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 it was attuned permanently to a single chord, in a harmonious, but minor, mode. His was a nature that felt all emotions, but reacted in literature to only a few. His spirit became vocal only when stirred by tragedy. But this does not mean that he failed to perceive, understand and feel deeply the untragic amenities of existence.

In his Hand of Ethelberta, it is of interest to note, no less than four of the principal personages make statements which have a single bearing on the matter of the distinction to be drawn between the inner life of a writer and his imaginative works. Christopher Julian says, "People who print very warm words have sometimes very cold manners." By reversing the sense of this statement, without destroying its validity, it can be made to apply very nicely to Hardy's cold words and warm manners. Again, Ladywell says to Neigh, while discussing the common object of their admiration, "Whatever seems to be the most prominent vice, or the most prominent virtue, in anybody's writing is the one thing you are safest from in personal dealings with the writer." On the following page Neigh says substantially the same thing: "It is as risky to calculate people's ways of living from their writings as their incomes from their ways of living." The fascinating Ethelberta herself, when upbraided by Lady Petherwin for the ribaldry of her verses, defends herself as follows: "It would be difficult to show that because I have written so-called tender and gay verse, I feel tender and gay. It is too often assumed that a person's fancy is a person's real mind. I believe that in the majority of cases one is fond of imagining the direct opposite of one's principles in sheer effort


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 after something fresh and free; at any rate, some of the lightest of those rhymes were composed between the deepest fits of dismals I have known."

Mrs. Lonise Chandler Moulton, who was very well acquainted with Hardy in the nineties, was once asked whether he was as cynical a misogynist as was implied by the pictures of the women in his Group of Noble Dames. She replied, “But he doesn't think he is cynical. He thinks he is photographic. I know no man who likes women better, and there is nothing that a woman could possibly do that would seem wrong to him." This, it must be remembered, was the impression given by the creator of Bathsheba, whose vanity and folly, and of Arabella, whose sensuality and calculating covetousness, are the chief agents of a malignant destiny in the stories in which they enact their unenviable rôles. It was a remarkable impression, even if it be discounted by the inevitable sentimentality of its fair recorder.

Another acquaintance thus described the man in 1892: "Mr. Hardy is in himself a gentle and singularly pleasing personality. Of middle height, with a very thoughtful face and rather melancholy eyes, he is nevertheless an interesting and amusing companion. He is regarded by the public at large as a hermit ever brooding in the far-off seclusion of a west-country village. A fond delusion, which is disproved by the fact that he is almost more frequently to be seen in a London drawing-room, or a Continental hotel, than in the quiet old-world lanes of rural Dorchester."

One aspect of Hardy's temperament seems to have retarded somewhat a popular and universal recognition of

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356 is not there; he must have gone to his bees. Sometimes it disturbs me to have him spend so much time over them; but then, on the whole, I am glad; it diverts him, and he is certainly more cheerful than he was in the spring. Then he was so gloomy, and so unhappy! What a strange man he is!"

Kitty knew what caused her husband's disquiet. It was his doubting spirit; and although, if she had been asked if she believed that, in the world to come, he would fail of salvation owing to his want of faith, she would have been compelled to say yes, yet his skepticism did not make her unhappy; and she, who believed that there was no salvation for the unbelieving, and loved more than all else in the world her husband's soul, smiled as she thought of his skepticism, and called him a strange man.

"Why does he spend all his time reading those philosophical books? If all this is written in those books, then he can understand them. But if it is not true, why does he read them? He himself says that he longs for faith. Why does n't he believe? Probably he thinks too much; and he thinks too much because he is lonely. He is always alone. He can't speak out all his thoughts to us. I think he will be glad that these guests have come, especially Katavasof. He likes to discuss with him."

And immediately Kitty's thoughts were diverted by the question where it would be best for Katavasof to sleep. Ought he and Sergyeï Ivanovitch to have a room together or apart? And here a sudden thought made her start, so that she disturbed Mitya, who opened his eyes and looked at her reproachfully.

"The washerwoman has n't brought back the linen. I hope Agafya Mikhaïlovna has n't given out all we had!" and the color rushed to Kitty's forehead.

"There, I must find out myself," thought she; and, reverting to her former thoughts, she remembered that she had not finished the important train of spiritual thoughts which she had begun, and she once more repeated:—

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 its pleasant qualities. This is his notorious distaste for the society of the professional interviewer, the curious tourist and the idle sight-seer. Here is Samuel G. Blythe's report of an attempted interview for the Saturday Evening Post:

"It cannot be said, in verity, that Thomas Hardy expressed any passionate eagerness to greet me at his Wessex home, but it came about, none the less. How keenly I recall the grizzled author of Tess and Jude as he stood that morning on his terrace, and his words—the words of the master!

"'Mr. Hardy, I have traveled three thousand miles to see you.' This reverently.

"'Really?' This politely, but with a certain disinterestedness that was depressing.

"'Yes, I have traveled three thousand miles to see you.' This with less reverence and more emphasis.

"'Really?' This with an intonation that expressed, with sufficient clarity, the thought: 'Well, you've seen me; what else do you want?'

"Imagine an earnest pilgrim at a literary shrine able to dig out but two cold and clammy 'Reallys' as a starter! The situation was precarious, and needed the tonic of instant diversion into other channels.

"'You have a lot of crows on your place.' This with an appropriate sweep of the arm that included an immense flock of black and busy birds on the lawn.

"'My word! Those are not crows; those are rooks!' And the author of Under the Greenwood Tree and Far from the Madding Crowd proceeded along the terrace by himself—if you can picture the scene that morning with


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 the bright Wessex sunshine flooding the landscape—alone, indubitably alone."

Hardy's well-known impatience with besiegers of this sort, although too often and too grossly exaggerated, as above, has served to propagate the impression that he is an incurable recluse who has foresworn the society of his fellow-beings.

This is far from being true, however. He receives casual visitors. He is not shy. The one common ground upon which the personality and the works of the man meet is that of a universal sympathy for the sufferings of humanity, which may even, on suitable occasions, include the sufferings of journalists. This is the one dominant Hardy-theme, and to it he long ago dedicated both himself and his artistic work. His life and works are one great protest against man-made and god-made misery—against man's inhumanity to man, to woman, and even to the lower animals.

Just as the figure of Thomas Hardy should be recognized as possessing the two distinct and sometimes quite contradictory aspects of the personality and the writer, so Hardy the writer in himself sometimes has presented to the careful reader two quite distinct faces. The realistic and the naïve writer will frequently have to be sharply differentiated from the philosophic and symbolic writer. The fundamental and unconscious dilemmas and contradictions underlying his later philosophy can usually be traced back to this instinctive ability of his to divide him-


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Rh "Yes, Kostia is an unbeliever;" and, as she did so, she smiled.

"Yes, he is an unbeliever, but I'd far liefer he should always be one than a person like Madame Stahl, or as I wanted to be when I was abroad. At any rate, he will never be hypocritical." And a recent example of his goodness recurred vividly to her memory.

Several weeks before, Stepan Arkadyevitch had written Dolly a letter of repentance. He begged her to save his honor by selling her property to pay his debts.

Dolly was in despair. She hated her husband, despised him; and at first she made up her mind to refuse his request, and apply for a divorce; but afterward she decided to sell a part of her estate. Kitty, with an involuntary smile of emotion, recalled her husband's confusion, his various awkward attempts to find a way of helping Dolly, and how, at last, he came to the conclusion that the only way to accomplish it without wounding her was to make over to Dolly their part of this estate.

"How can he be without faith, when he has such a warm heart, and is afraid to grieve even a child? He never thinks of himself—always of others. Sergyeï Ivanovitch finds it perfectly natural to consider him his business manager; so does his sister. Dolly and her children have no one else but him to lean upon. He is always sacrificing his time to the peasants, who come to consult him every day.

"Yes; you cannot do better than to try to be like your father," she murmured, touching her lips to her son's cheek, before laying him into the nurse's arms.

since that moment when, as he sat beside his dying brother. Levin had examined the problem of life and death in the light of the new convictions, as he called them, which from the age of twenty to thirty-four years had taken the place of his childhood's beliefs, he

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 self, as it were, into quite distinct Hardys, strangers to each other.

When Hardy wrote in his intensest moods, however—whenever, that is to say, he assumed the mantle that is destined to clothe his name for posterity—he discovered his inmost relief and satisfaction to lie in the particular experience which he expressed in his motto to The Return of the Native:


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358 was terrified not only at death, but at life; because it seemed to him that he had not the slightest knowledge of its origin, its purpose, its reason, its nature. Our organism and its destruction, the indestructibility of matter, the laws of the conservation and development of forces, were words which were substituted for the terms of his early faith. These words, and the scientific theories connected with them, were doubtless interesting from an intellectual point of view, but they stood for nothing in the face of real life.

And Levin suddenly felt in the position of a man who in cold weather had exchanged his warm shuba for a muslin garment, and who for the first time should indubitably, not with his reason, but with his whole being, become persuaded that he was absolutely naked, and inevitably destined to perish miserably.

From that time, without in the least changing his outward life, and though he did not like to confess it, even to himself, Levin never ceased to feel a terror of his ignorance.

Moreover, he vaguely felt that what he called his convictions not only came from his ignorance, but were idle for helping him to a clearer knowledge of what he needed.

At first his marriage, with its new joys and its new duties, completely blotted out these thoughts; but they came back to him, with increasing persistence demanding an answer, after his wife's confinement, when he lived in Moscow without any serious occupation.

The question presented itself to him in this way:—

"If I do not accept the explanations offered me by Christianity on the problem of my existence, then what answer shall I find?"

And he scrutinized the whole arsertal of his scientific convictions, and found no answer whatever to his questions, and nothing like an answer.

He was in the position of a man who seeks to find food in a toy-store or a gun-shop.

Involuntarily and unconsciously he sought now in every book, in every conversation, and in every person whom

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Rh he met, some sympathy with these questions and their solution.

More than by anything else, he was surprised and puzzled by the fact that the men of his class, who for the most part had, like himself, substituted science for religion, seemed to experience not the least moral suffering, but to live entirely satisfied and content. Thus in addition to the main question there were others which tormented him: Were these men sincere? Were they not hypocrites. Or did they understand more clearly than he did the answer science gave to these troublesome questions? And he took to studying these men, and books which might contain the solutions which he so desired.

One thing which he had discovered, however, since these questions had begun to occupy him, was that he had made a gross error in taking up with the idea of his early university friends, that religion had outlived its day, and no longer existed. The best people whom he knew were believers,—the old prince, Lvof, of whom he was so fond, Sergyeï Ivanovitch, and all women had faith; and his wife believed just as he had believed when he was a child, and nine-tenths of the Russian people—all people whose lives inspired the greatest respect—were believers.

Another strange thing was that, as he read many books, he became convinced that the men whose opinions he shared did not attach to them any importance; and that without explaining anything they simply ignored these questions, without an answer to which life seemed to him impossible, and took up others which were to him utterly uninteresting,—such, for example, as the development of the organism, the mechanical explanation of the soul, and others.

Moreover, at the time of his wife's illness, he had what to him seemed a most extraordinary experience: he, the unbeliever, had prayed, and prayed with sincere faith. But as soon as the danger was over, he felt that he could not give that temporary disposition any abiding-place in his life.

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360 He could not avow that the truth appeared to him then, but that he was mistaken now; because, as he began calmly to analyze his feelings, they eluded him. He could not avow that he had been deceived then, because he had experienced a temporary spiritual condition; and if he pretended that he had succumbed to a moment of weakness, he would sully a sacred moment. He was in a state of internal conflict, and he strove with all the strength of his nature to free himself from it.

thoughts tormented him with varying intensity, but he could not free himself from them. He read and meditated; but the more he read and meditated, the end desired seemed to grow more and more remote.

During the latter part of his stay in Moscow, and after he reached the country, he became convinced of the uselessness of seeking in materialism an answer to his doubts; and he read over the philosophers whose explanations of life were opposed to materialism,—Plato and Spinoza, and Kant and Schelling, and Hegel and Schopenhauer.

These thoughts seemed to him fruitful while he was reading, or was contrasting their doctrines with those of others, especially with those of a materialistic tendency; but just as soon as he attempted, independently, to apply these guides to some doubtful point, he fell back into the same perplexities as before. The terms "mind," "will", "freedom," "essence," had a certain meaning to his intellect as long as he followed the clew established by the deductions of these philosophers, and allowed himself to be caught in the snare of their subtle distinctions; but when practical life asserted its point of view, this artistic structure fell, like a house built of cards; and it became evident that the edifice was built only of beautiful words, having no more connection than logic with the serious side of life.

Once, as he was reading Schopenhauer, he substituted

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 It attracted no notice whatever, and remained almost totally unknown until it was revived by the growing interest in Hardy's maturer work. It was practically inaccessible to English readers until the appearance of its second edition eighteen years later, although it had been reprinted in America. Copies of the three-volume first edition are to-day extremely rare.

Meredith again was interested in the rather dynamic, if crudely developed, "drive" of the narrative. He certainly had no further cause for complaint on the score of paucity of incident and plot. In another interview with Hardy he advised a lightening and brightening of tone-color.

This advice again took immediate effect. It resulted in the most pleasing idyl among all the Wessex novels, Under the Greenwood Tree, written after Hardy had definitely forsaken Weymouth and had returned to the inland villages of Dorset, where he could again feel himself to be the countryman born and bred. The full flavor of the countryside can be sensed in this story. It remains the most popular of the series, with the possible exception of Tess, probably because it is the least painful in its effects upon sensitive readers. It was greatly admired by both Tennyson and Browning. Its lightly sketched-in undertone of irony, which casts dun shadows over the concluding paragraphs particularly, went largely unnoticed.

From September, 1872, to July, 1873, Tinsley's Magazine ran a serial story called A Winning Tongue Had He. This narrative was then issued in three volumes, again by Tinsley Brothers, under the revised title, A Pair of


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 Blue Eyes. Both historically and intrinsically, this novel is one of the most important of the series. It was the first book that Hardy acknowledged as his own from the start, and for its plot, melodramatic thrills, characterization, nature-machinery, acid irony and occasional gentleness and humor, may fairly be called the first really characteristic Hardy-novel. Its reception was not enthusiastic.

Ample atonement for all this public and critical apathy was accorded, however, in the greeting which was bestowed upon Far from the Madding Crowd, which began to run anonymously in the Cornhill Magazine in 1873, and which was published in two volumes by Smith, Elder & Co. in 1874. There was much speculation as to its authorship. Strangely enough, it was thought by many to be a late work of George Eliot, who had long since passed the Silas Marner and Mill on the Floss stage of her career. The Wessex folk in the tale drew much unfavorable comment, however; one reviewer characterizing the inimitable Joseph Poorgrass as a "preeminent bore." Edmund Gosse remembers that the dialect of the rustics was also called "odd scraps of a kind of rural euphuism . . . a queer mixture, very dreary and depressing."

In spite of these and similar blunders on the part of readers, the book achieved an instant and considerable vogue. Encouraged by this first material success, Hardy and Miss Gifford decided to risk matrimony. They were quietly married, and immediately established themselves in Dorset, first at Stourminster-Newton, the "Stourcastle" of the novels. Then they removed to London, where they lived, off and on, for several years, and later to


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Rh the term "love" for that which this philosopher calls "will," and this new philosophy consoled him for a few days while he clung to it. But it also proved unsatisfactory when he regarded it from the standpoint of practical life; then it seemed to be the thin muslin without warmth as a dress.

Sergyeï Ivanovitch advised him to read Khomyakof's theological writings: and though he was at first repelled by the excessive affectation of the author's style, and his strong polemic tendency, he was struck by their teachings regarding the Church; he was struck also by the development of the following thought:—

"Man when alone cannot attain the knowledge of theological truths. The true light is kept for a communion of souls who are filled with the same love; that is, for the Church."

He was delighted with the thought: How much easier it is to accept the Church, which united with it all believing people and was endowed with holiness and infallibility, since it had God for its head,—to accept its teachings as to Creation, the Fall, and Redemption, and through it to reach God,—than to begin with God, a far-off, mysterious God, the Creation, and the rest of it.

But, as he read, after Khomyakof, a history of the Church by a Catholic writer, and the history of the Church by an Orthodox writer, and perceived that the Orthodox Greek Church and the Roman Catholic Church, both of them in their very essence infallible, were antagonistic, he saw that he had been deluded by Khomyakof's church-teachings; and this edifice also fell into dust, like the constructions of philosophy.

During this whole spring he was not himself, and passed hours of misery.

"I cannot live without knowing what I am, and why

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362 I exist. Since I cannot reach this knowledge, life is impossible," said Levin to himself.

"In the infinitude of time, in the infinitude of matter, in the infinitude of space, an organic cell is formed, exists for a moment, and bursts. That cell is—I."

This was a cruel lie; but it was the sole, the supreme, result of the labor of the human mind for centuries.

It was the final creed on which were founded the latest researches of the scientific spirit; it was the dominant conviction; and Levin, without knowing exactly why, simply because this theory seemed to him the clearest, was involuntarily held by it.

But this conclusion was not merely a lie, it was the cruel jest of some evil spirit,—cruel, inimical, to which it was impossible to submit.

To get away from it was a duty; deliverance from it was in the power of every one, and the one means of deliverance was—death.

And Levin, the happy father of a family, a man in perfect health, was sometimes so tempted to commit suicide, that he hid ropes from sight, lest he should hang himself, and feared to go out with his gun, lest he should shoot himself.

But Levin did not hang himself, or shoot himself, but lived and struggled on.

Levin puzzled over what he was, and why he was born, he found no answer, and fell into despair; but when he ceased to ask himself these questions, he seemed to know what he was and why he was alive, for the very reason that he resolutely and definitely lived and worked; even during the more recent months he had lived far more strenuously and resolutely than ever before.

Toward the end of June he returned to the country and resumed his ordinary work at Pokrovskoye. The superintendence of the estates of his brother and sister, his relations with his neighbors and his muzhiks, his family

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Rh cares, his new enterprise in bee-culture, which he had taken up this year, occupied all his time. These interests occupied him, not because he carried them on with a view to their universal application, as he had done before, but, on the contrary, because being now on the one hand disillusionized by the lack of success in his former undertakings for the common good, on the other being too much engrossed by his own thoughts and the very multitude of affairs calling for his attention, he entirely relinquished all his attempts of cooperative advantage and he occupied himself with his affairs, simply because it seemed to him that he was irresistibly impelled to do what he did, and could not do otherwise.

Formerly—almost from childhood till he reached manhood—when he began to do anything that would be good for all, for humanity, for Russia, he saw that the thought of it gave him, in advance, a pleasing sense of joy; but the action in itself never realized his hopes, nor had he full conviction that the work was necessary, and the activity itself which seemed at first so important kept growing smaller and smaller, and came to naught.

But now that since his marriage he had become more and more restricted by life for its own sake, though he had no pleasure at the thought of his activity, he felt a conviction that his work was indispensable, and saw that the results gained were far more satisfactory than before.

Now, quite against his will, he cut deeper and deeper into the soil, like a plow that cannot choose its path, or turn from its furrow.

To live as his fathers and grandfathers had lived, to carry out their work so as to hand it on in turn to his children, seemed to him a plain duty. It was as necessary as the duty of eating when hungry; and he knew that, to reach this end, he was under obligation so to conduct the machinery of the estate at Pokrovskoye that there might be profit in it. As indubitably as a debt required to be paid, so was it incumbent on him to

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364 preserve his paternal estate in such a condition that his son, receiving it in turn, might say, "Thank you, my father," just as Levin himself was grateful to his ancestors for what they had cleared and tilled. He felt that he had no right to rent his land to the muzhiks, but that he himself must keep everything under his own eye,—maintain his cattle, fertilize his fields, set out trees.

It was as impossible not to look out for the interests of Sergyeï Ivanovitch and his sister, and all the peasants that came to consult him, as it was to abandon the child that had been given into his hands. He felt obliged to look after the interests of his sister-in-law, who with her children was living at his house, and of his wife with her child, and he had to spend with them at least a small part of his time. And all this, together with his hunting and his new occupation of bee-culture, filled to overflowing his life, the meaning of which he could not understand when he reflected on it.

Not only did Levin see clearly what it was his duty to do, but he saw how he must fulfil it, and what had paramount importance.

He knew that it was requisite to hire laborers as cheaply as possible; but to get them into his power by paying down money in advance, and getting them at less than market price, he would not do, although this was very advantageous. It was permissible to sell fodder to the muzhiks in time of scarcity, even though he felt sorry for those who were improvident; but he felt it his duty to do away with inns and drinking-places, even though they brought in great profit. On principle he punished as severely as he could thefts from his wood; but when he found cattle straying he was not inclined to exact a fine, and though it annoyed the guards and brought the punishment into contempt, he always insisted on having the cattle driven out again. He advanced money to Piotr, to save him from the claws of a money-lender, who charged him ten per cent a month; but he made no allowance for arrears in the obrok or money due him from negligent muzhiks. He found it impossible to pardon an overseer because a small meadow was

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Rh not mowed and the grass was wasted; but he would not let them mow a piece of land amounting to eighty desyatins—or two hundred and sixteen acres—on which a young forest had been planted. He would not excuse a muzhik who went home in working hours because his father had died,—sorry as he was for him,—and he had to pay him lower wages for the costly months of idleness; but he was bound to give board and lodging to old servants who were superannuated.

Levin felt that it was right, on returning home, to go first to his wife, who was not well, though some muzhiks had been waiting for three hours to see him; and he knew, in spite of all the pleasure that he should have in seeing his bees hived, nevertheless he felt in duty bound to deprive himself of this pleasure and let his old bee-man transfer the swarm without him, and go and talk with the muzhiks who had come to the apiary for him.

Whether he did well or ill, he knew not; and he did not try to settle it, but, moreover, he avoided all thoughts and discussions on the subject. Reasoning led him to doubt, and prevented him from seeing what was right to do, or not to do. When he ceased to consider, but simply lived, he never failed to find in his soul the presence of an infallible judge, telling him which of two possible courses was the best to take, and which was the worst; and when he failed to follow this inner voice, he was instantly made aware of it.

Thus he lived, not knowing, and not seeing the possibility of knowing, what he was, or why he lived in the world, and tortured by his ignorance to such a degree that he feared committing suicide and yet resolutely pursuing the course of life traced out for him.

day on which Sergyeï Ivanovitch reached Pokrovskoye had been unusually full of torment for Levin.

It was at that hurried, busy season of the year when all the peasantry are engaged in putting forth an extraor-

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366 dinary effort, and showing an endurance, which are quite unknown in the ordinary conditions of their lives, and which would be prized very highly if it were not repeated every year, and did not produce such very simple results. Mowing and sowing rye and oats, reaping, harvesting, threshing,—these are labors which seem simple and commonplace; but to accomplish them in the short time accorded by nature, every one, old and young, must set to work. For three or four weeks they must be content with the simplest fare,—black bread, garlic, and kvas; must sleep only a few hours, and must not pause night or day. And every year this happens throughout all Russia.

Having lived the larger part of his life in the country, and in the closest relations with the peasantry, Levin always at harvest-time felt that this universal activity among the people embraced his own life.

In the early morning he had gone to the field of early rye, to the field where they were carrying off the oats in ricks. Then he came back to breakfast with his wife and sister-in-law, and had afterward gone off on foot to the farm, where he was trying a new threshing-machine.

This whole day. Levin, as he talked with the overseer and the muzhiks in the field, as he talked at the house with his wife and Dolly and the children and his father-in-law, thought of only one thing; and constantly the same questions pursued him: "What am I? and where am I? and why am I here?"

As he stood in the cool shadow of his newly thatched barn, where the hazelwood timbers, still smelling of the fragrant leaves, held down the straw to the freshly peeled aspen timbers that made the roof, Levin gazed, now through the open doors, where whirled and played the dry and choking dust thrown off by the threshing-machine; now at the hot sunlight lying on the grass of the threshing-floor, and at the fresh straw just brought out of the barn; now at the white-breasted swallows with their spotted heads, as they flew about twittering, and settled under the eaves, or, shaking their wings, darted through the open doors; and then again at the

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Rh peasantry, bustling about in the dark and dusty barn, and strange ideas came into his mind:—

"Why is all this done?" he asked himself. "Why am I standing here? Why am I compelling them to work, and why are they working so hard? Why are they doing their best in my presence? Why is my old friend Matriona putting in so with all her might? I cured her when a beam fell on her at the fire," he said to himself, as he looked at a hideous old baba, who was walking with bare, sunburned feet across the hard, uneven soil, and was plying the rake vigorously. "She got well then. But if not to-day or to-morrow, then in ten years, she must be borne to her grave, and there will be nothing left of her, nor of that pretty girl in red, who is husking corn with such graceful, swift motions. They will bury her. And that dappled gelding will soon die," he thought, as he looked at the horse, breathing painfully with distended nostrils and heavily sagging belly, as it struggled up the ever descending treadmill. "They will carry him off. And Feodor, the machine-tender, with his curling beard, full of chaff, and his white shoulder showing through a tear in his shirt—they will carry him off too. But now he gathers up the sheaves, and gives his commands, and shouts to the women, and, with quick motions, arranges the belt on the machine. And it will be the same with me. They will carry me away, and nothing of me will be left. Why?"

And, in the midst of his meditations, he mechanically took out his watch to calculate how much they threshed in an hour. It was his duty to do this, so that he could pay the men fairly for their day's work.

"So far, only three ricks," he said to himself; and he went to the machine-tender, and, trying to make his voice heard above the racket, told him to work faster.

"You put in too much at once, Feodor; you see it stops it, so it wastes time. Do it more regularly."

Feodor, his face black with dust and sweat, shouted back some unintelligible reply, but entirely failed to carry out Levin's directions.

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Fingerprint Recognition individual’s biographical data, fingerprint classification data, and minutiae were stored because the cost of storage for the digital images of the fingerprints was prohibitive.

Over the next few decades, NIST focused on and led developments in automatic methods of digitizing inked fingerprints and the effects of image compression on image quality, classification, extraction of minutiae, and matching. The work at NIST led to the development of the M40 algorithm, the first operational matching algorithm used at the FBI1 for narrowing the human search. The results produced by the M40 algorithm were provided to trained and specialized human technicians who evaluated the significantly smaller set of candidate images. The available fingerprint technology continued to improve and by 1981, five Automated Fingerprint Identification Systems (AFIS) had been deployed. Various state systems within the US and other countries had implemented their own standalone systems, developed by a number of different vendors. During this evolution, communication and information exchange between the systems were overlooked, meaning that a fingerprint collected on one system could not be searched against another system. These oversights led to the need for and development of fingerprint standards.

As the need for an integrated identification system within the US criminal justice community quickly became apparent, the next stage in fingerprint automation occurred at the end of the Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System (IAFIS) competition in 1994. The competition identified and investigated three major challenges: 1 digital fingerprint acquisition, 2 local ridge characteristic extraction, and 3 ridge characteristic pattern matching. Demonstrated model systems were evaluated based on specific performance requirements. Lockheed Martin was selected to build the AFIS segment of the FBI’s IAFIS project and the major IAFIS components were operational by 1999. Also in this timeframe, commercial fingerprint verification products began to appear for various access control, logon, and benefit verification functions.

Concept
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368 He mounted the drum, took Feodor's place, and began to do the feeding.

He worked thus till it was the muzhiks' dinner-hour, not a very long time; and then, in company with Feodor, he left the barn, and talked with him, leaning against a beautifully stacked pile of yellow rye saved for planting.

Feodor was from a distant village, the very one where Levin had formerly let the association have some land. Now it was rented to a dvornik.

Levin talked with Feodor about this land, and asked him if it were not possible that Platon, a rich and trustworthy muzhik of his village, would take it for the next year.

"Price too high; won't catch Platon, Konstantin Dmitritch," replied the muzhik, wiping the chaff from his sweaty chest.

"Yes; but how does Kirillof make money out of it?"

"Mitiukh!"—by this contemptuous diminutive Feodor called the dvornik,—"what does n't he make money out of! He puts on the screws and gets the last drop! He has no pity on the peasants. But Uncle Fokanuitch,"—so he called the old man Platon,—"does he try to fleece a man? And he gives credit, when any one owes him. He does not try to squeeze it out of them. He's that kind of a man!"

"Yes; but why does he give credit?"

"Well, of course men differ. One lives for his belly, like Mitiukh; but Fokanuitch,—he 's an honest man,—he lives for his soul. He remembers God."

"How does he remember God and live for his soul?" exclaimed Levin, eagerly.

"Why, that 's plain enough. It's to live according to God, .... according to truth. People differ. Take you, Konstantin Dmitritch, for example; you could n't wrong a man." ....

"Yes, yes; prashchaï—good-by," exclaimed Levin, deeply moved; and, taking his cane, he turned toward the house.

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Rh As he recalled the muzhik's words, how "Fokanuitch lived for his soul, according to God .... according to truth," confused but weighty thoughts arose within him from some hidden source, and filled his soul with their brilliant light.

with long steps, strode along the highway, filled, not so much with his thoughts,—he could not as yet get rid of them,—as with a spiritual impulse, such as he had never known before.

The peasant's words had had in his soul the effect of an electric spark, suddenly condensing the cloud of dim, incoherent thoughts, which had not ceased to fill his mind, even while he was talking about the letting of his field.

He felt that some new impulse, inexplicable as yet, filled his heart with joy.

"Not to live for one's self, but for God! What God? Could he have said anything more meaningless than what he said? He said that we must live, not for ourselves, that is, for what interests and pleases us, but for something incomprehensible, for God, whom no one knows or can define. Still, call it nonsense, did I understand Feodor? Did n't I also feel convinced of its truth? Did I find it either false or absurd?

"Nay; I understood it, and find in it the same meaning as he finds, and understood it more completely and clearly than anything else in life. And not alone I, but all, all the world, perfectly understand this and have no doubt of it, and are unanimous in its favor.

"And I was seeking for miracles, and regretting that I could not see one which might fill me with amazement. A material miracle would have seduced me. But the real miracle, the only one possibly existing, surrounds me on all sides—and I have not remarked it.

"Feodor says Kirillof, the dvornik, lives for his belly. I know what he means by that. No rational being,

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] and see distinctly that which is submitted to it. But we have every reason to suppose that if the eye could be brought within an inch of a small object, and see it clearly, it would appear much larger than it does to the unassisted eye at the ordinary distance.

The balloon and the castle as they came nearer to the spectator kept increasing in size, according to a well-known law, and would have continued to do so had they not been stopped by the inability of the eye to see them distinctly at a lesser distance than its proper focus. There are, however, strong-sighted persons, whose eyes, having a much shorter focus than their neighbours, are able to look more closely into some matters than their less-gifted brethren. Such may be seen reading a favourite author with their noses in contact with the page. Their vision is, in fact, microscopic. They see everything on a larger scale than ordinary folks. Try them with the minutest specimens of caligraphy or printing, and they excite your envy by reading with ease that which you can barely decipher by the aid of a lens. Whence this power? It will be found, if we mistake not, in the difference of the organization of such an eye. Our friend the physiologist here comes to our aid: by the light he has thrown upon the subject we perceive that the cornea of the short-sighted eye has a deeper curve than the cornea of the ordinary eye, and this may also apply to the crystalline lens. Such a departure from the normal form tends greatly to increase the refractive power of the eye, and thus to shorten its focus. But whilst an eye of this description has an advantage in being able to see objects distinctly at a short distance, and consequently much magnified, it labours under the great disadvantage in being unable to distinguish a friend from a lamp-post on the opposite side of the street. Without the aid of concave glasses to elongate his vision it would be impossible for a short-sighted person to realize the poet's expression—

As we who possess ordinary eyes cannot alter their natural organization, it is pretty clear, if we wish to increase their power, that we must seek for the material wherewith to do so in the region of optics.

Ordinary object are seen by the light they reflect from all points of their surfaces. Thousands of such rays emanate from the objects that are round about us, each ray bearing the form and colour of that particular spot from whence it has proceeded. These enter the eye through that small hole—the pupil—and, in the aggregate, form on its retina a perfect miniature picture. Such, however, is the result only when the eye is at a proper distance from an object; when it approaches too closely it fails to perceive it. There is no distinct vision, owing to the light's rays diverging at too great an angle. Many of them do not enter the eye at all, but shoot by it; while those rays that do gain an entrance are still too divergent for the eye to bring them into a proper condition for forming a perfect image on the retina. Now as the mind can receive no true idea of the form and colour of external objects except through the instrumentality of the eye, it will necessarily follow that distinct vision depends on the accuracy of the picture formed on its retina. Where the image produced is hazy and indistinct, the mental impression will be equally obscure. Knowledge is said to be power. It certainly is so when applied to optics. By our searches we become acquainted with the fact that when a ray of light, in an oblique or slanting direction, enters a transparent medium denser than that through which it has previously travelled (such as water or glass), it suffers refraction; that is, it is bent out of its original course. Taking advantage of this fact, we procure a piece of clear glass, give to each of its surfaces a curve like that described by a bent bow, and then highly polish them. This is termed a convex lens, and when mounted on an arm, or in some kind of handle, it becomes a hand-magnifier, or simple microscope. The action of such a lens on rays diverging from a billiant point (if that point be in its focus) is to render them parallel, or if the point be nearer to the lens than its true focus, the divergent rays will rendered less so. If parallel rays be transmitted they will come to a point at some distance beyond the lens. This is its true focus for parallel rays, and any small object placed here and properly illuminated would be more distinctly seen than in any other position. By giving to our piece of glass a deeper curve, or by selecting a denser medium than glass, such as a diamond or ruby, we obtain a lens still more powerful in its refractive properties. We have thus the means of providing ourselves with lenses of longer or shorter foci, and of different degrees of magnifying power. All lenses of high power have short foci, and must be held very close to an object in order to see it; in some instances almost in contact with it. Now observe how cunningly that animal, man, takes advantage of his own contrivance. He has by his skill constructed an


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Fingerprint Recognition and are the low, shallow portion of the friction ridge skin. Fingerprint identification is based primarily on the minutiae, or the location and direction of the ridge endings and bifurcations (splits) along a ridge path. The images below present examples of fingerprint features: (a) two types of minutiae and (b) examples of other detailed characteristics sometimes used during the automatic classification and minutiae extraction processes.

The types of information that can be collected from a fingerprint’s friction ridge impression include the flow of the friction ridges (Level 1 Detail), the presence or absence of features along the individual friction ridge paths and their sequence (Level 2 Detail), and the intricate detail of a single ridge (Level 3 Detail). Recognition is usually based on the first and second levels of detail or just the latter.

AFIS technology exploits some of these fingerprint features. Friction ridges do not always flow continuously throughout a pattern and often result in specific characteristics such as ending ridges, dividing ridges and dots, or other information. An AFIS is designed to interpret the flow of the overall ridges to assign a fingerprint classification and then extract the minutiae detail – a subset of the total amount of information available yet enough information to effectively search a large repository of fingerprints.

Hardware
A variety of sensor types — optical, capacitive, ultrasound, and thermal — are used for collecting the digital image of a fingerprint surface. Optical sensors take an image of the fingerprint, and are the most common sensor today. The Page 102 of 166

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 triumph, you must wait till a number is collected sufficient to witness the death of so great an hero." "I disdain your insults," returned Alleyn, "and am equally able to support misfortune, and to despise tyrant." Malcolm retired, enraged at the boldness of his prisoner, and uttering menaces on the carelessness of the guard, who in vain endeavoured to justify himself. "His safety be upon your head," said the Baron. The soldier was shocked, and turned away in sullen silence. Dread of his prisoners effecting an escape, now seized his mind; the words of Malcolm filled him with resentment, while gratitude towards Alleyn, for the life he had spared, operated with these sentiments, and he hesitated whether he should obey the Baron, or deliver Alleyn, and fly his oppressor. At noon, he carried him his customary food; Alleyn was not so lost in misery, but that he observed the gloom which hung upon his features; his heart foreboded impending evil: the soldier bore on his tongue the sentence of death. He told Alleyn, that the Baron had appointed the following day for his execution; and his people were ordered to attend. Death, however long contemplated, must be dreadful when it arrives; this was no more than what Alleyn had expected, and on what he had brought his mind to gaze without terror; but his fortitude now sunk before its immediate presence and every nerve of his frame thrilled with agony. "Be comforted," said the soldier, in a tone of pity, "I, too, am no stranger to misery and if you are willing to risk the danger of double torture, I will attempt to release both you and myself from the hands of a tyrant." At these words, Alleyn started from the ground in a transport of delightful wonder: "Tell me not of torture," cried he, "all tortures are equal if death is the end, and from death I may now escape; lead me but beyond these walls, and the small possessions I have, shall be your's for ever." "I want them not," replied the generous soldier, "it is enough for me, that I save a fellow creature


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 from destruction." These words overpowered the heart of Alleyn, and tears of gratitude swelled in his eyes. Edric told him, that the door he had seen in the vault below, opened into a chain of vaults, which stretched beyond the wall of the castle, and communicated with a subterraneous way, anciently formed as a retreat from the fortress, and which terminated in the cavern of a forest at some distance. If this door could be opened, their escape was almost certain. They consulted on the measures necessary to be taken. The soldier gave Alleyn a knife larger than the one he had, and directed them to cut round the lock, which was all that with-held their passage. Edric's office of centinel, was propitious to their scheme, and it was agreed that at midnight they should descend the vaults. Edric, after having unfastened the chain, left the cell, and Alleyn set himself again to remove the pavement, which had been already re-placed by order of the Baron. The near prospect of deliverance now gladdened his spirits his knife was better formed for his purpose; and he worked with alacrity and ease. He arrived at the trap door, and once more leaped into the vault. He applied himself to the lock of the door, which was extremely thick, and it was with difficulty he separated them; with trembling hands he undrew the bolts, the door unclosed, and discovered to him the vaults. It was evening when he finished his work. He was but just returned to the dungeon, and had thrown himself on the ground to rest, when the sound of a distant step caught his ear; he listened to its advance with trembling eagerness. At length the door was unbolted; Alleyn breathless with expectation, started up, and beheld not his soldier, but another; the opening was again discovered, and all was now over. The soldier brought a pitcher of water, and casting round the place a look of sullen scrutiny, departed in silence. The stretch of human endurance was now exceeded, and Alleyn sunk down in a state of torpidity. On recovering, he found himself again enveloped


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Fingerprint Recognition capacitive sensor determines each pixel value based on the capacitance measured, made possible because an area of air (valley) has significantly less capacitance than an area of finger (friction ridge skin). Other fingerprint sensors capture images by employing high frequency ultrasound or optical devices that use prisms to detect the change in light reflectance related to the fingerprint. Thermal scanners require a swipe of a finger across a surface to measure the difference in temperature over time to create a digital image.

Software
The two main categories of fingerprint matching techniques are minutiae-based matching and pattern matching. Pattern matching simply compares two images to see how similar they are. Pattern matching is usually used in fingerprint systems to detect duplicates. The most widely used recognition technique, minutiae-based matching, relies on the minutiae points described above, specifically the location and direction of each point.

United States Government Evaluations
As mandated by the USA PATRIOT ACT and the Enhanced Border Security Act, NIST managed the Fingerprint Vendor Technology Evaluation (FpVTE) to evaluate the accuracy of fingerprint recognition systems. FpVTE was designed to assess the capability of fingerprint systems to meet requirements for both large-scale and small-scale real world applications. FpVTE 2003 consists of multiple tests performed with combinations of fingers (e.g., single fingers, two index fingers, four to ten fingers) and different types and qualities of operational fingerprints (e.g., flat livescan images from visa applicants, multi-finger slap livescan images from present-day booking or background check systems, or rolled and flat inked fingerprints from legacy criminal databases).

The most accurate systems in FpVTE 2003 were found to have consistently very low error rates across a variety of data sets. The variables that had the clearest effect on system accuracy were the number of fingers used and fingerprint quality. An increased number of fingers resulted in higher accuracy: the accuracy of searches using four or more fingers was better than the accuracy of two-finger searches, which was better than the accuracy of single-finger searches. Page 102 of 166

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Fingerprint Recognition

Standards Overview
Currently ongoing at both the national and international levels, fingerprints standards development is an essential element in fingerprint recognition because of the vast variety of algorithms and sensors available on the market. Interoperability is a crucial aspect of product implementation, meaning that images obtained by one device must be capable of being interpreted by a computer using another device. Major standards efforts focus on the standardization of the content, meaning, and representation of the fingerprint data interchange formats and include the ANSI/INCITS 381-2004 Finger Image-Based Data Interchange Format, ANSI/INCITS 377-2004 Finger Pattern Based Interchange Format, ANSI-INCITS 378-2004 Finger Minutiae Format for Data Interchange, ISO/IEC 19794-2 Finger Minutiae Format for Data Interchange, ISO/IEC FCD 19794-3 Finger Pattern Based Interchange Format, and the ISO/IEC 19794-4 Finger Image Based Interchange Format. (Additional information regarding these standards can be found in the Appendix.)

Another noteworthy standard is ANSI NIST ITL 1-2000 Data Format for the Interchange of Fingerprint, Facial, & Scar Mark & Tattoo (SMT) Information. This standard specifies a common format used for the exchange of fingerprint, facial, scar, mark and tattoo data effectively across jurisdictional lines or between dissimilar systems made by different manufacturers. Electronic Fingerprint Transmission Specification (v7.1) and Electronic Biometric Transmission Specification (v1.0) are specific implementations of ANSI NIST ITL 1-2000 used by the FBI and DoD. Other standards also associated with ANSI NIST ITL 1-2000 are the FBI’s Wavelet Scalar Quantization (WSQ) and Join Photographic Experts Group 2000 (JPEG2000) which are both used for the compression of fingerprint images.

Fast Capture of Rolled-Equivalent Fingerprints and Palm Prints
Fast capture, a multi-agency Government initiative, is expanding fingerprint and palm research, challenging industry to develop and demonstrate technology to capture 10 rolled-equivalent fingerprints in less than 15 seconds and/or both palm prints in less than one minute, significantly improve fingerprint image quality, reduce the failure-to-enroll rate, and be affordable, rugged, Page 104 of 166

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 in the horrors of darkness, silence, and despair. Yet amid all his sufferings, he disdained to doubt the integrity of his soldier: we naturally recoil from painful sensations, and it is one of the most exquisite tortures of a noble mind, to doubt the sincerity of those in whom it has confided. Alleyn concluded, that the conversation of the morning had been overheard, and that this guard had been sent to examine the cell, and to watch his movements. He believed that Edric was now, by his own generosity, involved in destruction; and in the energy of this thought, he forget for a moment his own situation.

Midnight came, but Edric did not appear; his doubts were now confirmed into certainty, and he resigned himself to the horrid tranquillity of mate despair. He heard from a distance, the clock of the castle strike one; it seemed to sound the knell of death; it roused his benumbed senses, and he rose from the ground in an agony of acutest recollection. Suddenly he heard the steps of two persons advancing down the avenue; he started, and listened. Malcolm and murder, arose to his mind; he doubted not that the soldier had reported what he had seen in the evening, and that the persons whom he now heard, were coming to execute the final orders of the Baron. They now drew near the dungeon, when suddenly he remembered the door in the vault. His senses had been so stunned by the appearance of the stranger, and his mind so occupied with a feeling of despair, as to exclude every idea of escape; and in the energy of his sufferings he had forgot this last resource; it now flashed like lightning upon his mind; he sprung to the trap door, and his feet had scarcely touched the bottom of the vault when he heard the bolts of the dungeon undraw; he had just reached the entrance of the inner vault, when a voice sounded from above; he paused, and knew it to be Edric's; apprehension so entirely possessed his mind, that he hesitated whether he should discover himself, but a moment of recollection dissipated every ignoble sus-


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Fingerprint Recognition portable, relatively unobtrusive in size, and deployable in the near future.

Integrated Automatic Fingerprint Identification System (IAFIS)
Maintained by the FBI Criminal Justice Information Services (CJIS), IAFIS contains over 47 million subjects. System capabilities include automated tenprint and latent fingerprint searches, electronic image storage, and electronic exchanges of fingerprints and responses. Through partnerships formed between the FBI and the law enforcement community, IAFIS became operational in 1999 to expedite fingerprint search requests that were being performed manually through human verification ― a process that could take up to three months. IAFIS request results are returned within two hours for criminal inquiries and within 24 hours for civil inquiries.

NIST Special Publication 800-76
NIST Special Publication 800-76, Biometric Data Specification for Personal Identity Verification, contains specifics for acquiring, formatting, and storing fingerprint images and templates for collecting and formatting facial images; and specifications for biometric devices used to collect and read fingerprint images. The publication specifies that two fingerprint be stored on the card as “minutia templates,” mathematical representations of fingerprint images.

US-VISIT
The US-VISIT program is the centerpiece of the United States government's efforts to transform our nation's border management and immigration systems in a way that meets the needs and challenges of the 21st century. US-VISIT is part of a continuum of biometrically-enhanced security measures that begins outside U.S. borders and continues through a visitor's arrival to and departure from the US.

Most visitors experience US-VISIT's biometric procedures ― digital, inkless fingerprints and digital photographs ― upon entry to the US. In those cases where a visitor requires a visa, the Department of State collects the visitor's biometric and biographic information. When the visitor arrives in the US, US-VISIT procedures allow the Department of Homeland Security to determine whether the person applying for entry is the same person who was issued the visa by the Department of State. Page 105 of 166

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The Case of Jennie Brice (serial, Everybody's)/Part 4

FTER twenty-four hours' deliberation, the jury brought in a verdict of guilty. It was a first-degree verdict. Mr. Howell's unsupported word had lost out against a scar.

Contrary to my expectation, Mr. Holcombe was not jubilant over the verdict. He came into the dining-room that night and stood by the window, looking out into the yard.

“It isn't logical,” he said. “In view of Howell's testimony, it's ridiculous! Heaven help us under this jury system, anyhow! Look at the facts! Howell knows the woman: he sees her on Monday morning, and puts her on a train out of town. Very well: she was alive on Monday. We know where she was on Tuesday and Wednesday. Anyhow, during those days her gem of a husband was in jail. He was freed Thursday night, and from that time on until his rearrest on the following Tuesday, I had him under observation every moment. He left the jail Thursday night, and on Saturday the body floated in at Sewickley. If it was done by Ladley, it must have been done on Friday, and on Friday he was in view through the periscope all day!”

Mr. Reynolds came in and joined us. “There's only one way out that I see,” he said mildly. “Two women have been fool enough to have names tattooed over their hearts. No woman ever thought enough of me to have my name put on her.”

“I hope not,” I retorted. Mr. Reynolds's first name is Zachariah.

But, as Mr. Holcombe said, all that had been proven was that Jennie Brice was dead, probably murdered. He could not understand the defense letting the case go to the jury without their putting more stress on Mr. Howell's story. But we were to understand that soon, and many other things. Mr. Holcombe told me that evening of learning from John Bellows of the tattoed name on Jennie Brice and of how, after an almost endless search, he had found the man who had cut the name away.

At eight o'clock the door-bell rang. Mr. Reynolds had gone to lodge, he being an Elk and several other things, and much given to regalia in boxes, and having his picture in the newspapers in different outlandish costumes. Mr. Pitman used to say that man, being denied his natural love for barbaric adornment in his every-day clothing, took to the different fraternities as an excuse for decking himself out. But this has nothing to do with the door-bell.

It was old Isaac. He had a basket in his hand, and he stepped into the hall and placed it on the floor.

“Evening, Miss Bess,” he said. “Can you see a bit of company to-night?”

“I can always see you,” I replied. But he had not meant himself. He stepped to the door and, opening it, beckoned to some one across the street. It was Lida!

She came in, her color a little heightened, and old Isaac stood back, beaming at us both; I believe it was one of the crowning moments of the old man's life—thus to see his Miss Bess and Alma's child together.

“Is—is he here yet?” she asked me nervously.

“I did not know he was coming.” There was no need to ask which “he.” There was only one for Lida.

“He telephoned me and asked me to come here. Oh, Mrs. Pitman, I'm so afraid for him!” She had quite forgotten Isaac.

I turned to the school-teacher's room and opened the door.

“The woman who belongs here is out at a lecture,” I said. “Come in here, Ikkie, and I'll find the evening paper for you.”

“'Ikkie'!” said Lida, and stood staring at me.

“The lady heah and I is old friends,” Isaac said, with his splendid manner. “Her mothah, Miss Lida, her mothah—”

But even old Isaac choked up at that, and I closed the door on him.

“How queer!” Lida said, looking at me. “So Isaac knew your mother? Have you lived always in Allegheny, Mrs. Pitman?”

“I was born in Pittsburgh,” I evaded. “I went away for a long time, but I always longed for the hurry and activity of the old home town. So here I am again.”

Fortunately, like all the young, her own affairs engrossed her. She was flushed with the prospect of meeting her lover, tremulous over what the evening might bring. The middle-aged woman who had come hack to the hurry of the old town, and who, pushed back into an eddy of the flood district, could only watch the activity and the life from behind a “Rooms to Let” sign, did not concern her much. Nor should she have. Mr. Howell came soon after. He asked for her and, going back to the dining-room, kissed her quietly. He had an air of resolve, a sort of grim determination, that was a relief from the half-frantic look he had worn before. He asked to have Mr. Holcombe brought down, and so behold us all, four of us, sitting around the table—Mr. Holcombe with his note-book, I with my mending, and the boy with one of Lida's hands frankly under his on the red table-cloth.

“I want to tell all of you the whole story,” he began. “To-morrow I shall go to the district attorney and confess, but—I want you all to have it first. I can't sleep again until I get it off my chest. Mrs. Pitman has suffered through me, and Mr. Holcombe here has spent money and time”

Lida did not speak, but she drew her chair closer, and put her other hand over his.

“I want to get it straight, if I can. Let me see. It was on Sunday, the fourth, that the river came up, wasn't it? Yes. Well, on the Thursday before that, I met you, Mr. Holcombe, in a restaurant in Pittsburgh. Do you remember?”

Mr. Holcombe nodded.

“We were talking of crime, and I said no man should be hanged on purely circumstantial evidence. You affirmed that a well-linked chain of circumstantial evidence could properly hang a man. We had a long argument, in which I was worsted. There was a third man at the table—Bronson, the business manager of the Liberty Theatre.”

“Who sided with you,” put in Mr. Holcombe, “and whose views I refused to entertain, because, as publicity man for a theatre, he dealt in fiction rather than in fact.”

“Precisely. You may recall, Mr. Holcombe, that you offered to hang any man we would name, given a proper chain of circumstantial evidence against him?”

“Yes.”

“After you left, Bronson spoke to me. He said business at the theatre was bad, and complained of the way the papers used, or would not use, his stuff. He said the Liberty Theatre had not had a proper deal, and that he was tempted to go over and bang one of the company on the head, and so get a little free advertising.

“I said he ought to be able to fake a good story; but he maintained that a newspaper could smell a faked story a mile away, and that, anyhow, all the good stunts had been pulled off. I agreed with him. I remember saying that nothing but a railroad wreck or a murder hit the public very hard these days, and that I didn't feel like wrecking the Pennsylvania Limited.

“He leaned over the table and looked at me. 'Well, how about a murder, then?' he said. 'You get the story for your paper, and I get some advertising for the theatre. We need it, that's sure.'

“I laughed it off, and we separated. But at two o'clock Bronson called me up again. I met him in his office at the theatre, and he told me that Jennie Brice, who was out of the cast that week, had asked for a week's vacation. She had heard of a farm at a town called Horner, and she wanted to go there to rest.

“'Now the idea is this,' he said. 'She's living with her husband, and he has threatened her life more than once. It would be easy enough to frame up something to look as if he'd made away with her. We'd get a week of excitement, more advertising than we'd ordinarily get in a year; you get a corking news story, and find Jennie Brice at the end, getting the credit for that. Jennie gets a hundred dollars and a rest, and Ladley, her husband gets, say, two hundred.'

“Mr. Bronson offered to put up the money, and I agreed. The flood came just then, and was considerable help. It made a good setting. I went to my city editor, and got an assignment to interview Ladley about this play of his. Then Bronson and I went together to see the Ladleys on Sunday morning, and as they needed money they agreed. But Ladley insisted on fifty dollars a week extra if he had to go to jail. We promised it, but we did not intend to let things go as far as that.

“In the Ladleys' room that Sunday morning, we worked it all out. The hardest thing was to get Jennie Brice's consent; but she agreed, finally. We arranged a list of clues, to be left around, and Ladley was to go out in the night and to be heard coming back. I told him to quarrel with his wife that afternoon—although I don't believe they needed to be asked to do it—and I suggested also the shoe or slipper, to be found floating around.”

“Just a moment,” said Mr. Holcombe, busy with his note-book. “Did you suggest the onyx clock?”

“No. No clock was mentioned. The—the clock has puzzled me.”

“The towel?”

“Yes. I said no murder was complete without blood, but he kicked on that—said he didn't mind the rest, but he'd be hanged if he was going to slash himself. But, as it happened, he cut his wrist while cutting the boat loose, and so we had the towel.”

“Pillow-slip?” asked Mr. Holcombe.

“Well, no. There was nothing said about a pillow-slip. Didn't he say he burned it accidentally?”

“So he claimed.” Mr. Holcombe made another entry in his book.

“Then I said every murder had a weapon. He was to have a pistol at first, but none of us owned one. Mrs. Ladley undertook to get a knife from Mrs. Pitman's kitchen, and to leave it around, not in full view, but where it could be found.”

“A broken knife?”

“No. Just a knife.”

“He was to throw the knife into the water?”

“That was not arranged. I only gave him a general outline. He was to add any interesting details that might occur to him. The idea, of course, was to give the police plenty to work on, and just when they thought they had it all, and when the theatre had had a lot of booming, and I had got a good story, to produce Jennie Brice, safe and well. We were not to appear in it at all. It would have worked perfectly, but we forgot to count on one thing—Jennie Brice hated her husband.”

“Not really hated him!” cried Lida.

“Hated him. She is letting him hang. She could save him by coming forward now, and she won't do it. She is hiding so he will go to the gallows.”

There was a pause at that. It seemed too incredible, too inhuman.

“Then, early that Monday morning, you smuggled Jennie Brice out of the city?”

“Yes. That was the only thing we bungled. We fixed the hour a little too late, and I was seen by Miss Harvey's uncle, walking across the bridge with a woman.”

“Why did you meet her openly, and take her to the train?”

Mr. Howell bent forward and smiled across at the little man. “One of your own axioms, sir,” he said. “Do the natural thing; upset the customary order of events as little as possible. Jennie Brice went to the train, because that was where she wanted to go. But as Ladley was to protest that his wife had left town, and as the police would be searching for a solitary woman, I went with her. We went in a leisurely manner. I bought her a magazine and a morning paper, asked the conductor to fix her window, and, in general, acted the devoted husband seeing his wife off on a trip. I even”—he smiled—“I even promised to feed the canary!”

Lida took her hands away. “Did you kiss her good-by?” she demanded.

“Not even a chaste salute,” he said. His spirits were rising. It was, as often happens, as if the mere confession removed the guilt. I have seen little boys who have broken a window show the same relief after telling about it.

“For a day or two Bronson and I sat back, enjoying the stir-up. Things turned out as we had expected. Business boomed at the theatre. I got a good story, and some few kind words from my city editor. Then—the explosion came. I got a letter from Jennie Brice saying she was going away, and that we need not try to find her. I went to Horner, but I had lost track of her completely. Even then, we did not believe things as bad as they turned out to be. We thought she was giving us a bad time, but that she would show up.

“Ladley was in a blue funk for a time. Bronson and I went to him. We told him how the thing had slipped up. We didn't want to go to the police and confess if we could help it. Finally, he agreed to stick it out until she was found, at a hundred dollars a week. It took all we could beg, borrow, and steal. But now—we have to come out with the story anyhow.”

Mr. Holcombe sat up and closed his note-book with a snap. “I'm not so sure of that,” he said impressively. “I wonder if you realize, young man, that, having provided a perfect defense for this man Ladley, you provided him with every possible inducement to make away with his wife? Secure in your coming forward at the last minute and confessing the hoax to save him, was there anything he might not have dared with impunity?”

“But I tell you I took Jennie Brice out of town on Monday morning.”

“Did you?” asked Mr. Holcombe sternly.

But at that the school-teacher, having come home and found old Isaac sound asleep in her cozy corner, set up such a screaming for the police that our meeting broke up. Nor would Mr. Holcombe explain any further.

Mr. Holcombe was up very early the next morning. I heard him moving around at five o'clock, and at six he banged at my door and demanded to know at what time the neighborhood rose: he had been up for an hour and there were no signs of life. He was more cheerful after he had had a cup of coffee, commented on Lida's beauty, and said that Howell was a lucky chap.

“That is what worries me, Mr. Holcombe,” I said. “I am helping the affair along and—what if it turns out badly?”

He looked at me over his glasses. “It isn't likely to turn out badly,” he said. “I have never married, Mrs. Pitman, and I have missed a great deal out of life.”

“Perhaps you're better off: if you had married and lost your wife—” I was thinking of Mr. Pitman.

“Not at all,” he said with emphasis. “It's better to have married and lost, than never to have married at all. Every man needs a good woman, and it doesn't matter how old he is. The older he is, the more he needs her. I am nearly sixty.”

I was rather startled, and I almost dropped the fried potatoes. But the next moment he had got out his note-book and was going over the items again. “Pillow slip,” he said, “knife broken, onyx clock—wouldn't think so much of the clock if he hadn't been so damnably anxious to hide the key—the discrepancy in time as revealed by the trial—yes, it is as clear as a bell. Mrs. Pitman, does that Maguire woman next door sleep all day?”

“She's up now,” I said, looking out the window.

“He was in the hall in a moment, only to come to the door later, hat in hand. “Is she the only other woman on the street who keeps boarders?”

“She's the only woman who doesn't,” I snapped. “She'll keep anything that doesn't belong to her—except boarders.”

“Ah!”

He lighted his corn-cob pipe and stood puffing at it and watching me. He made me uneasy: I thought he was going to continue the subject of every man needing a wife, and I'm afraid I had already decided to take him if he offered, and to put the school-teacher out and have a real parlor again, but to keep Mr. Reynolds, he being tidy and no bother.

But when he spoke, he was back to the crime again: “Did you ever work a typewriter?” he asked.

What with the surprise, I was a little sharp. “I don't play any instrument except an egg-beater,” I replied shortly, and went on clearing the table.

“I wonder—do you remember about the village idiot and the horse? But of course you do, Mrs. Pitman; you are a woman of imagination. Don't you think you could be Alice Murray for a few moments? Now think—you are a stenographer with theatrical ambitions: you meet an actor and you fall in love with him, and he with you.”

“That's hard to imagine, that last.”

“Not so hard,” he said gently. “Now, the actor is going to put you on the stage, perhaps in this new play, and some day he is going to marry you.”

“Is that what he promised the girl?”

“According to some letters her mother found, yes. The actor is married, but he tells you he will divorce his wife; you are to wait for him, and in the meantime he wants you near him, away from the office, where other men are apt to come in with letters to be typed, and to chaff you. You are a pretty girl.”

“It isn't necessary to overwork my imagination,” I said, with a little bitterness. I had been a pretty girl, but work and worry

“Now you are going to New York very soon, and in the meantime you have cut yourself off from all your people. You have no one but this man. What would you do? Where would you go?”

“How old was the girl?”

“Nineteen.”

“I think,” I said slowly, “that if I were nineteen, and in love with a man, and hiding, I would hide as near him as possible. I'd be likely to get a window that could see his going out and coming in, a place so near that he could come often to see me.”

“Bravo!” he exclaimed. “Of course, with your present wisdom and experience, you would do nothing so foolish. But this girl was in her teens; she was not very far away, for he probably saw her that Sunday afternoon, when he was out for only an hour or so. And as the going was slow that day, and he had much to tell and explain, I figure she was not far off. Probably in this very neighborhood.”

Mr. Holcombe went out shortly after that, and during the remainder of that morning I saw him at intervals, going from house to house along Union Street, making short excursions into side thoroughfares, coming back again and taking up his door bell ringing with unflagging energy. I watched him off and on for two hours. At the end of that time he came back flushed and excited.

“I found the house,” he said, wiping his glasses. “She was there, all right, not so close as we had thought, but as close as she could get.”

“And can you trace her?” I asked.

His face changed and saddened. “Poor child!” he said. “She is dead, Mrs. Pitman!”

“Not she—at Sewickley!”

“No,” he said patiently. “That was Jennie Brice.”

“But—Mr. Howell”

“Mr. Howell is a young ass,” he said, with irritation. “He did not take Jennie Brice out of the city that morning. He took Alice Murray, veiled and in Jennie Brice's clothing.”

“Well, that is five years ago. Five times since then the Allegheny River, from being a mild and inoffensive stream, carrying a few boats and a great deal of sewage, has become a raging destroyer, and has filled our hearts with fear and our cellars with mud. Five times since then Molly Maguire has appropriated all that the flood carried from my premises to hers, and five times have I lifted my carpets and moved Mr. Holcombe, who occupies the parlor bedroom, to a second-floor room.

A few days ago, as I said at the beginning, we found Peter's body floating in the cellar, and as soon as the yard was dry, I buried him. He had grown fat and lazy, but I shall miss him.

Yesterday, a riverman fell off a barge along the water-front and was drowned. They dragged the river for his body, but they did not find him. But they found something—an onyx clock, with the tattered remnant of a muslin pillow-slip wrapped around it. It only bore out the story as we had known it for five years.

The Murray girl had lived long enough to make a statement to the police, although Mr. Holcombe only learned this later. On the statement being shown to Ladley in the jail, and his learning of the girl's death, he collapsed. He confessed before he was hanged, and his confession, briefly, was like this:

He had met the Murray girl in connection with the typing of his play, and had fallen in love with her. He had never cared for his wife, and would have been glad to get rid of her in any way possible. He had not intended to kill her, however. He had planned to elope with the Murray girl, and, awaiting an opportunity, had persuaded her to leave home, and to take a room near my house.

Here he had visited her daily, while his wife was at the theatre.

They had planned to go to New York together on Monday, March the fifth. On Sunday, the fourth, however, Mr. Bronson and Mr. Howell had made their curious proposition. When he accepted, Philip Ladley maintained that he meant only to carry out the plan as suggested. But the temptation was too strong for him. That night, while his wife slept, he had strangled her.

I believe he was frantic with fear, after he had done it. Then it occurred to him that if he made the body unrecognizable, he would be safe enough. On that quiet Sunday night, when Mr. Reynolds reported all peaceful in the Ladley room, he had cut off the poor wretch's head and had tied it up in a pillow-slip, weighted with my onyx clock!

It is a curious fact about the case, that the scar which his wife incurred to enable her to marry him was the means of his undoing. He insisted, and I believe he was telling the truth, that he did not know of the scar: that is, his wife had never told him of it, and had been able to conceal it. He thought she had probably used paraffin in some way.

In his final statement, written with great care and no little literary finish, he told the story in detail: of arranging the clues as Mr. Howell and Mr. Bronson had suggested; of going out in the boat, with the body, covered with a fur coat, in the bottom of the skiff; of throwing it into the current above the Ninth Street bridge, and of seeing the fur coat fall from the boat and carried beyond his reach; and, in endeavoring to recover it, of being carried far out in the current; of disposing of the head near the Seventh Street bridge; of going to a drug-store, as per the Howell instructions, and of coming home at four o'clock, to find me at the head of the stairs.

Several points of confusion remained. One had been caused by Temple Hope's refusal to admit that the dress and hat that figured in the case were to be used by her the next week at the theatre. Mr. Ladley insisted that this was the case, and that on that Sunday afternoon his wife had requested him to take them to Miss Hope; that they had quarreled as to whether they should be packed in a box or in the brown valise, and that he had visited Alice Murray instead. It was on the way there that the idea of finally getting rid of Jennie Brice came to him. And a way—using the black-and-white striped dress of the dispute.

Another point of confusion had been the dismantling of his room that Monday night, some time between the visit of Temple Hope and the return of Mr. Holcombe. This was to secure the scrap of paper containing the list of clues as suggested by Mr. Howell, a clue that might have brought about a premature discovery of the so-called hoax.

To the girl he had told nothing of his plan. But he had told her she was to leave town on an early train the next morning, going as his wife; that he wished her to wear the black-and-white dress and hat, for reasons that he would explain later, and to be heavily veiled; that to the young man who would put her on the train, and who had seen Jennie Brice only once, she was to be Jennie Brice; to say as little as possible and not to raise her veil. Her further instructions were simple: to go to the place at Horner where Jennie Brice had planned to go, but to use the name of “Bellows” there. And after she had been there for a day or two, to go as quietly as possible to New York. He gave her the address of a boarding-house where he could write her, and where he would join her later.

He reasoned in this way: That as Alice Murray was to impersonate Jennie Brice, and Jennie Brice hiding from her husband, she would naturally discard her name. The name “Bellows” had been hers by a previous marriage and she might easily resume it. Thus, to establish his innocence, he had not only the evidence of Howell and Bronson that the whole thing was a gigantic hoax; he had the evidence of Howell that he had started Jennie Brice to Horner that Monday morning, the evidence that she had reached Horner, had there assumed an incognito, as Mr. Pitman would say, and had later disappeared from there, maliciously concealing herself to work his undoing.

In all probability, he would have gone free, the richer by a hundred dollars for each week of his imprisonment, but for two things: the flood, which had brought opportunity to his door, had brought Mr. Holcombe to feed Peter, the dog. And the same flood, which should have carried the headless body as far as Cairo, or even farther on down the Mississippi, had rejected it in an eddy below a clay bluff at Sewickley, with its pitiful covering washed from the scar.

Well, it is all over now. Mr. Ladley is dead, and Alice Murray, and even Peter lies in the yard. Mr. Reynolds made a small wooden cross over Peter's grave, and carved “Till we meet again,” on it. I dare say the next flood will find it in Molly Maguire's kitchen.

Mr. Howell and Lida are married. Mr. Howell inherited some money, I believe, and what with that and Lida declaring she would either marry him in a church or run off to Steubenville, Ohio, Alma had to consent. I went to the wedding and stood near the door, while Alma swept in, in lavender chiffon and rose point lace. She has not improved with age, has Alma. But Lida—Lida, under my mother's wedding veil, with her eyes like stars, seeing no one in the church in all that throng but the boy who waited at the end of the long aisle—I wanted to run out and claim her, my own blood, my more than child.

I sat down and covered my face. And from the pew behind me some one leaned over and patted my shoulder.

“Miss Bess!” old Isaac said gently. “Don't take on, Miss Bess!”

He came the next day and brought me some lilies from the bride's bouquet that she had sent me, and a bottle of champagne from the wedding supper. I had not tasted champagne for twenty years!

That is all of the story. On summer afternoons sometimes, when the house is hot, I go to the park and sit. I used to take Peter, but now he is dead. I like to see Lida's little boy: the nurse knows me by sight, and lets me talk to the child. He can say “Peter” quite plainly. But he does not call Alma “Grandmother.” The nurse says she does not like it. He calls her “Nana.”

Lida does not forget me. Especially at flood-times, she always comes to see if I am comfortable. The other day she brought me, with apologies, the chiffon gown her mother had worn at her wedding. Alma had never worn it but once, and now she was too stout for it. I took it; I am not proud, and I should like Molly Maguire to see it.

Mr. Holcombe asked me last night to marry him. He says he needs me, and that I need him.

I am a lonely woman, and getting old, and I'm tired of watching the gas meter; and besides, with Peter dead, I need a man in the house all the time. The flood district is none too orderly. And then, when I have a wedding dress laid away and a bottle of good wine, it seems a pity not to use them.

I think I shall do it.


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Page:Fingerprint Recognition 2013.pdf/7

Fingerprint Recognition ==Summary== For over a century, fingerprints have been one of the most highly used methods for human recognition; automated biometric systems have only been available in recent years. The determination and commitment of the fingerprint industry, government evaluations and needs, and organized standards bodies have led to the next generation of fingerprint recognition, which promises faster and higher quality acquisition devices to produce higher accuracy and more reliability. Because fingerprints have a generally broad acceptance with the general public, law enforcement, and the forensic science community, they will continue to be used with many governments’ legacy systems and will be utilized in new systems for evolving applications that require a reliable biometric.

Document References
John D. Woodward, Jr., Nicholas M. Orlans, and Peter T. Higgins, Biometrics ( New York: McGraw Hill Osborne, 2003).

Nalini Ratha and Ruud Bolle, Automatic Fingerprint Recognition Systems ( Springer: New York, 2004).

James Wayman, et al, Biometric Systems Technology, Design and Performance Evaluation ( London: Springer, 2005).

Maltoni, Davide, Maio, Jain, and Prabhakar, Handbook of Fingerprint Recognition ( Springer: New York, 2005).

Secugen Biometrics Solutions .

International Biometric Group .

Manfred Bromba, “Bioidentification: Frequently Asked Questions” .

FpVTE 2003: “Fingerprint Vendor Technology Evaluation” 6 July 2004 < http://fpvte.nist.gov/>.

International Committee for Information Technology Standards, “M1 Biometrics” .

International Organization for Standardization, “JTC 1/ SC37 Biometrics Projects” Page 106 of 166

title: Page:Fingerprint Recognition 2013.pdf/7


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Page:Anna Karenina.djvu/1052

370 none of us, can live in any other way. But Feodor says, too, that it is wrong to live for the belly, but that we should live for truth, for God; and I know what that means as well. I, and millions of men, muzhiks, and sages who have thought and written on the subject, or in their obscure language have talked about it, in the past and in the present,—we are in accord on one point; and that is, that we should live for 'the good.' The only knowledge that I and all men possess that is clear, indubitable, absolute, is here. We have not reached it by reason. Reason excludes it, for it has neither cause nor effect. 'The good,' if it had a cause, would cease to be the good; if it had an effect,—a reward,—it would cease to be the good. The good must be outside of the chain of cause and effect. And I know this, and we all know it. Can there be greater miracle than this?

"Have I really found the solution of my doubts? Shall I cease to suffer?" Levin asked himself as he followed the dusty road, insensible to weariness and heat, and feeling that his long travail was at an end. The sensation was so delightful, that he could not believe that it was true. He choked with emotion; his strength failed him; and he left the highroad, and went into the woods, and sat down under the shadow of an aspen on the unmown grass. He uncovered his moist forehead, and stretched himself out on the succulent wood-grass, and leaned his head on his hand.

"Yes, I must reflect and consider," he thought, looking attentively at the untrodden grass in front of him, and watching the movements of an earth-beetle crawling up the stalk of couch-grass, and stopped by a leaf. "What discovery have I made?" he said to himself, removing the leaf from the beetle's way, and bending down another stalk of couch-grass to help the beetle on. "What makes me so happy? What discovery have I made?"

"I have made no discovery. I have only opened my eyes to what I already know. I have learned to recognize that power which formerly gave me life, and gives

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