she 
 could not be happy, or in the best way useful, if the declin¬ 
 ing years of her life were spent in lodgings in the morning 
 and drawing-rooms in the evening. A quiet home of her 
 own, and some few dependent on her for their domestic 
 welfare, she believed to be essential to every true woman’s 
 peace of mind ; and she chose her plan of life accordingly.” 
 She lived in the country, built a house, and tried her hand 
 successfully on a farm of two acres. She exerted herself 
 for the good of her neighbors, and devised schemes to 
 remedy local mischiefs. Her servants found in her a friend 
 as well as a mistress. 
 
 Her long and busy life bears the constant impress of two 
 leading characteristics—industry and sincerity. In the 
 brief autobiographical sketch, left to be published in the 
 London Daily News , to which she had contributed alto¬ 
 gether sixteen hundred important articles, she gives this 
 curiously candid judgment of herself, which is more correct 
 than many of her judgments of others: “Her original 
 power was nothing more than was due to earnestness and 
 intellectual clearness within a certain range. With small 
 imaginative and suggestive powers, and therefore nothing 
 approaching to genius, she could see clearly what she did 
 see, and give a clear expression to what she had to say. In 
 short, she could popularize while she could neither discover 
 nor invent.” 
 
 Her infirmity of deafness probably enabled her to accom¬ 
 plish the immense amount of literary work which she did, 
 since it withdrew her from many distractions. The cheerful 
 and unobtrusive spirit with which she bore her infirmity 
 remains an example and encouragement to her fellow- 
 sufferers. 
 
HARRIET MARTINEAU. 
 
 203 
 
 Her years of lingering illness proved a time of quiet 
 enjoyment to her, being soothed by family and social love 
 and care and sympathy. In the words of her biographer, 
 Mrs. M. W. Chapman, a woman of kindred spirit: 
 
 “ If, instead of dying so slowly, she had died as she 
 could have wished and thought to have done, without delay, 
 what a treasure of wise counsels, what a radiance of noble 
 deeds, what a spirit of love and of power, what brave vic¬ 
 torious battle to the latest hour for all things good and 
 true, had been lost to posterity ! What an example of 
 more than resignation, of that ready, glad acceptance of a 
 lingering and painful death which made the sight a bless¬ 
 ing to every witness, had beeu lost to the surviving genera¬ 
 tion” 
 
THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 ITEY have in Europe a mysterious thing called rank, 
 
 I which exerts a powerful spell even over the minds 
 of republicans, who neither approve nor understand it. 
 
 We saw a proof of its power when the Prince of Wales 
 visited New York some years ago. He was neither hand¬ 
 some, nor gifted, nor wise, nor learned, nor anything elec 
 which, according to the imperfect light of reason, makes 
 a fair claim to distinction. But how we crowded to catch 
 a sight of him! In all my varied and long experience of 
 New York crowds and receptions, I never saw a popular 
 movement that went down quite as deep as that. I saw 
 aged ladies sitting in chairs upon the sidewalk hour after 
 hour, waiting to see that youth go by—ladies whom no 
 other pageant would have drawn from their homes. 
 Almost every creature that could walk was out to see him. 
 
 Mr. Gladstone is fifty times the man the Prince of 
 W'ales can ever be. Mr. Tennyson, Mr. Bright, George 
 Eliot, Mr. Darwin, might be supposed to represent Eng¬ 
 land better than he. But all of these eminent persons in 
 a coach together would not have called forth a tenth part 
 of the crowd that cheered the Prince of Wales from the 
 Battery to Madison Square. There is a mystery in this 
 which everyone may explain according to his ability; 
 hut th efact is so important that no one can understand 
 history who does not bear it in mind. 
 
 The importance of Lafayette in the Revolutionary War 
 was chiefly due to the mighty prestige of his rank—not his 
 
 204 
 
THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 205 
 
 rank as a major-general, but his imaginary, intangible 
 rank as marquis. His coming here in 1777, a young man 
 of twenty, was an event which interested two continents; 
 and it was only his rank which made it of the slightest 
 significance. The sage old Franklin knew this very well 
 when he consented to his coming, and wrote a private 
 note to General Washington suggesting that the young 
 nobleman should not be much hazarded in battle, but 
 kept rather as an ornamental appendage to the cause. 
 He proved indeed to be a young man of real merit—a 
 brave, zealous, disinterested, and enterprising soldier—one 
 who would have made his way and borne an honorable 
 part if he had not been a marquis. But, after all, his 
 rank served the cause better than any nameless youth 
 could have served it. 
 
 I met only the other day a striking illustration of this 
 fact, one that showed the potent spell which his mere 
 rank exerted over the minds of the Indians. On coming 
 here early in the Revolutionary War, he performed a 
 most essential service which only a French nobleman 
 could have rendered. It was a terrible question in 1777, 
 which side the Six Nations would take in the strife. 
 These tribes, which then occupied the whole of central 
 and western New York, being united in one confederacy, 
 could have inflicted enormous damage upon the frontier 
 settlements if they had sided against Congress. Lafayette 
 went among them ; and they, too, were subject to the 
 spell of his rank, which is indeed most powerful over bar¬ 
 barous minds. He made a talk to them. He explained, 
 as far as he could,the nature of the controversy, and told 
 them that their old friends, the French, were joined, heart 
 and soul, with the Americans, against their old enemies, 
 the English. He prevailed. They afterwards admitted 
 that it was owing to his advice, and especially his confi¬ 
 dent prophecy of the final victory of the Americans, that 
 13 
 
206 
 
 THE 'V7IFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 induced so large a portion of the Six Nations to remain 
 neutral. What young man of twenty, unaided by rank 
 f.nd title, could have done this service ? 
 
 The war ended. In 1784 the marquis returned to 
 America, to visit General Washington and his old com¬ 
 rades. There was trouble again with the Six Nations, 
 owing to the retention by the British of seven important 
 frontier posts, Detroit, Mackinaw, Oswego, Ogdensburgh, 
 Niagara, and two forts on Lake Champlain. Seeing the 
 British flag still floating over these places confused the 
 Indian mind, made them doubt the success of the Ameri¬ 
 cans, and disposed them to continue a profitable warfare. 
 Congress appointed three commissioners to hold a confer¬ 
 ence with them at Fort Schuyler, which stood upon the 
 site of the modern city of Rome, about a hundred miles 
 west of Albany. Once more the United States availed 
 themselves of the influence of Lafayette’s rank over the 
 Indians. The commissioners invited him to attend the 
 treaty. 
 
 In September, 1784, James Madison, then thirty-three 
 years of age, started on a northward tour, and, meeting 
 the marquis in Baltimore, determined to go with him to 
 the treaty ground. The two young gentlemen were here 
 in New York during the second week of September, and 
 the marquis was the observed of all observers. Both the 
 young gentlemen were undersized, and neither of them 
 was good-looking; but the presence of the French noble¬ 
 man was an immense event, as we can still see from the 
 newspapers of that and the following week. After enjoy¬ 
 ing a round of festive attentions, they started on their 
 way up the Hudson river in a barge, but not before Mr. 
 Madison had sent off to the American minister in Paris 
 (Mr. Jefferson) a packet of New York papers containing 
 eulogistic notices of Lafayette, for the gratification of 
 the French people. 
 
THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 207 
 
 They arrived at Fort Schuyler in due time—the mar¬ 
 quis, Mr. Madison, the three commissioners, and other per¬ 
 sons of note. But the Indians had no eyes and no ears 
 except for the little Frenchman, twenty-seven years of 
 age, whom they called Kayenlaa. The commissioners 
 were nothing in their eyes, and although they did not 
 enjoy their insignificance, they submitted to it with good 
 grace, and asked the Indians to listen to the voice of 
 Kayenlaa. He rose to speak, and soon showed himself a 
 master of the Indian style of oratory. 
 
 “In selling your lands,” said he, “do not consult the 
 keg of rum , and give them away to the first adventurer.” 
 
 lie reminded them of his former advice, and showed 
 them how his prophecies had come true. 
 
 “ My predictions,” said he, have been fulfilled. Open 
 your ears to the new advice of your father.” 
 
 He urged them strongly to conclude a treaty of peace 
 with the Americans, and thus have plenty of the French 
 articles of manufacture of which they used to be so fond. 
 The leader of the war party was a young chief, equally 
 famous as a warrior and as an orator, named Red Jacket, 
 who replied to Lafayette in the most impassioned strain, 
 calling upon his tribe to continue the war. It was thought, 
 at the time, that no appeals to the reason of the Indians 
 could have neutralized the effect of Red Jacket’s fiery 
 eloquence. It was the spell of the Marquis de Lafayette’s 
 rank and name which probably enabled the commissioner 
 to come to terms with the red men. 
 
 “ During this scene,” reports Mr. Madison, “ and even 
 during the whole stay of f he marquis, he was the only 
 conspicuous figure. The commissioners were eclipsed. 
 All of them probably felt it.” 
 
 The chief of the Oneida tribe admitted on this occasion 
 that “the word which Lafayette had spoken to them early 
 in the war had prevented them from being led to the 
 
208 
 
 THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 wrong side of it.” Forty-one years after this memorable 
 scene—that is to say, in the year 1825—Lafayette was at 
 Buffalo; and among the persons who called upon him 
 was an aged Indian chief, much worn by time, and more 
 by strong drink. He asked the marquis if he remembered 
 the Indian Council at Fort Schuyler. He replied that he 
 had not forgotten it, and he asked the Indian if he knew 
 what had become of the young chief who had opposed 
 With such burning eloquence the burying of the toma¬ 
 hawk. 
 
 “ He is before you ! ” was the old man’s reply. 
 
 “ Time,” said the marquis, “has much changed us both 
 since that meeting.” 
 
 “Ah!” rejoined Red Jacket; “time has not been so 
 hard upon you as it has upon me. It has left to you a 
 fresh countenance and hair to cover your head ; while to 
 me—look ! ” 
 
 Taking a handkerchief from his head he showed his 
 baldness with a sorrowful countenance. To that hour 
 Red Jacket had remained an enemy to everything English, 
 and would not even speak the language. The general, 
 who well understood the art of pleasing, humored the old 
 man so far as to speak to him a few words in the Indian 
 tongue, which greatly pleased the chief, and much 
 increased his estimate of Lafayette’s abilities. 
 
 Such was the amazing power of that mysterious old- 
 world rank which Lafayette possessed. Let us not forget, 
 however, that his rank would have been of small use to 
 us if that had been his only gift. In early life he was 
 noted for two traits of character ; which, however, were 
 not very uncommon among the young French nobles of 
 the period. He had an intense desire to distinguish him¬ 
 self in his profession, and he had a strong inclination 
 toward Republican principles. He tells us whence he 
 derived this tendency. At the age of nine he fell in with 
 
THE WIFE UF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 20Q 
 
 a little book of Letters about England, written by Yoltaire, 
 which gave him some idea of a free country. The author 
 of the Letters dwelt upon the freedom of thinking and 
 printing that prevailed in England, and described the 
 Exchange at London, where the Jews and Christians, 
 C itholics and Protestants, Church of England men and 
 Dissenters, Quakers and Deists, all mingled peacefully 
 together and transacted business without inquiring into 
 one another’s creed. The author mentioned other things 
 of the same nature, which were very strange and captivat¬ 
 ing to the inhabitants of a country governed so despotic¬ 
 ally as France was when Lafayette Avas a boy. 
 
 The book made an indelible impression upon his eager 
 and susceptible mind. He used to say in after years that 
 he Avas “ a republican at nine.” He Avas, nevertheless, a 
 member of the privileged order of his country, and if ho 
 had been bom in another age he Avould in all probability 
 have soon outlived the romantic sentiments of his youth, 
 and run the career usual to men of his rank. 
 
 In the summer of 1TTG, when he was not yet quite 
 nineteen, he Avas stationed with his regiment at Metz, 
 then a garrisoned toAvn near the eastern frontier of France. 
 An English prince, the Duke of Gloucester, brother to 
 the King of England, visited this post a feiv weeks after 
 Congress at Philadelphia had signed the Declaration of 
 Independence. The French general in command at Metz 
 gave a dinner to the prince, to Avhich scx r eral officers xvere 
 invited, Lafayette among the rest. It so happened that 
 the prince rcccix’ed that day letters from England, which 
 contained news from America. 
 
 The news was of thrilling interest: Poston lost—Inde¬ 
 pendence declared—mighty forces gathering to crush the 
 rebellion—Washington, victorious in Ncav England, pre- 
 paring to defend New York! News Avas sIoav in travel¬ 
 ing then ; and hence it Avas that our j'oung soldier now 
 
210 
 
 THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 heard these details for the first time at the table of hia 
 commanding officer. We can imagine the breathless 
 interest with which he listened to the story, what ques¬ 
 tions he asked, and how he gradually drew from the prince 
 the whole interior history of the movement. From the 
 admissions of the duke himself, he drew the inference 
 that the colonists were in the right. He saw in them a 
 people fighting in defence of that very liberty of which 
 he had read in the English Letters of Voltaire. Before 
 he rose from the table that day, the project occurred to 
 his mind of going to America, and offering his services 
 to the American people in their struggle for Independence. 
 
 t; My heart,” as he afterwards wrote, “ espoused warmly 
 the cause of liberty, and 1 thought of nothing but of 
 adding also the aid of my banner.” 
 
 And the more he thought of it, the more completely 
 he was fascinated by the idea. Knowing well how such 
 a scheme would appear to his prudent relations, he deter¬ 
 mined to judge this matter for himself. He placed a new 
 motto on his coat-of-arms: 
 
 Cur non ? 
 
 This is Latin for, Why not ? He chose those words, 
 he says, because they would serve equally as an encour¬ 
 agement to himself and a reply to others. His first step 
 was to go on leave to Paris, where Silas Deane was 
 already acting as the representative of Congress, secretly 
 favored by the French ministry. Upon consulting two of 
 his young friends, he found them enthusiastic in the same 
 cause, and abundantly willing to go with him, if they 
 could command the means. When, however, he sub¬ 
 mitted the project to an experienced family friend, the 
 Count de Broglie, he met firm opposition. 
 
 “ I have seen your uncle,” said the count, “ die in the 
 wars of Italy; I witnessed your father’s death at the bat¬ 
 tle of Minden, and I will not be accessory to the ruin of 
 the only remaining branch of the family.” 
 
THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 211 
 
 He tried in vain to dissuade the young man from a 
 purpose which seemed to him most rash and chimerical. 
 One person that favored his purpose was his beautiful 
 young wife, already the mother of one child and soon to 
 be the mother of a second. She, with the spirit and 
 devotion natural to a French lady of eighteen, entered 
 heartily into the very difficult business of getting off her 
 young husband to win glory for both by fighting for the 
 American insurgents. 
 
 Anastasie de Noailles was her maiden name. She was 
 the daughter of a house which had eight centuries of 
 recorded history, and which, in each of these centuries, 
 had given to France soldiers or priests of national 
 importance and European renown. The chateau of 
 Noailles (near the city of Toul), portions of which date 
 as far back as A. D. 1050, was the cradle of the race: 
 and to-day in Paris there is a Duke de Noailles, and a 
 Marquis de Noailles, descendants of that Pierre do 
 Noailles who was lord of the old chateau three hundred 
 and fifty years before America was discovered. 
 
 Old as her family was, Mademoiselle de Noailles was 
 one of the youngest brides, as her Marquis was one of the 
 youngest husbands. An American company would have 
 smiled to see a boy of sixteen and a half years of age, 
 presenting himself at the altar to be married to a girl of 
 fourteen. We must beware, however, of sitting in judg¬ 
 ment on people of other climes and other times. Lafay¬ 
 ette was a great match. His father had fallen in the 
 battle of Minden, when the boy was two years of age, 
 leaving no other heir. It is a curious fact that the 
 officer who commanded the battery from which the ball 
 was fired that killed Lafayette’s father, was the same 
 General Phillips with whom the son was so actively 
 engaged in Virginia, during the summer of 1781. 
 
 The mother of our marquis died ten years after her 
 
212 
 
 TIIS WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 husband. Her father, a nobleman of great estate, soon 
 followed her to the grave, and so this boy of fourteen 
 inherited the estates of two important families. Madem¬ 
 oiselle dc Xoallies had great rank and considerable wealth. 
 It is perhaps safe to infer that she was not remarkable 
 for beauty, because no one of her many eulogists claims it 
 for her. Nearly all marriages among the nobility were 
 then matters of bargain and interest, mutual love having 
 little to do with them ; yet many marriages of that kind 
 were very happy, and in all respects satisfactory. Lafay¬ 
 ette’s was one of these. The pair not only loved one 
 another with ardent and sustained affection, but the mar¬ 
 riage united the two families, and called into being 
 numerous children and grandchildren. 
 
 Imagine them married then, in April, 1774, the year in 
 which the Continental Congress met at Philadelphia. 
 
 The young husband—officer in a distinguished regi¬ 
 ment—was not much at home during the first two years 
 after his marriage; a circumstance which was probably 
 conducive to the happiness of both, for they were too 
 young to be satisfied with a tranquil domestic life. 
 
 One day in the summer of 1776 he returned suddenly 
 and unexpectedly to Paris. His wife observed that some 
 great matter possessed his mind. There is reason to 
 believe that she was among the first to be made acquainted 
 with his scheme of going to America and entering the 
 service of Congress. A married girl of sixteen—the very 
 age of romance—she sympathized at first with his pur¬ 
 pose, and always kept his secret. Nine months of excite¬ 
 ment followed, during which he went and came several 
 times, often disappointed, always resolved ; until at length 
 Madame de Lafayette received a letter from him, written 
 on board the ship Victory, that was to convey him to 
 America. 
 
 This was in April, 1777, when already she held in her 
 
THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 2T3 
 
 arms their first child, the baby Henriette, who died while 
 her father was still tossed upon the ocean. It was many 
 months after his landing in America before he heard of 
 his child’s death, and lie kept writing letter after letter in 
 which he begged his wife to kiss for him the infant whose 
 lips were cold in the grave. Ilis letters to her during his 
 long absences in America were full of affection and ten¬ 
 derness. He calls her his life, his love, and his dearest 
 love. In the first letter written at sea, he tries once more 
 to reconcile her to his departure. 
 
 “ If,” said he, “ you could know all that I have suffered 
 while thus flying from all I love best in the world ! Must 
 I join to this affliction the grief of hearing that you do 
 not pardon me ? ” 
 
 lie endeavored to convince her that he was not in the 
 least danger of so much as a graze from a British bullet. 
 
 “ Ask the opinion,” said he, “ of all general officers— 
 and these are very numerous, because having once 
 obtained that height, they are no longer exposed to any 
 hazards.” 
 
 Then he turned to speak of herself and of their child. 
 
 “ Henrietta,” said he, “ is so delightful that she has 
 made me in love with little girls.” 
 
 And then he prattled on with a happy blending of good 
 feeling and good humor, until the darkness of the even¬ 
 ing obliged him to lay aside the pen, as lie had prudently 
 forbidden the lighting of candles on board his ship. It 
 v was easy to write these long letters in the cabin of his 
 vessel, but it was by no means easy to send them back 
 across the ocean, traversed by English cruisers. When 
 Madame do Lafayette received this letter their Henriette 
 had been dead for nearly a year. He ran his career in 
 America. He was domesticated with Gen. Washington. 
 He was wounded at the battle of Brandywine. He passed 
 the memorable winter at Valley Forge. 
 
214 
 
 THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 Iii June, 1778, thirteen months after leaving home, a 
 French vessel brought to America the news of the French 
 alliance, and to him that of the death of his Henrietta, 
 and the birth of his second daughter, Anastasie. There 
 is nothing in their correspondence prettier than the man¬ 
 ner in which he speaks to her of his wound. 
 
 “ Whilst endeavoring to rally the troops,” he tells her, 
 “ the English honored me with a musket-ball, which 
 slightly wounded me in the leg—but it is a trifle, my 
 dearest love ; the ball touched neither bone nor nerve, and 
 I have escaped with the obligation of lying on my back 
 for some time.” 
 
 In October, 1778, about a year and a half after his 
 departure, Madame de Lafayette enjoyed the transport of 
 welcoming her husband home on a leave of absence. 
 
 Once, during the spring of 1778, she was present at a 
 party at a great house in Paris, which was attended by 
 the aged Voltaire, then within a few weeks of the close 
 of his life. The old poet, recognizing her among the 
 ladies, knelt at her feet, and complimented her upon the 
 brilliant and wise conduct of her young husband in 
 America. She received this act of homage with graceful 
 modesty. When Lafayette again returned, at the end of 
 the war, we can truly say he was the most shining person¬ 
 age in France. At court the young couple were over¬ 
 whelmed with flattering attentions, and the king promoted 
 the marquis to the rank of field-marshal of the French 
 army. During the nest seven years, Madame de Lafay¬ 
 ette was at the height of earthly felicity. Her two 
 daughters, Anastasie and Virginie, and her son, George 
 Washington, were affectionate and promising children, 
 and there seemed nothing wanting to her lot that could 
 render it happier or more distinguished. 
 
 Then came the storm of the French Revolution. Both 
 husband and wife were cast down before it. While he 
 
THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 215 
 
 was immured in an Austrian dungeon, she, with her two 
 daughters, was confined in one of the prisons of Paris, 
 along with other gentle victims of the Terror. Many of 
 her friends went from her embrace to the guillotine. She, 
 fortunately, escaped the axe, and, a few months after the 
 death of Robespierre, she was released, and prepared at 
 once to penetrate to the remote fortress in which her 
 husband was confined. She sent her son to America, con¬ 
 signing him to the care of President Washington, who 
 accepted the trust, and superintended the education of the 
 lad with the affectionate care of a father. The mother 
 and her daughters, in September, 1795, set out for Vienna, 
 she calling herself Mrs. Moticr, and giving herself out as 
 an English lady traveling in disguise to escape pursuit. 
 
 Upon reaching Vienna she obtained an audience of tho 
 Emperor, and implored her husband’s release; alleging 
 truly that he had been Marie Antoinette’s best friend in 
 France. The Emperor’s reply was, “My hands are tied.” 
 He refused to release tho General, but permitted Madame 
 de Lafayette and her daughters to share his confinement. 
 For twenty-two months they remained in prison with him, 
 suffering the horrors of a detention, which was cruelly 
 aggravated by supcrserviceable underlings. Anastasie, 
 the elder daughter, was then sixteen years of age, and 
 Virginie was thirteen. Though they, too, were subjected 
 to very rigorous treatment, they preserved their health 
 and cheerfulness. The mother suffered extremely, and 
 more than once she was at death’s door. When, in Sep¬ 
 tember, 1797, the doors of the fortress of Olmutz were 
 opened, she could scarcely walk to the carriage which bore 
 them to liberty. They made their way to Hamburg, where 
 they were all received into the family of John Parish, the 
 American consul. Mr. Parish afterwards described tho 
 scene: 
 
 “ An immense crowd announced their arrival. Tho 
 streets were lined, and my house was soon filled with 
 
216 
 
 THE WIFE OF LAFAYETTE. 
 
 people. A lane was formed to let the prisoners pass to 
 my room. Lafayette led the way, and was followed by 
 his infirm lady and two daughters. He flew into my 
 arms; his wife and daughters clung to me. The silence 
 was broken by an exclamation of,— 
 
 “‘My friend! My dearest friend! My deliverer! See 
 the work of your generosity! My poor, poor wife, hardly 
 able to support herself!’ 
 
 “And indeed she was not standing, but hanging on my 
 arm, bathed in lears, while her two lovely girls had hold 
 of the other. There was not a dry eye in the room. 
 
 “ I placed her on a sofa. She sobbed and wept much, 
 and could utter but few words. Again the Marquis came 
 to my arms, his heart overflowing with gratitude. I 
 never saw a man in such complete ecstasy of body and 
 mind.” 
 
 Madame de Lafayette never recovered her health. She 
 lived ten years longer, and died December 24, 1807, 
 aged forty-seven years, leaving her daughters and her son 
 happily established. An American who visited, twenty 
 years after, the Chfiteau of La Grange, which was the 
 abode of General Lafayette during the last forty years 
 of his life, found there a numerous company of her 
 descendants, a son, two daughters, and twelve grand¬ 
 children, forming a circle which he described in glowing 
 terms of admiration. The house was full of America 
 On the walls were portraits of Washington, Franklin, 
 Morris, Adams, Jefferson, and a painting of the siege of 
 Yorktown. Objects brought from America, or received 
 thence as gifts, were seen everywhere, and there was one 
 room containing nothing but American things, which the 
 General called by the name “ America.” There was an 
 American ice-house in the garden, and groves of American 
 trees in the park. It was one of the most estimable and 
 happy families in France. Alas! that the fond mother 
 and the devoted wife should have been wanting to it. 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
BETSEY PATTEKSOU. 
 
BETSY PATTERSON, OTHERWISE MADAME JEROME 
 BONAPARTE, OF BALTIMORE. 
 
 N the spring of 1766, a poor boy of fourteen, named 
 
 1 William Patterson, from the north of Ireland, landed 
 at Philadelphia. He was the son of a small farmer, 
 a Protestant, one of that conquering Scotch-Irish race 
 which has contributed so many distinguished persons to 
 the history of the United States. The boy obtained a 
 place in the counting-house of an Irish merchant in Phil¬ 
 adelphia, and sei’ved him with singular diligence and 
 fidelity. He acted upon the principle of making himself 
 valuable to his employer. 
 
 At twenty-one he was in business as a merchant. When 
 he had been established about two years the American 
 Revolution broke out, threatening to put a stop to all 
 business. William Patterson availed himself of the crisis 
 to make his own fortune, and, at the same time, to serve 
 his adopted country. He loaded two small vessels with 
 tobacco, indigo, and other American products, investing 
 in the speculation the whole of his small capital, and sailed 
 for France. Both vessels reached France in safety. He 
 sold the cargoes, invested the proceeds in warlike stores, 
 of which General Washington was in direst need, and 
 set sail for home. On the way he touched at St. Eustatius, 
 an island of the Dutch West Indies, then a place of great 
 trade, containing about twenty-five thousand inhabitants. 
 Seeing his chance, he remained on this island, and sent 
 his vessels to Philadelphia. 
 
 219 
 
220 
 
 BETSY PATTERSON. 
 
 They were both so lucky as to escape the cruisers, and 
 to arrive in March, 1776, when the army had scarcely 
 powder enough to conceal from the enemy that they were 
 short of powder. We can imagine that these two cargoes 
 of ammunition were welcome enough, and sold at a good 
 price. The vessels appear to have returned to the West 
 Indies, where William Patterson remained two or three 
 years, sending supplies home as best he could, until the 
 alliance with France put an end to the scarcity of military 
 stores. He then prepared to return. In June, 1778, no 
 landed in Baltimore, then a town of three or four thou¬ 
 sand inhabitants, bringing with him, in gold and mer¬ 
 chandise, a hundred thousand dollars, the result of five 
 years’ business. ■ 
 
 He was then twenty-six years of age. Upon looking at 
 Baltimore with the eyes of a long-headed man of busi¬ 
 ness, observing its situation, and perceiving the necessity 
 of its becoming one of the first cities of the world, he 
 concluded to settle there. With one half of his fortune 
 he bought lots and lands in and near the city, as Astor 
 did in New York a few years later. With the other half 
 of his capital, including his little fleet of small vessels, 
 he went into the business of a shipping merchant. 
 
 During the next twenty years the commerce of the 
 infant republic had a most rapid development, particularly 
 while supplying the warring powers of Europe with provi¬ 
 sions. William Patterson in those twenty years accumu¬ 
 lated what was then considered an immense fortune. 
 President Jefferson, in 1804, spoke of him as probably 
 the richest person in the United States except Charles 
 Carrol of Carrollton, who inherited lands and slaves. His 
 fortune, too, was a growing one, since he continued to 
 purchase lands near the city, that were certain to rise in 
 Value with the increase of the place. 
 
 After settling in Baltimore he married a young lady 
 
BETSY PATTERSON. 
 
 221 
 
 named Dorcas Spear, and soon became a family man of 
 the old-fashioned type. The Scotch-Irish have the family 
 instinct very strong, and are apt to center all their hopes 
 of happiness in a home. He was a man of quiet and 
 regular habits; during a long life he scarcely ever left 
 Baltimore, either on business or pleasure. He said once, 
 in speaking of his own history, that ever since he had 
 had a house of his own it had been his invariable rule to 
 be up last at night, and to see that the fires and lights 
 were in a safe condition before going to bed. Like other 
 rich men, he served as bank director and president, and 
 held other offices of a similar character from time to 
 time. 
 
 The most fortunate individuals — and few men were 
 more fortunate than this Baltimore merchant — have 
 their share of trouble. Calamity came to him in the 
 bewitching guise of a most beautiful daughter, born in the 
 early years of his wedded life. This was that Elizabeth 
 Patterson Bonaparte, whose recent death at the age of 
 ninety-four has called attention anew to the strange 
 romance of her early life. In 1803, at eighteen years of 
 age, she was the pride of her father’s home, and the 
 prettiest girl in Baltimore, a place noted then, as now, for 
 the beauty of its women. If the early portraits of her 
 are correct, the word pretty describes her very well. 
 There was a girlish and simple expression in her counte¬ 
 nance at variance with her character, for, with all her 
 faults, she was a woman of force. 
 
 In the fall of 1803 this Baltimore beauty attended the 
 races near the city, and there she met her fate. Jerome 
 Bonaparte of the French navy, Napoleon’s youngest 
 brother — that brother whom he hoped would accomplish 
 on the ocean what he had done on the land — was at the 
 races that day. Napoleon wanted a great admiral to 
 cope with Nelson and conquer the British navy, and ho 
 
222 
 
 BETSY PATTERSON. 
 
 had flattered himself that this favorite brother could be 
 the man. If beauty of form and face could make a great 
 commander, Jerome -would have been a promising candi¬ 
 date ; for on the day that he rode out to the Baltimore 
 races in 1803, he was one of the most superb looking 
 young men then living. 
 
 They met! All the world knows what followed. 
 
 William Patterson, with his sturdy Scottish sense, per¬ 
 ceived the utter incongruity and absurdity of such a 
 match. He opposed it by every means in his power. He 
 used both authority and persuasion. He sent her out of 
 town, but she returned more infatuated than before. At 
 length, discovering that both of them were set upon the 
 marriage, he gave a reluctant consent; and married they 
 were, by the Roman Catholic bishop of Baltimore, her 
 father taking every precaution to fulfill all the forms 
 which the laws of both nations required. The Bonaparte 
 family, with one exception, approved the match, and 
 several of them congratulated the newly married pair 
 That one exception was Napoleon, the head of the family, 
 First Consul, and about to declare himself Emperor. He 
 refused to recognize the marriage. When, at length, 
 Jerome stood in his presence to plead the case of his 
 young and lovely wife, who was about to become a 
 mother, Napoleon addressed him thus : 
 
 “ So, sir, you are the first of the family who has shame¬ 
 fully abandoned his post. It will require many splendid 
 actions to wipe off that stain from your reputation. As 
 to your love affair with your little girl, I pay no regard 
 to it.” 
 
 And he never did. Jerome had the baseness to 
 abandon his wife, and she stooped to accept from Napo¬ 
 leon an income of twelve thousand dollars a year, which 
 was paid to her as long as the hand of that coarse soldier 
 had the wasting of the French peoples’ earnings. She 
 
BETSY PATTERSON. 
 
 223 
 
 came back to Baltimore with her child, one of the most 
 wretched of women. She thought that marrying into 
 this family of Corsican robbers had elevated her in “ rank ” 
 above her wise and virtuous father! She wrote to that 
 father many years after, describing her feelings at this 
 time. 
 
 “ I hated and loathed a residence in Baltimore so muen, 
 that when I thought I was to spend my life there, I tried 
 to screw my courage up to the point of committing 
 suicide. My cowardice, and only my cowardice, prevented 
 my exchanging Baltimore for the grave. After having 
 married a person of the high rank I did, it became 
 impossible for me ever to bend my spirit to marry any 
 one who had been my equal before my marriage, and it 
 became impossible for me ever to be contented in a 
 country where there exists no nobility.” 
 
 She never, to the close of her long life of ninety-four 
 years, ceased to cherish such sentiments. In 1849, she 
 wrote from Baltimore to the celebrated Irish authoress, 
 Lady Morgan, a letter in which she gives an amusing 
 revelation of her interior self. 
 
 “ I consider it,” she wrote, “ a good fortune for myself 
 that you inhabit London. To enjoy again your agreeable 
 society will be my tardy compensation for the long, weary, 
 unintellectual years inflicted on me in this my dull 
 native country, to which I have never owed advantages, 
 pleasures, or happiness. I owe nothing to my country; 
 no one expects me to be grateful for the evil chance of 
 having been born here. I shall emancipate myself, par 
 la grace de Dieu , about the middle of July next; and I 
 will either write to you before I leave New York, or 
 immediately after my arrival at Liverpool. 
 
 “ I had given up all correspondence with my friends in 
 Europe during my vegetation in this Baltimore. What 
 could I write about except the fluctuations in the security 
 
224 
 
 BETSY PATTERSON. 
 
 and consequent prices of American stocks. There is 
 nothing here worth attention or interest save the money 
 market. Society, conversation, friendship, belong to older 
 countries, and are not yet cultivated in any part of the 
 United States which I have visited. You ought to thank 
 your stars for your European birth ; you may believe me 
 when I assure you that it is only distance from republics 
 which lends enchantment to the view of them. I hope 
 that about the middle of next July I shall begin to put 
 the Atlantic between the advantages and honors of 
 democracy and myself. France, je Vespere dans son 
 interet, is in a state of transition, and will not let her 
 brilliant society be put under an extinguisher nommee la 
 Ripublique. 
 
 “ The emperor hurled me back on what I most hated 
 on earth—my Baltimore obscurity; even that shock could 
 not divest me of the admiration I felt for his genius and 
 glory. I have ever been an imperial Bonapartiste quand 
 merne, and I do feel enchanted at the homage paid by 
 six millions of voices to his memory, in voting an imperial 
 president; le prestige du nom has, therefore, elected the 
 prince, who has my best wishes, my most ardent hopes 
 for an empire. I never could endure universal suffrage 
 until it elected the nephew of an emperor for the chief of 
 a republic ; and I shall be charmed with universal suffrage 
 once more if it insists upon their president of France 
 becoming a monarch. I am disinterested personally. It 
 is not my desire ever to return to France. 
 
 “ My dear Lady Morgan, do you know that, having been 
 cheated out of the fortune which I ought to have inherited 
 from my late rich and unjust parent, I have only ten 
 thousand dollars, or two thousand pounds English, which 
 conveniently I can disburse annually. You talk of my 
 '■princely income,’ which convinces me that you are 
 ignorant of th.e paucity of my means. I have all my life 
 
BETSY PATTERSON. 
 
 225 
 
 had poverty to contend with, pecuniary difficulties to 
 torture and mortify me; and but for my industry and 
 energy, and my determination to conquer at least a decent 
 sufficiency to live on in Europe, I might have remained as 
 poor as you saw me in the year 1816.” 
 
 She speaks in this strange letter of having been dis¬ 
 inherited by her father. This was not quite true, although 
 the poor, deluded woman was the plague of her father's 
 declining years. It is but common charity to think that 
 the acuteness of her mortification had impaired in some 
 degree her reason. She spent many years hankering 
 after that false European life, and heaping every kind of 
 contempt upon her native land. She appears to have been 
 incapable of human affection. She abandoned her father 
 and his home, to roam around among the tilled idlers of 
 Europe, at a time when he peculiarly needed her presence 
 and aid. lie wrote to her thus in 1815, soon after the 
 death of his wife : 
 
 “ What wall the world think of a woman w ho had 
 recently followed her mother and last sister to the grave, 
 and quit her father’s house, where duty and necessity call 
 for her attention as the only female of the family left, 
 and thought proper to abandon all to seek for admiration 
 in foreign countries?” 
 
 The old man intimates that lie, too, regarded her as a 
 person not quite sound in mind. He died in 1885, aged 
 eighty-three years, leaving an immense estate, and the 
 longest will ever recorded in Baltimore. He did not dis* 
 inherit his daughter, Betsy ; but left her a few small 
 houses and lots; which, how r ever, greatly increased in 
 value after his death. He explains the smallness of his 
 bequest thus: 
 
 “ The conduct of my daughter Betsy has through life 
 been so disobedient that in 110 instance has she ever con¬ 
 sulted my opinions or feelings; indeed, she has causod 
 
220 
 
 BETSY PATTERSON. 
 
 me more anxiety and trouble than all my other children 
 put together, and her folly aud misconduct have occasioned 
 me a train of expense that first and last has cost n»e 
 much money. Under such circumstances it would not be 
 reasonable, just, or proper that she should inherit and 
 participate in an equal proportion with my other children 
 m an equal division of my estate ; considering, however, 
 the weakness of human nature, and that she is still my 
 daughter, it is my will and pleasure to provide for her as 
 follows, viz.: I give and devise to my said daughter Betsy, 
 first, the house and lot on the east side of South Street, 
 where she was born, and which is now occupied by Mr. 
 Duncan, the shoemaker. Secondly, the houses and lots on 
 the corner of Market Street bridge, now occupied by Mr. 
 Tulley, the chairmaker, and Mr. Priestly, the cabinet¬ 
 maker. Thirdly, the three new adjoining brick houses, 
 and the one on the corner of Market and Frederick 
 Streets. Fourthly, two new brick houses and lots on Gay 
 Street, near Griffith’s bridge ; for and during the term of 
 the natural life of my said daughter Betsy ; and after 
 her death I give, devise and bequeath the same to my 
 grandson, Jerome Napoleon Bonaparte.” 
 
 She survived her father many years, a well-known 
 figure in Baltimore, a brisk old lady with a red umbrella 
 and a black velvet bonnet, with an income of a hundred 
 thousand dollars a year, but living in a boarding-house on 
 two thousand. A lady asked her what religion she pre¬ 
 ferred. She said that if she adopted any religion it 
 would be the Roman Catholic, because “that was a 
 religion of kings—a royal religion.” Her niece said: 
 “You would not give up Presbyterianism?” To which 
 she replied: 
 
 “ The only reason I would not is, that I should not like 
 to give up the stool my ancestors had sat upon.” 
 
 She died in April, 1879, and left a million and a half 
 
BETSY PATTERSON. 
 
 22 7 
 
 of dollars to her two grandsons. Her letters have been 
 published, and they exhibit to us a character unlike that 
 of any other American woman who has been delineated 
 in print. She once said, with equal sincerity and truth, 
 that, in the course of her experience of life, she had 
 found but one friend that was always faithful, namely, 
 her Purse. Such a woman can have no other, and to that 
 friend she was faithful unto death. 
 
SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 W E are often favored with remarks eulogizing trie 
 ladies of the old school at the expense of ladies 
 of the present day. I do not doubt that a vast majority 
 of the ladies whom our ancestors loved were estimable 
 beings; but, then, folly is of no age; it belongs to all 
 times, to every race, and to both sexes. Ladies of the 
 old school! How old ? How far must we go back beforo 
 we come to those admirable and faultless creatures ? 
 
 Shall we say the last century? People who enjoyed 
 the personal acquaintance of ladies who lived a hundred 
 years ago do not appear to have thought so highly of them 
 as some living persons do who know them only by report. 
 Consider one of their habits. What are we to think of 
 their passionate, reckless, universal gambling? Down to 
 1790, gambling was so universal in the higher circles, 
 that we may almost say society and gambling were 
 synonymous terms. There appears to have been high 
 play at every court and mansion every night. It was the 
 regular resource among the idle classes for getting through 
 the evenings. Fox, whom Nature formed to be the 
 foremost Englishman of his time, — Fox, the Prince Hal 
 of politics,—lost two hundred thousand pounds at cards 
 bv the time he was of age; and his father had to pay most 
 of it. The card-table was spoken of sometimes as a 
 school for the acquisition of nerve, fortitude, and good 
 temper, since it was required of every one to bear losses 
 with an appearance of cheerfulness. But human nature 
 22 8 
 
SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 229 
 
 not unfrequently triumphed over the restraints of decorum, 
 as well as over the rules of the game. There were high' 
 born dowagers, with whom it was a costly honor to play. 
 Nor were losses always borne with equanimity. A writer 
 of the last century relates a terrific scene which he wit¬ 
 nessed in a London drawing-room. 
 
 Two elderly ladies were seated at a table, playing for 
 pretty high stakes. Without going near them, it was 
 easy to tell which was losing and which was winning, 
 from the expression of their faces. At length, the gamo 
 suddenly ended in a crushing disaster for one of them. 
 The author describes the sweet and pleasant manner 
 in which the gamester of fifty years’ standing bore her 
 loss. “ Her face,” he says, “ was of a universal crimson: 
 and tears of rage seemed ready to start into her eyes. At 
 that moment, as Satan would have it, her opponent, a 
 dowager whose hair and eyebrows were as white as those 
 of an Albiness, triumphantly and briskly demanded pay¬ 
 ment for the two black aces. 
 
 “ ‘ Two black aces! ’ answered the loser in a voice 
 almost unintelligible by passion. ‘Here,take the money; 
 though, instead, I wish I could give you two black eyes, 
 you old white cat! ’ accompanying the wish with a ges¬ 
 ture that threatened a possibility of its execution. The 
 stately, starched old lady, who, in her eagerness to receive 
 her winnings, had half risen from her chair, sunk back 
 into it as though she had really received the blow. She 
 literally closed her eyes and opened her mouth, and for 
 several moments thus remained fixed by the magnitude 
 of her horror.” 
 
 We hear a good deal about the high-breeding and 
 invincible politeness of the old time. There was more 
 ceremony; there was more deference paid by poor to rich, 
 by employed to employer, by commoner to lord, by citizens 
 to their public servants; but after a wide survey of the 
 
230 
 
 SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 records of the past, and noting hundreds of indications 
 too trifling for mention, I am fully persuaded, that in our 
 hourly intercourse with one another as mere human 
 beings, without regard to rank or caste, we are more 
 polite than our ancestors, — more generally considerate 
 of one another’s feelings, rights, and dignity. 
 
 I was turning over in Scribner’s , some time ago, “ The 
 Correspondence of the first Earl of Malmesbury.” Good 
 heavens! what savages some of the ladies of England 
 appear in those volumes of familiar letters! Think of 
 the ladies in the Pump-Room at Bath getting into a free 
 fight, tearing one another’s hair and clothes, so that the 
 Riot Act was read, and read in vain! We don’t do so at 
 Saratoga. We hear much now-a-days of the girl of the 
 period. There was a Woman’s Club in London composed 
 of ladies of rank, who came and went at all hours of the 
 night, ate, drank (drank deeply too), played for high 
 stakes, talked loud, showed brawny arms, and boasted in 
 loud, coarse voices of their physical prowess. A new 
 dance came up, which these strong-minded and strong- 
 limbed sisters much affected. It was for two couples, who 
 began the dance by a quarrel; next they fought a pair of 
 duels, firing real pistols; then the couples danced a recoil' 
 ciliation figure, which ended in an embrace; and the dance 
 concluded with kisses, well-timed and loud, that went off 
 like the pistols employed in the fight. The dress of these 
 high-born barbarians was as monstrous as their manners. 
 We read of one lady, who, on seeing the Duchess of 
 Devonshire enter a room with two feathers sixteen inches 
 high nodding from the lofty summit of her head-dress, 
 was stricken with jealousy, and thenceforth took no com¬ 
 fort in life until her undertaker gave his promise to 
 send her two taller plumes as soon as one of his hearses 
 came home from a job. 
 
 With regard to decency, as we understand the term, 
 
SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 231 
 
 it did not exist. Consider the anecdote related by Han¬ 
 nah More, bearing upon this point. In her old age, she 
 had a curiosity to read again a novel which had been a 
 favorite in families in her youth, and which she had her¬ 
 self often read at home to the family circle. Upon get¬ 
 ting the book she was utterly amazed and confounded 
 at its indecency: at eighty years, she could not read to 
 herself a work which at sixteen she had read aloud to 
 father, mother, and friends. 
 
 Dr. Franklin’s paper, The Pennsylvania Gazette ., the 
 best paper ever published in the Colonics, and among the 
 most decent, contains fifty things which no newspaper 
 now-a-days, not the most unscrupulous of all, would dare 
 or wish to publish. Among the shorter tales of Voltaire, 
 there are several which he wrote at the request of ladies, 
 to be used by them in liquidation of forfeits incurred in 
 games. These tales were read aloud, by or for the ladies, 
 to the whole circle at the chateau or palace ; oftener palace 
 than chateau, some of them being written for German 
 princesses. Those tales we should consider quite inde¬ 
 cent, all of them. No periodical in Europe or America 
 would publish them. The same author used to lend manu¬ 
 script cantos of his “ Pucelle,” a poem of incredible 
 freedom, to the most distinguished ladies in Europe, who 
 regarded the loan as an homage to their taste and discre¬ 
 tion, and sat up at night making copies for preservation. 
 He read that poem to the Queen of Prussia, mother of 
 Frederick the Great; and one day, upon looking up, ho 
 saw the queen’s daughter listening on the sly. The queen, 
 too, saw her a moment after, and exchanged meaning 
 smiles with Voltaire, but did not send her away ; and the 
 reading went on as before, the flavor of the jests being 
 more keenly relished because shared by virgin ears. 
 
 Women, indeed, were rather fonder of such literature 
 than men, and for an obvious reason. Obscene jests, 
 
232 
 
 SOME LADIE3 OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 indecent tales, and all that constitutes what Miss Wolls- 
 tonecraft styles “ bodily wit,” are the natural resource of 
 ignorant, idle minds ; and, a hundred years ago, the minds 
 of nearly all ladies were ignorant and idle. I assert, 
 without hesitation, that the ordinary intercourse of human 
 beings as human beings is more decent, more dignified, 
 mure kindly and more sincere, than it was. 
 
 For two or three months one summer, I lived at a beach 
 on the coast of Maine, where, in all, during the season, 
 there must have been as many as two thousand persons, 
 of all sorts and conditions, of all religions and nationali¬ 
 ties. I can almost say that there was not a rude or 
 ungracious act done by one of them. Nobody was stuck 
 up; nobody made any parade of wealth, or pretended 
 to any superiority on account of his family or occupation. 
 At the same time proper privacy was not intruded upon. 
 Every one seemed to wish well to others, and the utmost 
 friendliness prevailed at all times. Cards every evening, 
 but no gambling; dancing every evening, but all over at 
 eleven o’clock ; plenty of hilarity, but scarcely any drink¬ 
 ing. All was pleasant, cheerful, elegant, decorous, free. 
 Warm discussions upon politics and religion, but no intol¬ 
 erance or ill temper. I say with the boldness arising 
 from long research, that such a company, gathered for a 
 similar purpose, in a similar place, during the last century, 
 would have been less innocent, less decorous, less polite. 
 There would have been high play, deep drinking, love 
 intrigues, and no meeting of rich and not rich, distin¬ 
 guished and undistinguished, on terms of friendly equality. 
 
 Another fact: In a drawer of the bowling alley, I 
 found one day a Latin dictionary, a Livy, and a Vergil; 
 and I discovered, a few days after, that they belonged to 
 the boy who had charge of the alley. He was preparing 
 for college! When no one was playing, out came his 
 Vergil from the drawer ; and he kept at it till the next 
 
SOM3 LADIES OP THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 233 
 
 customer strolled in. And the best of it was, that no one 
 saw anything extraordinary in this. If became to a pas¬ 
 sage he could not translate, he would bring his book to 
 the piazza, and get assistance from some of the gentlemen 
 there who were learned in the classics of antiquity; all 
 of which seemed quite natural and ordinary. 
 
 Then as to chivalry—the grand politeness, the Sidney 
 style,—supposed by some to be extinct. In our war, 
 many a Sidney served in the ranks; one act of one of 
 whom was this: Twenty men, thirsty and wounded, were 
 waiting on a hot day, after a battle near Chattanooga, their 
 turn to be attended to. One of the gentlemen of the 
 Christian Commission came up at length, bearing the 
 priceless treasure of a pail of water and a tin cup. He 
 handed the first cupful to the soldier who seemed most to 
 need the cooling, cleansing liquid; for he was badly 
 wounded in the mouth, from which blood was oozing. 
 
 “ No,” said this sublime Sidney of the ranks : “ I must 
 drink last; for, you know, I shall make the cup bloody.” 
 
 And there were a thousand men in that army who 
 would have done the same. In this country certainly, and, 
 I think, throughout Christendom, if the spirit of caste 
 still lives in vulgar minds, it is generally recognized as 
 vulgarity ; it hides itself, and is ashamed. 
 
 “ Would you believe it ? ” said Horace Walpole, “ when 
 an artist is patronized now-a-days, he thinks it is he who 
 confers distinction! ” 
 
 The courtly old pensioner evidently thought that this 
 was mere insolence and absurdity. This man, who had 
 lived all his life on the bounty of the English people—on 
 an unearned pension of four thousand pounds a year, pro¬ 
 cured for him by his father, Sir Robert,—had not the 
 slightest doubt of his intrinsic superiority to Sir Joshua 
 Reynolds, Dr. Johnson, Fanny Burney, Garrick,or Handel! 
 Nor had any other man of his erder in Europe. Some 
 
234 
 
 SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 one was congratulating the great French actor, Leakin, 
 upon the glory and the money which he had gained dur¬ 
 ing a prosperous season. 
 
 “ As to money,” said he, “ we do not get as much as 
 people think. My income, at the most, is only ten 01 
 twelve thousand francs a year.” 
 
 “ What! ” cried a young nobleman, “ a vile actor not 
 content with twelve thousand francs a year; while I who 
 am in the king’s service, who sleep upon a cannon, and 
 shed my blood for my country,—I am only too happy to 
 get a thousand francs ! ” 
 
 The actor, inwardly boiling with fury, quietly said : 
 
 “ Do you count it for nothing that you dare to speak to 
 to me in that manner ? ” 
 
 Paris, it is said, marveled at the audacity of the vet¬ 
 eran actor, not at all at the insolence of the boy lieutenant. 
 All that, let us hope, is over forever,, We may boast, 
 too, that an approach has been made to a substantial 
 equality of human conditions and opportunities. Bishop 
 Kip tells us, in a very agreeable article, how tranquil, 
 dignified, and captivating New York society was in the 
 olden time. Very well. But he gives us to understand 
 in the same article, that to maintain one of those refined, 
 dignified families, required an estate ten or fifteen miles 
 square; and there were only about fifty of them in the 
 whole vast Province of New York. We are also reminded, 
 now and then, of the first families of Virginia, and the 
 grand life they lived ; but it took a plantation of five 
 thousand acres, five hundred slaves, and fifty house ser 
 vants, to keep up one establishment. We must learn to 
 live beautifully at a much cheaper rate than that; and I 
 feel assured that we are learning it. 
 
 I went over a clock-factory, in Connecticut, some time 
 ago—a spacious and handsome edifice, filled with intelli¬ 
 gent, polite men and women doing clean, inviting work; 
 
SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 235 
 
 the water-wheel performing all that was hard and labori¬ 
 ous. The only important difference I could discover 
 between the proprietor and the workmen was, that the 
 men came to work every morning at seven, and Hie owner 
 at half-past six. All of them, in fact, came an hour too 
 soon and stayed an hour too late. The workmen lived in 
 pretty cottages—their own, if they choose to buy,—with 
 good, large gardens around them. Their children went 
 to the same school—common school and high school—as 
 his children, and had access to the same library and 
 lyceum. All lived in the same sweet, umbrageous village, 
 and looked out upon the same circle of wood-crowncd 
 mountains ; nor did there appear to be in the place a mind 
 small enough to hold the barbaric idea, that one man 
 couid be higher than another because he has more money, 
 or earns his livelihood by a different kind of work. 
 
 Mr. Emerson, in speaking of an improvident marriage, 
 says: “ Millenium has come and no groceries.” I said 
 to myself, as I strolled about this village, “Here is a fore¬ 
 taste of millenium, and groceries in abundance. Here 
 are ladies and gentlemen, not of the old school, who are 
 living the polite and intelligent life upon eight and twelve 
 dollars a week.” 
 
 Ladies of the present day themselves lament that they 
 should be so little able to resist the tyranny of fashion. 
 Ladies of the old school were more submissive to fashion 
 than they, without lamenting it. Let me say that, of all 
 tyrannies, the most ancient and the most universal is that 
 of fashion. It began with the beginning of civilization, 
 and it is precisely in the most civilized nations that its 
 control extends to the greatest variety of details. Phi¬ 
 losophers laugh at it; but show me, if you can, a phi¬ 
 losopher who is philosopher enough to wear in broad day¬ 
 light his grandfather’s Sunday hat! Is it not a good 
 hat ? It is an excellent hat. The soft and silken fur of 
 
236 SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 the beaver covers it; it is lined with the finest leather; 
 it glistens in the sun with a resplendent gloss; it is no 
 uglier in form than the stove-pipe of to-day; it has all 
 the properties of a good covering for the head. The 
 original proprietor wore it with pride, and cherished it 
 with care in a dust-tight bandbox, in which it has reposed 
 unharmed for fifty years. What is the matter with this 
 superior liat, that a man capable of marching up to the 
 cannon’s mouth shrinks with dismay from wearing it a 
 mile on a fine afternoon in the street of his native city ? 
 
 The hat is simply out of fashion; nothing more. The 
 present owner knows that, if he were to wear it, his 
 friends would take him fora madman, his creditors would 
 fear for his solvency, and the bovs would set him down as 
 a quack doctor. So rooted, so unconquerable in this 
 tyranny, which many of us deride, and all of us obey ! 
 
 I said it is the oldest of our tyrants. In Egyptian 
 tombs, which were ancient when Antony wooed Cleopatra, 
 there have been found many evidences that Egyptian 
 ladies were as assiduous devotees of fashion as the fondest 
 inspector of fashion-plates can now be. In the British 
 Museum you may inspect the implements of Egyptian 
 fashion conveniently displayed. There are neat little 
 bottles made to hold the coloring matter used by the 
 ladies of Egypt for painting their cheeks and eyebrows. 
 Some of these vessels have four or five cells or compart¬ 
 ments, each of which contained liquid of a different 
 shade for different portions of the face. These were 
 applied with a kind of long pin or bodkin, several of 
 which have been brought to this country. 
 
 Professor W. IT. Flower, a distinguished member of 
 che Royal Society of London, has recently published a 
 a little book called “ Fashion in Deformity,” in which he 
 mentions several ways in which ladies torment, as well 
 as deform themselves, in obedience to the tyranny of 
 
SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 237 
 
 fashion. He passes over Egypt; perhaps because of the 
 superabundance of material illustrating his subject which 
 the Egyptian collections present to view. If he had con¬ 
 fined his work to such a testimony as the Egyptian tombs 
 have yielded, he could have made a volume ten times the 
 size of the modest discourse with which he has been so 
 good as to favor us. One of the absurd Egyptian lashions 
 appears to have been of some service. Herodotus tells 
 us that, when he was on his travels, he once walked over 
 a battle-field where the Egyptians and the Persians had 
 fought some years before. 
 
 “ I observed,” he says, “ that the skulls of the Persians 
 were so soft that you could perforate them with a small 
 pebble, while those of the Egyptians were so strong that 
 with difficulty you could break them with a large stone.” 
 
 Upon inquiring into the cause of this, he was informed 
 that it was owing to the different head fashions of Egypt 
 and Persia. In Egypt it was the fashion for mothers to 
 shave the heads even of young children, leaving only a 
 lock or two in front, behind, and one on each side; and 
 while thus shorn they were allowed to go out into the sun 
 without hats. The Persians, on the contrary, wore their 
 hair long, and protected themselves from the sun by soft 
 caps. We learn also from this passage in Herodotus, 
 that it was not the fashion in his time to bury the dead 
 after a battle. 
 
 All the ancient civilized races took great liberties with 
 their hair, as well as with the hair of other people. 
 Persons of rank in Egypt, after shaving off their own 
 hair, wore wigs to distinguish them from bare-headed 
 peasants. A still more inconvenient fashion of Egyptian 
 dandies was the wearing of false beards upon the chin, 
 composed of plaited hair, and varying in length according 
 to the rank of the wearer. We find that, in all the 
 ancient civilizations, fashion selected similar objects upon 
 
238 
 
 SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 which to exercise its authority. Sir Gardner Wilkinson 
 mentions that there was a fashion in dogs in ancient 
 Egypt, which changed from time to time. Some breeds 
 were fashionable on account of their extreme ugliness, 
 others for their beauty or size. The favorite dog of a 
 popular princess would set the fashion in dogs for a long 
 time, as it does in more modern days. As favorite dogs 
 were frequently mummied, and placed in the tombs of 
 their owners, we are able to trace several changes of 
 fashion in these creatures. 
 
 Professor Flower could have drawn some apt illustra¬ 
 tions from the burdensome head dresses found in ancient 
 tombs. Some of these were not merely burdensome, but 
 hideous, the hair being extended in such a way as to make 
 the head four or five times larger than nature made it. 
 
 It were well if human beings would be satisfied with 
 self-torment for fashion’s sake. On almost any afternoon 
 you may see in Broadway terriers bred so small that a 
 full grown dog does not weigh much more than a large rat. 
 This custom of changing the natural form and size of 
 animals for fashion’s sake is both ancient and wide¬ 
 spread. The Hottentots twist the horns of their cattle into 
 various fantastic shapes while the horns are young and 
 flexible, and in some parts of Africa the horns of sheep 
 are made to grow in several points by splitting the horn 
 with a knife when it begins to grow. Among ourselves, 
 too, horses taii 3 are still occasionally docked for old 
 fashion’s sake, and Professor Flower remarks that the 
 ancient custom of cropping the ears of horses is not yet 
 extinct in England. 
 
 Among savages the inodes of fashionable deformity are 
 more numerous than with civilized people, though they 
 are less injurious. Some tribes color their nails red or 
 black. Tattooing the skin in an almost universal practice. 
 Some savages blacken their teeth ; others pull the mouth 
 
SOME LADIES OF THE OLD SCHOOL. 
 
 239 
 
 all out of shape with heavy pendents ; others make holes 
 in their ears, and continue to stretch them, until a man 
 can pass his arms through his ears. It is a strange thing 
 that the practice of flattening the head, in use among our 
 Flathead Indians, does not appear to injure the brain. 
 White men who have resided in that tribe report that any 
 mother who should fail to flatten the heads of her children 
 into the fashionable shape, would be thought a very 
 indolent and unkind parent, since it would subject her 
 children to the unsparing ridicule of their playmates. 
 Nor could the girls ever hope for marriage, nor the boys 
 aspire to have any influence in the tribe. 
 
 The two worst fashions in deformity, according to Pro¬ 
 fessor Flower, arc cramping the feet and compressing the 
 body. The sufferings undergone by Chinese girls, in 
 reducing their feet to the fashionable size, are so severe 
 and long continued as to excite our wonder even more 
 than our pity. The learned professor gives a pair of 
 pictures to show what ladies do with themselves when 
 they try to conform to the fashion of half-yard waist. 
 One presents to us the statue of the Venus of Milo in all 
 the majestic amplitude of nature. The other exhibits 
 the Paris waist of May, 1880, a silly, trivial, nipped figure 
 of the fashionable number of inches in circuit, an object 
 of equal horror to the anatomist and to the artist. 
 
 We moderns, however, have one comfort. We have 
 evolved the fashion of not following the fashion. Thus, 
 the lat-e Lord Palmerston never would wear boots which 
 did not give to each of his toes all its natural rights, and 
 so he set the fashion of not wearing the fashionable boot. 
 In every American community there are now to be found 
 ladies of the new school, who, if they follow the fashion 
 at all, follow it at a rational distance, and know how to 
 preserve their health and freedom without singularity. 
 It is no longer difficult to follow the fashion of following 
 
 the fashion,as Chesterfield advised, “ three paces behind.” 
 
 1A 
 
TORU DUTT. 
 
 O NE day in August, 1876, the English poet and critic, 
 Mr. Edmund W. Gossc, was lingering in the office 
 of the London “ Examiner ” mourning over the dullness 
 of the book-trade at that season, and complaining that 
 the publishers sent him no books worth reviewing. 
 While he was still talking upon this subject to his friend, 
 Mr. Minto, the editor of the paper, the postman arrived, 
 bringing a meager little packet, marked with an unfamiliar 
 Indian postmark. Upon being opened it proved to con¬ 
 tain a small pamphlet, entitled, “ A Sheaf Gleaned in 
 French Fields, by Toru Dutt,” which Mr. Minto thrust 
 hastily into the reluctant hands of Mr. Gosse, exclaiming 
 as he did so: “ There, see whether you can’t make some¬ 
 thing out of that.” 
 
 The critic did not expect to make anything of it. It 
 was a thin, shabby,ugly little book, of about two hundred 
 pages, bound in orange color, unattractive in type, and 
 without preface or introduction, its oddly printed title- 
 page merely conveying the information that it was pub¬ 
 lished at Bhowanipore, at the Saptahiksambad Press. 
 He took it, however, and the first thing he found in it 
 was a translation of A Morning Serenade, by Victor 
 Hugo. 
 
 “ What was my surprise and almost rapture,” he says 
 in relating the incident, “ to open at such verse as this: 
 
 “ Still barred thy doors! The far east glows, 
 
 The morning wind blows fresh and free. 
 
 Should not the hour that wakes the rose 
 Awaken also thee ? 
 
 240 
 
/,// 
 
 TORU DUTT AND SISTER. 
 
TORU DUTT. 
 
 243 
 
 “All look for thee, Love, Light, and Song; 
 
 Light in the sky deep red above, 
 
 Song, in the lark of pinions strong, 
 
 And in my heart, true Love. 
 
 “Apart, we miss our nature’s goal, 
 
 Why strive to cheat our destinies? 
 
 Was not my love made for thy soul ? 
 
 Thy beauty for mine eyes ? 
 
 No longer sleep, 
 
 Oh, listen now 1 
 1 wait and weep, 
 
 But where art thou ? ” 
 
 u "When poetry is as good as this,” continues Mr. Gossc, 
 it does not much matter whether Rouveyre prints it upon 
 Whatman paper, or whether it steals to light in blurred 
 type from some press in Bhowaniporc.” 
 
 The volume which thus pleasantly surprised an accom¬ 
 plished reviewer was the work of a young Hindu girl, 
 then only twenty years of age. Toru Dutt was the 
 youngest child of Govin Clnmder Dutt, a retired Indian 
 officer of high caste. She was born in Calcutta on the 
 fourth of March, 1856, and, with the exception of a year’s 
 visit to Bombay, her childhood, and that of her elder sister 
 Aru, was passed at her father’s garden-house in the city 
 of her birth. Her parents, whom she dearly loved, were 
 devout Christians, and brought her up to share their faith. 
 She was well acquainted, however, with all the ancient 
 songs and legends of her own people, and always retained 
 for them a tenderness of which she sometimes speaks 
 half apologetically, while at other times she grows warm 
 in their praise. Often her mother, herself, and Aru,— 
 for both sisters possessed very clear, and well-trained 
 contralto voices—would sing these strange old ballads in 
 the evening, when the sudden descent of the tropic night 
 brought welcome dusk and coolness after the glare and 
 heat of an Indian day. 
 
244 
 
 TORU DUTT. 
 
 The two sisters were devoted companions. Torn, the 
 younger by eighteen months, always unconsciously took 
 the lead both in studies and amusements, although, as 
 their father records, there was no assumption of superi¬ 
 ority on her part. “ It seemed perfectly natural to Aru,” 
 he says, “ to fall into the background in the presence of 
 her sister. The love between them was always perfect.” 
 
 They remained until 1869 in the happy retirement of 
 their home, studying and learning how to perform house¬ 
 hold tasks, none of which they considered too mean for 
 them. Much of their time was spent in the garden, of 
 which no description could be given so clear or so beauti¬ 
 ful as Toru’s own, written a few years later: 
 
 “A sea of foliage girds our garden round, 
 
 But not a sea of dull, unvaried green, 
 
 Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen; 
 
 The light-green, graceful tamarinds abound 
 Amid the mangoe clumps of green profound. 
 
 And palms arise, like pillars gray, between; 
 
 And o’er the quiet pools the sccmuls lean, 
 
 Red,—red, and startling like the trumpet’s sound. 
 
 But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges 
 Of bamboos to the eastward, ■when the moon 
 Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes 
 Into a cup of silver. One might swoon 
 
 Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze 
 On a primeval Eden, in amaze.” 
 
 In November, 1869, the two girls went to Europe, and 
 visited France, Italy, and England. In France they were 
 sent to school for the only time in their lives, spending a 
 few months at a French pension. It must have been 
 chiefly during this period that Toru gained her marvel¬ 
 ous intimacy with the French language. English she 
 «poke and wrote well—even wonderfully well considering 
 her age and nationality—yet an occasional lapse betrays 
 the foreigner. Her French, on the contrary, fluent, grace- 
 
TORU DUTT. 
 
 245 
 
 ful, and idiomatic, seems not the toilfully acquired 
 accompli, anenj of an educated Hindu, but the natural 
 speech of a Parisian lady. A brief sample, taken almost 
 at random, will prove this. It is a description of the 
 hero in her romance called Le Journal de Mademoiselle 
 d’Arvers. 
 
 “ II est beau en effet. Sa taille est haute, mais quel- 
 quesuns la trouveraient mince; sa chevelure noire est 
 boucl^e ct tombe jusqu’a la nuque; ses yeux noirs sont 
 profonds et bien fendus; le front est noble ; la Idvre 
 supdrieure, couvertc par une moustache naissante ct noire, 
 est parfaitement model^e; son menton a quelque chose de 
 severe; son teint est d’un blanc presque f&ninin, ce qui 
 ddnote sa haute naissance.” 
 
 She always loved France. Her first book, as we see, 
 was a volume of translations from the French; her one 
 long prose work was composed in French; the first 
 article she ever published was a critical esssay upon a 
 French author; and two of her most stirring English 
 poems treat of French subjects—one, an ode written in 
 1870 during the dark days of the Franeo-Prussian War, 
 the second, lines inscribed on the fly-leaf of Erckmann- 
 Chatrian’s novel Madame Thdrese. The latter concludes 
 thus: 
 
 I read the story, and my heart beats fast I 
 Well might all Europe quail before thee, France, 
 
 Battling against oppression! Years have passed, 
 
 Yet of that time men speak with moistened glance. 
 Ya-nu-pieds! When rose high your Marseillaise 
 Mar. knew his rights to earth’s remotest bound 
 And tyrants trembled. Yours alone the praise! 
 
 Ah, had a Washington but then been found! 
 
 On leaving France the sisters went to England, where 
 they attended the lectures for women at Cambridge, and 
 in 1873 they returned to their beloved home in Calcutta, 
 
246 
 
 TORU DUTT. 
 
 where tlie four remaining years of Toru’s life were passed. 
 A photograph taken before their departure shows both 
 girls to have been pleasing and refined in appearance: 
 while Toru’s rather round face with its bronze skin, 
 brilliant eyes, and shading mass of loose hair, might be 
 termed pretty, did we not prefer to call it expressive, 
 since its alertness and intelligence possess a stronger 
 charm than its beauty. 
 
 Toru’s career as an author dated from her return to 
 India. Equipped already with a stock of knowledge 
 which, as Mr. Gosse well says, “ would have sufficed to 
 make an English or French girl seem learned, but which 
 in her case was simply miraculous,” she could not rest 
 content with these acquirements, but devoted herself 
 zealously to the study of Sanskrit, under her father’s 
 tuition; a pursuit which she continued until, in con¬ 
 sideration of her failing health, he required her to give it 
 up. Her first publication, which appeared in the Bengal 
 Magazine when she was but eighteen years of age, was 
 an essay upon the French poet Leconte de Lisle, with 
 whose somewhat austere compositions she had much 
 sympathy. This was soon followed by another upon 
 Josdpliin Soulary, both being illustrated by translations 
 into English verse. 
 
 In July, 1874, her sister Aru died at the age of twenty, 
 and in her Torn lost a faithful helper and friend. It had 
 been their cherished project to publish an anonymous 
 novel which Toru was to writ 3 and Aru, who possessed a 
 striking talent for design, was to illustrate. Toru began 
 the novel—Le Journal do Mademoiselle d’Arvers—before 
 leaving Europe, but Aru died without having seen a page 
 of it, and Toru herself was in her grave when the com¬ 
 pleted manuscript was found among her papers by her 
 father and given to the public. 
 
 The “ Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields ” appeared, as 
 
TORU DUTT. 
 
 247 
 
 we have stated, in 187G. This wonderful book of trans- 
 lations, made by a young girl in India, from one foreign 
 language into another, found but two reviewers in all 
 Europe. One of these was the French poet and novelist, 
 Andrd Theuriet, who was himself represented in its pages 
 by one of her most successful translations, and who gave 
 it just and discriminating praise in the Revue de Deux 
 Mondes. The other was the gentleman who had so 
 unwillingly received it in the office of the London 
 Examiner. Mr. Gosse, in the memoir with which he 
 afterwards prefaced one of Toru’s works, claims with 
 sympathetic pride that he was “ a little earlier still in 
 sounding the only note of welcome which reached the 
 dying poetess from England.” 
 
 The dying poetess ! Toru, never strong, and exhausted 
 by the continuous strain of her literary labors, was soon 
 to follow the sister whom she so deeply mourned. Her 
 letters to her friend, Mile. Clarisse Bader, show us very 
 clearly the beginning of the end. Mile. Bader was the 
 author of a French work entitled, “ Woman in Ancient 
 India,” which Toru desired to translate into English. 
 Before doing so, however, she wrote to ask permission of 
 the author. She received a most kind and gracious reply. 
 
 “ Dear Mademoiselle,” wrote Mile. Bader, “ What! It 
 is a descendant of my dear Indian heroines who desires 
 to translate the work I have devoted to the ancient Aryan 
 women of the Peninsula of the Ganges! Such a wish, 
 emanating from such a source, touches me too deeply for 
 me not to listen to it. Translate, then, Woman in Ancient 
 India, Mademoiselle; I authorize you with all my heart 
 to do so; and with all my most sympathetic desires I 
 invoke the success of your enterprise. . . . When 
 
 you have published in India your translation of Woman 
 in Ancient India, I should be very grateful if you would 
 kindly send two copies of vour version. I should also be 
 
248 
 
 TORY DUTT. 
 
 very happy to receive your photograph if you still possess 
 one.” 
 
 Toru’s reply, dated Calcutta, March 18, 1877, is as 
 follows: 
 
 “ Dear Mademoiselle, I thank you very sincerely for 
 your kind authorization to translate ‘ Woman in Ancient 
 India’ and also for your kind and sympathetic letter, 
 which has given me the keenest pleasure. 
 
 “ I deeply lament not to have been able to begin the 
 translation yet, but my constitution is not very strong; 
 more than two years ago I contracted an obstinate cough 
 which never leaves me. Nevertheless, I hope soon to set 
 to work. 
 
 “ I cannot express, Mademoiselle, how much your 
 affection for my country and my countrywomen touches 
 me, for both your letter and your book sufficiently testify 
 that you do love them; and I am proud to be able to say 
 that the heroines of our great epics are worthy of all 
 honor and all love. Is there any heroine more touching, 
 more loveable, than Sita ? I do not believe there is. 
 When, in the evening, I hear my mother sing the old 
 songs of our country I almost always shed tears. Sita’s 
 lament when, banished for the second time, she wanders 
 alone in the vast forest with terror and despair in her 
 soul, is so pathetic that I think there is no one who could 
 hear it without crying. I enclose for you two little trans¬ 
 lations from that beautiful old language, the Sanskrit. 
 Unfortunately, I was obliged to cease my translations 
 from the Sanskrit six months ago. My health does not 
 permit me to continue them. I send you also my portrait 
 and that of my sister. In the photograph she is repre¬ 
 sented as seated. She was so sweet and so good! The 
 photograph dates from four years ago, when I was 
 seventeen and she scarcely nineteen. I too, Mademoiselle, 
 shall be grateful, if you will kindly send me your photo¬ 
 graph. I will keep it as one of my greatest treasures. 
 
TOrtU DUTT. 
 
 249 
 
 “I must pause here; I will not further intrude upon 
 your time. Like M. Lefevre-Dcumier, I must say: 
 
 “Farewell then, dear friend whom I have not known,” 
 
 “For, Mademoiselle, I count you among my friends and 
 among my best friends, although I have not seen you. 
 
 “ Believe, Mademoiselle, the renewed assurance of my 
 friendship, Toru Dutt.” 
 
 From a postscript we learn that she had expected to 
 visit Europe for her health, and she expresses her hope 
 of soon meeting her unknown friend. In April, however, 
 she writes again, saying that she had been very ill for a 
 fortnight, and that this plan had been abandoned. She 
 asked Mile. Bader to write to her at her old address — 
 “your letter and your portrait will do me good.” It is 
 pleasant to think how she must have enjoyed the cheering 
 and appreciative letter which she received in reply. It 
 enclosed the portrait, too, although Mile. Bader declares 
 that her photographs were always each uglier than the 
 last, and that it was a great piece of self-sacrifice for her 
 to send one to anybody who had never seen her. 
 
 Toru answers briefly but warmly, thanking her friend 
 for her kindness and excusing herself from writing more 
 at length on the ground that she has been suffering four 
 months from fever, and is still too weak to go from her 
 own room to the next without feeling extreme fatigue. 
 One more letter from Mile. Bader, even more cordial and 
 affectionate than the last, closes the correspondence. It 
 is full of sympathy and encouragement. She exclaims 
 with surprise that Toru, in her photograph apparently 
 the picture of health, should have been so ill. 
 
 “ But now,” she adds, “ you have wholly recovered, 
 have you not? And, at the time of the Exposition, you 
 will come to our sweet land of France, whose mild breezes 
 will do you good—you, who have suffered from your 
 
250 
 
 TORU DUTT. 
 
 burning climate. Friendly hearts await you with joyous 
 hope. My parents and myself love you much—without 
 having ever seen you, but your letters and your works 
 have revealed to us the goodness of your heart, the candor 
 of your soul. Come, then, my amiable friend, to seal 
 with your presence an affection which is already yours.” 
 
 The two friends never met; the letter was never 
 answered, never received. It was dated September 11, 
 1877. Toru Dutt died August 30th of the same year, 
 aged twenty-one years, six months, and twenty-six days. 
 She had breathed her last before the letter was even 
 written. Her last words were, “ It is only the physical 
 pain that makes me cry.” 
 
 She died almost unknown to fame. A few men in France 
 and England who had made the Orient a special study, 
 had noted her works and praised them as the achievement 
 of a Hindu genius; a still smaller number had read them 
 and loved them for their poetry alone. But, from the day 
 of her death her reputation grew, and a second edition of 
 the “ Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields” was soon prepared, 
 with a brief preface by her father. This book was, it 
 must be remembered, the only one of hers published in 
 her lifetime; upon this alone it was at first thought that 
 her fame must rest. Even had this been the case, her 
 place in literature should have been secure. The trans¬ 
 lations vary; some are almost flawless gems of English, 
 such as the “Serenade” already given, or this version of 
 a poem by Evariste de Parny, on the “Death of a Young 
 Girl”: 
 
 “Though childhood’s days were past and gone 
 More innocent no child could be; 
 
 Though grace in every feature shone, 
 
 Her maiden heart was fancy free. 
 
 “A few more months, or haply days 
 
 And Love would blossom —so we thought 
 As lifts in April’s genial rays 
 
 The rose its clusters richly wrought. 
 
TORU DUTT. 
 
 251 
 
 “But God had destined otherwise, 
 
 And so she gently fell asleep, 
 
 A creature of the starry skies 
 Too lovely for the earth to keep. 
 
 “She died in earliest womanhood; 
 
 Thus dies, and leaves behind no trace, 
 
 A bird’s song in a leafy wood — 
 
 Thus melts a sweet smile from a face.” 
 
 At other times she is not so fortunate. Sometimes a 
 | oem intended to be picturesque or impressive is given a 
 lf-ally comical turn by the introduction of some unex¬ 
 pected little colloquial phrase, used by Toru -with perfect 
 good faith as to its suitability. Take, for example, her 
 translation of Victor Hugo’s magnificent piece upon the 
 ‘‘Forts of Paris” in»which the mood of the English reader 
 is undesirably affected by the statement that 
 
 “At a respectful distance keep the forts, 
 
 A multitude, a populace, of monstrous guns, 
 
 That in the far„horizon wolf-like prowl.” 
 
 The word “cannon-wagon,” too, docs not lend itself 
 gracefully to blank verse. 
 
 “ The sinister cannon-wagons darkly grouped ” 
 
 were doubtless awe-inspiring objects, but the effect upon 
 the reader is not wholly the one intended. Yet in the 
 same piece occur these finely resonant lines descriptive 
 of cannon: 
 
 ‘ ‘ Far stretching out 
 Their neckt. I ' bronze around the wall immense, 
 
 They rest awake while peacefully we sleep, 
 
 And in their hoarse lungs latent thunders growl 
 Low premoVtions. ” 
 
 The notes appended to the book are almost as interest¬ 
 ing, in their curious display of unlooked-for knowledge and 
 equally unlooked-for ignorance, as the work itself. It is 
 plain that she is acquainted with our American authors. 
 
252 
 
 TORU DUTT 
 
 In a note upon Charles Noclier she remarks that his 
 prose stories are charming and remind her of Washington 
 Irving. In another upon .Baudelaire, she detects in one 
 of his poems a plagiarism from Longfellow — a literal 
 translation of a verse from the “Psalm of Life.” 
 
 Fortunately for the reading public, however, we have 
 other standards by which to judge of Toru’s talent. After 
 her death her father found among her papers the com¬ 
 plete French romance of “Mademoiselle d’Arvers,” which 
 was soon published under the editorial care of Mile. 
 Bader, and a sufficient number of English poems to form 
 the little volume lately issued under the title of “Ancient 
 Songs and Ballads of Hindustan,” and prefaced by Mr. 
 Gosse with a memoir of the author. 
 
 “ Lc Journal de 3Iademoiselle d'Arvcrs ” is a novel of 
 modern French society, treating of the love of two broth¬ 
 ers for the same beautiful and noble girl. It is tragic, the 
 unhappy passion leading finally to fratricide and madness. 
 Yet, in dealing with these difficult matters, Toru never 
 becomes melodramatic or ridiculous, and often displays 
 true power, though she is not seldom unreal and fantas¬ 
 tic. Of more interest to American readers is the collec¬ 
 tion of her English poems — her chief claim to distinction. 
 These, too, vary greatly. She had not yet completely 
 conquered the language in which she wrote; we are still 
 surprised by occasional prosaic expressions in the midst 
 of poetry, and the strange legends which she relates are 
 often rendered stranger to our ears by the phrases in 
 which she relates them. But they arc interesting, strik¬ 
 ing, and often beautiful. Under the heading “ Miscel¬ 
 laneous Poems ” there occur at the end of the volume a 
 few pages which having once read we should find it very 
 hard to spare. Through them all breathes the bright and 
 kindly spirit that made their young author so dear to all 
 around lice. 
 
TORU DUTT. 
 
 253 
 
 Geniuses are not always comfortable people to live with; 
 but Toru, although during the four years in which she 
 accomplished the work of her lifetime she was a frail 
 invalid wasting to her death, seems never to have been to 
 those who shared her daily life anything but a blessing, 
 from which they found it the greatest of sorrows to part. 
 
 To some readers, the most touching thing in all her 
 sad, short history is the brief paragraph in which her 
 father, now childless, describes his companionship with 
 her in labor. She had a wonderful memory, and when a 
 dispute arose between them as to the significance of any 
 word or phrase, she was very apt to be in the right. Some¬ 
 times, however, her father was so sure of his position that 
 he would propose laying a wager—usually a rupee— before 
 referring to the lexicon to settle the question. Toru 
 almost always won, but now and then she was mistaken. 
 
 “ It was curious and very pleasant for me,” says her 
 father, “ to watch her when she lost. First a bright smile; 
 then thin fingers patting my grizzled cheek ; then perhaps 
 some quotation from Mrs. Barrett Browning, her favorite 
 poetess, like this: 
 
 ‘Ah, my gossip, you are older and more learned, and a man 1 * 
 
 or some similar pleasantry.” 
 
 The story of her life can not be better closed than by 
 quoting here the beautiful last poem of her last book, in 
 which her loving and observant spirit finds, perhaps, its 
 highest expression. In it she sings once more of that 
 dear garden home where she and Aru spent their child¬ 
 hood together, and to which both returned to die. It is 
 called “ Our Casuarina Tree.” 
 
 Like a huge Python, winding round and round 
 The rugged trunk, indented deep with scans, 
 
 Up to its very summit near the stars, 
 
 A creeper climbs, in whose embraces bound 
 
254 
 
 TORU DUTT. 
 
 No other tree could live, but gallantly 
 The giant wears the scarf, and flowers are hung 
 In crimson clusters all the boughs among, 
 
 Whereon all day are gathered bird and bee; 
 
 And oft at night the garden overflows 
 
 With one sweet song that seems to have no close 
 
 Sung darkling from our tree while men repose. 
 
 When first my casement is wide open thrown 
 At dawn, my eyes delighted on it rest; 
 
 Sometimes, and most in winter, on its crest 
 A grey baboon sits statue-like alone 
 Watching the sunrise; while on lower boughs 
 His puny offspring leap about and play; 
 
 And far and near ko-kilas hail the day; 
 
 And to their pastures wend our sleepy cows; 
 
 And in the shadow, on the broad tank cast 
 By that hoar tree, so beautiful and vast., 
 
 The water-lilies spring, like snow enmassed. 
 
 But not because of its magnificence 
 Dear is the Casuarina to my soul: 
 
 Beneath it we have played; though years may roll 
 O sweet companions, loved with love intense, 
 
 For your sakes, shall the tree be ever dear? 
 
 Blent with your images, it shall arise 
 In memory, till the hot tears blind mine eyes! 
 
 What is that dirge-like murmur that I hear 
 Like fhe sea breaking on a shingle-beach? 
 
 It is the tree’s lament, an eerie speech 
 That haply to the unknown land may reach. 
 
 Unknown, yet well-known to the eye of faith! 
 
 Ah, I have heard that wail far, far, away 
 In distant lands, by many a sheltered bay, 
 
 When slumbered in his cave the water-wraith 
 And the waves gently kissed the classic shore 
 Of France or Italy, beneath the moon, 
 
 When earth lay tranced in a dreamless swoon: 
 
 And every time the music rose—before 
 Mine inner vision rose a form sublime, 
 
 Thy form, O Tree, as in my happy prime 
 I saw thee, in my own loved native clime. 
 
TORU DUTT. 
 
 255 
 
 Therefore I fain would consecrate a lay 
 Unto thy honor, Tree, beloved of those 
 Who now in blessed sleep for aye repose, 
 
 Dearer than life to me, alas! were they! 
 
 Mayst thou be numbered when my days are done 
 With deathless trees, like those in Borrowdale, 
 Under whose awful branches lingered pale 
 
 “Fear, trembling Hope, and Death the skeleton, 
 And Time the shadow;” and though weak the verse 
 That would thy beauty fain, oh fain rehearse, 
 
 May Love defend thee from Oblivion’s curse. 
 
GEORGE SARD. 
 
 EORGE SAND is a name which the English-speak- 
 
 VJT ing world still pronounces with something less than 
 respect. She was not of our race, nor of our manners, 
 and her immediate ancestors were extreme types of every¬ 
 thing in human character most remote from ourselves 
 and our sense of the right and becoming. 
 
 To begin with, she was the great-granddaughter of that 
 brilliant, dissolute Maurice de Saxe, Marshal of France, 
 who in 1745 won for Louis XV and in his presence the 
 battle of Fontenoy. Her great-grandmother, a scarcely 
 less remarkable personage, was Aurora, the beautiful 
 Countess von Koenigsmark. Her grandmother, the child 
 of this famous, disorderly pair, a lady deeply imbued 
 with aristocratic feeling, was proud of her illustrious, 
 irregular descent, and preserved in her demeanor the 
 formality of a past period. In her youth she experienced 
 strange vicissitudes. Withdrawn at an early age from a 
 convent in order to marry Count de Horn, of whom she 
 knew nothing, she was left a widow while fetes were in 
 progress in honor of the nowly married couple. She lived 
 for some time upon a modest pension allowed her by the 
 Dauphiness; then, that Princess dying, she was left des¬ 
 titute. It was a fashion then in Europe for persons who 
 had no other resource to apply for aid to Voltaire, and 
 to him the young Countess appealed. Madame Sand 
 always preserved among her treasures her grandmother’s 
 letter to the chief of the “ philosophers,” and his reply. 
 
 256 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 

GEORGE SAND. 
 
 259 
 
 “It is to the singer of Fontenoy that the daughter of 
 Marshal de Saxe addresses herself in order to obtain 
 bread,” wrote the Countess. . . I have thought that 
 he who has immortalized the victories of the father would 
 be interested in the misfortunes of the daughter. To him 
 it belongs to adopt the children of heroes, and to be my 
 support, as he is that of the daughter of the great Cor¬ 
 neille.” 
 
 “ Madame,” the aged poet replied, “ I shall go very 
 soon to rejoin the hero your father, and I shall inform 
 him with indignation of the condition in which his 
 daughter now is.” He then advised her to appeal to 
 his particular friend, the Duchess de Choiseul, wife of the 
 prime minister, “whose soul is just, noble, and benefi¬ 
 cent.” 
 
 “ Doubtless,” he concluded, “ you did me too much 
 honor when you thought a sick old man, persecuted and 
 withdrawn from the world, could be so happy as to serve 
 the daughter of Marshal de Saxe. But you have done 
 me justice in not doubting the lively interest I take in the 
 daughter of so great a man.” 
 
 This letter, which she hastened to show to the Duchess 
 de Choiseul, procured her the relief of which she stood in 
 need, and shortly afterward she married again. Her 
 second husband, M. Dupin,died after ten years of wedded 
 life, leaving in his widow the care of their only child, 
 Maurice. Madame Dupin, with what the Revolution had 
 left to her of her husband’s property, then purchased the 
 country estate of Nohant, in Berri, since made famous 
 through the genius of George Sand, and went there to 
 live with her son. He, when twenty-six years of age, 
 contracted a secret marriage with Sophie Victorie Dela- 
 borde, a Swiss milliner, the daughter of a dealer in song 
 birds. 
 
 Mademoiselle Delaborde, four years older than Maurice 
 16 J 
 
26 o 
 
 GEORCE SAND. 
 
 Dupin, without property, and a somewhat disreputable 
 person, was not cordially welcomed into the family by 
 Madame Dupin. It was natural that she should look 
 upon the marriage as a calamity. Nevertheless, she had 
 the good sense to conceal her feelings, and to forgive an 
 error which was plainly irrevocable, and, although she 
 always heartily disliked her daughter-in-law, she was 
 obliged soon to acknowledge that she was a most efficient 
 and devoted wife, who kept her husband very happy. 
 
 July 5, 1804, the last year of the Republic and the first 
 of the Empire, a daughter was born to this oddly-assorted 
 couple, who bestowed upon her the name of Amantine- 
 Lucile-Aurore. The infancy of this child was passed in 
 Paris with her mother, her father residing with them 
 whenever his military duties did not require his presence 
 elsewhere. Captain Dupin, however, as aide-de-camp to 
 Prince Murat, Avas so much away from home that in 1808 
 his wife, unable to bear a longer separation, went to join 
 him in Madrid. Little Aurore, four years of age, accom¬ 
 panied her, and was presented to Murat attired for the occa¬ 
 sion in .a miniature copy of her father’s uniform, includ¬ 
 ing spurs, high boots, and tiny sword. The Prince was 
 pleased with the jest, and took a fancy to his little aide- 
 de-camp ', as he called her. 
 
 Captain Dupin, shortly after his return to France, was 
 killed by a fall from his horse. This sad event doomed 
 his little daughter to live for many years in an atmos¬ 
 phere of discord, the object of continual contention 
 between her plebeian mother and her patrician grand¬ 
 mother, each of whom claimed her duty and affection. 
 Obedience she rendered to both when their commands, 
 too frequently contradictory, permitted; but her heart 
 was her mother’s. Within the walls of the chateau sho 
 passed unhappy hours, for the domestic warfare was to 
 her a constant source of misery; but, once out of doors 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 26l 
 
 playing with her village companions, exploring every nook 
 and corner of the lields and woods, and listening half 
 crcduously to the legends and fairy tales of the neighbor¬ 
 hood, her vivid imagination and her admirable health 
 made her one of the gayest and happiest of children. 
 After a time, too, a separation was gradually effected 
 between her mother and herself, and this, although griev¬ 
 ous in itself, rendered her life more peaceful. Madame 
 Maurice Dupin, who was poor, in consideration of the 
 benefits such an arrangement would confer upon the child, 
 consented to leave her in the care of her grandmother, 
 and herself removed permanently to Paris. Aurore 
 slowly learned to love the old lady whose formal manners 
 long repelled and chilled her. For years it was her 
 dearest hope to effect a reconciliation, and she resented 
 with more than childish indignation the scornful remarks 
 of the servants, who used to taunt her with wishing to 
 go to her mother and cat beans in a garret, rather than 
 stay at the chateau and learn to be a lady. 
 
 Her education was varied and peculiar. While on the 
 one hand her grandmother and her grandmother’s friends 
 tried their best to teach her the elaborate accomplish¬ 
 ments and submissive demeanor which they considered 
 desirable in a young girl, on the other she was dabbling 
 in Latin, history, literature, and classic mythology, play¬ 
 ing practical jokes upon her tutor, and inventing new 
 games and dances for herself and the village children. 
 Of religious instruction she had none. In the course of 
 time she invented for herself a Being half hero, half 
 deity, whom she named Corambd, a Greek god possessed 
 of the Christian vii’tues, to whom she erected sliriius in 
 the woods, before which, as an acceptable sacrifice, she 
 would lay flowers and set free the birds and butterflies 
 that she had taken captive. 
 
 When she was thirteen, all this came to an end. She 
 
262 
 
 GEOKCE SAXD. 
 
 was sent to the English convent of Augustine nuns in 
 Paris. The pupils in this convent were divided into two 
 bands—the diables or mischievous girls, and the sages or 
 good girls. Aurore was promptly enrolled among the 
 diables , and so distinguished herself by pranks of many 
 kinds, and especially by her earnestness in an enterprise 
 called mysteriously “the Deliverance of the Victim'’'' (the 
 search, partly serious and partly frolicsome, for an erring 
 nun supposed to be imprisoned somewhere within the 
 building), that she soon earned the appellation of Madcap 
 from her admiring friends. But, in the second year of 
 her stay, this heroic undertaking suddenly lost its charm. 
 She was converted, became a devoted Catholic, and 
 desired fervently to become a nun. By her companions 
 she was now renamed, Saint Aurore. 
 
 The sisters were teo wise to encourage her excessive 
 devotion, and her confessor, disapproving sudden asceti¬ 
 cism, ordered her as a penance to continue the games and 
 amusements from which she wished to withdraw. Her 
 taste for them quickly returned, and she became again a 
 leader among her companions, although scrupulously 
 avoiding anything like mischief or insubordination. Her 
 desire for the cloister was not finally dispelled until a year 
 or two later, when a fever of reading came upon her, and 
 she devoured in turn the pages of Aristotle, Bacon, Locke, 
 Condillac, Bossuet, Pascal Montaigne, Montesquieu, 
 Leibnitz, and others. 
 
 “ Reading Leibnitz,” she afterward remarked, “ I 
 became a Protestant without knowing it.” 
 
 A little later she found in Jean Jacques Rousseau a 
 writer whose poetic treatment of religious subjects 
 impressed her still more strongly. She passed through 
 many phases of religious feeling in her life, but she was 
 enabled to say in later years: 
 
 “As to my religion, the ground of it has never varied. 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 263 
 
 The forms of the past have vanished for me as for my 
 century before the light of study and reflection. But the 
 eternal doctrine of believers, of God and His goodness, 
 the immortal soul and the hopes of another life, this is 
 what, in myself, has been proof against all examination, 
 all discussion, and even intervals of despairing doubt.” 
 
 Aurore Dupin left the convent and returned to Nohant, 
 in 1820, when she was fifteen years of age. At the 
 chateau she now passed the midnight hours in study, and 
 in considering the most diflicult problems of existence; 
 but her days were spent in a very different manner. 
 Within doors she exerted herself to keep on peaceable 
 terms with her grandmother, whose temper had not 
 improved with age, in practicing the harp, in drawing, in 
 studying philosophy and anatomy, and in getting up little 
 comedies to amuse her elders; out-of-doors, attired for 
 greater convenience in a suit of boy’s clothes, with blouse 
 and gaiters, sbe pursued botany or hunted quails witli her 
 eccentric tutor, M. Deschatres. She was a fearless rider, 
 as well as a good shot; both these last accomplishments 
 being due to the instruction of her half-brother Iiippolyte, 
 who had taught her during a brief visit home, while on 
 leave of absence from his regiment. Her daring feats 
 astonished and shocked the neighbors ; but M. Deschatres, 
 who cared for nothing but quails and anatomy, did not 
 trouble himself to restrain her, and old Madame Dupin 
 w*as fast falling into her dotage. The young girl was free 
 from restraint. 
 
 A year later the old lady died, leaving all her property 
 to Aurore. She now returned to her mother in Paris, 
 hoping for a happiness which she did not find. Time and 
 absence had loosened the bond between them, and Madame 
 Maurice Dupin was not blessed with an equable disposition. 
 Aurore obeyed her in everything without question, but 
 this excess of submission only exasperated the mother, 
 
264 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 and it was a relief to both when the girl went to visit 
 some friends at their country house near Melun. Here 
 she met M. Casimir Dudevant, a young man of twenty- 
 seven, who was pleased with her from the first. In a 
 short time he offered her his hand, and she accepted him. 
 
 She was then a beautiful girl of eighteen. Her hair, 
 dark and curly, fell in profusion upon her shoulders ; her 
 features were good, her complexion of a pale, clear olive 
 tint, her eyes dark, soft, and full of expression. If her 
 figure was somewhat too short, she possessed small and 
 beautifully shaped hands and feet. Her manners were 
 simple, her voice gentle and low. With strangers and 
 acquaintances she was reserved, and did not shine in con¬ 
 versation ; but among friends she was animated, frank, 
 and charming. It is little wonder that M. Dudevant was 
 attracted by her, but it is somewhat surprising that he 
 was not in love with her. The marriage was admitted by 
 both to be one founded upon friendship only. Doubtless 
 it was by Aurore regarded as an escape from her difficult 
 relations with her mother. It proved a sad mistake. 
 
 The young couple, fatally ignorant of each other’s 
 character, proved to have few tastes in common; their 
 dispositions were wholly uncongenial; and, to make 
 matters worse, M. Dudevant after a time fell into habits 
 of dissipation. For the sake of her two children, Maurice 
 and Solange, Madame Dudevant made no attempt to 
 release herself, until at the end of eight years, she 
 found that the situation had become intolerable. She 
 was totally indifferent to her husband, and he regarded 
 her with feelings of positive dislike. 
 
 She then made a curious proposition to him. For some 
 time she had been conscious of her literary talent, and 
 she now proposed to her husband that he should permit 
 her to spend every alternate three months in Paris, there 
 to trv her fortune with her pen. Her youngest child, the 
 
r.EORGE SAND. 
 
 265 
 
 little Solangc, was to join her as soon as she was com¬ 
 fortably established ; her son, whom she did not wish to 
 remove from his excellent tutor, if indeed his father 
 would have let him go, was to remain at Nohant, where 
 she would herself reside during six months of the year. 
 
 She was to be allowed six hundred dollars per annum 
 from her own fortune, on condition that she never 
 exceeded that sum, and the rest of her property was to 
 remain in the hands of M. Dudevant. To this singular 
 compromise he at once assented, and she set out for tho 
 capital in 1831. 
 
 She carried introductions to one or two literary people, 
 but they gave her small encouragement. A novelist to 
 whom she first applied told her that women ought not to 
 write at all. Another tried to cheer her with the informa¬ 
 tion that if she persevered she might some day make as 
 much as three hundred dollars a year by writing, although 
 he condemned as valueless such specimens as she showed 
 him of her fiction. He took her, however, upon the staff 
 of Figaro , of which paper he was the editor, and paid her 
 for her labor at the rate of seven francs ($1.35) a column. 
 Her talents were not suited to journalism; but she worked 
 hard and faithfully for Figaro. In those days she was 
 excluded by her sex from places to which, in her profes¬ 
 sion, it was desirable she should have access. She there¬ 
 fore assumed once more the masculine disguise to which 
 she had become accustomed in her girlhood, and was 
 enabled to pass anywhere as a student of sixteen. After 
 she had become famous, much odium was cast upon her 
 on account of this habit of hers by the scandal-mongers. 
 
 She soon made friends among the literary Bohemians 
 of Paris, and many of her earlier and briefer works were 
 written in collaboration with one of them, M. Jules 
 Sandeau, afterwards the author of several successful 
 novels and plays. These joint performances included a 
 
266 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 novelette entitled La Prima Donna , and a complete novel, 
 called Rose et Blanche , which was published under M. 
 Sandeau's nom de-plume of Jules Sand. It was a book of 
 no importance, and is now omitted from the works of both 
 its authors, but it attracted the notice of a publisher, who 
 requested another volume from the same pen. A new 
 novel written entirely by Madame Dudevant was then 
 lying in her desk, and she at once gave this into his hands. 
 M. Sandeau, unwilling to claim any credit for a work in 
 which he had no share, refused to permit her to use their 
 usual pseudonym. To oblige the publisher, who wished to 
 connect the work with its predecessor, it was decided that 
 only the prefix should be changed, and George , a, favorite 
 name among husbandmen, was selected as representative 
 of her native province of Bcrri. In April, 1832, the book 
 appeared. It was entitled, “ Indiana, by George Sand.” 
 
 Its success with the public was so immediate and so 
 great that the author was alarmed. 
 
 “ The success of Indiana has thrown me into dismay,” 
 fho wrote to an old friend. “ Till now, I thought my 
 writing was without consequence and would not merit the 
 slightest attention. Fate has decreed otherwise. The 
 unmerited admiration of which I have become the object 
 must be justified.” 
 
 Many, even of those who praised her most, predicted 
 that she would never equal this first venture; but Valen¬ 
 tine, which appeared a few months later, convinced them 
 of their error. Both these books are stories of unhappy 
 marriage. Indiana is a romantic, high-spirited girl, 
 bound for life to a dull, imperious, but not bad-hearted 
 man much older than herself. The other chief characters 
 are a graceful, heartless scoundrel who makes love to 
 her, and a cousin, a sort of guardian angel, who, after 
 long loving her in silence, at last succeeds in rescuing 
 her from her miserable situation. Valentine, like Indiana, 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 267 
 
 Is the victim of a manage de convenance. The highly- 
 wrought scenes of passion, and the exaggerated language 
 of many passages which now repel the reader, were then 
 admired. In the simple portions we can already recog¬ 
 nize that simple, forcible, and picturesque style which so 
 delights us in her tales of humble life—in La Petite- 
 Padette, and La Mare au Liable. 
 
 The next work of Madame Sand—for her friends as 
 well as the public now learned to call her by that name 
 —was that Lelia, of which almost every one lias heard, 
 although it has now, at least in England and America, few 
 readers. Lelia is a novel of impossible characters and 
 incidents, written in a declamatory manner. Its only 
 interest is as a psychological study of the author, for into 
 this work she was wont to say she had put more of her¬ 
 self than into any other. She nevertheless pronounced it 
 in later years absurd as a work of art. Lelia surprised 
 her friends at the time—although it pleased most of them 
 —and was highly successful with the public. One of her 
 friends, a naturalist, wrote to her: 
 
 “ Lelia is a fancy type. It is not like you—you who 
 are merry, who dance the bourree , who appreciate lepidop- 
 tera, who do not despise puns, who are not a bad needle¬ 
 woman, and make very good preserves. Is it possible 
 that you should have thought so much, felt so much, with¬ 
 out any one having any idea of it ? ” 
 
 It was a book written in a period of mental depression, 
 at a time when her faith appeared to be forsaking her. 
 Although it is by no means typical of her ordinary fiction, 
 it was destined to produce an impression of her as a 
 writer opposed to marriage and morality, and to create a 
 prejudice which in England and our country has but 
 recently begun to give way. Some critics had already 
 accused her of propounding revolutionary doctrines in 
 Indiana and Valentine. It is true she declared herself 
 
263 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 against commercial marriages, and taught that every 
 union should bo based upon love ; but this, at least in our 
 fortunate land and century, docs not strike us as either 
 shocking or novel. 
 
 From this time the life of George Sand was that of an 
 indefatigable literary worker, and no year passed 
 unmarked by the issue of new works under her name. 
 Yet, notwithstanding these labors, her iron constitution 
 permitted her to take long journeys, to enjoy society, and 
 often to abandon herself to the delights of her country 
 home. She wrote chiefly at night: in the day time she 
 walked, climbed, and rode horseback as freely and fre¬ 
 quently as in her girlhood, and her letters to her friends 
 dwell continually upon these simple, exhilarating pleas¬ 
 ures. She .had, during her whole life, three unfailing 
 sources of delight—her children, nature, and music. 
 
 The strange compromise which she had made with her 
 husband was evidently one which could not continue. In 
 1835 she applied for a divorce, which, after some diffi¬ 
 culties with regard to the children, was granted her. 
 While it was still doubtful whether their guardianship 
 should be entrusted to her or to their father, she seriously 
 considered the idea, in case of a decision adverse to her 
 claim, of leaving France and escaping with them to 
 America. The judgment of the court finally placed her in 
 possession both of them and of the estate of Noliant. 
 To Maurice and Solange she was ever a devoted mother. 
 She attended personally to their education and shared 
 their amusements. Their affection and their happiness 
 fully rewarded her; and, as both on attaining maturity 
 made fortunate marriages, she was enabled to show herself 
 as an excellent grandmother also. 
 
 Of Nohant and the neighboring region she never tired. 
 “ Never a cockchafer passes but I run after it,” she says, 
 describing her country walks; and she confesses how, on 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 269 
 
 one occasion, the sight of the cooling stream of the Indre 
 proved an irresistible temptation to her, and she walked 
 into the water fully dressed—proceeding afterwards 
 untroubled upon her twelve-mile walk, while her clothes 
 dried upon her in the sun. Nor did her interest in the 
 villagers ever flag, and the little peasant children who 
 had been her playmates in youth found her a friend in 
 their old age. 
 
 Her life from middle age onward was often saddened 
 by the troubles of her country. In her political feelings 
 she was republican, and she was accused of being a 
 socialist. Many of her dear friends were ardent politi¬ 
 cians, and when, after the flight of Louis Philippe in 1848, 
 a provisional government was formed with Lamartine at 
 its head, she was irresistibly drawn to take a part in the 
 struggle. 
 
 “My heart is full and my head on fire,” she wrote to a 
 fellow-laborer. “ All my physical ailments, all my per¬ 
 sonal sorrows are forgotten. 1 live, I am strong, active; 
 I am not more than twenty years old.” 
 
 She worked hard to strengthen and uphold the new 
 government. She wrote many fiery articles, and more 
 than one ministerial manifesto was attributed, with good 
 reason, to tier pen. She never relaxed in her efforts 
 until leader after leader proved unfitted for bis position, 
 and to pei’sist was manifestly useless. Returning from 
 Paris, where she had been staying that she might be 
 upon the field of action, to rest quietly in her country 
 home, she found herself regarded with horror by the peas¬ 
 ants, who called her a communist. 
 
 “ A pack of idiots,” she wrote indignantly to a friend, 
 “who threaten to come and set fire to Nohant! . . 
 
 When they come this way and I walk through the midst 
 of them they take off their hats ; but when they have 
 gone by, they summon courage to shout, ‘ Down with the 
 communists! ’ ” 
 
2/0 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 After the overthrow of the Provisional Government, 
 6he had no desire to enter politics again. Her theory of 
 government remained unshaken, but she had little hope 
 of seeing it successfully realized in France during her life¬ 
 time. She mingled no more in public affairs except so 
 far as after the coup d'etat to ask of Louis Napoleon, 
 with whom she had at one time corresponded, a pardon 
 for some of her old friends who had been condemned 
 to transportation. Her petition was granted at once. 
 
 Born in the last year of the First Empire, George Sand 
 lived through the Franco-Prussian War, and saw the 
 return of peace and prosperity. She was always sure 
 that the good time would come, although during the dark 
 days of that long struggle she was in deep sorrow for her 
 unhappy country, and painfully anxious for the safety of 
 her own home. At one time the Prussians approached 
 near, and she wrote to a friend that she worked “ expect¬ 
 ing her scrawls to light the pipes of the Prussians.” 
 But, in another letter, written to M. Flaubert, she says 
 cheerily: 
 
 “ Mustn’t be ill, mustn’t be cross, my old troubadour! 
 Say that France is mad, humanity stupid, and that we 
 are unfinished animals every one of us ; you must love on 
 all the same, yourself, your race, above all, your friends. 
 I have my sad hours. I look at my blossoms, those two 
 little girls, smiling as ever, their charming mother, and 
 my good, hard-working son, whom the end of the world 
 will find hunting, cataloguing, doing his daily task, and 
 yet as merry as Punch in his rare leisure moments.” 
 
 Again, less lightly, but quite as hopefully, she wrote: 
 
 “ I do not say that humanity is on the road to the 
 heights; I believe it in spite of all, but I do not argue 
 about it, which is useless, for every one judges according 
 to his own eyesight, and the general outlook at the 
 present moment is ugly and poor. Besides, I do not need 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 27; 
 
 to be assured of the salvation of our planet and its inhabi¬ 
 tants, in order to believe in the necessity of the good and 
 the beautiful; if our planet departs from this law it will 
 perish ; if its inhabitants discard it they will be destroyed. 
 As for me I wish to hold firm till my last breath, not 
 with the certainty or the claim to find a‘good place’ 
 elsewhere, but because my sole pleasure is to maintain 
 myself and mine in the upward way.” 
 
 George Sand died at Nohant in 1876, nearly seventy- 
 two years of age, having neglected an illness which sho 
 deemed unimportant until it was too late. 
 
 “ It is death,” she said to those about her; “ I did not 
 ask for it, but neither do I regret it.” 
 
 For a week she lingered in great suffering, but con¬ 
 scious and courageous to the last. Her thoughts turned 
 to the quiet village cemetery where she was soon to rest, 
 and almost her last words referred to the trees growing 
 there. She desired that none of them should be disturbed, 
 or so her children interpreted the words: 
 
 “ Ne touchez pas a la verdure.” 
 
 At her funeral, which took place in a pouring rain, the 
 country people, who had long ago ceased to call her 
 communist, flocked in from miles around. There, too, 
 were men of letters, scientists, and artists, for she had 
 made friends and kept them in all ranks of life. Her 
 bier was borne by six peasants, preceded by three chor¬ 
 ister boys and the ancient clerk of the parish, and she 
 was buried close by the graves of her father, her grand¬ 
 mother, and two little grandchildren whom she had lost. 
 A plain granite monument now marks her resting place. 
 
 The works of George Sand, including novels, stories, 
 and plays, are so numerous that only a vei'y few of them 
 can find mention here. Among the most famous are the 
 
272 
 
 GEORGE SAND. 
 
 “ Letters of a Traveler,” the unfortunate “ She and lie * 
 (Idle et Lui), “ Lucrezia Floriani,” “Consuelo,” and the 
 three delightful tales of peasant life, entitled respectively, 
 “La Petite Fadette”—upon which the familiar play of 
 Fanclion the Cricket, is founded—“The Devil’s Pond” 
 (La Mare du Diable), and “ Francois le Champi,” from 
 which she afterwards made a play. 
 
 The “ Letters of a Traveler” are a very striking series 
 Written after a journey through Switzerland and Italy, in 
 company with the poet Alfred de Musset, her further rela¬ 
 tions with whom are depicted in the story “ She and He,” 
 published after his death. This work was regarded by 
 the public as ungenerous, if not unjustifiable; but it must 
 be remembered that after the breach between them, De 
 Musset had not spared her in his verse. Her book was 
 intended as a defence of herself; but it had the force of a 
 judgment upon him. It was soon replied to by the pcet’s 
 brother in another tale, entitled “ He and She,” in which 
 Madame Sand was represented in a light even more 
 unfavorable than that in which she had placed the hero 
 of her story. It is probable that each version of the 
 affair contained truth. Doubtless de Musset and Madame 
 Sand were both in fault, for two such pronounced per¬ 
 sonalities could not long have accommodated themselves 
 to each other. Their difficulties, however, should never 
 have been submitted to the public. 
 
 In “ Lucrezia Floriani ” she was believed to have com¬ 
 mitted a similar error, since the unpleasing character of 
 Karol was by many supposed to represent her old friend 
 and companion, Chopin the composer. She denied that 
 such was the case, and it is evident that she did not 
 intend a portrait, although there were points of resem¬ 
 blance. Through the interference of unwise acquaint¬ 
 ances, however, the book caused a breach between Chopin 
 and herself. In many of her other works too curious 
 
GEORGE SAND. 
 
 273 
 
 critics have claimed to discover pictures of eminent per¬ 
 sons with whom she was acquainted: some have even 
 believed that in the ideal heroine “ Consuelo” they could 
 perceive a representation of the famous Madame Viar- 
 dot. 
 
 “ Consuelo,” although one of the most diffuse, is by 
 many considered the best among George Sand’s novels. 
 There is power in it; but its incidents seem to us extrava¬ 
 gant and its personages unreal. At present we care less 
 for ideal characters and improbable adventures, and more 
 for delineations of men and women, with their weak¬ 
 nesses and their strength, such as may be found among 
 ourselves. Those of George Sand’s works which will 
 longest be read are narratives like “ Andrd,” “ La Mar¬ 
 quise,” and the pleasant tales to which we have referred. 
 In them her heroes and heroines are studied from the 
 life, and the scenery amid which they are placed is such 
 as she had herself visited in her travels, or—and this far 
 oftener—that which lay close around her own home, in 
 her fair and fertile native province.