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 mortal, inasmuch as we may know, if we choose, the names of every one of them. Through the long pages of legend and romance the figure of the dog is clearly outlined; and when history begins with man's struggle for existence, the dog may be found his ally and confederate. It was a strange fatality which impelled this animal to abandon communal life and the companionship of his kind for the restraints, the safety, the infinite weariness of domesticity. It was an amazing tractableness which caused him to accept a set of principles foreign to his nature—the integrity of work, the honourableness of servitude, the artificial values of civilization.

As a consequence of this extraordinary change of base, we have grown accustomed to judge the dog by human standards. In fact, there are no other standards which apply to him. The good dog, like the good man, is the dog

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 which has duties to perform, and which performs them faithfully. The bad dog, like the bad man, is the dog which is idle, ill-tempered and over-indulged by women. Women are responsible for most of the dog-failures, as well as for many of the man-failures of the world. So long as they content themselves with toy beasts, this does not much matter; but a real dog, beloved and therefore pampered by his mistress, is a lamentable spectacle. He suffers from fatty degeneration of his moral being.

What if the shepherd dog fares hardly, and if exposure stiffens his limbs! He has at least lived, and played his part in life. Nothing more beautiful or more poignant has ever been written about any animal than James Hogg's description of his old collie which could no longer gather in the sheep, and with which he was compelled to part, because—poor Ettrick shepherd—he could not afford to pay

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 the tax on two dogs. The decrepit beast refused to be separated from the flocks which had been his care and pride. Day after day he hobbled along, watching the new collie bustling about his work, and—too wise to interfere—looking with reproachful eyes at the master who had so reluctantly discarded him.

The literature of the dog is limitless. A single shelf would hold all that has been written about the cat. A library would hardly suffice for the prose and verse dedicated to the dog. From "Gêlert" to "Rab" and "Bob, Son of Battle," he has dominated ballad and fiction. Few are the poets and few the men of letters who have not paid some measure of tribute to him. Goethe, indeed, and Alfred de Musset detested all dogs, and said so composedly. Their detestation was temperamental, and not the result of an unfortunate encounter, such as hardened the heart of Dr. Isaac Barrow, mathematician,

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 and Master of Trinity College. Sidney Smith tells us with something akin to glee that this eminent scholar, when taking an early stroll in the grounds of a friend and host, was attacked by a huge and unwarrantably suspicious mastiff. Barrow, a fighter all his life (a man who would fight Algerine pirates was not to be easily daunted), hurled the dog to the ground, and fell on top of him. The mastiff could not get up, but neither could Barrow, who called loudly for assistance. It came, and the combatants were separated; but a distaste for morning strolls and an aversion for dogs lingered in the Master's mind. There was one less enthusiast in the world.

We are apt to think that the exuberance of sentiment entertained by Americans for dogs is a distinctively British trait, that we have inherited it along with our language, our literature, our manliness, our love of sport, our ad-

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 mirable outdoor qualities. But it may be found blooming luxuriously in other and less favoured lands. That interesting study of Danish childhood by Carl Ewald, called "My Little Boy," contains a chapter devoted to the lamentable death of a dog named Jean, "the biggest dog in Denmark." This animal, though at times condescending to kindness, knew how to maintain his just authority. "He once bit a boy so hard that the boy still walks lame. He once bit his own master." The simple pride with which these incidents are narrated would charm a dog-lover's soul. And the lame boy's point of view is not permitted to intrude.

Of all writers who have sung the praises of the dog, and who have justified our love for him, Maeterlinck has given the fullest expression to the profound and absorbing egotism which underlies this love. Never for a moment does he consider his dog save as a wor-

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 shipper. Never does he think of himself save as a being worshipped. Never does he feel that this relationship can be otherwise than just, reasonable, and satisfying to both parties. "The dog," he says, "reveres us as though we had drawn him out of nothing. He has a morality which surpasses all that he is able to discover in himself, and which he can practise without scruple and without fear. He possesses truth in its fullness. He has a certain and infinite ideal."

And what is this ideal? "He" (the dog) "is the only living being that has found, and recognizes, an indubitable, unexceptionable and definite god."

And who is this god? M. Maeterlinck, you, I, anybody who has bought and reared a puppy. Yet we are told that the dog is intelligent. What is there about men which can warrant the worship of a wise beast? What sort of "truth in its fullness" is compatible

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 with such a blunder? Yet it is for the sake of being idolized that we prize and cherish the idolater. Our fellow mortals will not love us unless we are lovable. They will not admire us unless we are admirable. Our cats will probably neither love nor admire us, being self-engrossed animals, free from encumbering sensibilities. But our dogs will love and admire the meanest of us, and feed our colossal vanity with their uncritical homage. M. Maeterlinck recognizes our dependence on the dog for the deification we crave, and is unreasonably angry with the cat for her aloofness. In her eyes, he complains, we are parasites in our own homes. "She curses us from the depths of her mysterious heart."

She does not. She tolerates us with a wise tolerance, recognizing our usefulness, and indulgent of our foibles. Domesticity has not cost her the heavy price it has cost the dog. She has

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 merely exchanged the asylum of cave or tree for the superior accommodation of the house. Her habits remain unaltered, her freedom unviolated. Cream-fed and pampered, she still loves the pleasures of the chase; nor will she pick and choose her prey at the recommendation of prejudiced humanity. M. Maeterlinck, who has striven to enter into the consciousness of the dog, describes it as congested with duties and inhibitions. There are chairs he must not sit on, rooms he must not enter, food he must not steal, babies he must not upset, cats he must not chase, visitors he must not bark at, beggars and tramps he must not permit to enter the gates. He lives under as many, and as strict, compulsions as though he were a citizen of the United States. By comparison with this perverted intelligence, this artificial morality, the mind of the cat appears like a cool and spacious chamber, with only

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 her own spirit to fill it, and only her own tastes and distastes to be consulted and obeyed.

Perhaps it is because the dog is so hedged in by rules and regulations that he has lost his initiative. Descended from animals that lived in packs, and that enjoyed the advantages of communal intelligence, he could never have possessed this quality as it was possessed by an animal that lived alone, and had only his own acuteness and experience to rely on. But having surrendered his will to the will of man, and his conscience to the keeping of man, the dog has by now grown dependent for his simplest pleasures upon man's caprice. He loves to roam; but whereas the cat does roam at will, rightly rejecting all interference with her liberty, the dog craves permission to accompany his master on a stroll, and, being refused, slinks sadly back to confinement and inaction. I have great respect for

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 those exceptional dogs that take their exercise when they need or desire it in self-sufficing solitude. I once knew an Irish terrier that had this independent turn of mind. He invited himself to daily constitutionals, and might have been seen any morning trotting along the road, miles away from home, with the air of an animal walking to keep his flesh down. In the end he was run over by a speeding motor, but what of that? Die we must, and, while he lived, he was free.

A lordliness of sentiment mars much of the admirable poetry written about dogs. The poet thrones himself before addressing his devoted and credulous ally. Even Matthew Arnold's lines to "Kaiser Dead"—among the best of their kind—are heavy with patronage:

To be sure, Kaiser was a mongrel; but

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 why emphasize his low estate? As a matter of fact, mongrels, like self-made men, are apt to have a peculiar complacency of demeanour. They do not rank themselves among "the humbler sort"; but "serve and tend" on the same conditions as their betters.

Two years ago Mr. Galsworthy, who stands in the foremost rank of dog-lovers, and who has drawn for us some of the most lifelike and attractive dogs in fiction, pleaded strongly and emotionally for the exemption of this animal from any form of experimental research. He had the popular sentiment of England back of him, because popular sentiment always is emotional. The question of vivisection is one of abstract morality. None but the supremely ignorant can deny its usefulness. There remain certain questions which call for clean-cut answers. Does our absolute power over beasts carry with it an absolute right? May we justifiably

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 sacrifice them for the good of humanity? What degree of pain are we morally justified in inflicting on them to save men from disease and death? If we faced the issue squarely, we should feel no more concern for the kind of animal which is used for experimentation than for the kind of human being who may possibly benefit by the experiment. Right and wrong admit of no sentimental distinctions. Yet the vivisectionist pleads, "Is not the life of a young mother worth more than the life of a beast?" The anti-vivisectionist asks: "How can man deliberately torture the creature that loves and trusts him?" And Mr. Galsworthy admitted that he had nothing to say about vivisection in general. Cats and rabbits might take their chances. He asked only that the dog should be spared.

It has been hinted more than once that if we develop the dog's intelligence too far, we may end by robbing him of

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 his illusions. He has absorbed so many human characteristics—vanity, sociability, snobbishness, a sense of humour and a conscience—that there is danger of his also acquiring the critical faculty. He will not then content himself with flying at the throats of villains—the out-and-out villain is rare in the common walks of life—he will doubt the godlike qualities of his master. The warmth of his affection will chill, its steadfastness will be subject to decay.

Of this regrettable possibility there is as yet no sign. The hound, Argus, beating the ground with his feeble tail in an expiring effort to welcome the disguised Odysseus, is a prototype of his successor to-day. Scattered here and there in the pages of history are instances of unfaithfulness; but their rarity gives point to their picturesqueness. Froissart tells us that the greyhound, Math, deserted his master, King Richard the Second, to fawn on

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 the Duke of Lancaster who was to depose and succeed him; and that a greyhound belonging to Charles of Blois fled on the eve of battle to the camp of John de Montfort, seeking protection from the stronger man. These anecdotes indicate a grasp of political situations which is no part of the dog's ordinary make-up. Who can imagine the fortunate, faithful little spaniel that attended Mary Stuart in her last sad months, and in her last heroic hours, fawning upon Queen Elizabeth? Who can imagine Sir Walter Scott's dogs slinking away from him when the rabble of Jedburgh heaped insults on his bowed grey head?

The most beautiful words ever written about a dog have no reference to his affectionate qualities. Simonides, celebrating the memory of a Thessalian hound, knows only that he was fleet and brave. "Surely, even as thou liest in this tomb, I deem the wild

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 beasts yet fear thy white bones, Lycas; and thy valour great Pelion knows, and the lonely peaks of Cithæron." This is heroic praise, and so, in a fashion, is Byron's epitaph on Boatswain. But Byron, being of the moderns, can find no better way of honouring dogs than by defaming men; a stupidity, pardonable in the poet only because he was the most sincere lover of animals the world has ever known. His tastes were catholic, his outlook was whimsical. He was not in the least discomposed when his forgetful wolf-hound bit him, or when his bulldog bit him without the excuse of forgetfulness. Moore tells us that the first thing he saw on entering Byron's palace in Venice was a notice, "Keep clear of the dog!" and the first thing he heard was the voice of his host calling out anxiously, "Take care, or that monkey will fly at you."

It is a pleasant relief, after flounder-

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 ing through seas of sentiment, to read about dogs that were every whit as imperfect as their masters; about Cowper's "Beau" who has been immortalized for his disobedience; or Sir Isaac Newton's "Diamond" who has been immortalized for the mischief he wrought; or Prince Rupert's "Boy" who was shot while loyally pulling down a rebel on Marston Moor; or the Church of England spaniel, mentioned by Addison, who proved his allegiance to the Establishment by worrying a dissenter. It is also a pleasure of a different sort to read about the wise little dog who ran away from Mrs. Welsh (Carlyle's mother-in-law) on the streets of Edinburgh, to follow Sir Walter Scott; and about the London dog of sound literary tastes who tried for many nights to hear Dickens read. It is always possible that if men would exact a less unalterable devotion from their dogs, they might find these ani-

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 mals to be possessed of individual and companionable traits.

But not of human sagacity. It is their privilege to remain beasts, bound by admirable limitations, thrice happy in the things they do not have to know, and feel, and be. "The Spectator" in a hospitable mood once invited its readers to send it anecdotes of their dogs. The invitation was, as might be imagined, cordially and widely accepted. Mr. Strachey subsequently published a collection of these stories in a volume which had all the vraisemblance of Hans Andersen and "The Arabian Nights." Reading it, one could but wonder and regret that the tribe of man had risen to unmerited supremacy. The "Spectator" dogs could have run the world, the war and the Versailles Conference without our lumbering interference.

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266 But the jackal answered, ‘If you really want me to give you some more, you must have your paws tied behind you, and lie on your back, so that I can pour it into your mouth.’

The rabbit did as he was bid, and when he was tied tight and popped on his back, the jackal ran to the spring and drank as much as he wanted. When he had quite finished he returned to his den.

In the evening the animals all came back, and when they saw the rabbit lying with his paws tied, they said to him: ‘Rabbit, how did you let yourself be taken in like this?’

‘It was all the fault of the jackal,’ replied the rabbit; ‘he tied me up like this, and told me he would give me something nice to eat. It was all a trick just to get at our water.’

‘Rabbit, you are no better than an idiot to have let the jackal drink our water when he would not help to find it. Who shall be our next watchman? We must have somebody a little sharper than you!’ and the little hare called out, ‘I will be the watchman.’

The following morning the animals all went their various ways, leaving the little hare to guard the spring. When they were out of sight the jackal came back. ‘Good morning! good morning, little hare,’ and the little hare politely said, ‘Good morning.’

‘Can you give me a pinch of snuff?’ said the jackal.

‘I am so sorry, but I have none,’ answered the little hare.

The jackal then came and sat down by the little hare, and unfastened his little bag, pulling out of it a piece of honeycomb. He licked his lips and exclaimed, ‘Oh, little hare, if you only knew how good it is!’

‘What is it?’ asked the little hare.

‘It is something that moistens my throat so deliciously,’ answered the jackal, ‘that after I have eaten it I don’t

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text: Under Dispute

title: Under Dispute


text: Under Dispute/The Masterful Puritan

title: Under Dispute/The Masterful Puritan


text: Under Dispute/"To Counsel the Doubtful"

title: Under Dispute/"To Counsel the Doubtful"


text: Under Dispute/Are Americans a Timid People?


text: Under Dispute/The Happiness of Writing an Autobiography


text: Under Dispute/Strayed Sympathies

title: Under Dispute/Strayed Sympathies


text: Under Dispute/The Divineness of Discontent


text: Under Dispute/Allies

title: Under Dispute/Allies


text: Under Dispute/They Had Their Day

title: Under Dispute/They Had Their Day


text: Under Dispute/The Preacher at Large

title: Under Dispute/The Preacher at Large


text: Under Dispute/The Battle-field of Education


text: Under Dispute/The American Laughs

title: Under Dispute/The American Laughs


text: Under Dispute/The Idolatrous Dog

title: Under Dispute/The Idolatrous Dog


text:
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 feel thirsty any more, while I am sure that all you other beasts are for ever wanting water.’

‘Give me a bit, dear friend,’ asked the little hare.

‘Not so fast,’ replied the jackal. ‘If you really wish to enjoy what you are eating, you must have your paws tied behind you, and lie on your back, so that I can pour if into your mouth.’

‘You can tie them, only be quick,’ said the little hare, and when he was tied tight and popped on his back, the jackal went quietly down to the well, and drank as much as he wanted. When he had quite finished he returned to his den.

In the evening the animals all came back; and when they saw the little hare with his paws tied, they said to him: ‘Little hare, how did you let yourself be taken in like this? Didn’t you boast you were very sharp? You undertook to guard our water; now show us how much is left for us to drink!’

‘It is all the fault of the jackal,’ replied the little hare. ‘He told me he would give me something nice to eat if I would just let him tie my hands behind my back.’

Then the animals said, ‘Who can we trust to mount guard now?’ And the panther answered, ‘Let it be the tortoise.’

The following morning the animals all went their various ways, leaving the tortoise to guard the spring. When they were out of sight the jackal came back. ‘Good morning, tortoise; good morning.’

But the tortoise took no notice.

‘Good morning, tortoise; good morning.’ But still the tortoise pretended not to hear.

Then the jackal said to himself, ‘Well, to-day I have only got to manage a bigger idiot than before. I shall just kick him on one side, and then go and have a drink.’ So he went up to the tortoise and said to him in a soft voice, ‘Tortoise! tortoise!’ but the tortoise took no notice. Then the jackal kicked him out of the way, and went to the

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 well and began to drink, but scarcely had he touched the water, than the tortoise seized him by the leg. The jackal shrieked out: ‘Oh, you will break my leg!’ but the tortoise only held on the tighter. The jackal then took his bag and tried to make the tortoise smell the honeycomb he had inside; but the tortoise turned away his head and smelt nothing. At last the jackal said to the tortoise, ‘I should like to give you my bag and everything in it,’ but the only answer the tortoise made was to grasp the jackal’s leg tighter still.

So matters stood when the other animals came back. The moment he saw them, the jackal gave a violent tug, and managed to free his leg, and then took to his heels as fast as he could. And the animals all said to the tortoise:

‘Well done, tortoise, you have proved your courage; now we can drink from our well in peace, as you have got the better of that thieving jackal!’

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text: The Grey Fairy Book/The Jackal and the Spring


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had tried a considerable number of poetical experiments when the Dunciad appeared, but he had not yet discovered in what direction his talents could be most efficiently exerted. Bystanders are sometimes acuter in detecting a man's true forte than the performer himself. In 1722 Atterbury had seen Pope's lines upon Addison, and reported that no piece of his writing was ever so much sought after. "Since you now know," be added, "in what direction your strength lies, I hope you will not suffer that talent to be unemployed." Atterbury seems to have been rather fond of giving advice to Pope, and puts on a decidedly pedagogic air when writing to him. The present suggestion was more likely to fall on willing ears than another made shortly before their final separation. Atterbury then presented Pope with a Bible, and recommended him to study its pages. If Pope had taken to heart some of St. Paul's exhortations to Christian charity, he would scarcely have published his lines upon Addison, and English literature would have lost some of its most brilliant pages.

Satire of the kind represented by those lines was so obviously adapted to Pope's peculiar talent, that we rather wonder at his having taken to it seriously at a compara-

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2 of Marx's philosophy, showing the sources from which it sprang, and the motives which led him to give it an economic form.

Marx was born in 1818, and grew up at the time when the influence of Hegel's philosophy in Germany was at its height.


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 tively late period, and even then having drifted into it by accident rather than by deliberate adoption. He had aimed, as has been said, at being a philosophic and didactic poet. The Essay on Man formed part of a much larger plan, of which two or three fragmentary sketches are given by Spence. Bolingbroke and Pope wrote to Swift in November, 1729, about a scheme then in course of execution. Bolingbroke declares that Pope is now exerting what was eminently and peculiarly his talents, above all writers, living or dead, without excepting Horace; whilst Pope explained that this was a "system of ethics in the Horatian way." The language seems to apply best to the poems afterwards called the Ethic Epistles, though, at this time, Pope, perhaps, had not a very clear plan in his head, and was working at different parts simultaneously. The Essay on Man, his most distinct scheme, was to form the opening book of his poem. Three others were to treat of knowledge and its limits, of government—ecclesiastical and civil—and of morality. The last book itself involved an elaborate plan. There were to be three epistles about each cardinal virtue-one, for example, upon avarice; another on the contrary extreme of prodigality; and a third, upon the judicious mean of a moderate use of riches. Pope told Spence that he had dropped the plan chiefly because his third book would have provoked every Church on the face of the earth, and he did not care for always being in boiling water. The scheme, however, was far too wide and too systematic for Pope's powers. His spasmodic energy enabled him only to fill up corners of the canvas, and from what he did, it is sufficiently evident that his classification would have been incoherent and his philosophy

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 Walpole is no trustworthy authority; but the coincidence implies at least that such a story was soon current.

The most probable solution must conform to these data. Pope's Atossa was a portrait which would fit either lady, though it would be naturally applied to the most famous. It seems certain also that Pope had received some favours (possibly the 1000l. on some occasion unknown) from the Duchess of Marlborough, which was felt by his friends to make any attack upon her unjustifiable: We can scarcely believe that there should have been a direct compact of the kind described. If Pope had been a person of duly sensitive conscience he would have suppressed his work. But to suppress anything that he had written, and especially a passage so carefully laboured, was always agony to him. He preferred, as we may perhaps conjecture, to settle in his own mind that it would fit the Duchess of Buckingham, and possibly introduced some of the touches to which Mr. Dilke refers. He thought it sufficiently disguised to be willing to publish it whilst the person with whom it was naturally identified was still alive. Had she complained, he would have relied upon those touches, and have equivocated as he equivocated to Hill and Chandos. He always seems to have fancied that he could conceal himself by very thin disguises. But he ought to have known, and perhaps did know, that it would be immediately applied to the person who had conferred an obligation. From that guilt no hypothesis can relieve him; but it is certainly not proved, and seems, on the whole, improbable that he was so base as the concessions of his biographers would indicate.

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text: Alexander Pope (Stephen)/Chapter 8

title: Alexander Pope (Stephen)/Chapter 8


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Page:The Necromancer, or, The Tale of the Black Forest Vol. 2.djvu/55

 the sweet soothing voice of hope silenced all my apprehensions; I had saved him once from ignominy, and perhaps from death itself, he had promised me to prove his gratitude, how could I therefore doubt that he would save me from destruction. "Volkert!" exclaimed I, in a supplicating accent, "Volkert!" The terrible man staggered back, staring by turns at me and him.

"Volkert!" exclaimed I, again lifting up my fettered hands; he knew me, and without the least delay took a knife out of his pocket, and cut asunder the cords my hands had been tied with. The whole frightful assembly fixed to the ground, seized with wonder and astonishment.

"Thou hast saved me," began my guardian angel now, in a solemn awful accent, "thou hast given me liberty, take back thy gift, and life into the bargain."


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 "Friends," said he, addressing the gaping crew, "Friends, he is the preserver of my honor and my liberty, what may he expect?"

"Pardon, pardon," was the unanimous cry, "pardon, pardon, he shall live."

"Bravo, my boys," said now their formidable Captain, who was sitting in judgment upon me, "bravo, my honest lads, you are noble fellows: Farewell, Andrew," added he, addressing his dying companion, "Farewell, Andrew, thou art avenged, art doubly avenged by the generosity of thy companions!"

At the same instant the whole crew hurried out of the room, leaving me alone with Volkert. "Farewell, Lieutenant," said he, shaking me by the hand, "you have wisely acted, in leaving F, like the Austrian, I shall never return to that town: If any similar sinister accident should happen to


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 skiff, standing in the stern and using his oar like a gondolier. He had come down here soon after breakfast, driven from the house by the strangeness of all but the outer walls, and discontented with the grounds because everything but this wet, intractable spot bore the marks of Kitty's genius. After lunch there had been another attempt to settle down, but with a grim glare at a knot of late Christmas roses bright in a copse that fifteen years ago had been dark he went back to the russet-eaved boat-house and this play with the skiff. It was a boy's sport, and it was dreadful to see him turn a middle-aged face as he brought the boat inshore.

"I'm just going down to fetch Margaret," I said.

He thanked me for it.

"But, Chris, I must tell you. I've seen Margaret. She came up here, so kind and sweet, to tell us you were wounded. She's the greatest dear in the world, but she's


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 not as you think of her. She's old, Chris. She isn't beautiful any longer. She's drearily married. She's seamed and scored and ravaged by squalid circumstances. You can't love her when you see her."

"Didn't I tell you last night," he said, "that that doesn't matter?" He dipped his oar to a stroke that sent him away from me. "Bring her soon. I shall wait for her down here."

Wealdstone is not, in its way, a bad place; it lies in the lap of open country, and at the end of every street rise the green hills of Harrow and the spires of Harrow School. But all the streets are long and red and freely articulated with railway arches, and factories spoil the skyline with red, angular chimneys, and in front of the shops stood little women with backs ridged by cheap stays, who tapped their upper lips with their forefingers and made other feeble, doubtful gestures, as


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 though they wanted to buy something and knew that if they did they would have to starve some other appetite. When we asked them the way they turned to us faces sour with thrift. It was a town of people who could not do as they liked.

And here Margaret lived in a long road of red-brick boxes, flecked here and there with the pink blur of almond-blossom, which debouched in a flat field where green grass rose up rank through clay mold blackened by coal-dust from the railway. Mariposa, which was the last house in the road, did not even have an almond-tree. In the front garden, which seemed to be imperfectly reclaimed from the greasy field, yellow crocus and some sodden squills just winked, and the back, where a man was handling a spade without mastery, presented the austere appearance of an allotment. And not only did Margaret live in this place; she also belonged to it. When she opened the door


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 she gazed at me with watering eyes, and in perplexity stroked her disordered hair with a floury hand. Her face was sallow with heat, and beads of perspiration glittered in the deep, dragging line between her nostrils and the corners of her mouth. She said:

"He's home?"

I nodded.

She pulled me inside and slammed the door.

"Is he well?" she asked.

"Quite," I answered.

Her tense stare relaxed. She rubbed her hands on her overall and said:

"You'll excuse me. It's the girl's day out. If you'll step into the parlor—"

So in her parlor I sat and told her how it was with Chris and how greatly he desired to see her. And as I spoke of his longing I turned my eyes away from her, because she was sitting on a sofa, upholstered in velveteen of a sickish green,


text: Index:Of the Characters of Women, An Epistle to a Lady - Pope (1735).djvu


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of :

EPISTLE to a LADY,

By Mr. POPE.

(Price One Shilling.)


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 CHARACTERS of WOMEN:

Of the Characters of Women - Pope (1735) - endpiece 2.png


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CHARACTERS of WOMEN:

To a LADY.


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Page:The problem of China - Russell 1922.pdf/212

210 men were more effective in soothing their own consciences than in helping the Chinese. So long as the present birth-rate and the present methods of agriculture persist, famines are bound to occur periodically; and those whom philanthropy keeps alive through one famine are only too likely to perish in the next.

Famines in China can be permanently cured only by better methods of agriculture combined with emigration or birth-control on a large scale. Educated Chinese realize this, and it makes them indifferent to efforts to keep the present victims alive. A great deal of Chinese callousness has a similar explanation, and is due to perception of the vastness of the problems involved. But there remains a residue which cannot be so explained. If a dog is run over by an automobile and seriously hurt, nine out of ten passers-by will stop to laugh at the poor brute's howls. The spectacle of suffering does not of itself rouse any sympathetic pain in the average Chinaman; in fact, he seems to find it mildly agreeable. Their history, and their penal code before the revolution of 1911, show that they are by no means destitute of the impulse of active cruelty; but of this I did not myself come across any instances. And it must be said that active cruelty is practised by all the great nations, to an extent concealed from us only by our hypocrisy.

Cowardice is prima facie a fault of the Chinese; but I am not sure that they are really lacking in courage. It is true that, in battles between rival tuchuns, both sides run away, and victory rests with the side that first discovers the flight of the other. But this proves only that the Chinese soldier is a rational man. No cause of any importance is


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of Mr., Vol. II. which compleats all his Works, containing

I. The Essay on Man, or, the first Book of Ethick Epistles, to H. St. John, L. Bolingbroke.

II. Epistles to several Persons, Of the Knowledge and Characters of Men, to the Lord Viscount Cobham. Of the Characters of Women, to a Lady. Of the Use of Riches, to the Lord Bathurst. Of False Taste, to the Earl of Burlington. Of Himself and his Writings, to Dr. Arbuthnot, with some other Epistles. of Horace, Imitated. of Dr. Donne, Versify'd.

III. The, with Notes and Prolegomena: and some additional Pieces.

The Whole to be had together, or Parts singly, to compleat former Setts.

This Week will also be published

An ESSAY on REASON.

All Printed for at Homers Head against St. Dunstans Church in Fleetstreet.


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Page:The problem of China - Russell 1922.pdf/210

208 China is much less a political entity than a civilization—the only one that has survived from ancient times. Since the days of Confucius, the Egyptian, Babylonian, Persian, Macedonian, and Roman Empires have perished; but China has persisted through a continuous evolution. There have been foreign influences—first Buddhism, and now Western science. But Buddhism did not turn the Chinese into Indians, and Western science will not turn them into Europeans. I have met men in China who knew as much of Western learning as any professor among ourselves; yet they had not been thrown off their balance, or lost touch with their own people. What is bad in the West—its brutality, its restlessness, its readiness I to oppress the weak, its preoccupation with purely I material aims—they see to be bad, and do not wish to adopt. What is good, especially its science, they do wish to adopt.

The old indigenous culture of China has become rather dead; its art and literature are not what they were, and Confucius does not satisfy the spiritual needs of a modern man, even if he is Chinese. The Chinese who have had a European or American education realize that a new element is needed to vitalize native traditions, and they look to our civilization to supply it. But they do not wish to construct a civilization just like ours; and it is precisely in this that the best hope lies. If they are not goaded into militarism, they may produce a genuinely new civilization, better than any that we in the West have been able to create.

So far, I have spoken chiefly of the good sides of the Chinese character; but of course China, like every other nation, has its bad sides also. It is disagreeable to me to speak of these, as I experienced


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Rh Once I thought that the students to whom I was lecturing were not as industrious as they might be, and I told them so in just the same words that I should have used to English students in the same circumstances. But I soon found I was making a mistake. They all laughed uneasily, which surprised me until I saw the reason. Chinese life, even among the most modernized, is far more polite than anything to which we are accustomed. This, of course, interferes with efficiency, and also (what is more serious) with sincerity and truth in personal relations. If I were Chinese, I should wish to see it mitigated. But to those who suffer from the brutalities of the West, Chinese urbanity is very restful. Whether on the balance it is better or worse than our frankness, I shall not venture to decide.

The Chinese remind one of the English in their love of compromise and in their habit of bowing to public opinion. Seldom is a conflict pushed to its ultimate brutal issue. The treatment of the Manchu Emperor may be taken as a case in point. When a Western country becomes a Republic, it is customary to cut off the head of the deposed monarch, or at least to cause him to fly the country. But the Chinese have left the Emperor his title, his beautiful palace, his troops of eunuchs, and an income of several million dollars a year. He is a boy of sixteen, living peaceably in the Forbidden City. Once, in the course of a civil war, he was nominally restored to power for a few days; but he was deposed again, without being in any way punished for the use to which he had been put.

Public opinion is a very real force in China, when it can be roused. It was, by all accounts, mainly responsible for the downfall of the An Fu party


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Rh American will work so hard that, by the time he has acquired his millions, he has become a victim of dyspepsia, compelled to live on toast and water, and to be a mere spectator of the feasts that he offers to his guests. But he consoles himself with the thought that he can control politics, and provoke or prevent wars as may suit his investments. It is this temperament that makes Western nations "progressive."

There are, of course, ambitious men in China, but they are less common than among ourselves. And their ambition takes a different form—not a better form, but one produced by the preference of enjoyment to power. It is a natural result of this preference that avarice is a widespread failing of the Chinese. Money brings the means of enjoyment, therefore money is passionately desired. With us, money is desired chiefly as a means to power; politicians, who can acquire power without much money, are often content to remain poor. In China, the tuchuns (military governors), who have the real power, almost always use it for the sole purpose of amassing a fortune. Their object is to escape to Japan at a suitable moment, with sufficient plunder to enable them to enjoy life quietly for the rest of their days. The fact that in escaping they lose power does not trouble them in the least. It is, of course, obvious that such politicians, who spread devastation only in the provinces committed to their care, are far less harmful to the world than our own, who ruin whole continents in order to win an election campaign.

The corruption and anarchy in Chinese politics do much less harm than one would be inclined to expect. But for the predatory desires of the Great


text: Of the Characters of Women: An Epistle to a Lady


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Page:Journal of Conversations with Lord Byron.pdf/69

 endeavored, and at length succeeded, to convince him that Colonel M- was too good and honorable a man to do any thing spiteful or ill-natured, and that he never spoke ill of him; which seemed to gratify him. He told me that Colonel M-’s sister was the intimate and confidential friend of Lady Byron, and that through this channel I might be of great use to him, if I would use myinfluence with Colonel M-, to make his sister write to Lady Byron for a copy of her portrait, which he Colonel had long been most anxious to possess. M-, after much entreaty, consented to write to his sister on the subject, but on the express condition that Lord Byron should specify on paper his exact wishes; and I wrote to Lord Byron to this effect, to which letter I received the following answer. I ought to add, that in conversation told Lord Byron that it was reported that Lady Byron was in delicate health, and also that it was said she was apprehensive that he intended to claim his daughter, or to interfere in her education; he refers to this in the letter which I copy.

Talking of literary women, Lord Byron said that Madame de Staël was certainly the cleverest, though not the most agreeable woman he had ever known. "She declaimed to you instead of conversing with you," said he, "never pausing


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Rh Tears of grief now pour down my face, As I watch and mourn over my child; Thy grief makes me ready to die. Thy union filled thee with joy, Already you're really his wife. Is he not the man of thy choice? daughter, devotedly loved, Why plunged in such terrible grief?

 * (Cusi Coyllur has had her face hidden in the pillows. She now rises to her feet, throwing up her arms.)

O most gracious Queen! How can my tears e'er cease to flow, How can my bitter sighs surcease, While the valiant Chief I worship For many days and sleepless nights, All heedless of my tender years, Seems quite to have forgotten me? He has turned his regard from his wife And no longer seeks for his love. O my mother! O most gracious Queen! O my husband so beloved! Since the day when I last saw my love The moon has been hidden from view; The sun shines no more as of old, In rising it rolls among mist; At night the stars are all dim, All nature seems sad and distressed; The comet with fiery tail, Announces my sorrow and grief; Surrounded by darkness and tears, Evil auguries fill me with fears. O my mother! O most gracious Queen! O my husband so beloved!

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Page:The lay of the Nibelungs; (IA nibelungslay00hortrich).pdf/425

XXXV.]

Then quickly in his armour thane Irving was y-clad,

With Irnfried of Thuringia, a bold and gallant lad,

And eke the stalwart Haward, with full a thousand men;

Whatever part was Iring’s, that would they all maintain.

The fiddler saw them coming— a very host they were—

In arms along with Iring, to set upon him there.

On head, well-fasten’d, wore they right many a helmet good.

Then wax’d the gallant Volker wrathful enough in mood.

“Now dost thou see, friend Hagen, how Iring yonder goes,

Who swore that thee in sword-fight he singly would oppose?

Doth falsehood fit a hero? Him I misprize therefore;

He brings with him in armour a thousand men or more!”

“Now call me not a liar,” the liege of Haward said,

“I’m ready to accomplish what I have promiséd;

For fear of no man living will I my word disown;

How dread so e’er be Hagen, I’ll stand to him alone.”

Then Iring begg’d his kinsmen and followers, at their feet,

That they would let him singly in fight the warrior meet.

Unwillingly they yielded, for well enough to them

Was known the haughty Hagen, from Burgundy who came.

Yet he so long besought them, that ’twas at last agreed.

For when his people saw him so bent upon the deed,

And that he strove for honour, they could but let him go;

Thereon a grim encounter befell betwixt the two.


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352 :Anahuarqui. Compose thyself and dry thine eyes, The King, thy father, has arrived. Thou lovest Ollantay, my child?

 * (Enter the INCA PACHACUTI. On his head the mascapaycha, with the llautu or imperial fringe. A tunic of cotton embroidered with gold; on his breast the golden breastplate representing the sun, surrounded by the calendar of months. Round his waist the fourfold belt of tocapu. A crimson mantle of fine vicuña wool, fastened on his shoulders by golden puma's heads. Shoes of cloth of gold. He sits down on the golden tiana.)

Star of joy, Most lovely of my progeny! Thou symbol of parental love— Thy lips are like the huayruru. Rest upon thy father's breast, Repose, my child, within mine arms.

 * (Cusi Coyllur comes across. They embrace.)

Unwind thyself, my precious one, A thread of gold within the woof. All my happiness rests upon thee, Thou art my greatest delight. Thine eyes are lovely and bright, As the rays of my father the Sun. When thy lips are moving to speak, When thine eyelids are raised with a smile, The wide world is fairly entranced. Thy breathing embalms the fresh air;

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Page:The lay of the Nibelungs; (IA nibelungslay00hortrich).pdf/426

348

Iring, the thane of Denmark, aloft his javelin bare

And held his shield before him, that noble knight and rare;

Then up the steps to Hagen before the hall he ran:

Amongst the thanes assembled a fearful din began.

Then from their hands the lances they forward hurl’d with might,

Right through the strong-bound bucklers upon the harness bright,

So that the broken spear-shafts were whirl’d high in the air.

Then clutch’d they at their broadswords that grim and gallant pair.

The strength of doughty Hagen it was a mighty thing,

Yet Iring’s blows upon him made all the house to ring;

From palace and from turret echo’d their strokes again:

Yet naught avail’d the warrior his will on him to gain.

So Iring turn’d from Hagen and left him scatheless yet;

Against the fiddle-player forthwith himself he set.

Him, with his sturdy sword-strokes he thought he might compel;

But these the well-skill’d chieftain knew how to parry well.

Then smote the fiddler sorely, till o’er the buckler’s side

By Volker’s hand the plating was scatter’d far and wide;

So was he fain to leave him, a grewsome man was he;

Then Iring rush’d on Gunther, the lord of Burgundy.

And stout enough for combat was either of them made.

Howe’er on one another Gunther and Iring laid,

Neither could wound the other to draw a drop of blood;

From that their armour saved them, so strong it was and good.


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XXXV.]

Eke Gunther left he standing and on to Gernot ran,

And smote till from his hauberk the sparks to fly began,

And yet the sturdy Gernot, the knight of Burgundy,

So dealt on gallant Iring that he was like to die.

Then from this prince he hurried— swift-footed was he too—

And four of the Burgundians the hero quickly slew;—

All noble court retainers from Worms-on-Rhine they were.

Then wrath could ne’er be greater than that of Giselher.

“Now, by the Lord! Sir Iring,” cried Giselher the lad,

“For these thou needs must pay me who lie before thee dead—

By thee this moment slaughter’d;” then ran on him straight-way

And smote the knight of Denmark so that he needs must stay.

Beneath his hands succumbing down fell he in the blood;

And all were well persuaded that now the hero good

Ne’er more would wield a weapon in battle anywhere:

Yet Iring lay unwounded in front of Giselher.

From blows upon the helmet and clashing of the sword

His wits were sorely stricken and scatter’d all abroad,

So that the gallant warrior of life took no more thought:

This by his strength of body bold Giselher had wrought.

When from his head the numbness at last began to go,

Which had erstwhile come on him from that o’erwhelming blow,

Thought he: “I still am living, nor wounded anywhere;

Now know I for the first time the strength of Giselher.”


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Rh Without thee thy father would pine, Life to him would be dreary and waste. He seeks for thy happiness, child, Thy welfare is ever his care.

 * (Cusi Coyllur throws herself at his feet.)

All the grief of thy daughter will cease, At peace when protected by thee.
 * Pachacuti. How is this! my daughter before me

On knees at my feet, and in tears? I fear some evil is near— Such emotion must needs be explained.
 * Cusi Coyllur. The star does weep before Inti,

The limpid tears wash grief away.
 * Pachacuti. Rise, my beloved, my star,

Thy place is on thy dear father's knee.

 * (Cusi Coyllur rises and sits on a stool by her father. An attendant approaches.)

thy servants come to please thee.
 * Pachacuti. Let them all enter.

 * (Boys and girls enter dancing. After the dance they sing a harvest song.)

3em

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Page:The lay of the Nibelungs; (IA nibelungslay00hortrich).pdf/428

350

On one side and the other his enemies heard he;

Were they his case aware of the worse for him ’twould be;

And likewise had he noted that Giselher was by:

He ponder’d how ’twas likely he might these foemen fly.

How madly then upsprang he from out that bloody stew!

Unto his ready fleetness his thanks were surely due.

Out of the place forth rush’d he, but there saw Hagen stand,

And smote upon him swiftly with all his might of hand.

Then to himself thought Hagen: “Death thee for this must have!

Unless the devil help thee, thyself thou canst not save.”

Yet Iring through the helmet a wound on Hagen made:

This did the knight with Vaske, that was so good a blade.

No sooner felt Sir Hagen the smarting of the wound

Than terribly his weapon be whirl’d in hand around.

Forthwith must Haward’s liegeman for safety flee again,

And Hagen down the stairway to follow him was fain.

Above his head bold Iring his shield made haste to lean;

And if that self-same stairway yet thrice its length had been,

Hagen had ne’er allow’d him to deal a single stroke.

Ay me! the sparks so ruddy that from his helmet broke!

Yet back unto his people Iring in safety won.

Then soon unto Kriemhilda the tidings were made known

How he had wrought in battle on Hagen of Tronjé;

For which her thanks right hearty the queen began to say:


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354

title: Page:The Incas of Peru.djvu/394


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152 in practice if not in theory, an informal Japanese Protectorate over China, as a first step towards which it was necessary to establish the principle that the Japanese should not be interfered with in their diplomatic dealings with China. The Conference agreed to the Japanese proposal that the Shantung question should not come before the Conference, but should be dealt with in direct negotiations between the Japanese and Chinese. The Japanese victory on this point, however, was not complete, because it was arranged that, in the event of a deadlock, Mr. Hughes and Sir Arthur Balfour should mediate. A deadlock, of course, soon occurred, and it then appeared that the British were no longer prepared to back up the Japanese whole-heartedly, as in the old days. The American Administration, for the sake of peace, showed some disposition to urge the Chinese to give way. But American opinion was roused on the Shantung question, and it appeared that, unless a solution more or less satisfactory to China was reached, the Senate would probably refuse to ratify the various treaties which embodied the work of the Conference. Therefore, at the last moment, the Americans strongly urged Japan to give way, and we took the same line, though perhaps less strongly. The result was the conclusion of the Shantung Treaty between China and Japan.

By this Treaty, the Chinese recover everything in Shantung, except the private property of Japanese subjects, and certain restrictions as regards the railway. The railway was the great difficulty in the negotiations, since, so long as the Japanese could control that, they would have the province at their mercy. The Chinese offered to buy back the railway at once, having raised about half the money as a result


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XXXV.]

“Now God reward thee, Iring, a hero good thou art;

Much hast thou me encouraged and comforted my heart.

Lo, now on Hagen’s raiment all red with blood I look!”

With her own hand Kriemhilda his shield, in kindness, took.

“So much you need not thank him,” quoth Hagen; “if again

With me he’d try his fortune, it would beseem the thane.

If ever thence return’d he, a valiant man he’d be!

The wound will serve you little that he hath given to me.

“That you have seen my hauberk by blood of mine made red,

Unto the death of many hath me embitteréd.

Against that liege of Haward’s I have the utmost wrath;—

Albeit the warrior Iring hath done me little scathe.”

Meanwhile the man of Denmark into the wind had gone

To cool him in his hauberk— his helmet off was done.

And all the folk were saying his prowess was right good;

Whereby they made the margrave exceeding bold of mood.

Then presently spake Iring: “My friends, now mark ye well

That ye must arm me quickly: I’ll try another spell,

If that o’erbearing tyrant I yet may bring to book.”

His shield was hack’d to pieces: a better one he took.

Full speedily the warrior was better arm’d than e’er;

A javelin right sturdy with hate in heart he bare,

Wherewith once more with Hagen he purposed there to fight:

With foe-like mien awaited for him that murderous wight.


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Rh may be preserved, something of the ethical qualities in which China is supreme, and which the modern world most desperately needs. Among these qualities I place first the pacific temper, which seeks to settle disputes on grounds of justice rather than by force. It remains to be seen whether the West will allow this temper to persist, or will force it to give place, in self-defence, to a frantic militarism like that to which Japan has been driven.


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60 phases is William Black. In the third chapter of his Princess of Thule is the following sentence: "Was Sheila about to sing in this clear strange twilight while they sat there and watched the yellow moon come up behind the Southern hills?" The spectacle of the moon rising in the south is one which Heaven has denied to all except the characters in Black's novels. It is not surprising that Sheila "was about to sing": she must have felt something of the exultation which swells the bosom of that favored child of Destiny, the small boy who has crept in under the canvas when the menagerie people are painting the tiger.

It may be borne in mind that Black's south-rising moon came up during the twilight — that is to say, shortly after sunset. It would be, therefore, nearly "half-full" to the eye of the terrestrial observer; but referring to a later hour of the same evening Black says: "There into the beautiful dome rose the golden crescent of the moon, warm in color as though it still retained the last rays of the sunset." Concerning the last clause of this astonishing sentence it may be asked from what source Black supposed the moon's light to be derived, or if he regarded her as self-luminous. The truth probably is that he had


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Rh : Pachacuti. Cusi Coyllur, remain thou here, Thy mother's palace is thy home; Fail not to amuse thyself, Surrounded by thy maiden friends.

[Exeunt the Inca Pachacuti, the Ccoya Anahuarqui, and attendants.

My dearest friends, the last you sang To me foreshadowed evil things; You who sang it leave me now.

[Exeunt boys and girls, except one girl who sings.

3em

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HE death of Prince Momozono meant, of course, the return to Court of the Kamo Vestal, Lady Asagao; and Genji followed up his letter of welcome by numerous other notes and messages. For it was, as I have said before, a peculiarity of his character that if he had once become fond of any one, neither separation nor lapse of time could ever obliterate his affection. But Asagao remembered only too well the difficulty that she had before experienced in keeping him at arm’s length, and she was careful to answer in the most formal and guarded terms. He found these decorous replies exceedingly irritating. In the ninth month he heard that she had moved into her father’s old residence, the Momozono Palace, which was at that time occupied by Princess Nyogo, a younger sister of the old Emperor. Here was an opening; for it was perfectly natural and proper that Genji should visit this princess, who had been his father’s favourite sister and with whom he had himself always remained on excellent terms. He found that the two ladies were living in opposite wings of the Palace, separated by the great central hall. Though old Prince Momozono had so recently passed away the place had already assumed a rather decayed and depressing

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Rh air. Princess Nyogo received him immediately. He noticed at once that she had aged very rapidly since he last saw her. She was indeed quite decrepit, and it was difficult to believe that she was really younger than Aoi’s mother, who seemed to him never to have changed since he had known her; whereas in the quavering accents and palsied gait of the aged lady who now greeted him it was well nigh impossible to recognize the princess of former days.

‘Everything has been in a wretched way since the old Emperor, your poor father, was taken from us, and as the years go by the outlook seems to grow blacker and blacker; I confess, I never have an easy moment. And now even my brother Prince Momozono has left me! I go on, I go on; but it hardly seems like being alive, except when I get a visit like yours to-day, and then I forget all my troubles….’ ‘Poor thing,’ thought Genji, ‘how terribly she has gone to pieces!’ But he answered very politely: ‘For me too the world has been in many ways a different place since my father died. First, as you know, came this unexpected attack upon me, followed by my exile to a remote district. Then came my restoration to rank and privilege, bringing with it all manner of ties and distractions. All this time I have been longing to have a talk with you, and regret immensely that there has never before been an opportunity….’ ‘Oh, the changes, the changes,’ she broke in; ‘such terrible destruction I have seen on every side. Nothing seems safe from it, and often I feel as though I would give anything to have died before all this began. But I do assure you I am glad I have lived long enough to witness your return. To die while you were still in such trouble, not knowing how it was all going to end—that would indeed have been a melancholy business.’ She paused for a while and then went on in her quavering, thin voice: ‘You know, you have grown to be a very handsome

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70 man. But I remember that the first time I saw you, when you were only a little boy, I was astonished at you, really I was. I could never have believed that such loveliness would be seen shining in the face of any mortal child! And every time I see you I always feel just as I did then. They say that his present Majesty, the Emperor Ryōzen, is the image of you; but I don’t believe a word of it. He may be just a little like; but no one is going to persuade me that he is half as handsome as you.’ So she rambled on. Coming from any one else such flattery would have very much embarrassed him. But at this strange old lady’s out-pourings one could only be amused. ‘Since my exile I have quite lost whatever good looks I may once have possessed,’ he said; ‘one cannot live for years on end under those depressing conditions without its changing one very much. As for the Emperor, I assure you that his is a beauty of an altogether different order. I should doubt if a better-looking young man has ever existed, and to assert that he is less handsome than me is, if you will forgive my saying so, quite ridiculous.’ ‘If only you came to see me every day I believe I should go on living for ever,’ she burst out. ‘I am suddenly beginning to feel quite young, and I am not at all sure that the world is half so bad a place as I made out just now.’ Nevertheless it was not long before she was again wailing and weeping. ‘How I envy my sister Princess Ōmiya,’ she cried; ‘no doubt, being your mother-in-law, she sees a great deal of you. I only wish I were in that position. You know, I expect, that my poor brother often talked of affiancing his daughter to you and was very sorry afterwards that he did not do so.’ At this Genji pricked up his ears. ‘I desired nothing better,’ said he, ‘than to be connected on close terms with your family, and it would still give me great pleasure to be on a

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Rh more intimate footing in this house. But I cannot say that I have hitherto received much encouragement….’ He was vexed that he had not discovered this at the time. He looked towards the other wing of the house. The garden under the younger princess’s windows was carefully tended. He scanned those borders of late autumn flowers, and then the rooms behind; he pictured her sitting not far from the window, her eyes fixed upon these same swiftly-fading petals. Yes, he must certainly contrive to see her; and bowing to Princess Nyogo he said: ‘I naturally intend to pay my respects to your niece to-day; indeed, I should not like her to regard my visit as a mere afterthought, and for that reason I shall, with your permission, approach her apartments by way of the garden instead of going along the corridor and through the hall.’ Skirting the side of the house he came at length to her window. Although it was now almost dark, he could see, behind grey curtains, the outline of a black screen-of-state. He was soon observed, and Asagao’s servants, scandalized that he should have been left standing even for a moment in the verandah, hurried him into the guest-room at the back of the house. Here a gentlewoman came to enquire what was his pleasure, and he handed to her the following note: ‘How this carries me back to the days of our youth—this sending in of notes and waiting in ante-chambers! I had hoped, I confess, that my reticence during the years of your sacred calling would have won for me, still your ardent admirer, the right to a somewhat less formal reception.’ It would be hard indeed if she gave him no more encouragement than this! Her answer was brought by word of mouth: ‘To come back to this house and find my father no longer here, is so strange an experience that it is difficult to believe those old days were not a mere dream from which I now awake to a fleeting prospect of the most comfortless realities. But in a world

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72 where all is change, it would, I confess, be ungracious not to cherish and encourage a devotion so undeviating as that which you have described.’

She need not, he thought, remind him of life’s uncertainties. For who had in every circumstance great and small more grievously experienced them than he? In reply he sent the poem: ‘Have I not manfully held back and kept cold silence year on year, till the Gods gave me leave?’ ‘Madam,’ he added, ‘you are a Vestal no longer and cannot plead that any sanctity now hedges you about. Since last we met I have experienced many strange vicissitudes. If you would but let me tell you a little part of all that I have seen and suffered….’ The gentlewoman who took his answer noticed that his badges and decorations were somewhat more dazzling than in old days; but though he was now a good deal older, his honours still far out-stripped his years.

‘Though it were but to tell me of your trials and sorrows that you have made this visit, yet even such tidings the Gods, my masters till of late, forbid me to receive.’ This was too bad! ‘Tell your lady,’ he cried peevishly, ‘that I have long ago cast my offence of old days to the winds of Shinado; or does she think perhaps that the Gods did not accept my vows?’ The messenger saw that though he sought to turn off the matter with these allusions and jests he was in reality very much put about, and she was vexed on his behalf. She had for years past been watching her mistress become more and more aloof from the common interests and distractions of life, and it had long distressed her to see Prince Genji’s letters so often left unanswered. ‘I did ill to call at so late an hour,’ he said; ‘I can see that

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Rh the purpose of my visit has been wholly misunderstood.’ And sighing heavily he turned to go, saying as he did so: ‘This is the way one is treated when one begins to grow old. … It is useless, I know, after what has passed, even to suggest that her Highness should come to the window for a moment to see me start…” and with that he left the house, watched by a bevy of ladies who made all the usual comments and appraisements. Not only was it delightful weather, but at this moment the wind was making a most agreeable music in the neighbouring trees, and these ladies soon fell to talking of the old days when Prince Momozono was alive; particularly of Genji’s visits long ago and the many signs he had given of a deep and unaltering attachment to their mistress.

After his return from this unsuccessful expedition, Genji felt in no mood for sleep, and soon he jumped up and threw open his casement. The morning mist lay thick over the garden of flowers, which, at the season’s close, looked very battered and wan. Among them, its blossoms shimmering vaguely, was here and there a Morning Glory, growing mixed in among the other flowers. Choosing one that was even more wilted and autumnal than the rest, he sent it to the Momozono palace, with the note: ‘The poor reception which you gave me last night has left a most humiliating and painful impression upon me. Indeed, I can only imagine it was with feelings of relief that you so soon saw my back turned upon your house, though I am loth to think that things can even now have come to such a pass: “Can it be that the Morning Glory, once seen by me and ever since remembered in its beauty, is now a dry and withered flower?” Does it count with you for nothing that I have admired you unrequited, year in year out, for so great a stretch of time? That at least might be put to my

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 CONTENTS

TO THE

FIFTY-SIXTH VOLUME.

FROM JULY TO DECEMBER, 1869, INCLUSIVE.

A Boarding-School Romance-By Ella Rodman, (Illustrated)· A Hasty Marriage -By the author of "Dora's Cold," At the Falls- By Frank Lee Benedict, (Illustrated) A Story of a Rose-Bud-By A. M. Mitchell. Annette Lyle's Christmas Gift-By the author of "Dora's Cold," etc., etc., etc., By the Sea- By Frank Lee Benedict, Death in Life-By Agnes James, 104, 193 Captain Jean- By the author of "Margret Howth," 351 Cassie's Proposal -By Daisy Ventnor, 365 Charity's Secret-By the author of "The Second Life," etc., etc.,

Autumn Jacket-By Emily H. May, ( Illustrated,) 25 199 37 Crochet Slipper-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) - 226 181 Case for Knitting and Darning-Needles- By Mrs. Jane 300 Weaver, (Illustrated,) · 2-27 380 Crochet Curtain-Band- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,)- · - 298 425 Crochet Shawl for Gentlemen- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 804.

32 Crochet Garter-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, ( Illustrated,) - 388 Basquine for a Young Miss-By Emily H. May, (1 llus trated,) Casket Pin-Cushion- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) · 69 471 Boy's Gaiter- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 227 Breton Border. Name for Marking-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) - 228 Designs in Berlin Wool for Bags, Slippers, etc.- By Braid Trimmings-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 299 Mrs. Jane Weaver, ( Illustrated,) 68 Border in Point Russe. Crochet Edge-By Mrs. Jane Diagram of Basquine for a Young Miss-By Emily II. Weaver, (Illustrated,) 301 May, (Illustrated,) 70 Basket for Knitting-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illus trated,) 305 Diagram of Pannier Mantilla-By Emily H. May, (Illustrated,) 145 Diagram for Pannier Dress With Camargo Sash- By Emily H. May, (Illustrated,) - 224 Cover for Music-Stool, in Crochet Applique on Net Diagram of Autumn Jacket-By Emily H. May, (Illustrated,)· 301 By Mrs. Jane Weaver, ( Illustrated,) · · 71

Children's Fashions, ( Illustrated, ) 80, 157, 235, 313, 396, 478 Diagram of Little Girl's Tunic and Cape-By Emily II. Chinese Figures -By Mrs. Jane Weaver, ( Illustrated,) 147 May, (Illustrated,) · 385 Crochet Edge- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, ( Illustrated,) - 148 Dress Strap- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, ( Illustrated,) 386 Case for Silk Buttons-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illus Duster-Basket, with Variegated Embroidery-By Mrs. trated,) 151 Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) · 388 Crocheted Insertion. Initials for Marking- By Mrs. Diagram of Knickerbocker Suit for Boy-By Emily H. Illustr ated,) Jane Weaver, ( 151 May, (Illustrated,) 465

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74 credit….’ She could not leave so mannerly an appeal quite unheeded, and when her people pressed round her with ink-stone and brush, she yielded to their persuasion so far-as to write the poem: ‘Autumn is over, and now with ghostly flower the Morning Glory withers on the mist-bound hedge.’ ‘Your comparison,’ she added, ‘is so just that the arrival of your note has brought fresh dewdrops to the petals of the flower to whom this reminder was addressed.’ That was all, and it was in truth not very interesting or ingenious. But for some reason he read the poem many times over, and during the course of the day found himself continually looking at it. Perhaps what fascinated him was the effect of her faint, sinuous ink-strokes on the blue-grey writing-paper which her mourning dictated. For it often happens that a letter, its value enhanced to us either by the quality of the writer or by the beauty of the penmanship, appears at the time to be faultless. But when it is copied out and put into a book something seems to have gone wrong. … Efforts are made to improve the sense or style, and in the end the original effect is altogether lost.

He realized the impropriety of the letters with which he had in old days assailed her and did not intend to return to so unrestrained a method of address. His new style had indeed met with a certain measure of success; for whereas she had formerly seldom vouchsafed any answer at all, he had now received a not unfriendly reply. But even this reply was far from being such as to satisfy him, and he was unable to resist the temptation of trying to improve upon so meagre a success. He wrote again, this time in much less cautious terms, and posting himself in the eastern wing of his palace he sent a carriage to fetch one of Asagao’s ladies, and presently sent her back again with the letter. Her

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Rh gentlewomen would themselves never have dreamed of discouraging far less distinguished attentions, let alone those of such a personage as Prince Genji, and they now urged his claims upon their mistress as one ‘for whose sake a little virtue was surely worth sacrificing.’ But after all her efforts in the past to keep free of such an entanglement, this was hardly the moment to give in; for she felt that both he and she had now reached an age when such things are best put aside. She feared that even her inevitable allusions to the flowers and trees of the season might easily be misinterpreted, and even if Genji himself was under no misapprehension, there are always those who made a business of getting hold of such things and turning them to mischief, and in consequence she was careful to avoid the slightest hint of anything intimate or sentimental. About this time a rumour ran through the Court to the effect that Genji was in active correspondence with the former Vestal, abetted and encouraged by Princess Nyogo and the lady’s other relatives. The pair seemed very well suited to one another and no one expressed any surprise at the existence of such an attachment. The story eventually reached Murasaki’s ears. At first she refused to credit it, making sure that if he were indeed carrying on any such intrigue it would be scarcely possible for him to conceal it from her. But observing him with this tale in her mind she thought that he seemed unusually abstracted and depressed. What if this affair, which he had always passed off as a mere joke between himself and his cousin, were to turn out after all to be something important—the beginning of what she dreaded day and night? In rank and in accomplishments perhaps there was little to choose between Asagao and herself. But he had begun to admire and court this princess long, long ago; and if an affection grounded so far back in the past were now to resume its sway over him, Murasaki

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76 knew that she must be prepared for the worst. It was not easy to face what she now believed to threaten her. For years past she had held, beyond challenge or doubt, the first place in Genji’s affections—had been the centre of all his plans and contrivings. To see herself ousted by a stranger from a place which long use had taught her to regard as her own by inalienable right—such was the ordeal for which she now began silently to prepare herself. He would not, of course, abandon her altogether; of that she was sure. But the very fact that they had for so many years lived together on terms of daily intimacy and shared so many trifling experiences made her, she felt, in a way less interesting to him. So she speculated, sometimes thinking that all was indeed lost, sometimes that the whole thing was her fancy and nothing whatever was amiss. In his general conduct towards her there was not anything of which she could reasonably complain. But there were from time to time certain vague indications that he was not in the best of tempers, and these were enough whenever they occurred to convince her that she was undone for good and all,—though she showed no outward sign of the despair which had now settled upon her. Genji, meanwhile, spent much of his time in the front of the house and was also frequently at the Emperor’s Palace. His leisure was employed in writing endless letters. Murasaki wondered how she could have ever doubted the rumours that were now rampant throughout the Court. If only he would tell, give even the slightest hint of what was in these days passing through his mind!

Winter drew on, and at last the eleventh month came round. But this year there were none of the usual religious festivals and processions to distract him, and Genji became

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Rh more and more restless. One evening when the delicate twilight was sprinkled with a few thin flakes of snow, he determined to set out for the Momozono palace. All day he had been more than usually preoccupied with thoughts of its occupant, and somehow he could not help feeling that she too would on this occasion prove less unyielding. Before starting, he came to take leave of Murasaki in the western wing. ‘I am sorry to say Princess Nyogo is very unwell,’ he said; ‘I must go and offer her my sympathy.’ She did not even look round, but went on playing with her little foster-child as though determined not to be interrupted. Evidently there was going to be trouble. ‘There has been something very strange in your manner lately,’ he said. ‘I am not conscious of having done anything to offend you. I thought we understood one another well enough for me to be able to spend a day or two now and then at the Emperor’s Palace without your taking offence. But perhaps it is something else?’ ‘I certainly understand you well enough,’ she answered, ‘to know that I must expect to put up with a great deal of suffering…’ and she sank back upon the divan, her face turned away from him. He could never bear to leave her thus, and knew he would be wretched every step of the way to Princess Nyogo’s house. But the hour was already late, and as he had promised beforehand that he would call there that evening, it was impossible to defer his departure.

Murasaki meanwhile lay on her couch, continually debating within herself whether this affair might not really have been going on for years past—perhaps ever since his return—without her having any suspicion of it. She went to the window. He was still dressed chiefly in

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78 grey; but the few touches of colour which his mourning permitted showed up all the more brightly, and as she watched his handsome figure moving against a background of glittering snow, the thought that she might be losing him, that soon, very soon perhaps, he would vanish never to return, was more than she could endure. His cortège consisted only of a few favourite outriders, to whom he said: ‘I am not feeling inclined just now to go about paying calls; indeed, you will have noticed that apart from a few necessary visits to Court, I have hardly left home at all. But my friends at the Momozono palace are passing through a very trying time. Her Highness has for years relied upon her brother’s aid and, now that he is taken from her, the least I can do is to help her occasionally with a little encouragement and advice….’ But his gentlemen were not so easily deceived and whispered among themselves as they rode along: ‘Come, come, that will not do. Unless he has very much changed his ways it is not to chatter with old ladies that his Highness sets out at this hour of a winter night. There is more here than meets the eye,’ and they shook their heads over his incurable frivolity.

The main gate of the palace was on the north side; but here there was usually a great deal of traffic, and not wishing to attract attention he drove up to a side-entrance, the one which Prince Momozono himself commonly used, and sent in a servant to announce his arrival. As he had promised to appear at a much earlier hour Princess Nyogo had by now quite given up expecting him, and, much put about by this untimely visit, she bade her people send the porter to the western gate. The man made his appearance a moment later, looking wretchedly pinched and cold as he hastened through the snow with the key in his hand. Unfortunately the lock would not work, and when he went back to look for help no other manservant could anywhere be found.

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 II Editor's Table, 74, 152, 230, 308, 390, 472. Elgings, (Illustrated) 73, 470 (Illustrated,) Ladies' Jacket Without Sleeves-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, 143

Fashions for July, (Illustrated,) 369 Fashions for August, (Illustrated,)· 229 Foot-Cushion- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 234 Fashions for September, (Illustrated,) 312 Fashions for October, (Illustrated,) Fashions for November, (Illustrated,) 58, 134, 215, 291, 372, 450 477 Musical Corner, Fashions for December, (Illustrated,) 76 ·188 140 Linen Bag- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 148 Lamp-Mat-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) Little Girl's Tunic and Cape- By Emily H. May, (Illustrated,) 384

Ebenezer's Courtship-By Mrs. G. J. Beebe, 298 Fourth of July in Jonesville-By Josiah Allen's Wife, - 54 Mrs. March's Boarders-By Clara Augusta, 267 Miss Wooley's Lovers-By Frances Lee, 360 My Last Year's Magazine- By Josiah Allen's Wife, 209 Guardy's Pearl-By Daisy Ventnor, In Pursuit of a Parson-By Frank Lee Benedict, How I Became A Benedict-By Emma Garrison. Husbands and Wives-By E. G. Topliff, Our Picnic by the Sea- By Nellie Ames, (Illustrated ) 101 Only A Woman After All - By Lillian Louise Gilbert, 269 367 Our Fortune- By A. M. Dana, 438 Knowing One's Own Mind-By Margaret Meert, Ponto's First Lesson-By Mary A. Denison, (Illustrated,) Kate's Winter in Washington-By Frank Lee Benedict, 261, 342, 431. Marie Antoinette's Talisman-By Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, 395

Leather Comb-Case- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 389. 156· 79 Muff Crocheted in Imitation of Fur- By Mrs. Jane Glove-Case in Square Crochet, or Darned Netting- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 466 Weaver, (Illustrated,) · 226 400 Music-Roll- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) Gaiter for Little Girl-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) Weaver, Monogram. New Stitch in Crochet-By Mrs. Jane · 383 · 471 (Illustrated,) -- · Insertion in Stripes, etc., etc.- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) Initials. Crochet By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illus· trated,) Initials for Marking. Monogram- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 73 Handkerchief-Box, with Pin-Cushion Top- By Mrs. New Pattern for a Night-Cap-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, 73 Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 69 (Illustrated,) Needle-Case of Perforated Cardboard-By Mrs. Jane 130 Jones, 149 Weaver, (Illustrated,) - · 179 Name for Marking. Crochet Edge- By Mrs. Jane 392 Housekeeper's Hints, · 355, 470 Weaver, (Illustrated,) - 111 Our Arm-Chair, 76, 154, 232, 310, 392, 474 Our New Cook-Book, 77, 154, 233, 310, 393, 475 306 Open Pattern on Linen, for Insertions for Drawers 304 By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) ·· 389 Pannier Mantilla- By Emily H. May, (Illustrated,) Java Canvas Cap-Bag-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) · 149 Pannier Dress With Camargo Sash- By Emily H. May, (Illustrated,) Pin-Cushion- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) Pen-Wiper By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 125 Pocket for Goloshes- By Mrs. Jane Weaver. (Illustrated,) Knitted Cravat-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated) - 150 144 223 05 306 386 445

Key-Basket-Chenille Embroidery- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 387 75, 153, 281, 309, 391, 473 Knickerbocker Suit for Boy-By Emily H. May, (Illustrated,) Review of New Books, 464 Round Foot-Cushion- By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,)- 146 Knitted Overshoe-By Mrs. Jane Weaver, (Illustrated,) 470

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Rh ‘It’s very rusty,’ said the old porter dolefully, fumbling all the while with the lock, that grated with an unpleasant sound but would not turn. ‘There’s nothing else wrong with it, but it’s terribly rusty. No one uses this gate now.’

The words, ordinary enough in themselves, filled Genji with an unaccountable depression. How swiftly the locks rust, the hinges grow stiff on doors that close behind us! ‘I am more than thirty,’ he thought; and it seemed to him impossible to go on doing things just as though they would last … as though people would remember …. ‘And yet,’ he said to himself, ‘I know that even at this moment the sight of something very beautiful, were it only some common flower or tree, might in an instant make life again seem full of meaning and reality.’

At last the key turned and with a great deal of pushing and pulling the gate was gradually forced open. Soon he was in the Princess’s room, listening to her usual discourses and lamentations. She began telling a series of very involved and rambling stories about things all of which seemed to have happened a great while ago. His attention began to wander; it was all he could do to keep awake. Before very long the Princess herself broke off and said with a yawn: ‘It’s no good; I can’t tell things properly at this time of night, it all gets mixed up….’

Then suddenly he heard a loud and peculiar noise. Where did it come from? What could it be? His eye fell upon the Princess. Yes; it was from her that these strange sounds proceeded; for she was now fast asleep and snoring with a resonance such as he would never have conceived to be possible.

Delighted at this opportunity of escape he was just about to slip out of the room when he heard a loud ‘Ahem,’ also uttered in a very aged and husky voice, and perceived that

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80 some one had just entered the room. ‘There! What a shame! I’ve startled you. And I made sure you heard me come in. But I see you don’t know who in the world I am. Well, your poor father, the old Emperor, who loved his joke, used to call me the Grandam. Perhaps that will help you to remember….’ Could this be…. Yes, surely it was that same elderly Lady of the Bedchamber who had flirted with him so outrageously years ago, at the time of the Feast of Red Leaves. He seemed to remember hearing that she had joined some lay order and become a pensioner in the late prince’s household. But it had not occurred to him that she could possibly still be in existence, and this sudden encounter was something of a shock. ‘I am distressed to find,’ he answered, ‘that those old days are becoming very dim in my mind, and anything that recalls them to me is therefore very precious. I am delighted to hear your voice again. Pray remember that, like the traveller whom Prince Shōtoku found lying at the wayside, I have ‘no parent to succour me’ and must therefore look to old friends such as you for shelter from the world’s unkindness.’ It was extraordinary how little she had changed in appearance, and her manner was certainly as arch and coquettish as ever. Her utterance, indeed, suggested that she now had very few teeth left in her head; but she still managed to impart to her words the same insinuating and caressing tone as of old. It amused him that she spoke of herself as though she had been a mere girl when they first met and that she continually apologized for the changes which he must now be noticing in her. He was amused, but also saddened. For he could not help thinking that of all the gentlewomen who had been this lady’s rivals scarce one was now left at Court. Most were dead; others had fallen into disgrace and were eking out a

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a moment or two Mr. Pertell seemed rather embarrassed. He feared he had forced some unpleasant secret from the farmer, and he did not want to hurt his feelings. Then, too, he remembered that Sandy had hinted at some trouble at the farm. This was probably it, and it had to do with money.

"Perhaps you would rather not talk about it," suggested the manager, after a pause. He and Sandy were at one end of the porch now, the others having gone in. Felix Apgar, preferring to let his son do the talking, had risen from his chair, and was going slowly down the gravel walk to close the gate lest some stray cow wander in from the highway and eat his wife's favorite flowers.

"Oh, I reckon I might jest as well tell you," spoke Sandy, slowly. "It's bound to come out


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Rh sooner or later, and then everybody in Beatonville will hear of our trouble."

"Then it is trouble?" asked Mr. Pertell.

"That's what it is."

"If I could do anything to help," suggested the manager, "I would be glad to."

"No, I don't reckon you could, unless you wanted to invest quite a sum of money in this farm," returned the young man.

"Well, I'm afraid I'm hardly ready to do that," declared Mr. Pertell. "Farming isn't in my line, and I've got about all my spare funds invested in the moving picture business. But if a loan would help you"

"That's th' trouble!" interrupted Sandy. "We've got too much of a loan now, and we can't pay it off. Th' place is 'mortgaged up to th' handle,' as they say out this way. That's why pa couldn't give you permission to burn a barn.

"We have an old shack, that's almost toppling over, and it would be better burned and out of th' way. But I guess Squire Blasdell would object if you sot fire to it. The squire pretty near owns our place with this mortgage; or, rather with th' mortgages of folks he represents. He's a lawyer," he added simply. "But maybe if you paid him what he thought the barn was wuth he'd let you fire it."


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38 "Then I'll have to talk to him," went on Mr. Pertell. "I need a barn-burning in one scene. It will be very effective, I think."

"Gosh! But you movin' picture fellers certainly do things," commented Sandy. "You hire yachts to make believe take a trip to Europe, and now you're wantin' to burn a barn! I never heard tell th' like of such doin's."

"Oh, that's nothing to what some of them do," remarked the manager. "Why, some of my competitors have bought old steamboats, taken them out in mid-ocean, and set fire to them, just to get a rescue picture."

"Get out!" cried Sandy, clearly incredulous.

"That's a fact," declared Mr. Pertell. "And, more than once, some of them have bought old locomotives and coaches, and set them going toward each other on the same track, to make a railroad collision."

"Do you mean it?" cried Sandy.

"I certainly do. Why, one manager actually burned up a whole mining town just to get a good picture. He destroyed more than twenty shacks. Of course they weren't very elaborate ones, but' he got a fine effect."

"Wa'al, then I reckon burnin' one barn isn't so wonderful," observed Sandy.

"No, indeed. And I'll see Squire Blasdell the


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Rh miserable existence no one knew where. Or again, that a creature such as Lady Fujitsubo should vanish so soon, while this absurd grandam, even in her younger days totally devoid of charm or intelligence, should be left behind! And judging by her appearance, there was every prospect that she would go on happily pottering about and telling her rosary for another twenty years. No; there was no sense, no purpose in all this.

She saw that thoughts which moved him deeply were passing through his mind and at once assumed that he was recalling the details of what she was pleased to think of as their ‘love affair’; and now in her most playful voice she recited the poem: ‘Though your father called me Granny, I am not so old but that you and I were sweethearts long ago.’ He felt somewhat embarrassed but he answered kindly: ‘Such motherly care as yours not in this life only but in all lives to come none save a scapegrace would forget.’ ‘We must meet again at a more convenient time and have a good talk,’ he said; and with that he hastened towards the western wing. The blinds were drawn and everything was shut up for the night, save that at one window she had left a lattice half unclosed, feeling that to show no light at all on the evening of his visit would be too pointedly uncivil. The moon had risen and its rays blended with the glitter of the newly-fallen snow. It was indeed a most charming night. ‘An old woman in love and the moon at mid-winter’: he remembered the saying that these are the two most dismal things in the world; but to-night he felt this collocation to be very unjust. He sent in an urgent letter: if despite her scruples she intended ever to admit him for a few moments to her presence, why not take advantage of this excellent opportunity and not subject him to the irritation of purposeless delays?

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