(‡ decoration)WM.DEAN HOWELLS.(THE REALISTIC NOVELIST OF AMERICA.)THE West has contributed many notable men to our nation within the last half of the present century. There seems to be something in the spirit of that developing section to stimulate the aspirations and ambitions of those who grow up in its atmosphere. Progress, Enterprise, “Excelsior” are the three words written upon its banner as the motto for the sons of the middle West. It is there we go for many of our leading statesmen. Thence we draw our presidents more largely than from any other section, and the world of modern literature is also seeking and finding its chiefest leaders among the sons and daughters of that region. True they are generally transplanted to the Eastern centres of publication and commercial life, but they were born and grew up in the West.Notably among the examples which might be cited, we mention William Dean Howells, one of the greatest of modern American novelists, who was born at Martin’s Ferry, Ohio, March1st, 1837.Mr.Howells did not enjoy the advantage of a collegiate education. At twelve years of age he began to set type in his father’s printing office, which he followed until he reached manhood, employing his odd time in writing articles and verses for the newspapers, and while quite young did editorial work for a leading daily in Cincinnati. At the age of twenty-one, in 1858, he became the editor of the “Ohio State Journal” at Columbus. Two years later he published in connection with John James Piatt a small volume of verse entitled “Poems of two Friends.” These youthful effusions were marked by that crystal like clearness of thought, grace and artistic elegance of expression which characterize his later writings.Mr.Howells came prominently before the public in 1860 by publishing a carefully written and most excellent “Life of Abraham Lincoln” which was extensively sold and read during that most exciting presidential campaign, and no doubt contributed much to the success of the candidate.Mr.Lincoln, in furnishing data for this work, became well acquainted with the young author of twenty-three and was so impressed with his ability in grasping and discussing state affairs, and good sense generally, that he appointed him as♦consul to Venice.♦‘cousul’ replaced with ‘consul’During four years’ residence in that cityMr.Howells, in addition to his official duties, learned the Italian language and studied its literature. He also here gathered, the material for two books, “Venitian Life” and “Italian Journeys.” He arranged for the publication of the former in London as he passed through that city in 1865 on his way home. The latter was brought out in America on his return,appearing in 1867. Neither of these works are novels. “Venetian Life” is a delightful description of the manners and customs of real life in Venice. “Italian Journeys” is a charming portrayal—almost a kinetoscopic view—of his journey from Venice to Rome by the roundabout way of Genoa and Naples, with a visit to Pompeii and Herculaneum, including artistic etchings of notable scenes.The first attempt ofMr.Howells at story-telling, “Their Wedding Journey,” appeared in 1871. This, while ranking as a novel, was really a description of an actual bridal tour across New York. “A Chance Acquaintance” (1873) was a more complete novel, but evidently it was a venture of the imagination upon ground that had proven fruitful in real life. It was modeled after “The Wedding Journey,” but described a holiday season spent in journeying up theSt.Lawrence River, stopping at Quebec and Saguenay.Since 1874Mr.Howells has published one or more novels annually, among which are the following: “A Foregone Conclusion” (1874), “A Counterfeit Presentment” (1877), “The Lady of the Aroostook” (1878), “The Undiscovered Country” (1880), “A Fearful Responsibility” (1882), “A Modern Instance” and “Dr.Breen’s Practice” (1883), “A Woman’s Reason” (1884), “Tuscan Cities” and “The Rise of Silas Lapham” (1885), “The Minister’s Charge” and “Indian Summer” (1886), “April Hopes” (1887), “Annie Kilburn” (1888), “Hazard of New Fortune” (1889). Since 1890Mr.Howells has continued his literary activity with increased, rather than abating, energy. Among his noted later novels are “A Traveler from Altruria” and “The Landlord at Lion’s Head” (the latter issued in 1897). Other notable books of his are “Stops at Various Quills,” “My Literary Passion,” “Library of Universal Adventure,” “Modern Italian Poets,” “Christmas Every Day” and “A Boy’s Town,” the two last mentioned being for juvenile readers, with illustrations.Mr.Howells’ accurate attention to details gives to his stories a most realistic flavor, making his books seem rather photographic than artistic. He shuns imposing characters and thrilling incidents, and makes much of interesting people and ordinary events in our social life. A broad grasp of our national characteristics and an intimate acquaintance with our institutions gives him a facility in producing minute studies of certain aspects of society and types of character, which no other writer in America has approached. For instance, his “Undiscovered Country” was an exhaustive study and presentation of spiritualism, as it is witnessed and taught in New England. And those who admireMr.Howells’ writings will find in “The Landlord at Lion’s Head” a clear-cut statement of the important sociological problem yet to be solved, upon the other; which problem is also characteristic of other of his books. Thoughtful readers ofMr.Howells’ novels gain much information on vital questions of society and government, which broaden the mind and cannot fail to be of permanent benefit.From 1872 to 1881Mr.Howells was editor of the “Atlantic Monthly,” and since 1886 he has conducted the department known as the “Editor’s Study” in “Harper’s Magazine,” contributing much to other periodicals at the same time. He is also well known as a poet, but has so overshadowed this side of himself by his greater power as a novelist, that he is placed with that class of writers. In 1873 a collection of his poems was published. While in Venice he wrote “No Love Lost; a Romance of Travel,” which was published in 1869, and stamped him as a poet of ability.THE FIRST BOARDER.(FROM “THE LANDLORD AT LION’S HEAD.” 1897.)By Permission ofMessrs.Harper & Brothers, Publishers.THE table was set for him alone, and it affected him as if the family had been hurried away from it that he might have it to himself. Everything was very simple; the iron forks had two prongs; the knives bone handles; the dull glass was pressed; the heavy plates and cups were white, but so was the cloth, and all were clean. The woman brought in a good boiled dinner of corned beef, potatoes, turnips and carrots, from the kitchen, and a teapot, and said something about having kept them hot on the stove for him; she brought him a plate of biscuit fresh from the oven; then she said to the boy, “You come out and have your dinner with me, Jeff,” and left the guest to make his meal unmolested.The room was square, with two north windows that looked down the lane he had climbed to the house. An open door led into the kitchen in an ell, and a closed door opposite probably gave access to a parlor or a ground-floor chamber. The windows were darkened down to the lower sash by green paper shades; the walls were papered in a pattern of brown roses; over the chimney hung a large picture, a life-size pencil-drawing of two little girls, one slightly older and slightly larger than the other, each with round eyes and precise ringlets, and with her hand clasped in the other’s hand.The guest seemed helpless to take his gaze from it, and he sat fallen back in his chair gazing at it, when the woman came in with a pie.“Thank you, I believe I don’t want any dessert,” he said. “The fact is, the dinner was so good that I haven’t left any room for pie. Are those your children?”“Yes,” said the woman, looking up at the picture with the pie in her hand. “They’re the last two I lost.”“Oh, excuse me!” the guest began.“It’s the way they appear in the spirit life. It’s a spirit picture.”“Oh! I thought there was something strange about it.”“Well, it’s a good deal like the photographs we had taken about a year before they died. It’s a good likeness. They say they don’t change a great deal, at first.”She seemed to refer the point to him for his judgment; but he answered wide of it:“I came up here to paint your mountain, if you don’t mind,Mrs.Durgin—Lion’s Head, I mean.”“Oh, yes. Well I don’t know as we could stop you, if you wanted to take it away.” A spare glimmer lighted up her face.The painter rejoined in kind. “The town might have something to say, I suppose.”“Not if you was to leave a good piece of intervale in place of it. We’ve got mountains to spare.”“Well, then, that’s arranged. What about a week’s board?”“I guess you can stay, if you’re satisfied.”“I’ll be satisfied if I can stay. How much do you want?”The woman looked down, probably with an inward anxiety between the fear of asking too much and the folly of asking too little. She said, tentatively, “Some of the folks that come over from the hotels say they pay as much as twenty dollars a week.”“But you don’t expect hotel prices?”“I don’t know as I do. We’ve never had any body before.”The stranger relaxed the frown he had put on at the greed of her suggestion; it might have come from ignorance or mere innocence, “I’m in the habit of paying five dollars for farm board, where I stayed several weeks. What do you say to seven for a single week?”“I guess that’ll do,” said the woman, and she went out with the pie, which she had kept in her hand.IMPRESSIONS ON VISITINGPOMPEII.¹FROM “ITALIAN JOURNEYS.” 1867.¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.THE cotton whitens over two-thirds of Pompeii yet interred: happy the generation that lives to learn the wondrous secrets of that sepulchre! For, when you have once been at Pompeii, this phantasm of the past takes deeper hold on your imagination than any living city, and becomes and is the metropolis of your dream-land forever. O marvellous city! who shall reveal the cunning of your spell? Something not death, something not life,—something that is the one when you turn to determine its essence as the other! What is it comes to me at this distance of that which I saw in Pompeii? The narrow and curving, but not crooked streets, with the blazing sun of that Neapolitan November falling into them, or clouding their wheel-worn lava with the black, black shadows of the many-tinted walls; the houses, and the gay columns of white, yellow, and red; the delicate pavements of mosaic; the skeletons of dusty cisterns and dead fountains; inanimate garden-spaces with pygmy statues suited to their littleness; suites of fairy bed-chambers, painted with exquisite frescos; dining-halls with joyous scenes of hunt and banquet on their walls; the ruinous sites of temples; the melancholy emptiness of booths and shops and jolly drinking-houses; the lonesome tragic theatre, with a modern Pompeian drawing water from a well there; the baths with their roofs perfect yet, and the stucco bass-reliefs all but unharmed; around the whole, the city wall crowned with slender poplars; outside the gates, the long avenue of tombs, and the Appian Way stretching on to Stabiæ; and, in the distance, Vesuvius, brown and bare, with his fiery breath scarce visible against the cloudless heaven; these are the things that float before my fancy as I turn back to look at myself walking those enchanted streets, and to wonder if I could ever have been so blest. For there is nothing on the earth, or under it, like Pompeii....THE HOUSES OF POMPEII AND THEIR PAINTED WALLS.From “Italian Journeys.”The plans of nearly all the houses in the city are alike: the entrance-room next the door; the parlor or drawing-room next that; then theimpluvium, or unroofed space in the middle of the house, where the rains were caught and drained into the cistern, and where the household used to come to wash itself, primitively, as at a pump; the little garden, with its painted columns, behind theimpluvium, and, at last, the dining-room.After referring to the frescos on the walls that have remained for nearly two thousand years and the wonder of the art by which they were produced,Mr.Howells thus continues:Of course the houses of the rich were adorned by men of talent; but it is surprising to see the community of thought and feeling in all this work, whether it be from cunninger or clumsier hands. The subjects are nearly always chosen from the fables of the gods, and they are in illustration of the poets, Homer and the rest. To suit that soft, luxurious life which people led in Pompeii, the themes are commonly amorous, and sometimes not too chaste: there is much of Bacchus and Ariadne, much of Venus and Adonis, and Diana bathes a good deal with her nymphs,—not to mention frequent representations of the toilet of that beautiful monster which the lascivious art of the time loved to depict. One of the most pleasing of all the scenes is that in one of the houses, of the Judgment of Paris, in which the shepherd sits upon a bank in an attitude of ineffable and flattered importance, with one leg carelessly crossing the other, and both hands resting lightly on his shepherd’s crook, while the goddesses before him await his sentence. Naturally, the painter has done his best for the victress in this rivalry, and you see“Idalian Aphrodite beautiful,”as she should be, but with a warm and piquant spice of girlish resentment in her attitude, that Paris should pause for an instant, which is altogether delicious.“And I beheld great Here’s angry eyes.”Awful eyes! How did the painter make them? The wonder of all these pagan frescos is the mystery of the eyes,—still, beautiful, unhuman. You cannot believe that it is wrong for those tranquil-eyed men and women to do evil, they look so calm and so unconscious in it all; and in the presence of the celestials, as they bend upon you those eternal orbs, in whose regard you are but a part of space, you feel that here art has achieved the unearthly. I know of no words in literature which give asense(nothing gives the idea) of thestareof these gods, except that magnificent line of Kingsley’s, describing the advance over the sea toward Andromeda of the oblivious and unsympathizing Nereids. They floated slowly up and their eyes“Stared on her, silent and still, like the eyes in the house of the idols.”VENETIANVAGABONDS.¹(FROM “VENETIAN LIFE.” 1867.)¹By special permission of the author and of Houghton, Mifflin &Co.THE lasagnone is a loafer, as an Italian can be a loafer, without the admixture of ruffianism, which blemishes lost loafers of northern race. He may be quite worthless, and even impertinent, but he cannot be a rowdy—that pleasing blossom on the nose of our fast, high-fed, thick-blooded civilization. In Venice he must not be confounded with other loiterers at the café; not with the natty people who talk politics interminably over little cups of black coffee; not with those old habitués, who sit forever under the Procuratie, their hands folded upon the top of their sticks, and stare at the ladies who pass with a curious steadfastness and knowing skepticism of gaze, not pleasing in the dim eyes of age; certainly, the last persons who bear any likeness to the lasagnone are the Germans, with their honest, heavy faces comically anglicized by leg-of-mutton whiskers. The truth is, the lasagnone does not flourish in the best café; he comes to perfection in cheaper resorts, for he is commonly not rich.It often happens that a glass of water, flavored with a little anisette, is the order over which he sits a whole evening. He knows the waiter intimately, and does not call him “Shop!” (Bottéga) as less familiar people do, but Gigi, or Beppi, as the waiter is pretty sure to be named. “Behold!” he says, when the servant places his modest drink before him, “who is that loveliest blonde there?” Or to his fellow-lasagnone: “She regards me! I have broken her heart!” This is his sole business and mission, the cruel lasagnone—to break the ladies’ hearts. He spares no condition—neither rank nor wealth is any defence against him. I often wonder what is in that note he continually shows to his friend. The confession of some broken heart, I think. When he has folded it and put it away, he chuckles, “Ah, cara!” and sucks at his long, slender Virginia cigar. It is unlighted, for fire consumes cigars. I never see him read the papers—neither the Italian papers nor the Parisian journals, though if he can get “Galignani” he is glad, and he likes to pretend to a knowledge of English, uttering upon the occasion, with great relish, such distinctively English words as “Yes” and “Not,” and to the waiter, “A-little-fire-if-you-please.” He sits very late in the café, he touches his hat—his curly French hat—to the company as he goes out with a mild swagger, his cane held lightly in his left hand, his coat cut snugly to show his hips, and genteely swaying with the motion of his body. He is a dandy, of course—all Italians are dandies—but his vanity is perfectly harmless, and his heart is not bad. He would go half an hour to put you in the direction of the Piazza. A little thing can make him happy—to stand in the pit at the opera, and gaze at the ladies in the lower boxes—to attend the Marionette or the Malibran Theatre, and imperil the peace of pretty seamstresses and contadinas—to stand at the church doors and ogle the fair saints as they pass out. Go, harmless lasagnone, to thy lodging in some mysterious height, and break hearts if thou wilt. They are quickly mended.
(‡ decoration)
(THE REALISTIC NOVELIST OF AMERICA.)
THE West has contributed many notable men to our nation within the last half of the present century. There seems to be something in the spirit of that developing section to stimulate the aspirations and ambitions of those who grow up in its atmosphere. Progress, Enterprise, “Excelsior” are the three words written upon its banner as the motto for the sons of the middle West. It is there we go for many of our leading statesmen. Thence we draw our presidents more largely than from any other section, and the world of modern literature is also seeking and finding its chiefest leaders among the sons and daughters of that region. True they are generally transplanted to the Eastern centres of publication and commercial life, but they were born and grew up in the West.
Notably among the examples which might be cited, we mention William Dean Howells, one of the greatest of modern American novelists, who was born at Martin’s Ferry, Ohio, March1st, 1837.Mr.Howells did not enjoy the advantage of a collegiate education. At twelve years of age he began to set type in his father’s printing office, which he followed until he reached manhood, employing his odd time in writing articles and verses for the newspapers, and while quite young did editorial work for a leading daily in Cincinnati. At the age of twenty-one, in 1858, he became the editor of the “Ohio State Journal” at Columbus. Two years later he published in connection with John James Piatt a small volume of verse entitled “Poems of two Friends.” These youthful effusions were marked by that crystal like clearness of thought, grace and artistic elegance of expression which characterize his later writings.Mr.Howells came prominently before the public in 1860 by publishing a carefully written and most excellent “Life of Abraham Lincoln” which was extensively sold and read during that most exciting presidential campaign, and no doubt contributed much to the success of the candidate.Mr.Lincoln, in furnishing data for this work, became well acquainted with the young author of twenty-three and was so impressed with his ability in grasping and discussing state affairs, and good sense generally, that he appointed him as♦consul to Venice.
♦‘cousul’ replaced with ‘consul’
During four years’ residence in that cityMr.Howells, in addition to his official duties, learned the Italian language and studied its literature. He also here gathered, the material for two books, “Venitian Life” and “Italian Journeys.” He arranged for the publication of the former in London as he passed through that city in 1865 on his way home. The latter was brought out in America on his return,appearing in 1867. Neither of these works are novels. “Venetian Life” is a delightful description of the manners and customs of real life in Venice. “Italian Journeys” is a charming portrayal—almost a kinetoscopic view—of his journey from Venice to Rome by the roundabout way of Genoa and Naples, with a visit to Pompeii and Herculaneum, including artistic etchings of notable scenes.
The first attempt ofMr.Howells at story-telling, “Their Wedding Journey,” appeared in 1871. This, while ranking as a novel, was really a description of an actual bridal tour across New York. “A Chance Acquaintance” (1873) was a more complete novel, but evidently it was a venture of the imagination upon ground that had proven fruitful in real life. It was modeled after “The Wedding Journey,” but described a holiday season spent in journeying up theSt.Lawrence River, stopping at Quebec and Saguenay.
Since 1874Mr.Howells has published one or more novels annually, among which are the following: “A Foregone Conclusion” (1874), “A Counterfeit Presentment” (1877), “The Lady of the Aroostook” (1878), “The Undiscovered Country” (1880), “A Fearful Responsibility” (1882), “A Modern Instance” and “Dr.Breen’s Practice” (1883), “A Woman’s Reason” (1884), “Tuscan Cities” and “The Rise of Silas Lapham” (1885), “The Minister’s Charge” and “Indian Summer” (1886), “April Hopes” (1887), “Annie Kilburn” (1888), “Hazard of New Fortune” (1889). Since 1890Mr.Howells has continued his literary activity with increased, rather than abating, energy. Among his noted later novels are “A Traveler from Altruria” and “The Landlord at Lion’s Head” (the latter issued in 1897). Other notable books of his are “Stops at Various Quills,” “My Literary Passion,” “Library of Universal Adventure,” “Modern Italian Poets,” “Christmas Every Day” and “A Boy’s Town,” the two last mentioned being for juvenile readers, with illustrations.
Mr.Howells’ accurate attention to details gives to his stories a most realistic flavor, making his books seem rather photographic than artistic. He shuns imposing characters and thrilling incidents, and makes much of interesting people and ordinary events in our social life. A broad grasp of our national characteristics and an intimate acquaintance with our institutions gives him a facility in producing minute studies of certain aspects of society and types of character, which no other writer in America has approached. For instance, his “Undiscovered Country” was an exhaustive study and presentation of spiritualism, as it is witnessed and taught in New England. And those who admireMr.Howells’ writings will find in “The Landlord at Lion’s Head” a clear-cut statement of the important sociological problem yet to be solved, upon the other; which problem is also characteristic of other of his books. Thoughtful readers ofMr.Howells’ novels gain much information on vital questions of society and government, which broaden the mind and cannot fail to be of permanent benefit.
From 1872 to 1881Mr.Howells was editor of the “Atlantic Monthly,” and since 1886 he has conducted the department known as the “Editor’s Study” in “Harper’s Magazine,” contributing much to other periodicals at the same time. He is also well known as a poet, but has so overshadowed this side of himself by his greater power as a novelist, that he is placed with that class of writers. In 1873 a collection of his poems was published. While in Venice he wrote “No Love Lost; a Romance of Travel,” which was published in 1869, and stamped him as a poet of ability.
THE FIRST BOARDER.
(FROM “THE LANDLORD AT LION’S HEAD.” 1897.)
By Permission ofMessrs.Harper & Brothers, Publishers.
THE table was set for him alone, and it affected him as if the family had been hurried away from it that he might have it to himself. Everything was very simple; the iron forks had two prongs; the knives bone handles; the dull glass was pressed; the heavy plates and cups were white, but so was the cloth, and all were clean. The woman brought in a good boiled dinner of corned beef, potatoes, turnips and carrots, from the kitchen, and a teapot, and said something about having kept them hot on the stove for him; she brought him a plate of biscuit fresh from the oven; then she said to the boy, “You come out and have your dinner with me, Jeff,” and left the guest to make his meal unmolested.The room was square, with two north windows that looked down the lane he had climbed to the house. An open door led into the kitchen in an ell, and a closed door opposite probably gave access to a parlor or a ground-floor chamber. The windows were darkened down to the lower sash by green paper shades; the walls were papered in a pattern of brown roses; over the chimney hung a large picture, a life-size pencil-drawing of two little girls, one slightly older and slightly larger than the other, each with round eyes and precise ringlets, and with her hand clasped in the other’s hand.The guest seemed helpless to take his gaze from it, and he sat fallen back in his chair gazing at it, when the woman came in with a pie.“Thank you, I believe I don’t want any dessert,” he said. “The fact is, the dinner was so good that I haven’t left any room for pie. Are those your children?”“Yes,” said the woman, looking up at the picture with the pie in her hand. “They’re the last two I lost.”“Oh, excuse me!” the guest began.“It’s the way they appear in the spirit life. It’s a spirit picture.”“Oh! I thought there was something strange about it.”“Well, it’s a good deal like the photographs we had taken about a year before they died. It’s a good likeness. They say they don’t change a great deal, at first.”She seemed to refer the point to him for his judgment; but he answered wide of it:“I came up here to paint your mountain, if you don’t mind,Mrs.Durgin—Lion’s Head, I mean.”“Oh, yes. Well I don’t know as we could stop you, if you wanted to take it away.” A spare glimmer lighted up her face.The painter rejoined in kind. “The town might have something to say, I suppose.”“Not if you was to leave a good piece of intervale in place of it. We’ve got mountains to spare.”“Well, then, that’s arranged. What about a week’s board?”“I guess you can stay, if you’re satisfied.”“I’ll be satisfied if I can stay. How much do you want?”The woman looked down, probably with an inward anxiety between the fear of asking too much and the folly of asking too little. She said, tentatively, “Some of the folks that come over from the hotels say they pay as much as twenty dollars a week.”“But you don’t expect hotel prices?”“I don’t know as I do. We’ve never had any body before.”The stranger relaxed the frown he had put on at the greed of her suggestion; it might have come from ignorance or mere innocence, “I’m in the habit of paying five dollars for farm board, where I stayed several weeks. What do you say to seven for a single week?”“I guess that’ll do,” said the woman, and she went out with the pie, which she had kept in her hand.
THE table was set for him alone, and it affected him as if the family had been hurried away from it that he might have it to himself. Everything was very simple; the iron forks had two prongs; the knives bone handles; the dull glass was pressed; the heavy plates and cups were white, but so was the cloth, and all were clean. The woman brought in a good boiled dinner of corned beef, potatoes, turnips and carrots, from the kitchen, and a teapot, and said something about having kept them hot on the stove for him; she brought him a plate of biscuit fresh from the oven; then she said to the boy, “You come out and have your dinner with me, Jeff,” and left the guest to make his meal unmolested.
The room was square, with two north windows that looked down the lane he had climbed to the house. An open door led into the kitchen in an ell, and a closed door opposite probably gave access to a parlor or a ground-floor chamber. The windows were darkened down to the lower sash by green paper shades; the walls were papered in a pattern of brown roses; over the chimney hung a large picture, a life-size pencil-drawing of two little girls, one slightly older and slightly larger than the other, each with round eyes and precise ringlets, and with her hand clasped in the other’s hand.
The guest seemed helpless to take his gaze from it, and he sat fallen back in his chair gazing at it, when the woman came in with a pie.
“Thank you, I believe I don’t want any dessert,” he said. “The fact is, the dinner was so good that I haven’t left any room for pie. Are those your children?”
“Yes,” said the woman, looking up at the picture with the pie in her hand. “They’re the last two I lost.”
“Oh, excuse me!” the guest began.
“It’s the way they appear in the spirit life. It’s a spirit picture.”
“Oh! I thought there was something strange about it.”
“Well, it’s a good deal like the photographs we had taken about a year before they died. It’s a good likeness. They say they don’t change a great deal, at first.”
She seemed to refer the point to him for his judgment; but he answered wide of it:
“I came up here to paint your mountain, if you don’t mind,Mrs.Durgin—Lion’s Head, I mean.”
“Oh, yes. Well I don’t know as we could stop you, if you wanted to take it away.” A spare glimmer lighted up her face.
The painter rejoined in kind. “The town might have something to say, I suppose.”
“Not if you was to leave a good piece of intervale in place of it. We’ve got mountains to spare.”
“Well, then, that’s arranged. What about a week’s board?”
“I guess you can stay, if you’re satisfied.”
“I’ll be satisfied if I can stay. How much do you want?”
The woman looked down, probably with an inward anxiety between the fear of asking too much and the folly of asking too little. She said, tentatively, “Some of the folks that come over from the hotels say they pay as much as twenty dollars a week.”
“But you don’t expect hotel prices?”
“I don’t know as I do. We’ve never had any body before.”
The stranger relaxed the frown he had put on at the greed of her suggestion; it might have come from ignorance or mere innocence, “I’m in the habit of paying five dollars for farm board, where I stayed several weeks. What do you say to seven for a single week?”
“I guess that’ll do,” said the woman, and she went out with the pie, which she had kept in her hand.
IMPRESSIONS ON VISITINGPOMPEII.¹
FROM “ITALIAN JOURNEYS.” 1867.
¹Copyright, Houghton, Mifflin &Co.
THE cotton whitens over two-thirds of Pompeii yet interred: happy the generation that lives to learn the wondrous secrets of that sepulchre! For, when you have once been at Pompeii, this phantasm of the past takes deeper hold on your imagination than any living city, and becomes and is the metropolis of your dream-land forever. O marvellous city! who shall reveal the cunning of your spell? Something not death, something not life,—something that is the one when you turn to determine its essence as the other! What is it comes to me at this distance of that which I saw in Pompeii? The narrow and curving, but not crooked streets, with the blazing sun of that Neapolitan November falling into them, or clouding their wheel-worn lava with the black, black shadows of the many-tinted walls; the houses, and the gay columns of white, yellow, and red; the delicate pavements of mosaic; the skeletons of dusty cisterns and dead fountains; inanimate garden-spaces with pygmy statues suited to their littleness; suites of fairy bed-chambers, painted with exquisite frescos; dining-halls with joyous scenes of hunt and banquet on their walls; the ruinous sites of temples; the melancholy emptiness of booths and shops and jolly drinking-houses; the lonesome tragic theatre, with a modern Pompeian drawing water from a well there; the baths with their roofs perfect yet, and the stucco bass-reliefs all but unharmed; around the whole, the city wall crowned with slender poplars; outside the gates, the long avenue of tombs, and the Appian Way stretching on to Stabiæ; and, in the distance, Vesuvius, brown and bare, with his fiery breath scarce visible against the cloudless heaven; these are the things that float before my fancy as I turn back to look at myself walking those enchanted streets, and to wonder if I could ever have been so blest. For there is nothing on the earth, or under it, like Pompeii....THE HOUSES OF POMPEII AND THEIR PAINTED WALLS.From “Italian Journeys.”The plans of nearly all the houses in the city are alike: the entrance-room next the door; the parlor or drawing-room next that; then theimpluvium, or unroofed space in the middle of the house, where the rains were caught and drained into the cistern, and where the household used to come to wash itself, primitively, as at a pump; the little garden, with its painted columns, behind theimpluvium, and, at last, the dining-room.After referring to the frescos on the walls that have remained for nearly two thousand years and the wonder of the art by which they were produced,Mr.Howells thus continues:Of course the houses of the rich were adorned by men of talent; but it is surprising to see the community of thought and feeling in all this work, whether it be from cunninger or clumsier hands. The subjects are nearly always chosen from the fables of the gods, and they are in illustration of the poets, Homer and the rest. To suit that soft, luxurious life which people led in Pompeii, the themes are commonly amorous, and sometimes not too chaste: there is much of Bacchus and Ariadne, much of Venus and Adonis, and Diana bathes a good deal with her nymphs,—not to mention frequent representations of the toilet of that beautiful monster which the lascivious art of the time loved to depict. One of the most pleasing of all the scenes is that in one of the houses, of the Judgment of Paris, in which the shepherd sits upon a bank in an attitude of ineffable and flattered importance, with one leg carelessly crossing the other, and both hands resting lightly on his shepherd’s crook, while the goddesses before him await his sentence. Naturally, the painter has done his best for the victress in this rivalry, and you see“Idalian Aphrodite beautiful,”as she should be, but with a warm and piquant spice of girlish resentment in her attitude, that Paris should pause for an instant, which is altogether delicious.“And I beheld great Here’s angry eyes.”Awful eyes! How did the painter make them? The wonder of all these pagan frescos is the mystery of the eyes,—still, beautiful, unhuman. You cannot believe that it is wrong for those tranquil-eyed men and women to do evil, they look so calm and so unconscious in it all; and in the presence of the celestials, as they bend upon you those eternal orbs, in whose regard you are but a part of space, you feel that here art has achieved the unearthly. I know of no words in literature which give asense(nothing gives the idea) of thestareof these gods, except that magnificent line of Kingsley’s, describing the advance over the sea toward Andromeda of the oblivious and unsympathizing Nereids. They floated slowly up and their eyes“Stared on her, silent and still, like the eyes in the house of the idols.”
THE cotton whitens over two-thirds of Pompeii yet interred: happy the generation that lives to learn the wondrous secrets of that sepulchre! For, when you have once been at Pompeii, this phantasm of the past takes deeper hold on your imagination than any living city, and becomes and is the metropolis of your dream-land forever. O marvellous city! who shall reveal the cunning of your spell? Something not death, something not life,—something that is the one when you turn to determine its essence as the other! What is it comes to me at this distance of that which I saw in Pompeii? The narrow and curving, but not crooked streets, with the blazing sun of that Neapolitan November falling into them, or clouding their wheel-worn lava with the black, black shadows of the many-tinted walls; the houses, and the gay columns of white, yellow, and red; the delicate pavements of mosaic; the skeletons of dusty cisterns and dead fountains; inanimate garden-spaces with pygmy statues suited to their littleness; suites of fairy bed-chambers, painted with exquisite frescos; dining-halls with joyous scenes of hunt and banquet on their walls; the ruinous sites of temples; the melancholy emptiness of booths and shops and jolly drinking-houses; the lonesome tragic theatre, with a modern Pompeian drawing water from a well there; the baths with their roofs perfect yet, and the stucco bass-reliefs all but unharmed; around the whole, the city wall crowned with slender poplars; outside the gates, the long avenue of tombs, and the Appian Way stretching on to Stabiæ; and, in the distance, Vesuvius, brown and bare, with his fiery breath scarce visible against the cloudless heaven; these are the things that float before my fancy as I turn back to look at myself walking those enchanted streets, and to wonder if I could ever have been so blest. For there is nothing on the earth, or under it, like Pompeii....
THE HOUSES OF POMPEII AND THEIR PAINTED WALLS.
From “Italian Journeys.”
The plans of nearly all the houses in the city are alike: the entrance-room next the door; the parlor or drawing-room next that; then theimpluvium, or unroofed space in the middle of the house, where the rains were caught and drained into the cistern, and where the household used to come to wash itself, primitively, as at a pump; the little garden, with its painted columns, behind theimpluvium, and, at last, the dining-room.
After referring to the frescos on the walls that have remained for nearly two thousand years and the wonder of the art by which they were produced,Mr.Howells thus continues:
Of course the houses of the rich were adorned by men of talent; but it is surprising to see the community of thought and feeling in all this work, whether it be from cunninger or clumsier hands. The subjects are nearly always chosen from the fables of the gods, and they are in illustration of the poets, Homer and the rest. To suit that soft, luxurious life which people led in Pompeii, the themes are commonly amorous, and sometimes not too chaste: there is much of Bacchus and Ariadne, much of Venus and Adonis, and Diana bathes a good deal with her nymphs,—not to mention frequent representations of the toilet of that beautiful monster which the lascivious art of the time loved to depict. One of the most pleasing of all the scenes is that in one of the houses, of the Judgment of Paris, in which the shepherd sits upon a bank in an attitude of ineffable and flattered importance, with one leg carelessly crossing the other, and both hands resting lightly on his shepherd’s crook, while the goddesses before him await his sentence. Naturally, the painter has done his best for the victress in this rivalry, and you see
“Idalian Aphrodite beautiful,”
as she should be, but with a warm and piquant spice of girlish resentment in her attitude, that Paris should pause for an instant, which is altogether delicious.
“And I beheld great Here’s angry eyes.”
Awful eyes! How did the painter make them? The wonder of all these pagan frescos is the mystery of the eyes,—still, beautiful, unhuman. You cannot believe that it is wrong for those tranquil-eyed men and women to do evil, they look so calm and so unconscious in it all; and in the presence of the celestials, as they bend upon you those eternal orbs, in whose regard you are but a part of space, you feel that here art has achieved the unearthly. I know of no words in literature which give asense(nothing gives the idea) of thestareof these gods, except that magnificent line of Kingsley’s, describing the advance over the sea toward Andromeda of the oblivious and unsympathizing Nereids. They floated slowly up and their eyes
“Stared on her, silent and still, like the eyes in the house of the idols.”
VENETIANVAGABONDS.¹
(FROM “VENETIAN LIFE.” 1867.)
¹By special permission of the author and of Houghton, Mifflin &Co.
THE lasagnone is a loafer, as an Italian can be a loafer, without the admixture of ruffianism, which blemishes lost loafers of northern race. He may be quite worthless, and even impertinent, but he cannot be a rowdy—that pleasing blossom on the nose of our fast, high-fed, thick-blooded civilization. In Venice he must not be confounded with other loiterers at the café; not with the natty people who talk politics interminably over little cups of black coffee; not with those old habitués, who sit forever under the Procuratie, their hands folded upon the top of their sticks, and stare at the ladies who pass with a curious steadfastness and knowing skepticism of gaze, not pleasing in the dim eyes of age; certainly, the last persons who bear any likeness to the lasagnone are the Germans, with their honest, heavy faces comically anglicized by leg-of-mutton whiskers. The truth is, the lasagnone does not flourish in the best café; he comes to perfection in cheaper resorts, for he is commonly not rich.It often happens that a glass of water, flavored with a little anisette, is the order over which he sits a whole evening. He knows the waiter intimately, and does not call him “Shop!” (Bottéga) as less familiar people do, but Gigi, or Beppi, as the waiter is pretty sure to be named. “Behold!” he says, when the servant places his modest drink before him, “who is that loveliest blonde there?” Or to his fellow-lasagnone: “She regards me! I have broken her heart!” This is his sole business and mission, the cruel lasagnone—to break the ladies’ hearts. He spares no condition—neither rank nor wealth is any defence against him. I often wonder what is in that note he continually shows to his friend. The confession of some broken heart, I think. When he has folded it and put it away, he chuckles, “Ah, cara!” and sucks at his long, slender Virginia cigar. It is unlighted, for fire consumes cigars. I never see him read the papers—neither the Italian papers nor the Parisian journals, though if he can get “Galignani” he is glad, and he likes to pretend to a knowledge of English, uttering upon the occasion, with great relish, such distinctively English words as “Yes” and “Not,” and to the waiter, “A-little-fire-if-you-please.” He sits very late in the café, he touches his hat—his curly French hat—to the company as he goes out with a mild swagger, his cane held lightly in his left hand, his coat cut snugly to show his hips, and genteely swaying with the motion of his body. He is a dandy, of course—all Italians are dandies—but his vanity is perfectly harmless, and his heart is not bad. He would go half an hour to put you in the direction of the Piazza. A little thing can make him happy—to stand in the pit at the opera, and gaze at the ladies in the lower boxes—to attend the Marionette or the Malibran Theatre, and imperil the peace of pretty seamstresses and contadinas—to stand at the church doors and ogle the fair saints as they pass out. Go, harmless lasagnone, to thy lodging in some mysterious height, and break hearts if thou wilt. They are quickly mended.
THE lasagnone is a loafer, as an Italian can be a loafer, without the admixture of ruffianism, which blemishes lost loafers of northern race. He may be quite worthless, and even impertinent, but he cannot be a rowdy—that pleasing blossom on the nose of our fast, high-fed, thick-blooded civilization. In Venice he must not be confounded with other loiterers at the café; not with the natty people who talk politics interminably over little cups of black coffee; not with those old habitués, who sit forever under the Procuratie, their hands folded upon the top of their sticks, and stare at the ladies who pass with a curious steadfastness and knowing skepticism of gaze, not pleasing in the dim eyes of age; certainly, the last persons who bear any likeness to the lasagnone are the Germans, with their honest, heavy faces comically anglicized by leg-of-mutton whiskers. The truth is, the lasagnone does not flourish in the best café; he comes to perfection in cheaper resorts, for he is commonly not rich.
It often happens that a glass of water, flavored with a little anisette, is the order over which he sits a whole evening. He knows the waiter intimately, and does not call him “Shop!” (Bottéga) as less familiar people do, but Gigi, or Beppi, as the waiter is pretty sure to be named. “Behold!” he says, when the servant places his modest drink before him, “who is that loveliest blonde there?” Or to his fellow-lasagnone: “She regards me! I have broken her heart!” This is his sole business and mission, the cruel lasagnone—to break the ladies’ hearts. He spares no condition—neither rank nor wealth is any defence against him. I often wonder what is in that note he continually shows to his friend. The confession of some broken heart, I think. When he has folded it and put it away, he chuckles, “Ah, cara!” and sucks at his long, slender Virginia cigar. It is unlighted, for fire consumes cigars. I never see him read the papers—neither the Italian papers nor the Parisian journals, though if he can get “Galignani” he is glad, and he likes to pretend to a knowledge of English, uttering upon the occasion, with great relish, such distinctively English words as “Yes” and “Not,” and to the waiter, “A-little-fire-if-you-please.” He sits very late in the café, he touches his hat—his curly French hat—to the company as he goes out with a mild swagger, his cane held lightly in his left hand, his coat cut snugly to show his hips, and genteely swaying with the motion of his body. He is a dandy, of course—all Italians are dandies—but his vanity is perfectly harmless, and his heart is not bad. He would go half an hour to put you in the direction of the Piazza. A little thing can make him happy—to stand in the pit at the opera, and gaze at the ladies in the lower boxes—to attend the Marionette or the Malibran Theatre, and imperil the peace of pretty seamstresses and contadinas—to stand at the church doors and ogle the fair saints as they pass out. Go, harmless lasagnone, to thy lodging in some mysterious height, and break hearts if thou wilt. They are quickly mended.
(‡ decoration)GENERAL LEWIS WALLACE.AUTHOR OF “BEN HUR.”THERE is an old adage which declares “without fame or fortune at forty, without fame or fortune always.” This, however is not invariably true. Hawthorne became famous when he wrote “Scarlet Letter” at forty-six, Sir Walter Scott produced the first Waverly Novel after he was forty; and we find another exception in the case of the soldier author who is made the subject of this sketch. Perhaps no writer of modern times has gained so wide a reputation on so few books or began his literary career so late in life as the author of “The Fair God;” “Ben Hur” and “The Prince of India.” It was not until the year 1873 that General Lewis Wallace at the age of forty-six became known to literature. Prior to this he had filled the double position of lawyer and soldier, and it was his observations and experiences in the Mexican War, no doubt, which inspired him to write “The Fair God,” his first book, which was a story of the conquest of that country.Lew.Wallace was horn at Brookville, Indiana, in 1827. After receiving a common school education, he began the study of law; but on the breaking out of the Mexican War, he volunteered in the army as a lieutenant in an Indiana company. On his return from the war, in 1848, he took up the practice of his profession in his native state and also served in the legislature. Near the beginning of the Civil War he became colonel of a volunteer regiment. His military service was of such a character that he received special mention from General Grant for meritorious conduct and was made major-general in March, 1862. He was mustered out of service when the war closed in 1865 and resumed his practice of law at his old home in Crawfordsville. In 1873, as stated above, his first book, “The Fair God,” was published; but it met with only moderate success. In 1878, General Wallace was made Territorial Governor of Utah and in 1880, “Ben Hur; a Tale of The Christ” appeared. The scene was laid in the East and displayed such a knowledge of the manners and customs of that country and people that General Garfield—that year elected President—considered its author a fitting person for the Turkish Ministry, and accordingly, in 1881, he was appointed to that position. It is said that when President Garfield gave General Wallace his appointment, he wrote the words “Ben Hur” across the corner of the document, and, as Wallace was coming away from his visit of acknowledgement at the White House, the President put his arm over his friend’s shoulder and said, “I expect another book out of you. Your duties will not be too onerous to allow you to write it. Locate the scene inConstantinople.” This suggestion was, no doubt, General Wallace’s reason for writing “The Prince of India,” which was published in 1890 and is the last book issued by its author. He had in the mean time, however, published “The Boyhood of Christ” (1888).None of the other books of the author have been so popular or reached the great success attained by “Ben Hur,” which has had the enormous sale of nearly one-half million copies without at any time being forced upon the market in the form of a cheap edition. It is remarkable also to state that the early circulation of “Ben Hur,” while it was appreciated by a certain class, was too small to warrant the author in anticipating the fortune which he afterwards harvested from this book. Before General Wallace was made Minister to Turkey, the book-sellers bought it in quantities of two, three or a dozen at a time, and it was not until President Garfield had honored the author with this♦significant portfolio that the trade commenced to call for it in thousand lots.♦‘significent’ replaced with ‘significant’DESCRIPTION OFCHRIST.¹(FROM “BEN HUR.” 1880.)¹Selections printed here are by special permission of the author. Harper Brothers, Publishers.THE head was open to the cloudless light, except as it was draped with long hair and slightly waved, and parted in the middle, and auburn in tint, with a tendency to reddish golden where most strongly touched by the sun. Under a broad, low forehead, under black well-arched brows, beamed eyes dark blue and large, and softened to exceeding tenderness by lashes of great length sometimes seen on children, but seldom, if ever, on men. As to the other features, it would have been difficult to decide whether they were Greek or Jewish. The delicacy of the nostrils and mouth was unusually to the latter type, and when it was taken into account with the gentleness of the eyes, the pallor of the complexion, the fine texture of the hair and the softness of the beard, which fell in waves over His throat to His breast, never a soldier but would have laughed at Him in encounter, never a woman who would not have confided in Him at sight, never a child that would not, with quick instinct, have given Him its hand and whole artless trust, nor might any one have said He was not beautiful.The features, it should be further said, were ruled by a certain expression which, as the viewer chose, might with equal correctness have been called the effect of intelligence, love, pity or sorrow, though, in better speech, it was a blending of them all—a look easy to fancy as a mark of a sinless soul doomed to the sight and understanding of the utter sinfulness of those among whom it was passing; yet withal no one could have observed the face with a thought of weakness in the man; so, at least, would not they who know that the qualities mentioned—love, sorrow, pity—are the results of a consciousness of strength to bear suffering oftener than strength to do; such has been the might of martyrs and devotees and the myriads written down in saintly calendars; and such, indeed, was the air of this one.THE PRINCE OF INDIA TEACHESREINCARNATION.¹(FROM THE “PRINCE OF INDIA.” 1890.)¹Selections printed here are by special permission of the author. Harper Brothers, Publishers.THE Holy Father of Light and Life,” the speaker went on, after a pause referable to his consummate knowledge of men, “has sent His Spirit down to the world, not once, merely, or unto one people, but repeatedly, in ages sometimes near together, sometimes wide apart, and to races diverse, yet in every instance remarkable for genius.”There was a murmur at this, but he gave it no time.“Ask you now how I could identify the♦Spirit so as to be able to declare to you solemnly, as I do in fear of God, that in several repeated appearances of which I speak it was the very same Spirit? How do you know the man you met at set of sun yesterday was the man you saluted and had salute from this morning? Well, I tell you the Father has given the Spirit features by which it may be known—features distinct as those of the neighbors nearest you there at your right and left hands. Wherever in my reading Holy Books, like these, I hear of a man, himself a shining example of righteousness, teaching God and the way to God; by those signs I say to my soul: ‘Oh, the Spirit, the Spirit! Blessed♠is the man appointed to carry it about!’”♦‘Spiritt’ replaced with ‘Spirit’♠‘in’ replaced with ‘is’Again the murmur, but again he passed on.“The Spirit dwelt in the Holy of Holies set apart for it in the Tabernacle; yet no man ever saw it here, a thing of sight. The soul is not to be seen; still less is the Spirit of the Most High; or if one did see it, its brightness would kill him. In great mercy, therefore, it has come and done its good works in the world veiled; now in one form, now in another; at one time, a voice in the air; at another, a vision in sleep; at another, a burning bush; at another, an angel; at another, a descending dove”—“Bethabara!” shouted a cowled brother, tossing both hands up.“Be quiet!” the Patriarch ordered.“Thus always when its errand was of quick despatch,” the Prince continued. “But if its coming were for residence on earth, then its habit has been to adopt a man for its outward form, and enter into him, and speak by him; such was Moses, such Elijah, such were all the Prophets, and such”—he paused, then exclaimed shrilly—“such was Jesus Christ!”THE PRAYER OF THE WANDERINGJEW.¹(FROM THE “PRINCE OF INDIA.”)¹Copyright, Harper &Bros.GOD of Israel—my God!” he said, in a tone hardly more than speaking to himself. “These about me, my fellow-creatures, pray thee in the hope of life, I pray thee in the hope of death. I have come up from the sea, and the end was not there; now I will go into the Desert in search of it. Or if I must live, Lord, give me the happiness there is in serving thee.“Thou hast need of instruments of good: let me henceforth be one of them, that by working for thy honor, I may at last enjoy the peace of the blessed—Amen.”DEATH OFMONTEZUMA.¹(FROM “THE FAIR GOD.”)¹Copyright, Harper &Bros.THE king turned his pale face and fixed his gazing eyes upon the conqueror; and such power was there in the look that the latter added, with softening manner, “What I can do for thee I will do. I have always been thy true friend.”“O Malinche, I hear you, and your words make dying easy,” answered Montezuma, smiling faintly.With an effort he sought Cortes’ hand, and looking at Acatlan and Tecalco, continued:“Let me intrust these women and their children to you and your lord. Of all that which was mine but now is yours—lands, people, empire,—enough to save them from want and shame were small indeed. Promise me; in the hearing of all these, promise, Malinche.”Taint of anger was there no longer on the soul of the great Spaniard.“Rest thee, good king!” he said, with feeling. “Thy queens and their children shall be my wards. In the hearing of all these, I so swear.”The listener smiled again; his eyes closed, his hand fell down; and so still was he that they beganto think him dead. Suddenly he stirred, and said faintly, but distinctly,—“Nearer, uncles, nearer.” The old men bent over him, listening.“A message to Guatamozin,—to whom I give my last thought, as king. Say to him, that this lingering in death is no fault of his; the aim was true, but the arrow splintered upon leaving the bow. And lest the world hold him to account for my blood, hear me say, all of you, that I bade him do what he did.“And in sign that I love him, take my sceptre, and give it to him—”His voice fell away, yet the lips moved; lower the accents stooped,—“Tula and the empire go with the sceptre,” he murmured, and they were his last words,—his will. A wail from the women pronounced him dead.DESCRIPTION OF VIRGINMARY.¹(FROM “BEN HUR.”)¹Copyright, Harper &Bros.SHE was not more than fifteen. Her form, voice and manner belonged to the period of transition from girlhood. Her face was perfectly oval, her complexion more pale than fair. The nose was faultless; the lips, slightly parted, were full and ripe, giving to the lines of the mouth warmth, tenderness and trust; the eyes were blue and large, and shaded by drooping lids and long lashes, and, in harmony with all, a flood of golden hair, in the style permitted to Jewish brides, fell unconfined down her back to the pillion on which she sat. The throat and neck had the downy softness sometimes seen which leaves the artist in doubt whether it is an effect of contour or color. To these charms of feature and person were added others more indefinable—an air of purity which only the soul can impart, and of abstraction natural to such as think much of things impalpable. Often, with trembling lips, she raised her eyes to heaven, itself not more deeply blue; often she crossed her hands upon her breast, as in adoration and prayer; often she raised her head like one listening eagerly for a calling voice. Now and then, midst his slow utterances, Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching the expression kindling her face as with light, forgot his theme, and with bowed head, wondering, plodded on.(‡ decoration)
(‡ decoration)
AUTHOR OF “BEN HUR.”
THERE is an old adage which declares “without fame or fortune at forty, without fame or fortune always.” This, however is not invariably true. Hawthorne became famous when he wrote “Scarlet Letter” at forty-six, Sir Walter Scott produced the first Waverly Novel after he was forty; and we find another exception in the case of the soldier author who is made the subject of this sketch. Perhaps no writer of modern times has gained so wide a reputation on so few books or began his literary career so late in life as the author of “The Fair God;” “Ben Hur” and “The Prince of India.” It was not until the year 1873 that General Lewis Wallace at the age of forty-six became known to literature. Prior to this he had filled the double position of lawyer and soldier, and it was his observations and experiences in the Mexican War, no doubt, which inspired him to write “The Fair God,” his first book, which was a story of the conquest of that country.
Lew.Wallace was horn at Brookville, Indiana, in 1827. After receiving a common school education, he began the study of law; but on the breaking out of the Mexican War, he volunteered in the army as a lieutenant in an Indiana company. On his return from the war, in 1848, he took up the practice of his profession in his native state and also served in the legislature. Near the beginning of the Civil War he became colonel of a volunteer regiment. His military service was of such a character that he received special mention from General Grant for meritorious conduct and was made major-general in March, 1862. He was mustered out of service when the war closed in 1865 and resumed his practice of law at his old home in Crawfordsville. In 1873, as stated above, his first book, “The Fair God,” was published; but it met with only moderate success. In 1878, General Wallace was made Territorial Governor of Utah and in 1880, “Ben Hur; a Tale of The Christ” appeared. The scene was laid in the East and displayed such a knowledge of the manners and customs of that country and people that General Garfield—that year elected President—considered its author a fitting person for the Turkish Ministry, and accordingly, in 1881, he was appointed to that position. It is said that when President Garfield gave General Wallace his appointment, he wrote the words “Ben Hur” across the corner of the document, and, as Wallace was coming away from his visit of acknowledgement at the White House, the President put his arm over his friend’s shoulder and said, “I expect another book out of you. Your duties will not be too onerous to allow you to write it. Locate the scene inConstantinople.” This suggestion was, no doubt, General Wallace’s reason for writing “The Prince of India,” which was published in 1890 and is the last book issued by its author. He had in the mean time, however, published “The Boyhood of Christ” (1888).
None of the other books of the author have been so popular or reached the great success attained by “Ben Hur,” which has had the enormous sale of nearly one-half million copies without at any time being forced upon the market in the form of a cheap edition. It is remarkable also to state that the early circulation of “Ben Hur,” while it was appreciated by a certain class, was too small to warrant the author in anticipating the fortune which he afterwards harvested from this book. Before General Wallace was made Minister to Turkey, the book-sellers bought it in quantities of two, three or a dozen at a time, and it was not until President Garfield had honored the author with this♦significant portfolio that the trade commenced to call for it in thousand lots.
♦‘significent’ replaced with ‘significant’
DESCRIPTION OFCHRIST.¹
(FROM “BEN HUR.” 1880.)
¹Selections printed here are by special permission of the author. Harper Brothers, Publishers.
THE head was open to the cloudless light, except as it was draped with long hair and slightly waved, and parted in the middle, and auburn in tint, with a tendency to reddish golden where most strongly touched by the sun. Under a broad, low forehead, under black well-arched brows, beamed eyes dark blue and large, and softened to exceeding tenderness by lashes of great length sometimes seen on children, but seldom, if ever, on men. As to the other features, it would have been difficult to decide whether they were Greek or Jewish. The delicacy of the nostrils and mouth was unusually to the latter type, and when it was taken into account with the gentleness of the eyes, the pallor of the complexion, the fine texture of the hair and the softness of the beard, which fell in waves over His throat to His breast, never a soldier but would have laughed at Him in encounter, never a woman who would not have confided in Him at sight, never a child that would not, with quick instinct, have given Him its hand and whole artless trust, nor might any one have said He was not beautiful.The features, it should be further said, were ruled by a certain expression which, as the viewer chose, might with equal correctness have been called the effect of intelligence, love, pity or sorrow, though, in better speech, it was a blending of them all—a look easy to fancy as a mark of a sinless soul doomed to the sight and understanding of the utter sinfulness of those among whom it was passing; yet withal no one could have observed the face with a thought of weakness in the man; so, at least, would not they who know that the qualities mentioned—love, sorrow, pity—are the results of a consciousness of strength to bear suffering oftener than strength to do; such has been the might of martyrs and devotees and the myriads written down in saintly calendars; and such, indeed, was the air of this one.
THE head was open to the cloudless light, except as it was draped with long hair and slightly waved, and parted in the middle, and auburn in tint, with a tendency to reddish golden where most strongly touched by the sun. Under a broad, low forehead, under black well-arched brows, beamed eyes dark blue and large, and softened to exceeding tenderness by lashes of great length sometimes seen on children, but seldom, if ever, on men. As to the other features, it would have been difficult to decide whether they were Greek or Jewish. The delicacy of the nostrils and mouth was unusually to the latter type, and when it was taken into account with the gentleness of the eyes, the pallor of the complexion, the fine texture of the hair and the softness of the beard, which fell in waves over His throat to His breast, never a soldier but would have laughed at Him in encounter, never a woman who would not have confided in Him at sight, never a child that would not, with quick instinct, have given Him its hand and whole artless trust, nor might any one have said He was not beautiful.
The features, it should be further said, were ruled by a certain expression which, as the viewer chose, might with equal correctness have been called the effect of intelligence, love, pity or sorrow, though, in better speech, it was a blending of them all—a look easy to fancy as a mark of a sinless soul doomed to the sight and understanding of the utter sinfulness of those among whom it was passing; yet withal no one could have observed the face with a thought of weakness in the man; so, at least, would not they who know that the qualities mentioned—love, sorrow, pity—are the results of a consciousness of strength to bear suffering oftener than strength to do; such has been the might of martyrs and devotees and the myriads written down in saintly calendars; and such, indeed, was the air of this one.
THE PRINCE OF INDIA TEACHESREINCARNATION.¹
(FROM THE “PRINCE OF INDIA.” 1890.)
¹Selections printed here are by special permission of the author. Harper Brothers, Publishers.
THE Holy Father of Light and Life,” the speaker went on, after a pause referable to his consummate knowledge of men, “has sent His Spirit down to the world, not once, merely, or unto one people, but repeatedly, in ages sometimes near together, sometimes wide apart, and to races diverse, yet in every instance remarkable for genius.”There was a murmur at this, but he gave it no time.“Ask you now how I could identify the♦Spirit so as to be able to declare to you solemnly, as I do in fear of God, that in several repeated appearances of which I speak it was the very same Spirit? How do you know the man you met at set of sun yesterday was the man you saluted and had salute from this morning? Well, I tell you the Father has given the Spirit features by which it may be known—features distinct as those of the neighbors nearest you there at your right and left hands. Wherever in my reading Holy Books, like these, I hear of a man, himself a shining example of righteousness, teaching God and the way to God; by those signs I say to my soul: ‘Oh, the Spirit, the Spirit! Blessed♠is the man appointed to carry it about!’”♦‘Spiritt’ replaced with ‘Spirit’♠‘in’ replaced with ‘is’Again the murmur, but again he passed on.“The Spirit dwelt in the Holy of Holies set apart for it in the Tabernacle; yet no man ever saw it here, a thing of sight. The soul is not to be seen; still less is the Spirit of the Most High; or if one did see it, its brightness would kill him. In great mercy, therefore, it has come and done its good works in the world veiled; now in one form, now in another; at one time, a voice in the air; at another, a vision in sleep; at another, a burning bush; at another, an angel; at another, a descending dove”—“Bethabara!” shouted a cowled brother, tossing both hands up.“Be quiet!” the Patriarch ordered.“Thus always when its errand was of quick despatch,” the Prince continued. “But if its coming were for residence on earth, then its habit has been to adopt a man for its outward form, and enter into him, and speak by him; such was Moses, such Elijah, such were all the Prophets, and such”—he paused, then exclaimed shrilly—“such was Jesus Christ!”
THE Holy Father of Light and Life,” the speaker went on, after a pause referable to his consummate knowledge of men, “has sent His Spirit down to the world, not once, merely, or unto one people, but repeatedly, in ages sometimes near together, sometimes wide apart, and to races diverse, yet in every instance remarkable for genius.”
There was a murmur at this, but he gave it no time.
“Ask you now how I could identify the♦Spirit so as to be able to declare to you solemnly, as I do in fear of God, that in several repeated appearances of which I speak it was the very same Spirit? How do you know the man you met at set of sun yesterday was the man you saluted and had salute from this morning? Well, I tell you the Father has given the Spirit features by which it may be known—features distinct as those of the neighbors nearest you there at your right and left hands. Wherever in my reading Holy Books, like these, I hear of a man, himself a shining example of righteousness, teaching God and the way to God; by those signs I say to my soul: ‘Oh, the Spirit, the Spirit! Blessed♠is the man appointed to carry it about!’”
♦‘Spiritt’ replaced with ‘Spirit’♠‘in’ replaced with ‘is’
♦‘Spiritt’ replaced with ‘Spirit’
♠‘in’ replaced with ‘is’
Again the murmur, but again he passed on.
“The Spirit dwelt in the Holy of Holies set apart for it in the Tabernacle; yet no man ever saw it here, a thing of sight. The soul is not to be seen; still less is the Spirit of the Most High; or if one did see it, its brightness would kill him. In great mercy, therefore, it has come and done its good works in the world veiled; now in one form, now in another; at one time, a voice in the air; at another, a vision in sleep; at another, a burning bush; at another, an angel; at another, a descending dove”—
“Bethabara!” shouted a cowled brother, tossing both hands up.
“Be quiet!” the Patriarch ordered.
“Thus always when its errand was of quick despatch,” the Prince continued. “But if its coming were for residence on earth, then its habit has been to adopt a man for its outward form, and enter into him, and speak by him; such was Moses, such Elijah, such were all the Prophets, and such”—he paused, then exclaimed shrilly—“such was Jesus Christ!”
THE PRAYER OF THE WANDERINGJEW.¹
(FROM THE “PRINCE OF INDIA.”)
¹Copyright, Harper &Bros.
GOD of Israel—my God!” he said, in a tone hardly more than speaking to himself. “These about me, my fellow-creatures, pray thee in the hope of life, I pray thee in the hope of death. I have come up from the sea, and the end was not there; now I will go into the Desert in search of it. Or if I must live, Lord, give me the happiness there is in serving thee.“Thou hast need of instruments of good: let me henceforth be one of them, that by working for thy honor, I may at last enjoy the peace of the blessed—Amen.”
GOD of Israel—my God!” he said, in a tone hardly more than speaking to himself. “These about me, my fellow-creatures, pray thee in the hope of life, I pray thee in the hope of death. I have come up from the sea, and the end was not there; now I will go into the Desert in search of it. Or if I must live, Lord, give me the happiness there is in serving thee.
“Thou hast need of instruments of good: let me henceforth be one of them, that by working for thy honor, I may at last enjoy the peace of the blessed—Amen.”
DEATH OFMONTEZUMA.¹
(FROM “THE FAIR GOD.”)
¹Copyright, Harper &Bros.
THE king turned his pale face and fixed his gazing eyes upon the conqueror; and such power was there in the look that the latter added, with softening manner, “What I can do for thee I will do. I have always been thy true friend.”“O Malinche, I hear you, and your words make dying easy,” answered Montezuma, smiling faintly.With an effort he sought Cortes’ hand, and looking at Acatlan and Tecalco, continued:“Let me intrust these women and their children to you and your lord. Of all that which was mine but now is yours—lands, people, empire,—enough to save them from want and shame were small indeed. Promise me; in the hearing of all these, promise, Malinche.”Taint of anger was there no longer on the soul of the great Spaniard.“Rest thee, good king!” he said, with feeling. “Thy queens and their children shall be my wards. In the hearing of all these, I so swear.”The listener smiled again; his eyes closed, his hand fell down; and so still was he that they beganto think him dead. Suddenly he stirred, and said faintly, but distinctly,—“Nearer, uncles, nearer.” The old men bent over him, listening.“A message to Guatamozin,—to whom I give my last thought, as king. Say to him, that this lingering in death is no fault of his; the aim was true, but the arrow splintered upon leaving the bow. And lest the world hold him to account for my blood, hear me say, all of you, that I bade him do what he did.“And in sign that I love him, take my sceptre, and give it to him—”His voice fell away, yet the lips moved; lower the accents stooped,—“Tula and the empire go with the sceptre,” he murmured, and they were his last words,—his will. A wail from the women pronounced him dead.
THE king turned his pale face and fixed his gazing eyes upon the conqueror; and such power was there in the look that the latter added, with softening manner, “What I can do for thee I will do. I have always been thy true friend.”
“O Malinche, I hear you, and your words make dying easy,” answered Montezuma, smiling faintly.
With an effort he sought Cortes’ hand, and looking at Acatlan and Tecalco, continued:
“Let me intrust these women and their children to you and your lord. Of all that which was mine but now is yours—lands, people, empire,—enough to save them from want and shame were small indeed. Promise me; in the hearing of all these, promise, Malinche.”
Taint of anger was there no longer on the soul of the great Spaniard.
“Rest thee, good king!” he said, with feeling. “Thy queens and their children shall be my wards. In the hearing of all these, I so swear.”
The listener smiled again; his eyes closed, his hand fell down; and so still was he that they beganto think him dead. Suddenly he stirred, and said faintly, but distinctly,—
“Nearer, uncles, nearer.” The old men bent over him, listening.
“A message to Guatamozin,—to whom I give my last thought, as king. Say to him, that this lingering in death is no fault of his; the aim was true, but the arrow splintered upon leaving the bow. And lest the world hold him to account for my blood, hear me say, all of you, that I bade him do what he did.
“And in sign that I love him, take my sceptre, and give it to him—”
His voice fell away, yet the lips moved; lower the accents stooped,—
“Tula and the empire go with the sceptre,” he murmured, and they were his last words,—his will. A wail from the women pronounced him dead.
DESCRIPTION OF VIRGINMARY.¹
(FROM “BEN HUR.”)
¹Copyright, Harper &Bros.
SHE was not more than fifteen. Her form, voice and manner belonged to the period of transition from girlhood. Her face was perfectly oval, her complexion more pale than fair. The nose was faultless; the lips, slightly parted, were full and ripe, giving to the lines of the mouth warmth, tenderness and trust; the eyes were blue and large, and shaded by drooping lids and long lashes, and, in harmony with all, a flood of golden hair, in the style permitted to Jewish brides, fell unconfined down her back to the pillion on which she sat. The throat and neck had the downy softness sometimes seen which leaves the artist in doubt whether it is an effect of contour or color. To these charms of feature and person were added others more indefinable—an air of purity which only the soul can impart, and of abstraction natural to such as think much of things impalpable. Often, with trembling lips, she raised her eyes to heaven, itself not more deeply blue; often she crossed her hands upon her breast, as in adoration and prayer; often she raised her head like one listening eagerly for a calling voice. Now and then, midst his slow utterances, Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching the expression kindling her face as with light, forgot his theme, and with bowed head, wondering, plodded on.
SHE was not more than fifteen. Her form, voice and manner belonged to the period of transition from girlhood. Her face was perfectly oval, her complexion more pale than fair. The nose was faultless; the lips, slightly parted, were full and ripe, giving to the lines of the mouth warmth, tenderness and trust; the eyes were blue and large, and shaded by drooping lids and long lashes, and, in harmony with all, a flood of golden hair, in the style permitted to Jewish brides, fell unconfined down her back to the pillion on which she sat. The throat and neck had the downy softness sometimes seen which leaves the artist in doubt whether it is an effect of contour or color. To these charms of feature and person were added others more indefinable—an air of purity which only the soul can impart, and of abstraction natural to such as think much of things impalpable. Often, with trembling lips, she raised her eyes to heaven, itself not more deeply blue; often she crossed her hands upon her breast, as in adoration and prayer; often she raised her head like one listening eagerly for a calling voice. Now and then, midst his slow utterances, Joseph turned to look at her, and, catching the expression kindling her face as with light, forgot his theme, and with bowed head, wondering, plodded on.
(‡ decoration)