There's a lesson ever hidingDeep within the floweret's cell,Of an endless trust abidingSafe with Him who guideth well.As the flowers are ever gazingTo the land above the stars,We, our earnest life upraising,Look beyond life's sunset bars,With our eager footsteps wending,Strive to reach the summits grand,Where, the past and future blending,His own guardian angels stand.
There's a lesson ever hidingDeep within the floweret's cell,Of an endless trust abidingSafe with Him who guideth well.
As the flowers are ever gazingTo the land above the stars,We, our earnest life upraising,Look beyond life's sunset bars,
With our eager footsteps wending,Strive to reach the summits grand,Where, the past and future blending,His own guardian angels stand.
It was the fifteenth of June. The expected ships had joined Commodore Warren, and his fleet of eleven men-of-war bore into the harbor. Signals had been agreed upon between the two commanders. The brush was piled upon Green Hill ready to send its columns of flame into the air when the Dutch flag at the mast-head of Warren's ship should announce that he was ready.
Under the inspiring promise of this flag, and in the blaze of the answering signals, the troops, with drums beating and colors flying, were to rush to the assault. Archdale's opinion, that heavy guns at the lighthouse would be disastrous to their old enemy the Island Battery, had been confirmed by two Swiss deserters, and that place was now almost untenable under a galling fire. The Circular Battery, built to protect the entrance to the city, was little better than a mass of ruins, while the fire that morning from Pepperell's fascine batteries was so hot that the enemy could not stand to their guns. Land and sea trembled with the shock of the cannonade. In the midst of all this Warren came ashore. The troops were drawn up as if for parade, and the Commodore addressed them in a few spirited words which stirred their devotion to the flag under which they were fighting. Then Pepperell stepped forward and swept his keen eyes along the ranks of the men. He had a knowledge of them and an interest in them that Warren could not even understand. To the Englishman they were so many soldiers eager to uphold the honor of the British nation, and he was proud of them. But Pepperell saw the forests to be hewn, the fields to be reclaimed from the wilderness, the cities yet unbuilded. He saw the life, great, though half its greatness was not dreamed of, that was to pour in through this gate which to-day's work was to open. For, not only that fear and hatred of Poperywhich marked his age, but, already, that American love of liberty, to which priestcraft is so inimical, burned within him. A touch of Winkelried's fervor kindled his eye. If into his breast, and into the breasts of his comrades, the bayonets of the enemy were to be planted, yet should a way be made for his countrymen.
"Soldiers," he said, "some of you fellow-citizens, and all of you fellow-workers in a great cause, I have no fear of you. I have good reason to know your persistence, and your undaunted courage. Our mother England needs us to-day. She has not demanded this work of us, for she has thought of us as children. Shall she find us grown to brawny manhood?" A deafening cheer rolled from rank to rank to answer him. "Foes assail her, and the enemy's hand is at her throat. Have we the glorious privilege of striking it down? Yes! To-day." Again cheer on cheer burst from the ranks, and rose above the roar of the cannon. "Then, let us spring to our work with nerves of steel, and arms of iron, and hearts of oak, like our ships that outride the storm, like our trees that laugh at the gale. But, look! it is we who command the gale, for it is our cannon that thunder. The enemy's—they are faint and fainter in reply. Their gates are broken down; their walls are broken down; their hearts quake within them, for all their gallant front. My brave soldiers, remember your comrades who lie here in their graves, and carry home to their sorrowing families the news that they have not died in vain; and carry home to your rejoicing families the assurance that you have not lived in vain. For more than that homes shall be peaceful, more than that hearts shall be happy, is it that religion shall be free. But one thing let us remember: strong hearts are not boastful; not in our own might do we go forth to this battle. 'Christo duec,'—'with Christ for our leader,'—this is our courage. Our flag, whose motto ends with this, may well begin, 'Nil desperandum—'Never despair.' We never have despaired; we have known only hope, and now hope is to become a certainty. On you rests the glory of making it so. On you. The enemy is oursto-day! Louisburg is oursTO-DAY! When you look toward the fleet and see the red flag at the mast-head of the 'Superbe;' when you look toward the hill and see the three columns of smoke rise up—then in your might, in the might of Christ, your Leader, march on! Fight! Conquer! And draw breath only within the walls of Louisburg!"
In the tumult of applause that followed this appeal the commanders turned toward one another. Warren was about to go back to his ship and give the final orders for bringing the fleet into action at once; for the lengthening shadows gave warning that the day was waning, and that it was time for plan and speech to ripen into action. With a word of parting, they clasped hands briefly, and the Commodore had already turned to enter his boat, when, with his face toward the city, he suddenly stopped.
"Look!" he said to Pepperell. "Who is that?"
"A white flag, as I live!" cried the General, watching the captain in command of the advance battery, who was going forward to receive the French officer. "Yes," he continued, as Duchambou's letter was handed to him. "See! he asks time to consider terms of capitulation."
After a few hasty orders, by which truce succeeded war, the commanders were seated in Pepperell's tent, their voices seeming to themselves to ring out strangely in the silence about them. The soldiers, flushed with desire for victory, rested upon their arms in an impatient acquiescence, and Pepperell himself, who, as a commander, rejoiced in the thought that bloodshed might be prevented, yet turned martial eyes upon his companion for a moment, and said, stifling a sigh:—
"They'd have gone at it splendidly!"
"Yes," answered the Commodore; "but this is better. Only we must not give those ships time to come up, or Duchambou may change his mind, and we may have our fight on worse terms."
"I agree with you perfectly," answered Pepperell. "We will be no sticklers for trifles."
Another boat beside the Commodore's had lain rocking on the tide in the shallow water while the General was speaking to his men. At the end of his address the oars were plied vigorously, and the boat shot out from the shore. Suddenly, by tacit consent, every oar hung poised on the boat's edge, and the stalwart rowers, bending forward with upturned faces, remained motionless, their eyes fastened upon some object on shore.
"Yes, it's a white flag!" said one of them at last. "Truce? Aint we going to have a chance at the 'parley-vous?'"
A murmur of disappointment answered him.
"I do believe they've struck," said another. And the oars began to be moved again, as if the sooner their work was over the sooner the pliers would learn what they were anxious to know.
"What are you saying?" cried Mr. Royal. "What's that about truce?" he added to the man next him.
"Don't know, sir," the man answered.
"Don't you see the officer with the white flag going up to the General?" volunteered another.
"Stop!" cried Mr. Royal, decidedly. "Wait a moment. If there's a truce, I'm not going to Canso yet." The boat was almost at the side of the waiting vessel, and the men exchanged looks of impatience, although they complied at once.
"There's Col. Vaughan," said Nancy. "See! he's there beside the General, and he looks as cross as can be."
"Then you may be sure the engagement is put off," returned Elizabeth.
"I shall not leave yet. I will go back to shore," said her father, glad to return to a place which only consideration for his daughter's safety had induced him to leave at that time.
They had just stepped upon the beach again when the General came up, accompanied by Commodore Warren.
"They're going to surrender," said Pepperell to Elizabeth, as the two commanders bowed, and passed on hastily.
So Elizabeth did not go to Canso, where the hospitals had been removed. In the light of after events she felt sometimes that it might have been better if she had gone.
Two days later Pepperell marched into Louisburg, at the head of his troops. The French, who were to depart with the honors of war and to sail for France, were drawn up, as if on parade, to receive the victorious army. The colonial volunteers looked at the battered defences, which were still strong enough to have resisted them longer if a combined attack had not been threatened, and they said to one another:—
"It takes our General to capture a Gibraltar. We should all have been in our graves if we had obeyed Governor Shirley, and begun by assault."
From the window of a house overlooking the square, Elizabeth and her faithful attendant watched the whole ceremony of givingand taking formal possession of the city, the exchange of salutations between the French troops and their conquerors, and the departure of the former, with drums beating and colors flying, to embark for France under a twelve months' parole. When all was over, and she still sat there, her eyes full of proud tears at the glory of her country, a voice behind her said:—
"Do you remember the agreement we made?"
She turned, surprised, her lashes still wet.
"I didn't hear you coming," she answered. "You mean when I said I should like to be invited to walk through Louisburg?"
"Yes."
"I should be glad, by and by, if you have leisure; although I suppose that everybody will have that now."
He smiled. "If you saw Pepperell's tasks, you wouldn't think so."
"Then, I suppose that you are busy, too, and everybody else?"
"Yes. Shall I come for you at sunset?"
The words seemed to sound over and over again in Elizabeth's ears,—words, in themselves, almost ungracious, but which his tone had made to mean, "No business ranks your pleasure." Already they had returned to the courtesies of peace. She could not answer in a different spirit; she must abide by the idle words he had remembered, and go. Her work here was over. Many of her patients had been sent home, and all were well cared for now.
Sunset in the middle of June, and in that latitude, was only the burnished gate-way to a beautiful twilight that lingered as if loath to leave the land it loved. The city lay as tranquil as if no bombshell had ever burst over it, or no alien force now held possession of it. Soldiers were everywhere; but order reigned. Voices were heard, and laughter; but not even rudeness assailed the inhabitants, who, while waiting for transportation, had received a promise of protection in their shattered homes. These ventured out now, in the new immunity from cannon-balls, to examine the ruins of their city.
"We've done a good deal of damage in six weeks to a fortress that it took thirty years to build," said Archdale to Elizabeth. "There are only three whole houses left in the city." As he spoke they were passing by gaping walls and shattered gun-carriages.They walked through entire streets where the buildings, all more or less demolished, showed at every point the cruelties of war. At one place they heard voices coming from a roofless dwelling, which proved that its inmates still called it home, and clung to the poor shelter that it gave.
"Take care!" cried Stephen, drawing her back suddenly. And as he spoke, a stone from the high wall lost the balance it had precariously kept, and fell almost at her feet. "We will walk in the middle of the street," he said, and they went on again, she leaning lightly on the arm he offered her through the ways rough and often obstructed. It all seemed like nothing else that had ever been with them, or ever would be with them again. The city, wrecked by the storm that had raged against it, lay in the stillness of hopelessness, and the moon that rose before the twilight had begun to fade made the calmness appear deeper in sight of the destruction that had brought death. It seemed to Elizabeth like Archdale's own life.
"Do you know where Mr. Royal is?" he asked.
"I am not anxious about him," she answered, with a smile. "He is well provided for in every way at General Pepperell's banquet." She stopped suddenly, and turned to Stephen. "That is where you ought to be, too," she said; "and you are here on account of my thoughtless speech."
"Not so at all," he answered, with decision. "To be walking here with you is what I like best."
She understood that her knowledge of his suffering and her sympathy made this very natural. That evening for the first time they spoke of Katie. He said that it seemed strange to him that the thought of her had so little power over him.
"It will all come back with the old life," she answered; "that seems broken now, but we shall take it up again."
"Where we left it?" he asked.
"I think so," she answered him.
He said nothing, for he did not himself understand what it was that moved him so, and why he should be so eager to deny what must be true. Only one thing was clear to him: that nothing must break the peace of this evening. This was real in the midst of so much that seemed unreal, and beautiful in the midst of confusion. They went on for a time in a mood that Archdaledreaded to break in upon. But there was something that he must tell her, lest she should learn it in a still harder way.
"I have news," he began at last, reluctantly.
"News?" she cried. "From home? About any one there? Not bad?"
"Yes, bad, but not from home at all. News that I wish you need never hear; but this cannot be helped; and I know all that can be known about the matter. Shall I tell you?"
"Yes," she answered, faintly.
"It is about Edmonson."
"I thought so."
"And Harwin."
"Yes. They"—
"They fought," he finished,—"yes. I don't know how they managed it, nor how Harwin could leave the fleet, but in some way he did." The speaker paused.
"Well?" she said, tremulously, after a silence.
"Harwin was killed." Archdale felt her hand tighten its grasp. "And Edmonson," he added. Suddenly she drew away from him, and looked at him searchingly, her breath coming unevenly.
"What!" she gasped. "Both! Both of them! Two deaths! How could it be? Tell me what you mean."
"That is what I mean. It is true. Edmonson, you remember, willed, at last, to recover, and he did so rapidly, that is, he was well enough to go about, though not to report for duty. How he and Harwin arranged matters, or met in the lonely spot in which they were found, I can't explain,—nobody can. Evidently, it was a duel, and it appears to have been without seconds, to make the matter more secret. Each must have given the other his death, for they were found—But I need not tell you all this."
"Yes, tell me how you are sure that they both—died in the duel."
"Edmonson must have given the death-wound first, for it seemed as if Harwin, in an expiring agony, had sprung upon him and stabbed him to the heart, as he fell himself." Elizabeth stood motionless, her face turned away and one hand over her eyes. "The news was brought to the General yesterday morning, and he sent me over to investigate," added Archdale after a pause, in which he had studied her with the utmost attention.
Suddenly she turned quite away from him with a low moan. "It is terrible, terrible!" she said under her breath. "And I—I—Oh, take me back to the house!"
As Archdale obeyed, they went on without speaking, she no longer holding his arm, but shrinking into herself as if she would have liked to be invisible altogether.
"I think," she said at last, slowly, "that I ought to have been willing to go to Canso. Perhaps I could have prevented the meeting by having them watched, or in some way. Of course I can't tell. But I ought not to have been selfish, and ask to stay here."
She had almost reached the house as she said this.
"You, selfish!" he cried.
But he fancied that she did not hear him, for she only repeated: "I ought not to have been so selfish," and after a moment, as she stepped upon the threshold, added, "Thank you; but I should not have gone if I had known. Good-night."
He was alone in the moonlight; in a mood greatly at variance with the tranquil sky that he stood looking into vaguely. Was Elizabeth suffering only because she was connected, though so innocently, with this dreadful thing? Was this all? It must be. And yet,—and yet people could love where they despised,—there was Katie.
Then he saw that not only sympathy for Elizabeth had made him speak, but the desire to see how Edmonson's death affected her. Well, after all, he had not seen anything clearly, and he was neither proud of himself, nor happy, as he walked away.
"Yes, Boston has gone wild," asserted Colonel Archdale a week after the news of the capture of Louisburg. He was in his brother's house, with Mr. Archdale, his wife, and Katie, as eager listeners. "And not only Boston," he went on, "but New York and Philadelphia, too. As to Boston, there has never been anything like it since the place was founded. Captain Bennett got in with the news about one o'clock the morning of the third. But they didn't fire the salvos until daylight. Then the bells rang—oh!how they rang!—and the streets filled like magic. The cannon fired, the people shouted and wept for pride and joy. All day long crowds kept pouring in from the towns round about, and at night there was not a house in the city or near it that was not illuminated. Pepperell's official report was very interesting. Part of it was read to the people; but I saw the document. He speaks handsomely of Commodore Warren, which was to be expected of him; and he says that he believes there never were such rains seen before, 'which,' he adds, 'is not perhaps to be wondered at, for we gave the town about nine thousand cannon-balls and six hundred bombs before it surrendered;' and he said, too, that 'the day of the flag of truce the fire from Island Battery made some of the gunners run into the sea for shelter.'"
"Has Elizabeth returned?" asked Katie, after further details of the surrender had been given.
"Yes; she came home with her father in Captain Bennett's ship. I saw her that same day."
"How is she?"
"Very well; she looks worn, however; she must have worked hard. She is a strange young lady,—very charming, though."
"Yes, indeed; as good as gold," assented Katie, wondering if Elizabeth's fatigue had seriously injured her good looks. She wondered, also, if Stephen were any more reconciled to his fate. But she did not ask this.
"I suppose Stephen has not come home yet," said her mother at the moment.
"He will not be here at present. He wrote me that Pepperell needed him there."
New England was full of the elation that a youth feels at having given evidence of manly prowess. For the idea of the expedition had been born in the colonial brain, and the enterprise had been carried through by colonial nerve, muscle, and endurance. The very sinews of war had come from New England. Days of thanksgiving were appointed. The soldiers who returned broken down by wounds or illness found welcome and aid, and the families of those who had died in the service were considered by some as opportunities for proving the gratitude they felt for victory. Europe was amazed at the exploit, and England had good reason to remember a conquest which counterbalanced the disasters thatshe had met with on the Continent, and was the best achievement of the war of 1744. News soon came that Warren had been made Admiral, and their own soldier, Pepperell, created a Baronet.
One perfect afternoon in September Katie set out through the fields to her uncle's house. The walk was not too long when one went across lots. She would perhaps stay to tea, and then the Colonel would send her home. She felt that it was very nice in all the family not to resent her change of mind in regard to Stephen. That day she went on in happy mood.
At last she crossed the little bridge over the creek, and walked slowly up to the house, wondering that she had found neither of her cousins on the river this beautiful day. They would have taken her across the stream, and saved her the distance down the bank to the bridge, and up the long avenue on the other side. But it was cool under the arching trees. She sauntered on. Exercise had brightened her color a little, but it was still as delicate as the petal of a rose; her eyes, too, were full of brightness; her mouth, with its beautiful curves, was bewitching. Altogether, a more graceful figure, in its white dress, and a more perfect face, had seldom made their way through a vista of summer foliage. Was it her fault if too critical an observer missed in the face those shadowy lines that nothing but thought can draw, and in the eyes that peculiar clear depth of shining that comes only when fires of pain have burned into the soul, and purified it, and made it luminous? The shadows of the great trees above her flickered over her face, and did their best to make up the defect, and her long lashes threw a beautiful shade around the bright brown eyes. A young life that suffering has never touched has a wonderful charm in its exemption. It is only when suffering fails in its work that something is missed in the face it has passed over.
As she came near the house she saw that the hall door stood open. She thought that her uncle, or one of the girls, was there. With a smile of greeting she ran the few more steps up the avenue, and standing on the threshold, called merrily:—
"Here am I! Where are you, somebody? Uncle Walter? Faith?" Then she gave a cry of surprise, and, holding out her hand without any embarrassment, said:—
"Stephen! you at home? I hadn't heard of it. When did you come?"
Archdale stood a moment motionless, looking at her fixedly. Then he came forward mechanically and took her hand, still staring at her, in what seemed to her a kind of bewilderment, until she again asked when he had returned, and hoped that he had escaped wounds and illness in the siege.
"Yes," he said, at last, in what seemed to her an unnatural way, "I am quite well, thank you." After a pause he added, "I was coming this evening to see you all. I reached here only to-day."
"Come back with me," she answered, "and"—she hesitated a moment, then, feeling that it was better for poor Stephen to have the encounter over at once, since he must bear the pain of it, she busied herself with looking through the open door of the drawing-room, and added,—"You will meet Lord Bulchester there; he is coming this evening." In spite of herself she turned pale, and her eyelids drooped.
But Stephen held out his hand with a coolness that she told herself was admirably assumed.
"I congratulate you," he said. "He is a much better match than I am. He is a good fellow, too, else I shouldn't be glad, my dear cousin." He had not called her cousin for years, not since their betrothal, and Katie looked up at him. Their eyes met.
After her return that evening, and after Stephen had left his uncle's house, she sat talking listlessly with Lord Bulchester. She was thinking over the account of the death of Harwin and of Edmonson. She had learned the details that afternoon. They were dreadful, she thought.
She perceived something of the truth as to this duel. She knew now, as she had told her mother before, that Harwin was not a man to love to his death; it was Elizabeth's suitor who had done that. And Katie, at the moment lightly touched by the crime and the horror, sat lost in contemplation of something that did move her deeply.
"Yes," she said to herself, "it was she, not I, who had the power. And now? Yes, now, is it still not I? How very strange!"
Drip! drip! fell the rain that day, two weeks after Stephen Archdale's return from Louisburg. It was an easterly drizzle that, looked at from the window, seemed to be merely time wasted, for the rain appeared to be amounting to nothing; but if one tried it, he found it chilling, penetrating, and gloomy enough. To Archdale, as he plodded through the muddy streets, Boston had never looked so dismal; yet within the last ten days he had tasted enough of its hospitality to have had the memory of its smiling faces lighten his gloom. But another memory overshadowed these. He had not been to see Mistress Royal during his stay in town. He wondered if this neglect seemed strange to her, or if she had not even noticed it. Of course, fêted and flattered as she was, the heroine of the hour, though bearing her honors under protest, she had not wasted her thoughts upon him. He was doing her injustice here, and he felt sure of it; she had thought of his meetings with Katie. But her very sympathy was what he wanted least of all; it was as strong a defence as the walls of Louisburg.
What did he want? Why had he not been to see her? Why should he go? The mist and dimness of the day were nothing to the obscurity in his own mind. All that he was quite sure of was, that whenever he had received an invitation, and the heroes of Louisburg had had lionizing enough, he had thought, first of all that he should meet Elizabeth Royal; yet when he had met her he had never talked much to her; but by stealth he had watched her constantly.
That morning he was walking toward her home. Should he go in and ask for her? He slackened his steps as he drew near. But what should he say to her? Commonplaces? He went on.
Elizabeth happened to go to the window as Archdale was disappearing down the street. Since his return an arrangement had been made to pay back the money that she had put into the Archdale firm, and a part of this had been already paid; the rest was to follow soon. It was no wonder that Mr. Archdale wanted to be rid of all thought of her, since she had made him lose whathe valued most in the world. After a time she turned back to the open fire again and took up her book; but she did not read much. "Is it possible," she said to herself at last, "that it annoys me because he does not treat me as the rest do, as if I had done something wonderful? He knows better. And surely I have done him injury enough to make him wish never to see me again." Again she sat with her book in her lap and thinking. "There was a charm in that terrible life at Louisburg that I cannot find here," she said to herself at last. "I suppose I am not made for gayety. He was one of the figures in it, and he recalls it. But all that life has gone, and he with it." Then she was shocked at a disposition that could prefer bloodshed to peace. No; it certainly was not this: it was because for once she had been a little useful. She felt sure that Stephen Archdale had met Katie, and, as he went down the street past the house that rainy morning, Elizabeth's thoughts followed him with a pity all the more deep that it would be compelled to be forever silent.
A week went by,—a week of weather that had all the sultriness of August. Mrs. Eveleigh, more amazed at each added day of this, predicted calamity, and urged Elizabeth to give up an excursion that she had promised to take down the harbor with a party of friends. Sir Temple and Lady Dacre, who had spent the summer in Canada, and had returned to Boston, were among the guests; indeed, the party had been made for them, and, as the dainty yacht sped out to sea, none were more pleased with it, and with being in it, than Lady Dacre.
Archdale was nearer Mistress Royal than he had been since their walks and talks together at Louisburg. But Sir Temple Dacre had seized upon her almost at starting, and when the yacht ran ashore for the party to stroll under the trees on the point and to lunch there, the conversation was still going on. Sir Temple was asking Elizabeth about her late experiences and observations; he found the first very interesting, and the latter unusually keen.
As the company grouped themselves upon the beach, however, Elizabeth found Archdale beside her.
"I want you to see the waves from that point," he said. "It puts me in mind of one of the juttings of the shore up there."
She walked on with him, and two of her companions, who had heard the remark, followed, desirous, as they said, to get a sightof anything that could give them a hint of Louisburg. Elizabeth would not spoil Archdale's satisfaction by saying that she saw no resemblance. She listened while he answered the questions of the others, and by suggestions and reminders she led him on to vivid descriptions of one of the incidents of the siege. In talking he constantly referred to her. "You remember," he said, sometimes; or at others, "You were not there;" or, again, "It was on such a day," recalling some event with which she was connected. It seemed to Archdale very soon when the summons came to lunch.
"I haven't enjoyed myself so much for a long time. I hope we are not going home yet," protested Lady Dacre, as the party went on board again.
"No, indeed!" cried Archdale. "Where should you like to go, Lady Dacre?"
Her ladyship pointed to a line of shore a few miles distant. "Is that too far?"
"Not if the wind holds good," returned another of the party so promptly that a sailor, who was about to speak, drew back again with a frown, and contented himself with muttering something to his companions.
For a time the wind was fair; but when they had gone two-thirds of the distance it failed them. The boat lay, rocking a little, but with no onward progress, her sails hanging flabby and motionless. Gradually laughter and jest ceased from the lips of the pleasure-seekers.
"A shower coming up," said Sir Temple Dacre, in a tone that he wished to make unconcerned. But it was not a mere shower that threatened, but something more awful in the brassy heavens, the stifling atmosphere, the clouds that had gathered with a swiftness unprecedented in that region. The air seemed to have receded behind the clouds to swell the fury of the tempest that was coming. The stillness was full of horror; it seemed like the uplifting of a weapon to strike. The reticence of the sailors was ominous. This calm had fallen so suddenly that the boat had not been able to reach land, or even water more sheltered. It must meet the full fury of the tempest.
The lightning began to play incessantly. The thunder had a sound of struggle, as if the giant of the skies were breaking his fetters.
At length the listeners heard a sullen roar more prolonged than the tempest, and the wind was upon them. The little vessel shivered and flew before it. It swept past the cove that the sailors had hoped to enter, and bore down with terrible speed toward the rocky coast beyond. The sails had been furled, but the wind and the water needed no aid. The rain came, a blinding deluge; the forked bolts seemed to have set the air on fire; the crash of the thunder and the roar of the wind and the water all mingled together.
The company had scattered. Only a few had gone into the little cabin, the rest preferring to take what small chance the freedom of the deck might give them. With all conventionalities swept away, they were themselves as their companions had never seen them before and never would again. Some were crouched on the deck, with sobs and cries for help; some knelt in silent prayer, and others sat with a stoicism of bearing that their paleness and anxious eyes showed was superficial.
Elizabeth, with an unconquerable desire to meet death upon her feet, stood clinging to the mast. She had thrust her arm through a rope about it, and so could resist the wind which, as she stood, was somewhat broken to her by the mast. Archdale, catching by one thing and another, came toward her. Slipping one arm into the rope, he put the other about her in a firm support.
She looked up at him. She remembered him as she had seen him during the siege, imperturbable in a storm of shot. "You have faced death many times before," she said.
"Never with you beside me. The dread of this is that I cannot save you." And then, as he looked at her, all that he had come to understand, and had meant to break to her so slowly, lest she should be startled away from him, broke from him at once in impetuous speech. "But death with you, Elizabeth," he cried, "is better to me than life without you. I have known it for only a little time; I can't tell how long it has been true. But, in face of death, you shall know it. Don't think me fickle. You know better than any one else how I played out that game to the bitter end,—no, the happy end,—for at this moment I would rather stand here five minutes and speak out my heart to you, and feel that you love me, and die in your love, Elizabeth, than spend along life by Katie Archdale's side. My darling, I am selfish. I would send you away to safety if I could; but I must be glad to have you here beside me." For she was clinging to him, and her head, that had from the first been bent to avoid the wind, was almost upon his shoulder. A moment ago he had thought that this would be enough to comfort him if she did not turn from him; now it was not even the beginning, it was only a divine possibility. He bent over her. "Before it is too late, my darling," he said.
But she did not speak. Only, after a moment, she raised her head, and their eyes met.
The wind shrieked in its fury, the water seethed and hissed, and the boat rushed on toward the rocks. The two turned their eyes away to watch the sea, and then back again upon each other.
"It is the water that unites us again," said Archdale, "and this time forever. My wife, kiss me once here before eternity come."
"Have you no hope?" she asked him.
"It is cruel," he answered. "No, I have none. When we touch the rocks the boat will go to pieces in an instant. And look at the sea." She raised her lips to his as he bent over her; no color came into her face; she was already at the gates of death. She spoke a few low words to Archdale, and then they stood together in silence.
Through the blackness of the storm they saw the turrets of foam where the water was raging over the hidden rocks. Elizabeth shivered. "My father!" she said, brokenly. Stephen could speak no word of comfort. He could only clasp her more closely as they waited for the fatal crash. His eyes now rested upon hers, and now measured the distance between the boat and the breakers.
"What does it mean?" he cried at last. "We are not going directly upon them now! Can the wind have veered? O God! is there any chance? any of life with you, Elizabeth? No, it cannot be." His voice had an unsteadiness that his conviction of the destruction that they were rushing upon had not given it.
The wind had veered, and in veering had fallen a very little. It no longer rained in such torrents; but the rain had been a discomfort unnoticed in the danger. The wind, still furious, and therocks which they were nearing, left no one in the boat, thought for the rain.
It grew a little lighter. The vessel gave herself a shake, not like the straining of the moments before, and rushed on. Yet the wind had lost something of its force, and it was not now driving directly against the rocks, as Archdale had seen. It might veer and fall still more before they should be reached. There was still terrible danger; but there was, at least, one chance of escape.
So the minutes went by. The rocks grew plainer to the watchers until it seemed to them probable that they were passing over the outermost ones. But, if the boat could round the point before her without striking, it would find a smoother shore beyond.
With the brightening of the prospect Elizabeth had drawn away from Archdale, and they had joined the others who had revived a little in the new hope. All were breathless with suspense, for the next few moments were more full of instant peril than those that had gone before. At any moment they might strike, and then—half a mile or more of foaming water between them and the shore, while the two frail boats that they had to make the passage in would not hold them all.
The storm on shore was remembered for years as something nearer a tropical hurricane than had been known ever to have visited New England.
The boat swept on. Once there came a sound that made the listeners shiver, but the keel grated and passed over, the point was rounded, and they entered calmer water, wild enough, however, and found the wind still falling and the place more sheltered.
But it was not for some time, and not without great danger in the passage, that all the party stepped again upon land.
They were miles away from their homes, and must find present shelter, and such conveyance as they could.
On the way to a farm-house that had opened its doors to them, Archdale, who had been helping in getting the company on shore, joined Elizabeth. He took the shawl that she was carrying and threw it over his arm, making use of the opportunity to say a few words to her in an undertone.
He never forgot the expression with which she looked up at him. Embarrassment and amusement threw a veil over her gratitudefor their safety, and over that new force in her that danger had revealed.
"You would not have had everything all your own way so readily," she said, "if—if—I mean, I—I should not have"—She stopped.
A terrible fear seized upon Archdale.
"You regret what you said? You did not mean it, Elizabeth?" His lips were dry. He spoke with difficulty. It had seemed to him too wonderful for belief.
She gave him one swift glance that set his heart aglow. She slipped her hand into his proffered arm, and went on demurely in the drenched procession.
FOOTNOTES:[E]Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.
[E]Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.
[E]Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.
Oriole, sitting aswayHigh on an emerald spray,Why that melodious zest,Bird of the beautiful breast,Bright as the dawn of the day?What are the words that you say?—"Sing and be merry with May,Since to be merry is best,"Oriole?Winter has wasted away;Gone are the skies that were gray:Hear the glad bird near its nest!Come let us join in its jest,—Join in the joy of the gayOriole!
Oriole, sitting aswayHigh on an emerald spray,Why that melodious zest,Bird of the beautiful breast,Bright as the dawn of the day?
What are the words that you say?—"Sing and be merry with May,Since to be merry is best,"Oriole?
Winter has wasted away;Gone are the skies that were gray:Hear the glad bird near its nest!Come let us join in its jest,—Join in the joy of the gayOriole!
Mr. and Mrs. Gordon allowed no summer to pass without going with their family to some place noted for its beautiful or historical attractions. Their ten days' stay in Nantucket, in July, 1883, as well as their intelligent sojourn in Concord the following summer, had been to them a fruitful source of many an hour's conversation and pleasure.
And now the summer of 1885 was approaching, and where should they go? To be sure they could not have the delightful company of Miss Ray, the young lady who had been with them for several seasons, for she had married, and gone to reside in Colorado. But their daughter Bessie was still with them, and also their son Tom. He was now a student in the Institute of Technology. This constituted the Gordon family.
After a little discussion, it was decided to yield to Mrs. Gordon's desire to visit the home of her childhood, Manchester, Mass., and take what she had not taken for twenty years, a ride round the Cape. Bessie and Tom had never taken this trip, and Manchester was a good place to start from. These were two important considerations which finally decided the matter.
As they finished talking, Mrs. Gordon, in her zeal for historical truth, begged that whenever they thought of or wrote the name of the Cape, they would spell it with ane. She could not imagine Queen Anne spelling her name Ann.
"Indeed," she added, "your Uncle Tenney in his 'Coronation' spells it with ane, and so does Smith's 'Narrative,' the first document which tells of it. That should be authority, surely."
When the middle of July came, the Gordons started, as they had planned to do, to go to the home of Mrs. Gordon's mother in Manchester (now so well known as Manchester-by-the-Sea), on old High Street. The town had changed the name of this street to Washington, but the old lady could not be tempted to call it so, for she had always lived on High Street, indeed was born there, and she didn't see "why it wasn't the same street that it always was." The good-sized brick house in which she lived was particularlydear to Mrs. Gordon, since in it she first saw the light of this world, and in it some of her pleasantest child-days had been spent. So when upon their arrival she saw Tom boyishly stop to swing on the linked iron chains which marked the front entrance to the house, she herself was swinging on them, as in the olden days.
Upon entering the house, she found herself spontaneously going, just as she used to do, through the hall to the piazza on the back of the house, to catch a glimpse of the fresh green garden, with its summer houses—one of which enclosed the well—which to her youthful eye had been so grand. How prettily the nasturtiums, growing over the wall, adorned the time-honored lane by the house! No wonder that they had caught the artistic eye of Enneking. For these nasturtiums, with the dear old lane which had known her childish feet, the large elm tree, and even a portion of the house itself, as caught by his genius, had greeted her eye when a short time before she had been in New York city. Then the house had another and peculiar interest, since it had been dedicated, like a church. A relative of hers, a well-to-do sea-captain, had built it some fifty years ago, and although he was no professor of religion, yet he conceived this idea concerning it. Perhaps the size of the house had suggested this to him, since it was a large one for those days. Everybody thought it was so strange to have the minister come and hold a regular dedication service. The house was full of people to witness it. But when, many years afterward, the first services of a church which was formed from the old one were held in the parlors of this very house, many thought Captain Allen's act prophetic.
The morning after the arrival of the Gordon family at this interesting brick house, familiar to all old frequenters of Manchester, Mr. Gordon made arrangements for a ride around the town. Every year, he said, had something new to show. They went first in the direction of Gale's Point. The sight of the comfortable Smith farm, where Mrs. Gordon used to visit when a girl, brought to her mind the fact that the whole of this Gale's Point, where now there were no less than sixteen fine houses was then a part of this farm known as Major's Smith's pasture land. It could have been bought for a mere song. But now some of the land had brought over six thousand dollars an acre. How she did wish that her father had been far-seeing enough to have bought up all this shore when he could have done so for a mere pittance!
They stopped every little while to enjoy the fine ocean-views which the Point afforded. Mr. Gordon's business eye was noticing every improvement.
"They'll miss it," he said, as they passed in sight of the observatory on Doctor Bartol's place across the stream, "if they do not build a bridge over to Tuck's Landing. People then could drive directly there from Point Rocks here, instead of going way round through the town. It must come in time. It will come."
He seemed thus to have settled the matter, as far as himself was concerned; and then wondered why that little wooden building was being erected on the landing owned by the town. He found out its use, however, when, a few weeks later, he was an invited guest to one of the annual picnics held by the "Elder Brethren." These gatherings, he learned, had become quite an institution for the mingling of fish chowders and bright speeches.
Continuing their drive, they soon paused in front of the Howe place, for its fine sea-view, and, later on, by the Black residence, for the added inland view. The sight of Lobster Cove brought to mind the many good picnics once enjoyed there. Soon Gale's Point was behind them, and they were driving past the Masconomo, the hotel which gives such a pretty background of human interest to Old Neck beach. This Indian name suggested Indian history to Mrs. Gordon. She was so surprised that her children were ignorant of Masconomo, the sagamore of Agawam.
"Why, this town ought to have been named Masconomo," she added, after having told them of his kind treatment of Governor Endicott's men, when in 1630 they landed on these, his shores. "I am glad that Mr. Booth remembered him when he built this hotel. I thanked him once for it."
As she finished speaking, she called attention to the quaint, sloping-roof house perched upon a large, high rock, which they were then passing. This was the one which Mr. James T. Fields had built and occupied a number of summers before his death. The sight of it brought to mind some pleasant little experiences of her friendship with him, which she related as they continued their drive down the Old Neck road. On this they passed the house, perhaps a hundred years old, now owned and occupied by John Gilbert, the actor. A little further on they came to the Towne place, which, through the courtesy of its owner, gave them a good look at Eagle Head and the pretty houses which dot thesurrounding shore. Returning, they drove for a while on the singing sands of Old Neck beach, before going back through the town towards West Manchester to Doctor Bartol's observatory. On reaching that, through the kindness of the venerable doctor, they were privileged to view from the top its fine outlook.
"What a short distance to Gale's Point," exclaimed Tom pointing in that direction, "but what a long ride round!"
"That's what I said," responded his father. "The bridge must come."
After driving through one or two of the neighboring places, and also through the Higginson woods, where as yet there was but one house, they drove back to the centre of the town. Before returning home they spent some little time in Allen's favorite corner-store, where they indulged with its genial owner—who was an old friend of Mrs. Gordon's—in pleasant reminiscences. He told them much of the present condition of the town, and of its projected changes. He said that the taxes, which had been as high as thirteen or fourteen dollars a thousand, and as low as four dollars and eighty cents, were just now six dollars and ten cents a thousand. He greatly interested Bessie and Tom by telling amusing and even thrilling anecdotes of some old ancestors of theirs who had been prominent in town affairs. He told of one in particular, an old sea-captain, who was captured by the British in the revolutionary war for being an American; how he suffered everything while incarcerated in Dartmoor prison, rather than deny his birthright. The originality of this old "grandsir," as he was called, also interested them. He always called the gentry, or the "upper ten," the "Qual." This was his name for the quality, as others called them. Tom was specially pleased to hear that the farm which he owned and lived on was still owned and occupied by his descendants, having been in the same family name since 1640. What is called "Leach Mountain" belongs to the estate.
As the Gordons were leaving the friend who had so entertained them, he invited them to go in the afternoon to the Essex woods to see the Agassiz rock, and the immense boulder near it. This invitation they were happy to accept. Bessie was the only one of the party who had visited the place. She had taken a trip there the summer before with a party of scientific people, and had not wearied in speaking of its peculiar characteristics. No wonder that Agassiz himself had come to see it, and expressed his admirationfor it. Then such an immense boulder resting upon another boulder and bearing upon its summit a thrifty pine tree, was certainly a wonder. And they all thought so too, when in the afternoon they were climbing the rough ladder (manufactured by two Manchester gentlemen for the purpose) to obtain the views over all the trees of the town, and islands, with the ocean winding in and out. They found it hard to believe that such boulders found in thick woods could have been borne hither in ages gone by, by the force of the waters of the sea. But Tom declared, with a student's air which did not escape his father's attention, that since they all showed the marks of glacial action, it must have been so. After visiting this novel freak of nature, they drove up through the Essex woods. These woods of nearly four miles in length were especially dear to Mrs. Gordon, since they were so associated with good times of her youth. She silently thanked the far-seeing people who, to preserve them from the hand of the wood-cutter had secured a portion on each side of the road.
These drives around Manchester led her to reflect how the town was improving under the influence of its summer residents. New roads had been made, and one long since closed had been reopened. Bessie had told of this the summer before, when she had driven over its several miles of woods to the Chebacco lakes. The streets were now lighted and watered, and even some of the fences had been removed. This she considered a great improvement. Indeed, since her visit to Williamstown, and other towns in the Berkshire hills, she could not be wholly satisfied with any place seeking beauty as long as the houses were shut in by fences. She looked upon these as relics of barbarism, necessary only to primitive or disorderly regions. To be sure she did not see but four or five of the eleven or twelve cabinet manufactories which she used to see, but she saw a public library well patronized by the nearly two thousand inhabitants.
The large cobble-stones in front of some of the houses so attracted Tom's attention that they all decided to go the next day to Cobble-stone Beach to see these "hard-boiled eggs of the sea" which the ocean for ages had been rounding into perfect shape. This they did before they went to Norman's Woe to enjoy, with a party of friends, an old-fashioned picnic. While sitting on the rocks at Norman's Woe, Tom, at Bessie's request, recited The Wreck of the Hesperus. She could never think of the one without the other, the poet had so immortalized it.
They had several yacht sails, one day going as far as Marblehead Neck, where they landed, and enjoyed the hospitality of the Club House. Their swift return to Manchester in less than an hour's time was a great pleasure. But the days were going, and they were yet to go round the Cape. The day that was finally set for this purpose proved to be one of the loveliest of the season. By nine o'clock they were driving through the Manchester woods, where every now and then the sweet wild roses greeted them by the roadside. As Mrs. Gordon looked in among the stately pines she felt as never before the steady friendship of nature. The thought rested her. These old trees were as true to her to-day as they were years ago. She soon saw in the distance on Graves' Beach the house which the poet Dana, as one of the first summer residents, had built some forty years ago. This was still in the Dana name, and the one near it was the summer-house of the poet's grandson and his wife, the daughter of Longfellow.
Later they passed the Manchester poorhouse, with its good ocean-view, and caught a glimpse of Baker's island. When they came to a small pond by the roadside, separated from the salt water by only a narrow strip of land, Mrs. Gordon recalled how, when it was owned by the town (it now belonged to the Jefferson Coolidge estate), she and her brother used to gather its pond-lilies with the pink-tinted leaves. They were thought to be extra fine. Just before they reached the Crescent beach in Magnolia, they saw among the trees on the right the summer home of James Freeman Clarke. After pausing for a good look at Magnolia with its Hesperus, its Sea-View hotels, and its pretty cottages in the distance, and passing the boundary stone between Manchester and Gloucester, they found themselves in the Gloucester woods. They drove leisurely along to enjoy their fragrance. They passed the swamp where the magnolia plant grows, away from its Virginia home. Bessie, the day before, had seen for the first time in her life, in a garden in the village, its white fragrant blossoms on a plant which had successfully thrived, after having been transplanted from this swamp. Others had thrived as well, much to the delight of their owners.
Upon nearing Gloucester, the rocks became more apparent. The beautiful Hovey place on the right gave particular satisfaction to Mr. Gordon for its combination of woods, ocean-view, and look of solid comfort.
Soon Gloucester harbor, with Eastern Point lighthouse in the distance, came before them. Then they crossed the little narrow bridge under which the Massachusetts and Ipswich Bays meet. Tom had curiosity enough to notice that the Ipswich was then running into the Massachusetts.
After passing the Pavilion Hotel, and driving through Gloucester's main street with its busy outlook, they came to the Rockport road, with its quaint houses, resembling those of Marblehead. While on this road they saw, off on the right, Bass Rock, where was the summer home of Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.
Just before entering Rockport the rocks were so many and connected that, if they had chosen, they could have walked to the highway on Ipswich Bay on them alone. No wonder that such a place was called Rockport.
While in the town they went to the Cove to see something of the extensive fish business carried on there. They walked on to the Point, to see the old fort which, in the time of the revolutionary war, contained enough plucky men to seize a barge with men and a cannon, which a passing British man of War sent to besiege them. The men were taken to Gloucester, but the cannon was left there where it remained until it found a better place in the town-hall yard. There, all renovated, it now stands as a precious relic of American pluck.
Mr. Gordon was interested to see where the breakwater was to be, for which government had been petitioned. This he considered a necessity sure to come.
From Rockport they went on to Pigeon Cove, passing on the way thrifty-looking houses, the Rockport Granite Company quarries, and also those of the Pigeon Cove Company.
After having done justice to the good dinner which the Pigeon Cove House afforded, they continued their ride around the Cape. Driving on to Phillips Avenue, they passed the Ocean View House, and later the summer home of Sara Jewett, the actress. Next to this was the house of the late Doctor Chapin, who was a pioneer in Pigeon Cove as a summer resident. After passing other cottages, and some boarding-houses, they came to Halibut Point, the extreme point of Cape Ann. Here they alighted, and went down on the rocks, and spent some time, on this perfect summer day, in enjoying the grand old ocean. They then retraced their steps, and were soon driving past more pretty cottages nestlingamong the pine trees, surrounded by wild roses and well-directed care, until they come out to the main road again. They then drove through Folly Cove, a fishing-place facing Ipswich Bay, and also Lanesville, where they saw work going on in the Lanesville Granite Company quarries. At Bay View they visited the Cape Ann quarries. Here they saw the model of the Flying Mercury, which, cut in granite, had just been sent on to the new post-office in Baltimore. They also saw some granite balusters being made for the same place. All this reminded Mrs. Gordon of her visit here some fourteen years before, when she had seen the workmen cutting the eagle for the Boston post-office. The polishing of the granite attracted their attention. They learned that it took three days of constant rubbing of sand and water over the granite by machine to obtain the polish required. They next visited the place of General B. F. Butler, near there, and also the one adjoining it of Colonel Jonas French. Thence they returned to Gloucester, through the pretty winding road by the Squam river, leaving the village of Annisquam, connected by a bridge, at the right. They arrived in Manchester in the early evening, delighted with their all-day trip. Mrs. Gordon had enjoyed the striking and many changes which the twenty years had brought; while Mr. Gordon was more than ever convinced of the value of this shore to those seeking the beauty and healing strength of woods. They lingered a day or two longer in Manchester, in which they enjoyed a moonlight stroll on the beach, as well as a long, interesting drive all over Beverly Farms. While driving through Franklin Haven's beautiful grounds, which he so generously opens to the public, they, with others who had gone before them, gratefully appreciated this privilege of seeing such beauty away from the public thoroughfare. "In a peculiar sense," mused Mrs. Gordon, "such men are benefactors. They rest the tired eye, and calm the troubled nature."
The Gordons returned to their suburban Boston home wiser than they left it. And they are fully determined to take another trip next summer. (If they do, the readers of theNew England Magazineshall hear of it.)
Socialism in America and Europe.It is a spectacle quite too sad for laughter, and yet too comical for tears, which was offered a few weeks ago by the unemployed and hungry thousands who disturbed the quiet and alarmed the fears of the people of London. That strange and unlooked-for outbreak was probably only the first act in a drama the end of which we have not yet seen. If "coming events cast their shadows before," what has happened in England, and is constantly happening in other European countries and in America, bodes ill for the stability of governments and the peace of the world. Socialistic theories fill the air, disturb the minds, and inflame the passions of men. Socialism, in one or other of its forms, counts its disciples by tens of thousands on both sides of the Atlantic. With the majority it is a dim and indistinct craving after an ideal condition of society, without any intelligent conception as to how it is to be reached and realized. The acknowledged lights and leaders of the movement, however, teach it as a philosophy, preach it as a gospel, advocate and practise it as a new style of social refinement, or labor for its adoption and establishment as a desirable scheme of social reform. There are philosophical socialists, and Christian socialists, and æsthetic socialists, and socialists whose dream can only be fulfilled by a general overturning of the existing order of things with a view to a more just and equitable distribution of wealth, labor, liberty, and happiness. They disagree in many things very radically, but they are all captured by one ideal and animated by one ambition, and it is a sublime and beautiful conception too, being nothing less than the consummation of human happiness—so far as such a thing is possible—and the creation of a heaven upon earth. Socialism contemplates a condition of society in which not only all shall share equally in work, profit, property, and enjoyment, but in which there will be no "capitalists, no middle-men, no rent-taking, and no interest-drawing, and if there is any wage-paying, only such wage as is a due and full equivalent for the portion of work done, which shall be measured by the exigencies of the community, and shall be so assessed and paid for as to leave no margin of profit to any butactualworkers;" a state of society, in a word, on which all kinds of toil, the lowest as well as the highest, will be so pleasant and agreeable as to be no toil at all. With so high and admirable an aim, it seems a pity that socialism can find no better way to fulfil itself than by a resort to lawlessness and violence. Notwithstanding all that has been said, sung, and written in its favor, especiallyin the two great English-speaking countries, it may still be described as "a thing with its head in the clouds and its feet in the intolerable mud." However, our business with our fellow-beings, as Spinoza said, is not to censure them, nor to deplore them, but simply to understand them.
The Chinese Problemis one which is beset with so many difficulties—moral, social, religious, industrial, economic, international—that most thoughtful persons, probably, would prefer to leave it alone if the indulgence of private feeling in the matter could be made consistent with an adequate sense of public duty. As things have been, and still continue to be, however, silence is impossible. The question presses for solution, from many sides, with a painful persistency, and the further shelving of it would scarcely be good policy. Here in New England the problem may not confront us in that sternly practical aspect which it every day wears to the citizens of the Pacific Coast, and in other parts of the country, where considerable Chinese populations affect the industrial interests of the local communities. Nevertheless, its stable and satisfactory settlement is quite as much our concern as theirs. Indeed, recent incidents in and near Boston have made this perfectly plain. It is very true that the perpetration of outrage and violence on harmless and unoffending foreigners would not be tolerated for a moment by the public sentiment and lawful authorities of the New England and other Eastern States; but, in the judgment of other nations, not a section of the American people, but the whole nation, however unjustly, will be made to bear the responsibility of such lawless demonstrations of feeling as have recently taken place in the West, and endure the discredit and reproach of them.
Aside, therefore, altogether from the purely domestic bearing of this painful subject, there are strong and sufficient reasons why some immediate measures should be taken for the mitigation or removal of this grave national trouble. It is certainly not easy to say what is best to be done. Pride and prejudice of race is one of the most deep-seated and ineradicable of human infirmities, and one of the most difficult to deal with, especially when conjoined and complicated with other motives and passions equally, if not more, powerful. But, while the recent message of President Cleveland to Congress shows significantly enough how difficult the problem appears to a high-souled, benevolent minded, and practical statesman, it also contributes some valuable suggestions towards its solution, in the carrying out of which it is to be earnestly hoped he will be vigorously supported and assisted by congressional action.
A Short History of Napoleon the First.[F]Naturally gifted with a fine faculty for historical criticism, and possessing an uncommon breadth and completeness of information in that department of historical research which his professional duties have called him specially to cultivate, Professor Seeley's historical judgments have acquired a weight and authority quite their own. We were, therefore, prepared, before opening this book, to find in its pages a careful and discriminating estimate of the military career and character of the Child of the Revolution,—and we have not been disappointed. The task Professor Seeley set himself was one requiring as much courage as intelligence and critical skill; and he has displayed all these qualities in a most admirable manner, with the result that a great historical problem has been appreciably advanced towards its true solution. Mr. Seeley is quite aware of the difficult and delicate nature of his undertaking. This feeling betrays itself constantly. "He lends himself readily to unmeasured panegyric or invective," says the Professor, "but scarcely any historical person is so difficult to measure." Again: "No one can question that he leaves far behind him the Turennes, Marlboroughs, and Fredericks, but when we bring up for comparison an Alexander, a Hannibal, a Cæsar, a Charles, we find in the single point of marvellousness Napoleon surpassing them all. Every one of those heroes was born to a position of exceptional advantage. Two of them inherited thrones; Hannibal inherited a position royal in all but the name; Cæsar inherited an eminent position in a great empire. But Napoleon, who rose as high as any of them, began life as an obscure provincial, almost as a man without a country. It is the marvellousness which paralyzes our judgment. We seem to see at once a genius beyond all estimate, a unique character and a fortune utterly unaccountable."
But, while admitting that the personality and the fortune of Napoleon were both alike surprising, Mr. Seeley contends that it is only the accidental combination of both which has impressed and captivated the imagination of mankind; and he believes that the separation of these factors by a calm exercise of the judgment will greatly simplify the problem and reduce the marvel of the great soldier's achievements. There will, of course, be some divergence of opinion as to this, but it seems to us that, on the whole, it is a judgment which subsequent historians will be likely to accept without serious modifications. It can hardly be called an absolutely impartial judgment. At no more than a distance of seventy years from Waterloo, that was not in the nature of things possible, if indeed it will ever be. The historian that would tell the story of the French Revolution, and estimate the character andresult of Napoleon's military and political action, without bias or betrayal of personal sympathy or antipathy, would be a most extraordinary person; he could not be an Englishman; he could not be a Frenchman; he could not be a German; he could scarcely be an American, for obvious reasons. Bearing this in mind we cannot but think that Mr. Seeley has achieved considerable success in the difficult task he has undertaken in the later and more valuable portion of his book. Fully admitting, as he does, Napoleon's extraordinary military talents, his astonishing versatility and fruitfulness of resource, the promptitude, rapidity, and unerring precision of his movements, Mr. Seeley maintains that what is really marvellous is the remarkable combination of favorable circumstances which at the outset furnished his field, and the equally remarkable flow of good fortune which made him so successful in it. Commenting on the brilliant victory of Marengo, which the professor designates "his crowning victory," he says, "Genius is prodigally displayed, and yet an immense margin is left for fortune." He points out Napoleon's superstitious belief in his own unfailing good luck, and shows how, by expecting results entirely unwarranted by the probabilities, as at Leipsic, for instance, his strange hallucination finally proved ruinous to himself and to France.
The thanks of all lovers of literature are due to our enterprising contemporary, theCentury, for securing and presenting to the public the opinions of leading American journalists, authors, and scholars on the subject of international copyright. The truly laudable endeavor of theCenturyCompany to obtain for the noble army of thinkers and writers on both sides the Atlantic the protection they desire and deserve will, it is hoped, not prove vain and futile. That any immediate and satisfactory step will be taken in this direction is scarcely to be expected. But the discussion of the question, in the form presented by theCentury, will, at least, do something to break up the supineness and indifference of the reading public. That once done, some substantial redress of an old-standing grievance will not be much longer delayed.