By E. G. CHARLESWORTH.
I met an old man in my way;For many years the light of dayHad been to him but memory;Poor, blind, half-deaf, and lame was he:My heart was bent to sympathize,I looked toward the dead closed eyes,Hopeful, by some apt words, a lightTo bring to mingle with his night.A falling tide was on the sand.Slowly, that he might understand,I said,“The ebbing tide, and then the flood;The darkest hour, then the dawn;Death, then——”Some inner sun’s streaks in his faceShone on this image of his case,And twice, with Faith and Hope’s sunshine,He brightly filled my shortened line—Death, then the morn—Death, then the morn!
I met an old man in my way;For many years the light of dayHad been to him but memory;Poor, blind, half-deaf, and lame was he:My heart was bent to sympathize,I looked toward the dead closed eyes,Hopeful, by some apt words, a lightTo bring to mingle with his night.A falling tide was on the sand.Slowly, that he might understand,I said,“The ebbing tide, and then the flood;The darkest hour, then the dawn;Death, then——”Some inner sun’s streaks in his faceShone on this image of his case,And twice, with Faith and Hope’s sunshine,He brightly filled my shortened line—Death, then the morn—Death, then the morn!
I met an old man in my way;For many years the light of dayHad been to him but memory;Poor, blind, half-deaf, and lame was he:My heart was bent to sympathize,I looked toward the dead closed eyes,Hopeful, by some apt words, a lightTo bring to mingle with his night.
I met an old man in my way;
For many years the light of day
Had been to him but memory;
Poor, blind, half-deaf, and lame was he:
My heart was bent to sympathize,
I looked toward the dead closed eyes,
Hopeful, by some apt words, a light
To bring to mingle with his night.
A falling tide was on the sand.Slowly, that he might understand,I said,“The ebbing tide, and then the flood;The darkest hour, then the dawn;Death, then——”Some inner sun’s streaks in his faceShone on this image of his case,And twice, with Faith and Hope’s sunshine,He brightly filled my shortened line—Death, then the morn—Death, then the morn!
A falling tide was on the sand.
Slowly, that he might understand,
I said,
“The ebbing tide, and then the flood;
The darkest hour, then the dawn;
Death, then——”
Some inner sun’s streaks in his face
Shone on this image of his case,
And twice, with Faith and Hope’s sunshine,
He brightly filled my shortened line—
Death, then the morn—Death, then the morn!
For though you might not be able to break or bend the power of genius—the deeper the sea, the more precipitous the coast—yet in the most important initiatory decade of life, in the first, at the opening dawn of all feelings, you might surround and overlay the slumbering lion-energies with all the tender habits of a gentle heart, and all the bands of love.—Richter.
By theRev. J. M. BUCKLEY, D.D.
Among the monuments and illustrations of the spirit of philanthropy—the noblest distinction between ancient and modern civilization—the Cooper Institute has stood for a quarter of a century, an object of interest proportionate to the intellectual and moral elevation of those who behold it.
The early struggles, great success and marked mental progress of its founder, no less than a liberality as beautiful as it was then rare, invest his life with a peculiar charm. Nor did he retain his possessions until death loosened his grasp, employing in beneficence only that which he could no longer retain. Thus he became the ancestor of many who are their own executors. “May their tribe increase!” To these qualities was added a simplicity which made it impossible not to feel that Peter Cooper was a kind of universal “Uncle.” It pleased Almighty God in a providence, which was no strain upon faith, as it seemed preëminently in harmony with the sense of fitness, to allow him to live until he had seen the desire of his heart, and could not doubt either the perpetuity, the wisdom or the success of his plans for promoting the welfare of the people. To comparatively few philanthropists on so large a scale, has this privilege been vouchsafed; for most of them are old before their accumulations justify large responsibilities.
The death of Peter Cooper gave to New York the opportunity, which was itself a blessing, of showing by spontaneous tributes whose reflex influence strengthens every spring of virtue, counteracting the barbarizing tendencies of the struggle for bread or riches or honors, and the weakening effects of mere idleness and the prevailing distrust of human goodness, its estimate of disinterestedness. The opportunity was improved, for never within the memory of the oldest inhabitant has the death of a private citizen evoked more tender exhibitions of respect and affection than that of the patriarchal Peter Cooper.
It is my purpose to describe this institution; to tell all about it, so that those who read and have not seen may know what those who have seen are pleased to recall.
On the 29th of April, 1859, Peter Cooper executed a deed in fee simple of the property known as the Cooper Institute without any reservation, to six trustees, upon the conditions specified in the act of the legislature authorizing the gift to be made, “that the above mentioned and desirable premises, together with the appurtenances and the rents, issues, income, and profits thereof shall be forever devoted to the instruction and improvement of the inhabitants of the United States in practical science and art.”
The location of the property and its dimensions are thus described by the founder in his letter to the trustees accompanying the trust deed:
“Gentlemen:—It is to me a source of inexpressible pleasure, after so many years of continued effort, to place in your hands the title of all that piece and parcel of land bounded on the west by Fourth Avenue, and on the north by Astor Place, on the east by Third Avenue, and on the south by Seventh Street, with all the furniture, rents and income of every name and nature, to be forever devoted to the advancement of science and art in their application to the varied and useful purposes of life.”
“Gentlemen:—It is to me a source of inexpressible pleasure, after so many years of continued effort, to place in your hands the title of all that piece and parcel of land bounded on the west by Fourth Avenue, and on the north by Astor Place, on the east by Third Avenue, and on the south by Seventh Street, with all the furniture, rents and income of every name and nature, to be forever devoted to the advancement of science and art in their application to the varied and useful purposes of life.”
That the spirit of Peter Cooper and the purposes which he had in this munificent gift may be the more fully understood, and the reader may judge how near the trustees have come to fulfilling the same, I shall quote some salient passages from that unique letter. “The great object I desire to accomplish by the establishment of an institution devoted to the advancement of science and art is to open the volume of nature by the light of truth—so unveiling the laws and methods of Deity that the young may see the beauties of creation, enjoy its blessings, and learn to love the Being ‘from whom cometh every good and perfect gift.’ My heart’s desire is, that the rising generation may become so thoroughly acquainted with the laws of natureand the great mystery of their own being that they may see, feel, understand and know that there are immutable laws designed in infinite wisdom, constantly operating for our good—so governing the destiny of worlds and men that it is our highest wisdom to live in strict conformity to these laws.”
The italics are his. Mr. Cooper felt a special interest in the advancement of women; nor did this interest take a mere sentimental, much less an unpractical, form. It did not effervesce in honeyed compliments or futile denunciation of the existing state. It was thus expressed: “To manifest the deep interest and sympathy I feel in all that can advance the happiness and better the condition of the female portion of the community, and especially of those who are dependent upon honest labor for support, I desire the trustees to appropriate two hundred and fifty dollars yearly to assist such pupils of the Female School of Design as shall, in their careful judgment, by their efforts and sacrifices in the performance of duty to parents, or to those that Providence has made dependent on them for support, merit and require such aid. My reason for this requirement is, not so much to reward, as to encourage the exercise of heroic virtues that often shine in the midst of the greatest suffering and obscurity, without so much as being noticed by the passing throng.”
In prescribing rules for the practice of debate, and the facilities for the hearing of lectures, he says: “To aid the speakers, and those that hear, to profit by these lectures and debates, I hereby direct to have placed in the lecture room, in a suitable position, full-length likenesses of Washington, Franklin and Lafayette, with an expression of my sincere and anxious desire that all that behold them may remember that notwithstanding they are dead they yet speak the language of truth and soberness.”
Here follows a provision far in advance of his time, but now becoming common, if not popular: “Desiring as I do that the students of this institution may become preëminent examples in the practice of all the virtues, I have determined to give them an opportunity to distinguish themselves for their good judgment by annually recommending to the trustees for their adoption such rules and regulations as they, on mature reflection, shall believe to be necessary and proper to preserve good morals and good order throughout their connection with this institution.”
The letter contains an account of the religious opinions which had taken an “irresistible possession” of his mind. These—which may be inferred from the extracts made—and the offer of ten thousand dollars additional, to the board of trustees, for which they were to draw at their pleasure, as fast as the same could “be wisely used to advance the interests of the institution,” conclude this remarkable letter.
Mr. Cooper continued to assist the Institute in every possible way until his death. In his will he bequeathed to it $100,000. Soon after his death his children notified the trustees that “in accordance with what they understood to be Mr. Cooper’s final wishes, they would in a few months contribute the sum of $100,000 in addition to the bequest of $100,000 contained in his will.”
The trustees—of whom not one has died in the long period of their service, the only death being that of the President, Peter Cooper—give the following succinct statement of the principles upon which they proceeded in the execution of so weighty a trust. They say that they laid down as the fundamental basis of their operations the following principles:
First, that the details of the institution in all the departments should be arranged with especial reference to the intellectual wants and improvement of the working classes. And, second, that as far as might be consistent with the first principle, all interference with the plans or objects of other existing institutions in the city should be avoided. Guided by these principles the trustees arrived at the following broad scheme, asbest calculated to instruct, elevate, and improve the working classes of the city:
1. Instruction in the branches of knowledge which are practically applied in their daily occupations, by which they support themselves and their families.
2. Instruction in the laws by which health is preserved and the sanitary condition of families improved; in other words, in personal hygiene.
3. Instruction in social and political science, by virtue of which communities maintain themselves, and nations progress in virtue, wealth and power.
4. Instruction addressed to the eye, the ear, and the imagination, with a view to furnish a reasonable and healthy recreation to the working classes after the labors of the day.
In pursuance of these objects and in harmony with the above comprehensive principles the following departments are maintained at the present time in most effective operation:
1. Free Reading Room and Library. Here between 430 and 440 periodicals are kept on file, and upward of 17,000 volumes are upon the shelves. In 1883 the number of books used was 194,963, the number of patent office reports examined 8,324, and the number of visitors to the patent office room 1,487. In all 559,707 persons visited the Free Reading Room and Library during 1883.
2. Free Art School for Women. There were no less than 1,450 applications for admission during the year, a number far in excess of the accommodations; 275 were admitted to the morning classes, of whom 202 remained at the close of the term, and 160 received certificates. There are also a “pay class” for pottery painting in this department, and a pay class for drawing in the afternoon; 43 were in the pottery class, and 221 in the drawing class.
3. Free School for Women in Wood Engraving. Thirty-two students were received during the year 1882, of whom 28 continued to the close of the term.
4. Free School of Telegraphy for Women. The number of applicants was 160, of whom 55 were admitted.
5. Free Night School of Science. In this important department are classes in algebra, geometry, trigonometry, analytical geometry, descriptive geometry, differential and integral calculus, elementary mechanics, natural philosophy, engineering, astronomy, elementary chemistry, analytical chemistry, geology, mechanical drawing, oratory and debate. One thousand one hundred and sixty-nine were admitted into the School of Science, 705 remained till the close of the year, and 405 obtained certificates.
6. The Free Night School of Art. Here is taught perspective drawing, mechanical drawing, architectural drawing, drawing from cast, form drawing, industrial drawing, ornamental free hand, rudimental free hand, modeling in clay. In this school were 1,797 pupils.
In addition to these departments a course of ten free lectures is given in the great hall on successive Saturday evenings for ten weeks. The lecturers are men of considerable eminence and generally specialists. Probably the most interesting ever delivered was the course by the famous naturalist, the Rev. J. G. Wood, of London, England. This course crowded the hall, and was concluded January 19th of the present year by a lecture, with illustrations, on “The Ant.”
The term begins in the free Night Schools for Science and Art on the 1st of October, and closes term work in April. Applications for admission must be made during the month of September on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday evenings, and on Thursday evenings afterward. Each applicant must be at least fifteen years old, and bring a letter of recommendation from his employer. Ladies are admitted to any of the classes in the School of Science for which they are fitted, but not to the School of Art. The regular course of study requires five terms, and to those who successfully complete it the Cooper medal and diploma are awarded.
The annual term in the Woman’s Art School begins October 1st and ends May 30th. Ladies desiring admission must apply in person or writing, and give a written responsible reference as to character, fitness, and inability to pay for instruction. The ages are from sixteen to thirty-five years. Pupils who do not exhibit proficiency after two months’ trial will be dropped. The morning classes are reserved for those who do not pay. But to meet the wants of those who wish to study as an accomplishment, “paying classes” are organized for the afternoon. Lessons are given in elementary drawing from objects, cast drawing, life drawing, oil painting, engraving. Lessons of two hours in length are given three times a week. Terms, $15 for thirty lessons.
The rules of admission to the Free School in Telegraphy for Women are that the candidates shall present themselves for examination on the first Tuesday in October. They will be examined in reading poor manuscript, writing from dictation, penmanship and spelling. They must be at least sixteen years old, andpositivelynot overtwenty-four.
In the report for 1882, published in May, 1883, Mrs. Carter the Principal of the Woman’s Art School, says: “One hundred and twenty-six present pupils are learning. Of these fifty-four are in the photograph classes, and eighteen in the engraving class. Twenty-six now in the school are teaching drawing, and three of these are in nineteen public schools in this city. One young woman who left the art school in the winter teaches twenty-five hours a week in eight public schools here at two dollars an hour.”
The form of application to the Cooper Union includes name of applicant, residence, age, occupation, name of employer, place of business. Parents or guardians, in the case of minors, fill out the blanks, but applications must be made in person. It only remains to say that the applications are in advance of the capacity of the Institute, but that the democratic principle of “first come first served” is rigorously applied. Applications do not hold over from one year to another, but must be renewed. It is possible for persons from any part of the country to avail themselves of the facilities here afforded. Board for gentlemen can be obtained at very reasonable rates, not far from the Union. Two rooming together and lunching at restaurants can live well at a low rate. Ladies also can procure board in Brooklyn, or in the suburban towns, or even in the city itself, at a rate far below what is generally supposed possible.
Passing the Cooper Institute, as the writer does nearly every day, he looks with undiminished interest upon the young men and young women who go in and out of the building; while to attend one of the lectures is a pleasure far greater than that of merely listening. If it were possible to assemble in one place all who have been helped upward and onward here, among them would be found men and women now in the most influential positions, and the intelligence visible in the countenances of those who, though still earning their bread by the sweat of the brow, are filled with elevating thoughts, and are consciously members of the aristocracy of intellect, would be an ample reward to founder, trustees and teachers, for all their work and labor of love. Nor is this all; these pupils will transmit influences through their posterity to the end of time. Peter Cooper, like Washington, Lafayette, and Franklin, still speaks “words of truth and soberness.” He shakes hands with every aspiring young man, saying: “My son, I will help you;” with every young woman who cherishes a high ambition: “My daughter, I have a deep sympathy with you.” It is useless to say, “Long may his memory endure!” It can not die.
In concluding this paper the writer must be permitted to express his satisfaction that the sketch is to appear in a magazine called into being by an institution which on another principle, equally efficient and much more widely diffused in the sphere of its influence, promotes the advancement of Science and Art by bringing them within the reach of all aspirants, without distinction of race, sex, age, or previous condition of servitude.
During the first half of September, the sun in Ceylon and India, and also in the West Indies, presented at rising and setting the appearance of a green or greenish-blue disc. Even when at his highest the sun appeared pale blue in Ceylon (from the other places no account of the sun’s aspect at high noon has reached me). On September 2, at Trinidad, the sun looked like a blue globe after five in the evening, “and after dark,” says the report, “we thought there was a fire in the town, from the bright redness of the heavens.” At Ongole, as the sun approached the horizon, his disc passed from a bluish tinge to green, which became tinged with yellow as he approached the horizon. “After he had set, light yellow and orange appeared in the west, a very deep red remaining for more than an hour after sunset; whereas, under ordinary conditions, all traces of color leave the sky in this latitude,” says the narrator, “within half an hour after the sun disappears.” These accounts, from both the eastern and western hemispheres, seem clearly to associate the green sun which attracted so much attention in the tropics early in September, with the remarkable sunsets seen in Arabia, in Africa (North and South), and throughout Europe during October and November. For we see that whatever may have been the explanation of the green sun, the phenomenon must have been produced by some cause capable of producing after sunset a brilliant red and orange glow, for a time much exceeding the usual duration of the twilight afterglow. The occurrence of the afterglow, with the same remarkable tints and similar exceptional duration elsewhere—though some weeks later—shows that a similar cause was at work.
Two points are clear. First, the cause alike of the greenness of the sun and the ruddy afterglow was in the air, not outside; and, secondly, the matter, whatever it was, which made the sun look green when he was seen through it, and which under his rays looked red, was high above the surface of the earth. It can readily be shown, so far as this last point is concerned, that matter at a lower level than sixteen miles could not have caught the sun’s rays so long after sunset as the glow was seen. On the other point it suffices, of course, to note that if some cause in the sun himself had been at work, the whole earth would have seen the green sun, while the afterglow would have found no explanation at all.
As to the actual cause to which both phenomena are to be ascribed, we must, I think, exculpate Krakatoa from all part or share in producing these strange effects. The appearance of a blue sun at Trinidad, followed two or three days later by a green sun in the East Indies, can not possibly be associated with the occurrence of an earthquake on the Javan shore a few days earlier. Beside, it must be remembered that we should have to explain two incongruous circumstances; first, how the exceedingly fine matter ejected from Krakatoa could have so quickly reached the enormous height at which the matter actually producing the afterglow certainly was; and, secondly, how having been able to traverse still air so readily one way, that matter failed to return as readily earthward under the attraction of gravity. Again the explanation, which at first seems a most probable one, that unusually high strata of moist air, with accompanying multitudes of ice particles, caused the phenomena alike of absorption and of reflection, seems negatived—first, by the entire absence of any other evidence of extraordinary meteorological conditions in September, October and November last; and, secondly, by the entire absence of any of the optical phenomena which necessarily accompany the transmission of sunlight through strata of air strewn with many ice particles.
We seem obliged then to adopt a theory, first advanced, I believe, by Mr. A. C. Ranyard, that the phenomena were caused by a cloud of meteoric dust encountered by the earth, and received into the upper regions of the air, thence to penetrate slowly (mayhap not till many months have passed) to the surface of the earth. Mr. Ranyard calls attention to the circumstance that probably the early snows of the winter 1883-’84 would bring down the advanced guard of such meteoric dust; and even as I write I learn that Mr. W. Mathieu Williams has followed the suggestion. He carefully collected the snow which fell in his garden, eighty yards from his chimneys and half a mile from any to windward. Slicing off a top film of the snow with a piece of glass he thawed it, and found a sediment of fine brownish-black powder. Ferrocyanide of potassium added to the snow-water produced no change of color, showing the absence of iron in solution, nor was there any visible reaction on the black dust till he added some hydrochloric acid. Then the blue compound indicating iron was abundantly formed all round the granules, and presently, as their solution was effected, a bluish-green deposit was formed, and the whole liquid deeply tinged with the same color. “It was not,” says Mr. Williams, “the true Prussian-blue reaction of iron alone, but just the color that would be produced by mixing small quantities of the cyanide of nickel (yellowish green) and the cyanide of cobalt (brownish white) with a preponderating amount of Prussian blue.”
If this explanation of the green sun and the extraordinary sunsets should be confirmed, it appears to me that a most interesting result will have been achieved. Of course, it is no new thing that as the earth rushes onward through space she encounters yearly many millions of meteoric bodies, large and small; nor ought it to be regarded as strange that beside these separate bodies, millions of millions in the form of fine cosmical dust should be encountered; but the actual evidence, derived from the behavior of sunlight (the red and yellow rays reflected and relative superabundance of green and blue rays therefore transmitted), would be an interesting and important addition to our knowledge of matters meteoric.—The Contemporary Review.
By W. W. GIST.
A peep into a literary workshop is always interesting. There is always some curiosity to know how a man of letters does his work. This fascinating autobiography gives us a clear insight into Anthony Trollope’s manner of study, and states many other facts that are intensely interesting.
Anthony Trollope’s parents were both of a literary turn of mind. His father had no business capacity, and everything he attempted went wrong. His mother and brother came to America and opened a bazar at Cincinnati, hoping to amass a fortune. This proved a failure, and upon returning to England, Mrs. Trollope wrote a book on America, which brought a fair compensation. For years she supported the family by her pen. There is indeed something heroic in her watching by the bedside of her dying husband and son, and writing her books during the intervals that the sick did not demand her attention. Her first book was written when she was fifty years of age. She wrote in all one hundred and fourteen volumes.
Anthony Trollope’s school advantages were poor, and the trials of his childhood were greater than those of the average youth. In 1834, at the age of nineteen, he entered the postal service and continued in it for thirty-three years, effecting many valuable reforms and proving himself an efficient government officer.
His literary work was done in such a manner as not to interfere in the least with his duties as inspector of postoffices. Few men have the power of will to hold themselves to the rigid, exacting plan of study that he imposed upon himself.He hired a man to call him at 5:30 each morning, and his literary work was done between that hour and 8:30, before he dressed for breakfast. He did not, however, spend the whole of the three hours in writing. During the first half hour he read aloud what he had written the day before, so that his ear could detect any lack of harmony in expression, and that he might catch the spirit of his last day’s work. Can anything be more systematic than his method of writing a book, as told in his own language:
“When I commenced a new book I always prepared a diary, divided into weeks, and carried it on for the period which I allowed myself for the completion of the work. In this I have entered, day by day, the number of pages I have written, so that if at any time I have slipped into idleness for a day or two, the record of that idleness has been there staring me in the face and demanding of me increased labor, so that the deficiency might be supplied.… I have allotted myself so many pages a week. The average number has been about forty. It has been placed as low as twenty, and has risen to one hundred and twelve. And as a page is an ambiguous term, my page has been made to contain two hundred and fifty words; and as words, if not watched, will have a tendency to straggle, I have had every word counted as I went. In the bargains I have made with publishers, I have—not, of course, with their knowledge, but in my own mind—undertaken always to supply them with so many words, and I have never put a book out of hand short of the number by a single word. I may also say that the excess has been very small. I have prided myself on completing my work exactly within the proposed dimensions. But I have prided myself especially in completing it within the proposed time—and I have always done so. There has ever been the record before me, and a week passed with an insufficient number of pages has been a blister to my eye, and a month so disgraced would have been a sorrow to my heart.”
He was not satisfied to hold himself rigidly to specified hours. Much of the time he wrote with his watch open before him, and his task was to complete a page every fifteen minutes. “I have found that the two hundred and fifty words have been forthcoming as regularly as my watch went.” He seems to feel that the one only who has acquired a facile style can expect to produce a given quantity in a given time. “His language must come from him as music comes from the rapid touch of the great performer’s fingers; as words come from the mouth of the indignant orator; as letters fly from the fingers of the trained compositor; as the syllables tinkled out by little bells form themselves to the ear of the telegrapher.”
In comparing himself with the authors who follow no systematic method of work, he says: “They have failed to write their best because they have seldom written at ease. I have done double their work—though burdened with another profession—and have done it almost without an effort. I have not once, through all my literary career, felt myself even in danger of being late with my task. I have known no anxiety as to copy.”
In another connection he speaks of having three unpublished novels in his desk, and adds: “One of these has been six years finished, and has never seen the light since it was first tied up in the wrapper which now contains it. I look forward with some grim pleasantry to its publication after another period of six years, and to the declaration of the critics that it has been the work of a period of life at which the power of writing novels had passed from me.”
His method in writing enabled him to produce books quite rapidly, and this accounts in part for the unpublished works on hand. Only once did he permit a story to appear as a serial. In all other cases the story was completed before the printer saw any part of it.
He defends his habit of work as follows: “I have been told that such appliances are beneath the notice of a man of genius. I have never fancied myself to be a man of genius, but had I been so I think I might well have subjected myself to these trammels. Nothing, surely, is so potent as a law that may not be disobeyed. It has the force of the water-drop that hollows the stone. A small daily task, if it be really daily, will beat the labors of a spasmodic Hercules.”
His duties as a government officer required him to travel a great deal, and he soon learned to do much of his literary work while on his journeys. He wrote on a tablet while riding in the cars; one story was written while traveling on three different continents; “Lady Anna” was written while making a voyage from Liverpool to Australia.
Anthony Trollope had very positive views on the subject of criticism. Early in his literary career he reached this conclusion: “I made up my mind then that, should I continue this trade of authorship, I would have no dealings with any critic on my own behalf. I would neither ask for nor deplore criticism, nor would I ever thank a critic for praise, or quarrel with him, even in my heart, for censure.” A critic of theTimesonce commended his books very highly. The critic afterward ventured to inform Mr. Trollope that he was the author of the criticism. The blunt reply was to the effect that he was under no obligations for the complimentary notice.
He once censured a professional critic for accepting a handsome present from an author whose works the critic had commended. His idea was that the man who has received a present for praising a book will not feel free to criticise adversely the next book by the same author. He states his views at length on this point: “I think it may be laid down as a golden rule in literature that there should be no intercourse at all between an author and his critic. The critic, as critic, should not know his author, nor the author, as author, his critic.… Praise let the author try to obtain by wholesome effort; censure let him avoid, if possible, by care and industry. But when they come, let him take them as coming from some source which he cannot influence, and with which he should not meddle.”
He once made an earnest plea that the critic’s name should be appended to his article, believing that this would make the writer more careful both of his censure and praise, and that the reader could determine the value of the criticism. On the subject of critical dishonesty he says: “If the writer will tell us what he thinks, though his thoughts be absolutely vague and useless, we can forgive him; but when he tells us what he does not think, actuated either by friendship or animosity, then there should be no pardon for him. This is the sin in modern English criticism of which there is most reason to complain.”
Anthony Trollope thinks that it is wrong that a literary name should carry so much favor with it. He says: “I, indeed, had never reached a height to which praise was awarded as a matter of course; but there were others who sat on higher seats, to whom the critics brought unmeasured incense and adulation, even when they wrote, as they sometimes did write, trash which from a beginner would not have been thought worthy of the slightest notice. I hope no one will think that in saying this I am actuated by jealousy of others. Though I never reached that height, still I had so far progressed that that which I wrote was received with too much favor. The injustice which struck me did not consist in that which was withheld from me, but in that which was given to me. I felt that aspirants coming up below me might do work as good as mine, and probably much better work, and yet fail to have it appreciated.”
Mr. Trollope is undoubtedly right in his general statement. While as a rule literary productions stand on their merits, the name of Tennyson or some other writer of equal fame will insure the sale of an article which, if written by an unknown writer, would be promptly rejected. Young writers need not complain of this. Distinguished names render articles marketable, and give them a commercial value that publishers can not ignore. To test the correctness of his theory, Mr. Trollope wrotetwo novels anonymously, which were not received with favor.
Mr. Trollope’s success in a pecuniary point of view was very slow. During the first ten years of his literary career he did not receive compensation enough to buy the pens, ink and paper he used. Twelve years passed before he received any appreciable increase of salary from his books. From that time his compensation was good. His books brought him in all something like $350,000.
The chapter that he devotes to the English novelists of his day is very interesting. He places Thackeray first, George Eliot second, and Dickens third. Most readers would perhaps reverse this order. Of Thackeray’s great work he says: “I myself regard ‘Esmond’ as the greatest novel in the English language, basing that judgment upon the excellence of its language, on the clear individuality of the characters, on the truth of its delineations in regard to the time selected, and on its great pathos.” He pays a high tribute to Charlotte Bronte, and then adds: “‘Jane Eyre’ and ‘Esmond,’ and ‘Adam Bede,’ will be in the hands of our grandchildren, when ‘Pickwick’ and ‘Pelham’ and ‘Harry Lorrequer’ are forgotten; because the men and women depicted are human in their aspirations, human in their sympathies, and human in their actions.” He commends Wilkie Collins and Charles Reade quite highly, but thinks the latter has no clear conception of literary honesty.
Mr. Trollope relates an amusing incident concerning one of his favorite characters. He was seated in a club room, when two clergymen entered and commenced to criticise his works. “The gravamen of their complaint lay in the fact that I introduced the same characters so often. ‘Here,’ said one, ‘is the archdeacon whom we have had in every novel he has ever written.’ ‘And here,’ said the other, ‘is the old duke whom he has talked about till everybody is tired of him. If I could not invent new characters, I would not write novels at all.’ Then one of them fell foul of Mrs. Proudie. It was impossible for me not to hear their words, and almost impossible to hear them and be quiet. I got up, and standing between them, I acknowledged myself to be the culprit. ‘As to Mrs. Proudie,’ I said, ‘I will go home and kill her before the week is over.’ And so I did. The two gentlemen were utterly confounded, and one of them begged me to forget his frivolous observations. I have sometimes regretted the deed, so great was my delight in writing about Mrs. Proudie, … and I still live much in company with her ghost.”
Mr. Trollope made a number of visits to the United States, and was in Washington at the time of the Mason and Slidell controversy. Mr. Sumner was opposed to giving up the men. Mr. Seward’s counsel prevailed with President Lincoln, and the men were released. He says that this “was the severest danger that the Northern cause encountered during the war.” He describes a visit to Brigham Young as follows:
“I called upon him, sending to him my card, apologizing for doing so without an introduction, and excusing myself by saying that I did not like to pass through the territory without seeing a man of whom I had heard so much. He received me in his doorway, not asking me to enter, and inquired whether I were not a miner. When I told him that I was not a miner, he asked me whether I earned my bread. I told him I did. ‘I guess you’re a miner,’ said he. I again assured him that I was not. ‘Then how do you earn your bread?’ I told him that I did so by writing books. ‘I’m sure you’re a miner,’ said he. Then he turned upon his heel, went back into the house, and closed the door. I was properly punished, as I was vain enough to conceive that he would have heard my name.”
This autobiography is a delightful book. The candor with which the writer speaks of his own books, pointing out their defects and calling attention to their merits, the freedom with which he speaks of his early struggles, his method of work, and his success, the spirit of fairness with which he criticises his contemporaries—all these reveal a mind healthy in tone, and call forth our hearty admiration.
By PHEBE A. HOLDER.
O’er the city’s restless surges,Heaving like the ocean tide,Steals the night with hush of silence,And the waves of toil subside.Noiseless drops the soft, dark curtain,While the mighty throbbings cease,Starry eyes watch o’er the citySleeping in the depths of peace.Comes the morning fair and radiant,Bathed in sunshine—breathing balm,Heaven’s blue dome a benediction,With its pure, unspotted calm,Like Jerusalem, the golden,Coming down to earth from heaven,Clad in robes of bridal beautySeems this morn the Lord has given.As I tread the streets, still peaceful,Turning to the house of God,Drinking in this wondrous beauty,And this glory of the Lord,Through the crystal air of morningRing the bells with mellow chime,In a strain of sweetest music,Hallowed as the Sabbath time.Like the songs I heard in childhood,Or a sainted mother’s psalm,Fell those chimes upon my spiritWith a holy, restful calm.Like the tones of angel voices,Sounding from seraphic choir,Seemed this call our God to worshipIn this holy house of prayer.Still entranced I paused to listenTo the chiming, silvery, clear—When the thrilling strain had endedYet I waited—fixed to hear;While upon my listening spiritCame a sense unfelt before,Of our Lord’s most precious blessingIn the Sabbath’s holy power.Coming like a guest from heavenTo our earthly, toil-worn lives,A sweet influence, pure, uplifting,To our struggling souls it gives.Pointing with prophetic fingerTo the perfect Sabbath restIn the fair, Celestial CityOf the sainted and the blest,—As with angel voice it calls us,Now to seek that home of lightWhere the gates of pearl shall openTo the pure with garments white.Day beloved! thy blessed serviceIn the temple of our God,Draws us nearer—ever nearer,To our glorious, risen Lord.Still that soft and mellow cadenceLingers like a sacred charm,Resting on my waiting spiritWith a touch of heavenly calm.Like a sweet-toned voice still callingFrom our home that is to be,While from out its unseen gloryFloats celestial harmony.
O’er the city’s restless surges,Heaving like the ocean tide,Steals the night with hush of silence,And the waves of toil subside.Noiseless drops the soft, dark curtain,While the mighty throbbings cease,Starry eyes watch o’er the citySleeping in the depths of peace.Comes the morning fair and radiant,Bathed in sunshine—breathing balm,Heaven’s blue dome a benediction,With its pure, unspotted calm,Like Jerusalem, the golden,Coming down to earth from heaven,Clad in robes of bridal beautySeems this morn the Lord has given.As I tread the streets, still peaceful,Turning to the house of God,Drinking in this wondrous beauty,And this glory of the Lord,Through the crystal air of morningRing the bells with mellow chime,In a strain of sweetest music,Hallowed as the Sabbath time.Like the songs I heard in childhood,Or a sainted mother’s psalm,Fell those chimes upon my spiritWith a holy, restful calm.Like the tones of angel voices,Sounding from seraphic choir,Seemed this call our God to worshipIn this holy house of prayer.Still entranced I paused to listenTo the chiming, silvery, clear—When the thrilling strain had endedYet I waited—fixed to hear;While upon my listening spiritCame a sense unfelt before,Of our Lord’s most precious blessingIn the Sabbath’s holy power.Coming like a guest from heavenTo our earthly, toil-worn lives,A sweet influence, pure, uplifting,To our struggling souls it gives.Pointing with prophetic fingerTo the perfect Sabbath restIn the fair, Celestial CityOf the sainted and the blest,—As with angel voice it calls us,Now to seek that home of lightWhere the gates of pearl shall openTo the pure with garments white.Day beloved! thy blessed serviceIn the temple of our God,Draws us nearer—ever nearer,To our glorious, risen Lord.Still that soft and mellow cadenceLingers like a sacred charm,Resting on my waiting spiritWith a touch of heavenly calm.Like a sweet-toned voice still callingFrom our home that is to be,While from out its unseen gloryFloats celestial harmony.
O’er the city’s restless surges,Heaving like the ocean tide,Steals the night with hush of silence,And the waves of toil subside.Noiseless drops the soft, dark curtain,While the mighty throbbings cease,Starry eyes watch o’er the citySleeping in the depths of peace.
O’er the city’s restless surges,
Heaving like the ocean tide,
Steals the night with hush of silence,
And the waves of toil subside.
Noiseless drops the soft, dark curtain,
While the mighty throbbings cease,
Starry eyes watch o’er the city
Sleeping in the depths of peace.
Comes the morning fair and radiant,Bathed in sunshine—breathing balm,Heaven’s blue dome a benediction,With its pure, unspotted calm,Like Jerusalem, the golden,Coming down to earth from heaven,Clad in robes of bridal beautySeems this morn the Lord has given.
Comes the morning fair and radiant,
Bathed in sunshine—breathing balm,
Heaven’s blue dome a benediction,
With its pure, unspotted calm,
Like Jerusalem, the golden,
Coming down to earth from heaven,
Clad in robes of bridal beauty
Seems this morn the Lord has given.
As I tread the streets, still peaceful,Turning to the house of God,Drinking in this wondrous beauty,And this glory of the Lord,Through the crystal air of morningRing the bells with mellow chime,In a strain of sweetest music,Hallowed as the Sabbath time.
As I tread the streets, still peaceful,
Turning to the house of God,
Drinking in this wondrous beauty,
And this glory of the Lord,
Through the crystal air of morning
Ring the bells with mellow chime,
In a strain of sweetest music,
Hallowed as the Sabbath time.
Like the songs I heard in childhood,Or a sainted mother’s psalm,Fell those chimes upon my spiritWith a holy, restful calm.Like the tones of angel voices,Sounding from seraphic choir,Seemed this call our God to worshipIn this holy house of prayer.
Like the songs I heard in childhood,
Or a sainted mother’s psalm,
Fell those chimes upon my spirit
With a holy, restful calm.
Like the tones of angel voices,
Sounding from seraphic choir,
Seemed this call our God to worship
In this holy house of prayer.
Still entranced I paused to listenTo the chiming, silvery, clear—When the thrilling strain had endedYet I waited—fixed to hear;While upon my listening spiritCame a sense unfelt before,Of our Lord’s most precious blessingIn the Sabbath’s holy power.
Still entranced I paused to listen
To the chiming, silvery, clear—
When the thrilling strain had ended
Yet I waited—fixed to hear;
While upon my listening spirit
Came a sense unfelt before,
Of our Lord’s most precious blessing
In the Sabbath’s holy power.
Coming like a guest from heavenTo our earthly, toil-worn lives,A sweet influence, pure, uplifting,To our struggling souls it gives.Pointing with prophetic fingerTo the perfect Sabbath restIn the fair, Celestial CityOf the sainted and the blest,—
Coming like a guest from heaven
To our earthly, toil-worn lives,
A sweet influence, pure, uplifting,
To our struggling souls it gives.
Pointing with prophetic finger
To the perfect Sabbath rest
In the fair, Celestial City
Of the sainted and the blest,—
As with angel voice it calls us,Now to seek that home of lightWhere the gates of pearl shall openTo the pure with garments white.Day beloved! thy blessed serviceIn the temple of our God,Draws us nearer—ever nearer,To our glorious, risen Lord.
As with angel voice it calls us,
Now to seek that home of light
Where the gates of pearl shall open
To the pure with garments white.
Day beloved! thy blessed service
In the temple of our God,
Draws us nearer—ever nearer,
To our glorious, risen Lord.
Still that soft and mellow cadenceLingers like a sacred charm,Resting on my waiting spiritWith a touch of heavenly calm.Like a sweet-toned voice still callingFrom our home that is to be,While from out its unseen gloryFloats celestial harmony.
Still that soft and mellow cadence
Lingers like a sacred charm,
Resting on my waiting spirit
With a touch of heavenly calm.
Like a sweet-toned voice still calling
From our home that is to be,
While from out its unseen glory
Floats celestial harmony.
By WALLACE BRUCE.
Queen Elizabeth died March 24, 1602. James the Sixth, of Scotland, became James the First of the United Kingdoms. According to ancient prophecy the Scottish kings were to follow the Stone of Scone, which, it will be remembered, was removed to London by Edward the First. The prophecy was three hundred years in being fulfilled. The same strange Nemesis of fate, which, in the last generation, placed the grandson of Josephine upon the throne of France, handed the scepter of the haughty Elizabeth to the son of her unfortunate rival, Mary, Queen of Scots. But the good fortune of James only emphasizes the general misfortune of the Stuart family. His ancestral record was not a cheerful retrospect. James the First of Scotland was murdered. James the Second was killed by the bursting of a cannon. James the Third was privately slain. James the Fourth fell on the disastrous field of Flodden. James the Fifth died of a broken heart. Mary was beheaded. His father Darnley was murdered.
Could he have foreseen the history of the next three generations—the execution of his son, Charles the First; the debauched reign of his grandson, Charles the Third, after his return from exile; and the banishment of James the Second, he would have found the outlook even more sad than the retrospect. The lines of the Stuart family did not fall in pleasant places. Some writer has observed that they suffered for the crimes of the Tudors. It may be that England had piled up a century of wrong which demanded atonement, but, without prejudice, the proverb was emphatically true, “Sufficient unto each reign was the evil thereof.” It must also be remembered that all Europe was in a ferment. The celebrated Thirty Years’ War was raging in Germany. Religious enthusiasm was asserting its power in Britain. The English and Scotch people were jealous of their political rights. The reign of a Scottish-born king, after so many centuries of bitter hate, could not be entirely acceptable to the English race. Both sides accused the king of partiality. Needy lords and nobles poured down from the north, and London resembled our own National Capital at the inauguration of a new president. The king was supplicated in Court, in the street, on horseback, at every doorway; ay, the very plate that contained his food was adorned with urgent request from some impatient relative of fifteenth or twentieth cousinship. As the Court had removed from Edinburgh and Scotland it seemed that Edinburgh and Scotland had removed to the Court. The ancient prejudice between Scot and English broke out in street, palace and inn. These are the historic events which preface the “Fortunes of Nigel,” and the fray between the Scottish servant and the ’prentice boys of London, at the opening of the volume, strikes the keynote of universal discord.
It was a constitutional defect of James the First to be without money. As Nigel, the Scottish lord, happened to need the loan which his father had made to the king, he presented himself with the old fashioned assurance of a man justly demanding his rights, although at the hands of a monarch. The king was incensed, but the young lord fortunately falls in with George Heriot, the wealthy Scotch jeweler “to His Majesty,” whose princely bequests still adorn the city of Edinburgh; but, unmindful of good counsel, he gradually lapses from duty, becomes a murderer in what he considers a matter of honor, is compelled to find refuge in Alsatia or Whitefriars, a sort of privileged den of iniquity. The portrayal of his experience in this nest of outlaws is true to the London of 1620.
It is this blending of Scott’s dramatic and descriptive power which gives even to his minor works an enduring value. We have, as it were, a photograph of the great city as it appeared two hundred and sixty years ago. We see the Strand, a quiet street, unlike the noisy thoroughfare of to-day, lined on the river-side with palaces and pleasure grounds reaching to the Thames. We see Whitehall, with its rich gates designed by Holbein, and stately court planned by Inigo Jones. We walk in the park with the courtly Duke of Buckingham, talk face to face with the king in the palace, on the chase, in the parlor of the wealthy Londoner; and at the close of the volume we feel that Scott has justly summed up his character in this striking paragraph of the fifth chapter: “He was deeply learned, without possessing useful knowledge; sagacious in many individual cases, without having real wisdom; fond of his power, yet willing to resign the direction of that, and himself, to the most unworthy favorites; a big and bold asserter of his rights and words, yet one who tamely saw them trampled on in deeds; a lover of negotiations, in which he was always outwitted; and one who feared war, where conquest might have been easy. He was fond of his dignity, while he was perpetually degrading it by undue familiarity; capable of much public labor, yet often neglecting it for the meanest amusement; a wit, though a pedant; and a scholar, though fond of the conversation of the ignorant and uneducated. Even his timidity of temper was not uniform; and there were moments of his life, and those critical, in which he showed the spirit of his ancestors. He was laborious in trifles, and a trifler where serious labor was required; devout in his sentiments, and yet too often profane in his language; just and beneficent by nature, he yet gave way to the iniquities and oppressions of others.”
“Rokeby,” a poem, comes next in historic order. The scene is laid at Rokeby, near Greta Bridge in Yorkshire, and the date is immediately subsequent to the great battle of Marston Moor, July 3, 1644. It was here that the bold cavaliers learned a lesson never to be forgotten, at the hand of Puritan and Roundhead. The poem abounds with notable and vigorous passages. It throws light on the stormy years of the great Civil War; but so many of Scott’s novels are related to this period that we must dismiss the poem with a single quotation—a tribute to the genius of Chaucer: