"Constance," said Philip to his sister, "I have got on very well with my novel. I have written fifty pages, described my hero and heroine, made them thoroughly in love with each other; and now I intend to part them for a season, without letting them be certain of the state of each other's heart. I think narrative my forte, but it will not do to have no conversations, and my dialogues seem so short and trite. Do look over this:
"'Helena. Your letter has arrived, I see.'
"'Bertram. Yes, I have just read it.'
"'H. Well?'
"'B. It says I must delay no longer.'
"'H. When shall you start?'
"'B. Tomorrow, at the latest.'
"'H. Have you told my aunt?'
"'B. Not yet: I must do it now.'
"'H. Shall you go direct to London?'
"'B. No: I stop one night at the Grange.'
"'H. Oh, then I will ask you to be the bearer of my letter.'
"'B. Is that all you will permit me to do for you?'
"'H. I am careful not to burden my friends.'
"'B. Then you have no belief in true friendship.'"
"Well, Philip, let me try whilst you are at the office, and see what I can suggest:
"'Your letter has arrived, I see,' said Helena, turning as Bertram entered, letter in hand.
"'Yes, I have just read it,' he replied, advancing and leaning his arm on the mantelpiece.
"'Well?' said Helena, stooping as if to warm her hands, but really endeavoring to shade her face.
"'It says I must delay no longer,' he answered, trying to assume an air of indifference.
"'When shall you start?' she said, resuming her work and fixing her eyes on her pattern.
"'To-morrow, at the latest,' he replied, transferring the letter to his pocket.
"'Have you told my aunt?' she said, searching her work-basket for her scissors.
"'Not yet: I must do it now,' he said, putting back the little ornament his elbow had displaced.
"'Shall you go direct to London?' she said, trying to disentangle a skein of colored yarn.
"'No: I stop one night at the Grange,' he said quietly, but with an air of decision.
"'Then I will ask you to be the bearer of my letter,' she added, laying down her work as she spoke.
"'Is that all you will permit me to do for you?' he asked anxiously.
"'Oh, I never burden my friends,' she said, raising her head and tossing back her curls.
"'Then you have no belief in true friendship,' he answered in a tone of bitterness."
"That is pretty good," said Constance to herself, "but I will take these two young people out of doors: perhaps Philip may be better pleased:
"'Your letter has arrived, I see,' said Helena, advancing as Bertram opened the garden gate.
"'Yes, I have just read it,' he replied as he secured the fastening.
"'Well?' said Helena, taking the path to the house.
"'It says I must delay no longer,' he replied, proffering her a bunch of wild-flowers he had gathered in his walk.
"'When shall you start?' said Helena, turning away to pluck some rosebuds, which she added to her bouquet.
"'Tomorrow, at the latest,' he answered, flinging aside roughly a branch that crossed his path.
"'Have you told my aunt?' said Helena, tying the strings of her hat.
"'No: I must do it now,' he said, holding out his hand to relieve her of her parasol as they entered the shady avenue.
"'Shall you go direct to London?' she asked hurriedly.
"'No: I stop one night at the Grange,' he said, inviting her by a gesture to take a seat upon a rustic bench.
"'Oh, then I will ask you to be the bearer of my letter,' she said, quickening her steps lest he should perceive her emotion.
"'Is that all you will permit me to do for you?' he said, with more feeling than he had yet permitted himself to show.
"'Yes: I am careful not to burden my friends,' she added, drawing her mantle round her and speaking in a tone of irony.
"'Then you do not believe in true friendship,' he replied as they reached the house, and with a heightened color he threw back the hall door and made way for her to enter."
Since the publication of the article on "Salmon Fishing in Canada," in the May Number of this Magazine, the writer has had access to the Report of the Department of Fisheries of the Dominion of Canada, for 1872. By this document it appears that an establishment for the artificial hatching of salmon, whitefish and trout is in operation at Newcastle on Lake Ontario, and that two millions of fish eggs were put in the hatching-troughs the last season. Adult salmon, the produce of this establishment, are now found in nearly all the streams between the Bay of Quinté and Niagara River. A salmon-breeding establishment is about going into operation on the Restigouché, and another is contemplated for the Matapedia, both rivers of the Bay of Chaleur.
The reports from the river overseers indicate that under the system of protection all the rivers are improving in the number and size of their salmon. There were taken with the rod in 1872—from Grand River, 70 fish, average weight 14 pounds; Cascapedia, 139 fish, average weight 22 pounds; Restigouche, 500 fish; Upsalquitch, 70 fish; St. Marguerite, 165 fish; Moisie, 219 fish, average weight 18 pounds; St. John, 147 fish, average weight 13 pounds; Mingan, 130 fish; and in most of the rivers the young salmon are very numerous.
It is a familiar observation that great inventions are commonly foreshadowed in theory or speculation, and very often are approached gradually in a long series of tentative experiments before the perfected result is reached. Exceptions occur to this rule, but they are exceedingly few, since usually it is a general sense of the need of any new device which directs mechanical skill toward supplying it. Nevertheless, it is with no little surprise that one reads how thoroughly a century ago the entire theory of the modern electric telegraph was comprehended; for a most remarkable premonition, so to speak, of this great device is contained in a letter recently brought to public notice, written by the abbé Barthélemy (the once famous author of the Voyage of Anacharsis) to the marchioness du Deffand. "I often think," says the abbé, writing under date of Chanteloup, 8th August, 1772, "of an experiment which would be a very happy one for us. They say that if two clocks have their hands equally magnetized, you need only to move the hands of one to make those of the other revolve in the same direction; so that, for example, when one strikes twelve, the other will denote the same hour. Now, suppose that artificial magnets can some day be so improved as to communicate their power from here to Paris: you shall procure one of these clocks, and we will have another. Instead of the hours, we will mark on the two dials the letters of the alphabet. Every day at a certain hour we will turn the hands. M. Wiart will put the letters together, and will read them thus: 'Good-morning, dear little girl! I love you more tenderly than ever.' That will be grandmother's turn at the clock. When my turn comes, I shall say about the same thing. Besides, we could arrange to have the first motion of the hand strike a bell, to give warning that the oracle is about to speak. The fancy pleases me wonderfully. It would soon become corrupted, to be sure, by being applied to spying in war and in politics; but it would still be very pleasant in the intercourse of friendship." In 1774—that is, two years after Barthélemy's letter—Lesage, a Genevese professor of physics, guardedly intimated that an apparatus could be constructed to fulfill these vague suggestions. There were a few experiments in electro-magnetism during the succeeding half century. It was reserved for our own Morse to put into practical application the grand system which the abbé Barthélemy had so curiously foreshadowed in a freak of fancy.
Endless are the blandishments and the seductive devices of trade. A famous dry-goods store lately startled the shopping community of Paris by opening a free restaurant, a billiard-hall and a reading-room for the use and behoof of its customers. When ladies go to purchase at this place, while preparing their lists a polite clerk escorts them to the buffet, which is set out with ices, cakes, madeira wine, and so forth; and, having ended their repast, they are again escorted to the counter at which they desire to buy. But sometimes ladies bring their escorts—husbands, brothers or other useful bankers and purveyors of lucre—and the question arises, therefore, how to provide for them. The device of the reading-room and the billiard-table is interposed for this purpose, and a servant in livery informs them when the buying is completed, and when their own duties—namely, of footing the bills—are to begin. The care and ingenuity with which the French guard against having any annoying moments in life are well exemplified in this device. The free reading-room as an adjunct of the dry-goods store is not wholly unknown in New York, but the free buffet has not yet, we believe, been transplanted there. A very much cheaper and a far less praiseworthy mercantile trap for catching custom in the same branch of trade also originates at Paris. One popular store has a superb clerk, whose spécialité is to place himself near the door, and to murmur whenever a new customer enters, "Hum! la jolie femme!" The storekeeper is said to have observed that the effect was immediate and lasting, the new-comer remaining a faithful and habitual customer; but this device is not to be ranked for breadth of enterprise with the one already mentioned.
The project to turn the famous palace of Madrid into a museum like that of Versailles inspires Angel de Miranda to recall the strange vicissitudes of government which the vast, majestic edifice has witnessed—it and its predecessor on the same site—during seven centuries. Situated in the western quarter of the city, its principal face dominates a grand esplanade called the "Field of the Moor," after the Moorish camp there established in the twelfth century. A fortress first, the original structure was turned by Peter the Cruel, a lover of fine architecture, into a royal castle, or alcazar, as it was then called, the word being borrowed from the Arabic. It became thenceforth an historic spot of Spain. It was the prison of Francis I. after Pavia. It was the dwelling of Philip II., who first made it the official royal residence; and there died his son, Don Carlos, whose tragic career has inspired so much dramatic literature, from Schiller's fierce handling of Philip II. to the widely different treatment of the subject by Don Gaspar Nuñez de l'Arce in his drama played for the first time the past year. In the same palace, continues Miranda, died Elizabeth of Valois. There Philip IV. had farces played by ordinary comedians while the tragedy of his own downfall was enacting without. A fire reduced to ashes the haughty Alcazar at the moment when the Austrian dynasty disappeared from the realm, and on its ruins Philip V., first of the Spanish Bourbons, built the sumptuous palace that exists today. Stranger tenants even than its predecessor's it was fated to see—Riperda, Farinelli, Godoy, who began his political rise by his skill with the guitar; and Joseph Bonaparte, to whom his fraternal patron said, "Brother, you will have better lodgings now than mine." There Ferdinand VII. passed his life in breaking his word, and there reigned Isabella II., first adored, then execrated. Marshal Serrano established there his modest headquarters as regent of a provisory kingdom, and there lived Amadeo, who had the spirit to quit a throne which he could not occupy with dignity. What a story of changed times and manners does it tell, when, in a detached wing of this royal edifice, we find installed Don Emilio Castelar, foreign minister of the Spanish republic!
"I must be cruel, only to be kind," says Hamlet. In a different sense the kindness of some people is pretty sure to be cruel, their very charity ferocious. There is a story of an old maiden lady whose affection was centred on an ugly little cur, which one morning bounded into her room with a biscuit in his chops. "Here, Jane," cries the good lady, twisting the tidbit out of his mouth and giving it to her maid, "throw away the bread—it may be poisoned; or stop, put it in your pocket, and give it to the first poor little beggar you find in the street!" The story is hardly overdrawn, for if "all mankind's concern is charity," as Pope says, yet at least some of mankind's methods of exhibiting generosity are questionable. An English paper recounts that a Croydon pork-butcher was lately arrested for selling diseased pork, and the man from whom he bought the pig, being summoned as a witness, admitted that the animal had been killed "because it was not very well"—that he was just about to bury the carcass when the butcher opportunely came and bought it; but the strange point is that, in a burst of munificence, "the head had already been given to a poor woman who lived near." Evidently, the worthy pair thought this to be the sort of charity that covers a multitude of sins; and to a question whether their intents, as a whole, were wicked or charitable, they might properly have answered "Both." The "charities that soothe and heal and bless" are not the only ones that pass current under the general form of almsgiving.
Literature and Dogma: An Essay toward a Better Apprehension of the Bible. By Matthew Arnold. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co.
This is a tract issued in the author's apprehension that our popular view of Christianity is false, our conception of the Hebrew and Greek Bible altogether hidebound and deadening, our notion of the Deity a picture that is doomed to destruction in the face of science. As it is a sincere scheme of individual opinion (though not of original opinion, being largely made up of graftings from a certain recognizable class of modern scholars), it could only be finally disposed of by following it up root and branch in nearly all its details, at the cost of writing a much larger book. No opponent will be likely to give it so much importance. For our part, we are quite content to exhibit a little tableau of the main theory advanced, and let this tableau speak for itself.
We should perhaps begin with Mr. Arnold's matter, but it is hard to represent him at all without doing some preliminary justice to his manner—his attitude toward the Christian public, his dogma of urbanity, and the value of his way of putting things as a likelihood of making converts. This is the more appropriate as he thinks the Founder of Christianity, and its chief promulgators, such as Peter and Paul, gained most of their successes through manner. "Mildness and sweet reasonableness" he believes to be the characteristic of Christ's teaching—a presentment of truths long afloat in the Jewish mind so winningly and persuasively that they became new and profound convictions in all minds; and he believes that when these characteristics were withdrawn or veiled the teaching was so far ineffectual; that when Christ, addressing the Pharisees, abandoned "the mild, uncontentious, winning, inward mode of working," there was no chance at all of His gaining the persons at whom His sayings were launched; and that Saint Paul certainly had no chance of convincing those whom he calls "dogs." Now, it is inevitable for us to ask ourselves what chance Mr. Arnold, undertaking the most delicate and critical crusade that can possibly be imagined against the dearest opinions of almost everybody, will have with his method. The hard hits which the Pharisees got, and which the early churches sometimes received from Paul, were direct, terrible blows, adapted to a primitive age: Mr. Arnold's hits, full of grace and sting, are adapted to our own age, and are rather worse. When he calls Pius IX. the amiable old pessimist in Saint Peter's chair, or when he calls Dr. Marsh, an Anglican divine who had hung in the railway stations some sets of biblical questions and answers which he does not approve, a "venerable and amiable Coryphaeus of our evangelical party," he uses expressions that will lash the ordinary Catholic and Churchman of his audience harder than the fisherwoman was lashed in being called an isosceles and a parallelopipedon. Not much more "sweetly reasonable" will he seem to the ordinary Cantab. when he says that the Cambridge addiction to muscularity would have sent the college, but for the Hebrew religion, "in procession, vice-chancellor, bedels, masters, scholars, and all, in spite of the professor of modern philosophy, to the temple of Aphrodite;" nor anymore "sweetly reasonable" will he seem to the ordinary innocent, conventional Churchman in asserting that the God of righteousness is displeased and disserved by men uttering such doggerel hymns as "Out of my stony griefs Bethel I'll raise," and "My Jesus to know, and feel His blood flow;" or in asserting that the modern preacher, who calls people infidels for false views of the Bible, should have the epithet returned upon him for his own false views; and that it would be just for us to say, "The bishop of So-and-so, the dean of So-and-so, and other infidel laborers of the present day;" or "That rampant infidel, the archdeacon of So-and-so, in his recent letter on the Athanasian creed;" or "The Rock, the Church Times, and the rest of the infidel press;" or "The torrent of infidelity which pours every Sunday from our pulpits! Just it would be," pursues the author, "and by no means inurbane; but hardly, perhaps, Christian." The question is not so much whether such allocutions are Christian—which they possibly may be in Mr. Arnold's clearer aether—as whether they are adapted to his purpose of winning. He manages here and there, indeed, in trying on his new conceptions of old truths, to be exquisitely offensive. It will seem like trifling, and it will keenly wound, for instance, the person of ordinary piety, to have his "Holy Ghost," his promised "Comforter," called "the Paraclete that Jesus promised, the Muse of righteousness, the Muse of humanity," and to have this solemn Mystery lightly offset against the literary Muse, "the same who no doubt visits the bishop of Gloucester when he sits in his palace meditating on Personality." But he becomes most elaborately and carefully outrageous when, combating this same idea of Personality in the Holy Trinity, he calls it "the fairy-tale of the three Lord Shaftesburys," in allusion to a parable which he is at the pains of constructing about a first Lord Shaftesbury, who is a judge with a crowd of vile offenders, and a second Lord Shaftesbury, who takes their punishment, and a third Lord Shaftesbury, "who keeps very much in the background and works in a very occult manner." This seems like the talk not of a man who wishes to convince, but who wishes to wound: it appears to be completely parallel with the method of those dissenters, whom Mr. Arnold is never tired of inveighing against, who use invective because Christ used it, and who hurl epithets at a state church or titles. As for the new light which Mr. Arnold has to shed on the Bible and religion, it is a recasting in his own way of the old interpretation. He deals with miracles as Renan deals with them, believing that credence in "thaumaturgy" will drop off from the human mind as credence in witchcraft has done—that Lazarus underwent resurrection, since, having found the Life, he had passed through the state of death. The Hebrew God he believes to have been a conception, not positive and pictorial as ours is apt to be (influenced, perhaps, though Mr. Arnold does not say so, by the efforts of Christian art), but a tendency to righteousness, a current of superior virtue, plain enough to the Oriental mind without mere personality; yet it may be objected to this that the Oriental mind made for a personal God, when Jesus came, as delightedly as our Aryan race could do. It is not, however, our purpose to expose much of Mr. Arnold's theory. It will be accepted by some as the last effectual mingling of literary grace and spiritual insight; but others, especially when they find him saying that conduct cannot be perfected except by culture, will think this work the sheep's head and shoulders covering the bust of a Voltaire.
Rhymes Atween Times. By Thomas MacKellar. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott &Co.
When we find actually embalmed in a book the simple and touching song, "Let me kiss him for his mother," our first inclination is to take all its merit for granted and hurry by, capping the matter as we pass with the inevitable quotation which also begins with a let me, and refers to making the songs of a people, with infinitive contempt for the adjustment of their laws. The people for whom Mr. MacKellar's ballad was made, being young women in ringlets who press the suburban piano, have, we may reasonably hope, small need of the law any how, and we may be pretty sure that the verses which have touched the great popular heart are made in a spirit which is better than any law, even the law of metre. On reading attentively the poem in question we find a touching theme handled with simplicity, and in a certain sense earning its popular place, though no poem could possibly be so good as the simple fact—an ancient woman in a hospital at New Orleans arresting the coffin-lid they were placing over a young fever-patient from the North with the natural impulse, "Stop! let me kiss him for his mother!" That little sunbeam of pure feeling, sent straight from the affections of the people, is the real poet in the affair, though Mr. MacKellar has succeeded in investing himself with its simplicity, supporting his subject with tenderness and directness. When a writer happens, with luck in his theme and luck in his mood, to strike such a keynote, he is astonished in a moment by a mighty and impressive diapason, a whole nation breaking into song at the bid of his whisper. Mr. MacKellar doubtless would think it strange, and a little hard to be told, that this trifle outweighs the whole bulk, body and sum of his collection. He is a writer of old acceptance and experience, who began to rhyme long ago in Neal's Gazette, with "occasional verses" about "no poetry in a hat"—a question which was bandied, in the fashion of the times, through half a dozen assertions and replies, assisted by voluntaries from the public. A stage-ride from New York to Singsing at that day was something of an adventure, affording a subject for six cantos, which Neal was doubtless very glad to get for his journal. Neal's death, and the parting with Henry Reed and Dr. Kane, with some other local changes, extracted short laments from the author, whose tone is nevertheless usually cheerful and canny; but his ballad is his best.
The Philosophy of Art. By H. Taine, Professor of Aesthetics and of History of Art in the École des Beaux-Arts, Paris. Translated by John Durand. Second edition. Thoroughly revised by the translator. New York: Holt & Williams.
Fleurange: A Novel. From the French of Madame Augustus Craven, author of "A Sister's Story," "Anne Severin," etc. Translated by M.M.R. New York: Holt & Williams.
Love is Enough; or, The Freeing of Pharamond. By William Morris. Boston: Roberts Brothers.
Ralph Harding's Success. By the author of "Robert Joy's Victory." Boston: Henry Hoyt.
The Mysterious Guest. By Miss Eliza A. Dupuy. Philadelphia: T.B. Peterson & Brothers.
Madame de Chamblay. By Alexander Dumas. Philadelphia: T.B. Peterson & Brothers.
Not Forsaken. By Agnes Giberne. Illustrated. Boston: Henry Hoyt.