It was not long ere people began to remark that no one now ever heard the piper utter the name Campbell. An ill-bred youth once—it was well for him that Malcolm was not near—dared the evil word in his presence: a cloud swept across the old man's face, but he held his peace, and to the day of his death, which arrived in his ninety-first year, it never crossed his lips. He died with the Lossie pipes on his bed, Malcolm on one side of him and Clementina on the other.
Some of my readers may care to know that Phemy and Davy were married, and made the quaintest, oldest-fashioned little couple, with hearts which king and beggar might equally have trusted.
Malcolm's relations with the fisher-folk, founded as they were in truth and open uprightness, were not in the least injured by his change of position. He made it a point to be always at home during the herring-fishing. Whatever might be going on in London, the marquis and marchioness, their family and household, were sure to leave in time for the commencement of that. Those who admired Malcolm—of whom there were not a few even in Vanity Fair—called him the fisher-king: the wags called him the kingfisher, and laughed at the oddity of his taste in preferring what he called his duty to the pleasures of the season. But the marquis found even the hen-pecked Partan a nobler and more elevating presence than any strutting platitude of Bond street. And when he was at home he was always about amongst the people. Almost every day he would look in at some door in the Seaton, and call out a salutation to the busy house-wife—perhaps go in and sit down for a minute. Now he would be walking with this one, now talking with that—oftenest with Blue Peter; and sometimes both their wives would be with them upon the shore or in the grounds. Nor was there a family meal to which any one or all together of the six men whom he had set over the Seaton and Scaurnose would not have been welcomed by the marquis and his Clemency. The House was head and heart of the whole district.
A conventional visitor was certain to feel very shruggish at first sight of the terms on which the marquis was with "persons of that sort;" but often such a one came to allow that it was no great matter: the persons did not seem to presume unpleasantly, and, notwithstanding his atrocious training, the marquis was after all a very good sort of fellow—considering.
In the third year he launched a strange vessel. Her tonnage was two hundred, but she was built like a fishing-boat. She had great stowage forward and below: if there was a large take, boat after boat could empty its load into her, and go back and draw its nets again. But this was not the original design in her. The after half of her deck was parted off with a light rope-rail, was kept as white as holy-stone could make it, and had a brass-railed bulwark. She was steered with a wheel, for more room; the top of the binnacle was made sloping, to serve as a lectern; there were seats all round the bulwarks; and she was called the Clemency.
For more than two years he had provided training for the fittest youths he could find amongst the fishers, and now he had a pretty good band playing on wind-instruments, able to give back to God a shadow of His own music. The same formed the Clemency's crew. And every Sunday evening the great fishing-boat, with the marquis and almost always the marchioness on board, and the latter never without a child or children, led out from the harbor such of the boats as were going to spend the night on the water.
When they reached the ground all the other boats gathered about the great boat, and the chief men came on board, and Malcolm stood up betwixt the wheel and the binnacle, and read—always from the gospel, and generally words of Jesus, and talked to them, striving earnestly to get the truth alive into their hearts. Then he would pray aloud to the living God, as One so living that they could not see Him, so One with them that they could not behold Him. When they rose from their knees man after man dropped into his boat, and the fleet scattered wide over the waters to search them for their treasure.
Then the little ones were put to bed, and Malcolm and Clementina would sit on the deck, reading and talking, till the night fell, when they too went below and slept in peace. But if ever a boat wanted help or the slightest danger arose, the first thing was to call the marquis, and he was on deck in a moment.
In the morning, when a few of the boats had gathered, they would make for the harbor again, but now with full blast of praising trumpets and horns, the waves seeming to dance to the well-ordered noise divine. Or if the wind was contrary or no wind blew, the lightest-laden of the boats would take the Clemency in tow, and with frequent change of rowers draw her softly back to the harbor.
For such Monday mornings the marquis wrote a little song, and his Clemency made an air to it and harmonized it for the band. Here is the last stanza of it:
Like the fish that brought the coin,
We in ministry will join—
Bring what pleases Thee the best—
Help from each to all the rest.
I have in mind the delta of a river whose shores are so level that it is a constant struggle whether land or water shall prevail. The river finds its way to the broad harbor through a dozen or more channels, between which are low islands overgrown with great trees burdened and festooned with grapevines and moss, and tangled with thickets and rank fernbrakes, or growths of wild rice and luxuriant water-weeds so dense and tall as to be impenetrable to even a canoe. Here blooms the magnificent lotus (Nelumbium luteum), with its corolla as large as your hat and its leaf half a boat-length broad—great banks of it, which give out a sweet, faint, intoxicating odor.
Curious sounds reach you as you thread the mazes of the swamp. The water boils up from the oozy bottom, and the bubbles break at the surface with a faint lisping sound: the reeds softly rattle against one another like the rustle of heavy silks, and you can hear the lily-pads and deeply-anchored stems of the water-weeds rubbing against one another. More articulate noises strike your ear—the sharp-clucking lectures on propriety of the mud-hen to its young; the brek-kek-kek, coaz-coaz of the frog; the splash of a tumbling turtle; the rushing of a flock of startled ducks rising on swift wings; the sprightly contagious laughter of those little elves the marsh-wrens, teetering on the elastic leaves of the cat-tails.
No birds are more characteristic of such a reedy tract than the blackbirds, of which there are several more or less common species in different parts of the country. The most striking of all, in the eastern half of the Union, is
The red-wing's favorite resort is the vicinity of water where the rushes grow densely, among which he places his nest; but the little swales in the meadows, where tufts of rank grass flourish upon islands formed by the roots of previous years' growth, and a few stunted alders and cranberry-bushes shade the black water, are nearly always sure to be the home of a few pairs. Such extensive marshes as I have just described are, however, the great centres of blackbird population, where they breed, where they collect in great hordes of young and old as the end of the season approaches, and whence they repair to the neighboring fields of Indian corn to tear open the husks and pick the succulent kernels. In September I have seen them literally in tens of thousands wheeling about the inundated wild-rice fields bounding the western end of Lake Erie, their black backs and gay red epaulets glistening in the sun "like an army with banners." The Canadian voyageurs call them "officer-birds," and the impression of an army before him is always strong upon the beholder as he gazes at these prodigious flocks in autumn; and it is extremely interesting to watch the swift evolutions of the crowded ranks, and observe the regularity and concert of action which governs the movements of the splendidly uniformed birds.
The red-wings are among the earliest of our spring visitors, and south of the Ohio River and Washington may be found all through the winter. Their loud and rollicking spring note is familiar to every one in the country. Conk-quiree! conk-quiree! sings out the male, as though he knew a good story if only he had a mind to tell it; and then adds Chuck! as though he thought it of no use to try to interest you in it, and that he had been indiscreet in betraying an enthusiasm beneath his dignity over a matter beyond your appreciation. His plain brown mate immediately says Chuck! too, quite agreeing with her lord and master that it is not best to waste their confidence upon you.
The centre of all their interest is the compact, tight basket woven of wet grass-blades and split rush-leaves which is supported among the reeds or rests on a tussock of wire-grass surrounded by water. It is a model nest, and they understand so well the labor it cost that they are mightily jealous of harm coming to it. The eggs are five in number, of a faded blue tint, marbled, streaked and spotted with leather-color and black, in shape rather elongated and pointed. The fledglings are abroad about the first of June, when the parents proceed to the production of another blood.
These blackbirds have the bump of domesticity largely developed, and if their household is disturbed they make a terrible fuss, calling upon all Nature to witness their sorrow and execrate the wretch that is violating their privacy.
During all the spring season, and particularly while the young are being provided for, the red-wings subsist almost exclusively on worms, grubs, caterpillars and a great variety of such sluggish insects and their voracious larvæ as do great damage to the roots and early sprouts of whatever the farmer plants, nor do they abandon this diet until the ripening of the wild rice and maize in the fall. "For these vermin," says Wilson, "the starlings search with great diligence in the ground at the roots of plants in orchards and meadows, as well as among buds, leaves and blossoms; and from their known voracity the multitudes of these insects which they destroy must be immense. Let me illustrate this fact by a short computation: If we suppose each bird on an average to devour fifty of these larvæ in a day (a very moderate allowance), a single pair in four months, the usual time such food is sought after, will devour upward of 12,000. It is believed that not less than a million pair of these birds are distributed over the whole extent of the United States in summer, whose food, being nearly the same, would swell the amount of vermin destroyed to 12,000,000,000. But the number of young birds may be fairly estimated at double that of their parents; and as these are constantly fed on larvæ for three weeks, making only the same allowance for them as for the older ones, their share would amount to 42,000,000,000, making a grand total of 54,000,000,000 of noxious insects destroyed in the space of four months by this single species! The combined ravages of such a hideous host of vermin would be sufficient to spread famine and desolation over a wide extent of the richest, best-cultivated country on the earth."
The yellow-headed blackbird belongs properly north-west of Lake Superior, but frequently gets into Michigan and Illinois. The bright yellow head and neck make it very noticeable if seen. Its habits are essentially those of the red-wing.
We have another set of blackbirds of greater size, commonly known as "crow" blackbirds, but which in the books are called grakles. There are several species, but none are greatly different from that too-common pest of our cornfields,
The real home of the grakles is along the edges of the swamps—not among the reeds where the red-wing and bobolink sit and swing, but rather in the bushes and trees skirting the muddy shores. They build their nests in a variety of positions, but usually a convenient fork in an alder-bush is chosen, twenty or thirty pairs often nesting within a radius of a hundred feet. The nest is a rude, strong affair of sticks and coarse grass-stalks lined with finer grass, and looks very bulky and rough beside the neat structure of the red-wing; which illustrates how much better a result can be produced by an artistic use of the same material. In the case of both these birds, however, the female does not wear the jetty, iridescent coat which adorns the head of the family and reflects the sunlight in a thousand prismatic tints, but hides herself and the home she cares for by affecting a dull, brown-black, streaked suit, assimilating her closely with the surrounding objects. This protective coloration of plumage is possessed by the females of many species of birds, which would be very conspicuous, and of course greatly liable to danger while incubating their eggs, if they wore the bright tints of the males. The tanager and indigo-bird afford prominent examples. Sometimes the crow blackbirds make their homes at a distance from the water, and occasionally they choose odd places, such as the tops of tall pine trees, the spires of churches, martin-boxes in gardens and holes in trees. The latter situation is one which the bronzed blackbird of the Mississippi Valley (var. Æneus) especially makes use of.
Grakles' eggs are among the first on every boy's string, and until he gains experience the young collector supposes he has almost as many different species represented as he has specimens, so much do they differ, even in the same nestful, in respect to color, shape and size. Their length averages about 1.25 by .90 of an inch, but some are long, slender and pointed, while others are round, fat, and blunt at both ends. The ground color may be any shade of dirty white, light blue, greenish or olive brown; the markings consist of sharply-defined spots and confused blotches, scratches and straggling lines of obscure colors, from blue-black to lilac and rusty brown—sometimes scantily and prettily marbled upon the surface of the egg, and sometimes painted on so thick as to wholly conceal the ground color.
The crow blackbirds are in the advance-guard of the returning hosts of spring, making their appearance in small scattering flocks, and announcing their presence by loud smacks frequently repeated. They obtain most of their food from the ground, and walk about with great liveliness, scratching up the leaves, turning over chips and poking about the pastures for insects and seeds softened by the spring rains. Their destruction of insects—especially during May, when their young are in the nest—is enormous; yet their forays upon the cornfields, I fear, overbalance the good done the farmer by putting an end to grubs noxious to his crops.
"The depredations committed by these birds are almost wholly on Indian corn at different stages. As soon as its blades appear above the ground after it has been planted, the grakles descend upon the fields, pull up the tender plant and devour the seeds, scattering the green blades around. It is of little use to attempt to drive them away with a gun: they only fly from one part of the field to another. And again, as soon as the tender corn has formed, these flocks, now replenished by the growing of the year, once more swarm in the cornfields, tear off the husks and devour the tender grains. Wilson has seen fields of corn in which more than half the corn was thus ruined.
"These birds winter in immense numbers in the lower parts of Virginia, North and South Carolina and Georgia, sometimes forming one congregated multitude of several hundred thousand. On one occasion Wilson met, on the banks of the Roanoke, on the 20th of January, one of these prodigious armies of crow blackbirds. They arose, he states, from the surrounding fields with a noise like thunder, and descending on the length of the road before him, they covered it and the fences completely with black: when they again rose, and after a few evolutions descended on the skirts of the high-timbered woods, they produced a most singular and striking effect. Whole trees, for a considerable extent, from the top to the lowest branches, seemed as if hung with mourning. Their notes and screaming, he adds, seemed all the while like the distant sounds of a great cataract, but in a musical cadence."
Ernest Ingersoll.
The grand old race of French story-tellers has wellnigh departed. One by one the great names in this department of modern French literature become erased from the lists of the living. Nor is this all. Many of the most brilliant of the novelists of the day have relinquished the pen of the romance-writer for that of the politician. About, for instance, expends in the leading articles of the XIXe. Siècle the wit, the sparkle, the energy that charmed us long years ago in the pages of his novels. The younger Dumas—always less a novelist than a dramatist and (we must coin a word to do justice to the position) an immoralist—confines his efforts now to the production of unclean plays and uncleaner prefaces, that glow with unwholesome lustre like the phosphorescent flames that are bred of corruption and quiver over graves. Pitiless and cold, with a scalpel in one hand and a magnifying-glass in the other, he is at once the closest observer and the most eloquent denunciator of the moral maladies of French society. But he is not a novelist, strictly speaking. His gifts have another direction, his mind another bent. Nor is he altogether a dramatist, as is Sardou. His comedies are less remarkable on the stage than they are in the library. An invincible passion for preaching mars the development of the action. His characters say more than they do, and his plays charm less by any actual theatrical qualifications than by the extreme finish and brilliancy of their style. He will bring two men on the stage, and will let them talk together for half an hour without moving a muscle. They say wonderfully wise and witty things, it is true. But such dramatic writing is not exactly in the manner of Shakespeare. M. Dumas evidently dreams that his mission is to regenerate French society, but, apparently, he has as yet found the task beyond his powers. Nor are the means he suggested—in L'Étrangère, for instance—exactly those that would most strongly commend themselves to the Anglo-Saxon mind.
Among the most daring and successful of the novel-writers of the day we must undoubtedly number M. Émile Zola, whose recent works have created a deep and widespread sensation in literary circles in France. He is the chief of the so-called Realistic school, and is already recognized as a power in the land. To describe the characteristics of his works it is necessary to speak in superlatives. They are immensely strong, immensely realistic, and, it must also be added, immensely repulsive. Vice stands before us stripped of all her plumes and tinsel—naked, hideous and unclean. In Thérèse Roquin, for instance, he tells a tale of adulterous passion, of murder and of remorse. It is precisely the theme that used to arouse the genius of George Sand to its loftiest and most impassioned flights. But instead of poets and high-born ladies, moonlit nights and Italian landscapes, poetry, romance, art and music, Zola descends to the lower classes of society: he takes his characters from the shop and the factory, and shows us evil in all its abominations, remorse in all its horrors. In L'Assommoir, his latest and, in some respects, his most remarkable work, he has given us so atrocious and so powerful a delineation of the vices of the French working-classes that the mind recoils, sickened and terrified, from the contemplation of the tremendous picture. To find its parallel even in another form of art we must turn to some of the most repulsive of the pictures of Hogarth, the representation of Gin Lane or the dissection-scene in the "Successive Stages of Cruelty." Yet the foremost figures in this terrible delineation, his hero and heroine, are not wicked: they are simply weak. The assommoir—otherwise the drinking-shop—is the spider that poisons and ensnares their humble natures. The first pages of the book, the wedding and installation of Gervaise and Coupeau, the birth of their child, her anxieties, her cares, her longing for a clock, her pride in her modest home, are all told with a touch of tenderness, which, however, speedily disappears amid an accumulation of unclean horrors. The book is hideous, terrific, disgusting, but it is not immoral. It is scarcely fit for any decent woman to read, but it is no more demoralizing than is the interior of a dissecting-room.
In the History of the Rougon Macquart Family, a series of six separate works united by the slightest of links, M. Zola attempted to trace the career of a family during the period of the Second Empire, or rather he tried, in imitation of Victor Hugo, to make an epoch, and not a human being, the hero of the work. In this he has but partially succeeded. The Rougon Macquart Family is less a novel or series of novels than it is a dissertation on the Second Empire from a hostile point of view. As a gallery of historical pictures, painted by an able and contemporaneous hand, it is a work of considerable value, but this value is in spite of, not on account of, the story. Victor Hugo could indeed embody in his Quatre-Vingt Treize the mighty image of the first Revolution, but M. Zola is not Victor Hugo, and such a task is beyond his powers.
One of the peculiarities of this tremendous and iconoclastic realist is the care with which he writes and the indefatigable polish he bestows upon his style. He writes and re-writes, corrects and copies, weighs every phrase, and is never content till the written words exactly reproduce the image of his thought. Another is his extreme reticence and self-possession. There are no traces of a fine frenzy about the most vigorous of his works. He paints vice from the standpoint of a street-corner. To others he leaves the roses and the raptures: for him are the mud and the stones. He has no illusions respecting the lower orders, as had Dickens and Eugène Sue. He reminds one of a certain picture by Courbet, who, disgusted with the elegant studies of the nude in the annual exhibition, painted a group of real every-day bathers, some half a dozen washerwomen at Asnières. The picture was revolting, but it was great, because there was truth in the subject and power in the execution. And notwithstanding the tempest of adverse criticism which his later works, and especially his Assommoir, have called forth, he holds a high and recognized place amid the writers of the day.
To turn from Zola to Alphonse Daudet is to leave the back slums of a city for a flower-decked forest-path: it is to exchange the hideous facts of police records and city statistics for the fresh and tender poesy of the woods and fields. M. Daudet is yet so young that he may possibly surpass in the future even the great success of his earlier career—namely, Fromont Jeune et Risler Ainé. His Nabob, now in course of publication as a feuilleton in one of the Parisian newspapers, is a work of far different style and scope from his first great success.
Among the rising writers of the Revue des Deux Mondes the name of André Theuriet is rapidly becoming prominent. As chaste, as tender, as sincere as Daudet, if less gifted and poetical, he depicts provincial life and manners with scarcely less skill than does his brilliant contemporary the factory and the salons of the Marais. He is, above all, an adorer of the woods—not such wild virgin forests as may still be met with in our own land, but the decorous and well-trained woods of France, where the very trees seem to have learned politeness and keep to their own places, not one of them daring to tower to an undue height or to spread its roots or branches over an unaccustomed breadth of space. Born at Marly-le-Roi, his youth was spent at Bar-le-Duc, and in his mature manhood he was transferred to Auberive—three points where his love of forests could be indulged in to any extent. Something of the freshness, the summer sweetness, the natural charm of his favorite haunts seems to pervade the atmosphere of his graceful and delicate tales. He is one of the few French novelists one can imagine writing in English. Gerard's Marriage, Angèle's Fortune, An Undine, are all imbued with that peculiar quality which the French call honnêteté—an expression for which our language furnishes no equivalent. Neither striking in incident nor complicated in plot, his stories charm by their delicate delineations of character, their refinement of tone and sincerity of sentiment, and their truthfulness of description. His stories remind one of what Miss Mulock's novels used to be when she wrote her best, while Daudet might be characterized as a Parisian mingling of Hawthorne and Bret Harte, and Zola as a brutal Thackeray.
M. Jules Claretie has written many novels. But he has also written plays, histories, biographies, leading articles: he is the most indefatigable of writers, as he is one of the most intelligent and clear-headed. He has, however, the defect of being a literary Don Juan, wasting his smiles amid the mille e tre instead of consecrating his pen in legitimate wedlock to a single Muse. The immense facility with which he writes is fatal to the enduring success of his novels. They abound in powerful episodes and strong bits of description, and here and there some single scene, original in conception and forcible in treatment, starts out from the mass like the scarlet draperies in a faded piece of Gobelin tapestry. His gifts are those of an historian or of a critic, not those of a novel-writer. When in his historical novels, such as Les Muscadins or Le Beau Solignac, he trenches on the firm ground of the Real, his true force displays itself. In these works he has attempted to revive the lengthy chronicles of the elder Dumas, but without that irrepressible verve, that headlong vehemence of animal spirits, which, like the rush of a locomotive, bore the reader, breathless and interested, over rough places and smooth alike. The draught M. Claretie brews for our drinking bears no affinity to that intoxicating and sparkling champagne. The Dumas brand is exhausted, and all imitations are but as flat cider in comparison. In the Renegade, which is a specimen of a style of fiction largely in vogue at present in France—one that might be called the contemporaneous historical novel—M. Claretie found himself once more on firm and familiar ground. The hero of the Renegade is a Republican politician who turns Bonapartist, and who finally commits suicide something after the fashion of M. Prevost-Paradol, whose career, it is indeed said, suggested the book.
But M. Claretie is seen at his best when he lays down the pen of a novel-writer and takes up that of a critic or that of a chronicler of passing events. His plays possess the same defects as his novels, being diffuse, devoid of incident and overloaded with unnecessary details. But the clearness and vigor of the style, the strong sense and daylight intelligence that reign in all his writings, prevent his poorest works from being commonplace or uninteresting.
Arsène Houssaye, like his almost un-namable contemporary Belot, is the Laureate of Vice. His imagination is as unclean as a street-gutter, only it is a gutter that runs rose-water. He deals exclusively with the "roses-and-raptures" side of the question. He always lays the scene of his romances in dainty boudoirs, beneath the soft light of real wax candles (gas would be far too vulgar). He revels in annals of the nobility. His heroes seldom or never are without a "handle to their names." His heroines are usually selected from a set whose name he has chosen as the title of one of his novels—Les Courtisanes du Grand Monde. His books would be injurious if they were not so very stupid. They are improbable in incident, immoral in tone, exaggerated in style and lamentably dragged out in length. The trail of the class among which M. Houssaye spends his days is visible in every page. M. Houssaye is possessed with a passionate desire to become a member of the French Academy. Well, why should he not sit where Taine does not and where Sardou does? His History of the Forty-first Fauteuil, one of the brightest and wittiest of his works, will probably avail, not to open the doors to him, but to bar them against him.
L. H. H.
The man whose fortunes were to be during nearly half a century connected with the Revue des Deux Mondes was born in 1804 at Vulbens, a village in French Savoy. Without becoming anything of a savant, M. Buloz received the fair education then obtainable at the Collége Louis le Grand. After leaving school he was forced to take a situation at some chemical works in Sologne, but soon returned disgusted and without means to Paris. There we find him passing his days in a printing-office, and his evenings—and often, too, his nights—in miscellaneous reading. In all that he did he displayed that indomitable energy which characterized his entire subsequent career.
The Revue des Deux Mondes had been started in 1829. It was a sickly bantling, and had to change its name the following year to the Journal des Voyages. The new name, however, brought no fresh subscribers, and the Journal was dragging on a dreary existence when M. Auffray, the printer, bought it, and engaged his former schoolfellow, François Buloz, as editor of the new series of the Revue des Deux Mondes. His yearly salary was twelve hundred francs, and two francs for every subscriber. There were then but three hundred and fifty of these, but in 1834 the three hundred and fifty had become one thousand; in 1838 five hundred more had been added; in 1843 there were two thousand; in 1846, two thousand five hundred; and in 1851, five thousand. Long before this the Revue had become a power. Buloz remained as a partner, but M. Auffray had long since given up his interest in it: he had been succeeded by Alexander Bixio, and the latter by Messrs. Florestan and Felix Bonnaire, the owners of the Revue de Paris. Messrs. Bonnaire in 1845 proposed to buy out Buloz for a sum exceeding one hundred thousand francs. After consulting with Mérimée, Sainte-Beuve and others, Buloz declined the proposal, and with the aid of his friends bought out the brothers Bonnaire for a sum just double that which they had offered him. It was then, in 1846, that the new company was constituted, with Buloz as managing director, and M. Molé, M. d'Haussonville, M. de Saint Priest, Count Roger, the duc de Broglie, M. de Rothschild, M. Baude and others as stockholders. A number of writers too were interested in the concern, and were to pay for their stock in the shape of contributions. A year or two before, the Revue had been most violently attacked by persons ill disposed to bear with M. Buloz's firm determination to admit nothing into the Revue but what he considered up to the standard requisite to maintain its reputation. Alexandre Dumas led the coalition, which was in part made up of men who had been criticised by the Revue. As was natural, their enmity only advertised the periodical and increased its circulation. Still, his enemies managed in more ways than one to make him feel their power. Ever since 1838, M. Buloz, under the title of "commissaire du roi," had been manager of the Théâtre Français, but after the revolution of 1848 he was abruptly dismissed. Thenceforth he gave his attention exclusively to his literary enterprise, and the Revue gained thereby.
From the very first, Buloz had secured the rising literary talent of the day for the Revue. Alfred de Vigny contributed to it successively Stello, Laurette and Le Capitaine Renaud; Alexandre Dumas, whose jealousy was only aroused later on, published therein his Impressions de Voyage; Balzac wrote for it, as did also Nodier, Victor Hugo, Barbier, Brizeux, Mérimée, Lerminier, George Sand, Jouffry, Alfred de Musset, Sainte-Beuve, Gustave Planche and Augustin Thierry, whose Nouvelles lettres sur l'Histoire de France first appeared in the Revue.
In 1840, M. Thiers, while president of the council, wrote an article for the Revue. Buloz, who greatly admired the statesman-historian, pressed him strongly the following year to write upon the Eastern Question. M. Thiers, then at Lille, was about to go to Germany in order to examine the battle-fields of Napoleon for his great work. We find him writing to Buloz a letter which is not less interesting at the present time than it was thirty-six years ago: "I often think of writing for you an article on the Eastern Question, but it is somewhat difficult for me to leave my work. However, I am preparing to put pen to paper in order to carry out my promise. I must tell you that with an ever-increasing taste for la grande politique, I daily care less and less for la petite politique, which consists in simply providing each day for the requirements of the hour. This daily bread upon which men live at Paris is repugnant to my tastes. I am a strong partisan of our institutions, for I know of none other possible, but they convert the government of the country into an association for the merest chit-chat.... It is therefore for me a real sacrifice to return to the narrow sphere of affairs of the present day, and to speak or write thereon. I am happy where I am, and in doing what I am now about.... Still, I will make an effort to write for you before leaving for Germany. I see nothing very important except the Eastern Question, which is not a question du moment, and which will outlive us."
It is truly wonderful how many men eminent in various departments Buloz managed to enrol among the contributors to the Revue. Of course, his strict adherence to the rule he had laid down of rigidly exercising his prerogative as director led many who had written a few articles for the Revue to abandon it in disgust. Still, many even of these returned after years of separation to their old love. Buloz maintained his even course undaunted by storms of criticism. He was to be found early and late at work, constantly reading, correcting proofs, busying himself as to the punctuation, the type, even the appearance of the title-pages. He himself was wont to define his position thus: "I am the public: all I ask is to be instructed or interested. If a work neither instructs nor interests me, the chances are that it will produce no better effect on the real public for whom it is written." He was always fearing that something would intervene to prevent the publication appearing by the 1st or the 15th of each month, and became almost feverishly agitated as the calendar pointed to the near approach of the day of publication.
He received a severe blow by the death in 1869 of Louis Buloz, an intelligent, active and devoted young man who had already become the sharer of his father's toils. He went off to the estate he had purchased in 1859 in Savoy, commanding a view of the Valley of Chambéry and the Lake of Bourget. While in this charming retreat the news reached him of the successive French defeats, culminating in the surrender of Sedan, the revolution of the 4th of September and the march of the Germans upon Paris. Without paying heed to his already weakened condition of health, he set out at once for Paris. Duty called him there, as he considered, and every other consideration was hushed. "What," his friends asked, "could the Revue do in a besieged city, separated from so large a proportion of its readers and contributors?" Buloz was deaf to their remonstrances, and, struggling bravely against the enormous difficulties of his position, he managed, with the aid of a few devoted writers like M. de Mazade and Vitel, to get the Revue out regularly during all those painful, weary weeks. When at length Paris capitulated, on the 28th of January, 1871, the world first knew to what straits the Revue had been reduced. Its means had become completely exhausted. There was no paper left, nor were there funds to replenish the stock of the printing-office, even supposing that such a stock could have been purchased at that time. Yet, terrible as had been the struggle to keep up the Revue during the siege, there was yet a harder task in store for M. Buloz and his family. After the capitulation he and his associates at once set about organizing afresh the entire machinery of the Revue. This occupied some six weeks, and when all the arrangements had been completed one contributor after another left the city. M. Buloz, too, went away. All at once broke forth, on the 18th of March, the Communist insurrection, and Paris for more than two months was in the hands of the rabble. It is not too much to say that but for the intrepidity and intelligent management of affairs by Madame Buloz the publication of the Revue must have been suspended during part, at least, of that period. She feared nothing, but, braving the danger of frequent journeys between Paris and Versailles, she summoned to her aid all the contributors and friends she was able to communicate with. Of course it was not long ere the Communist leaders perceived that true liberty, such as they understood it, was incompatible with the existence of such an outspoken periodical as the Revue. They arrested M. Émile Beaussaire for his courageous article entitled "Le procès entre Paris et la Province," and the other contributors, as well as M. Buloz himself, would have certainly shared the same fate could they have been found.
After the number of the 15th of May had appeared the rulers of the city voted that the continuance of the Revue was prejudicial to the interests of the Commune, and accordingly its suppression was decreed. On the 25th of May, however, Paris was again occupied by the government troops, and thus the number of the 1st of June was published as punctually as all its predecessors.
C. H. H.
Who does not love the beautiful water-lily, the Nympha odorata of our ponds and lakes? No one, not even he of whom the poet said,
A primrose by the river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more,
could be quite insensible to the charms of this loveliest of wild flowers. Yet those who have seen it only in those crowded, half-wilted bunches in the vegetable markets or in the hands of enterprising urchins on railroad trains know little of its perfect state. To come upon it unexpectedly, holding its snowy petals proudly open upon the still water of some sylvan lake, is a poetic inspiration. There it breathes its divinest fragrance. There, enthroned with its companions among its shining green leaves spread out upon the water, it is an enchanting vision. Plucked from its anchorage at the bottom of the lake, it soon closes its corolla, as if hiding its beauty and its sorrow from the eyes of the captor.
Our pond-lily closely resembles the lotus, the Nympha lotus of Egypt, Syria and other countries of the East, which has been venerated in all times, and figures extensively in Egyptian hieroglyphics, besides forming the model for the capital of Egyptian columns. Another, or perhaps the same species, is held sacred among the Hindoos. It is intimately connected with their religion, and they give it a wonderful origin. Vishnu, the God of Light, the Preserver, is represented seated upon the lotus and holding one of the flowers in his hand.
There are two species of the water-lily in the East—the one mentioned and the Nympha cœrulea. The latter, as the name implies, is blue, and said to be wonderfully beautiful. A blue water-lily! What an object to thrill the soul of the florist! It must be rare even in gardens of acclimatization. Who has ever seen one? Perhaps it would flourish in some of our small lakes farther South. It would produce a splendid effect growing with the white water-lily in our ponds.
During the last year or two there have been paragraphs in our newspapers declaring that the pond-lily could be made to grow in gardens. Most people have doubted it. Could a flower so naturally wild, so secluded in its loveliness, so fond of shady nooks and comparatively deep water, be made to expand its shy petals and exhale its rare perfume in a vulgar tub? Yet is it true. Like the noblest beauty of every kind, it blesses despite captivity and ignoble surroundings.
Last spring I determined to give the cultivation of the water-lily a trial, and impressed an old lime hogshead into the service. This I had sawed through the middle, and one half sunk in the ground at the north-east end of the veranda, under the rain-spout. Then, armed with a big basket and a long rake, two of us started for the pond, about a mile distant, where the lilies grew. Some of the leaves, as yet all rolled together, were just peeping from the water.
The process of dragging out the roots was rather difficult, but exhilarating. First, we threw out the long rake, let it sink, worked it down into the mud as far as practicable, and then pulled together with all our strength. At every pull we brought up a long piece of the fleshy root with several leaves just sprouting; but every pull, or rather every yielding of a root, resulted in our sudden sitting down on the marshy ground with peals of laughter. This was the exhilarating part. We placed the roots, with all the doughy clay adhering, in the basket, and tugged it home with many pauses for rest and frequent changing of hands. The basket seemed freighted with lead, and the dripping of yellow mud was not improving to the appearance of shoes and stockings.
Seeing the kind of bed the lily flourished in in the pond, we did not dare trust the roots to common mould, and therefore packed the bottom of the tub a foot deep with the common swamp-muck used on the farm. In this we planted the roots, put in several pails of cistern-water, and left the rain, already falling, to do the rest. The next morning the tub was full of the dirtiest-looking liquid imaginable. It did not become perfectly clear for several weeks; and then our labor was rewarded by the sight of numerous little folded leaves, which soon reached the top and unfolded their satiny, green surface upon the water. The smallness of the leaves troubled me greatly at first, not knowing that they grow broad after opening. After patient waiting, and after covering the tub with mosquito-netting to disabuse the young turkeys of the notion that it was specially designed as a drinking-cup and a watery grave for them, and the young ducks of the notion that it was preordained for them to swim in, we were delighted to see a veritable lily-bud coming up.
At the present moment (July 25th) the whole surface of the water is covered with leaves so large and fresh and beautiful that these alone would compensate for all the trouble taken. The leaves are quite as large, many of them, as the largest seen in the wild state, and among them are two superbly perfect lilies, and several more struggling up to the light. For the winter I shall cover the tub with boards and a thick layer of straw, which will keep the water from freezing much below the surface, and, I trust, preserve the precious roots at the bottom.
A little visitor from Philadelphia, whose grand passion is collecting turtles, lizards, frogs, etc., has added five small frogs to the tub. At any time one or more of them may be seen enthroned on a large leaf, while at night callers sitting on the veranda hear the gentle croaking and are greatly puzzled to account for it.
M. H.
Slang must be coeval with the race. That part of the race which delights in and creates it must have always existed. It is found in the oldest light literature we possess, and in some of the gravest. It abounds in the Greek plays, not being limited to those of them which avowedly "Aristophanize." We can imagine the gamins of Israel echoing and embellishing the "chaff" launched by Elijah at the discomfited priests of Baal. Miriam comes as close to it as a lady may in her exultations over the drenched Egyptians. Terence is full of it, and the graffiti exhumed in Italy further enlighten us as to the deadest portion of one of the dead languages.
Slang is one form of popular poetry. It will maintain its existence, in ever-fleeting shapes, so long as the mind of the masses has a poetic side, and will particularly flourish wherever circumstances favor the combination, in the ideas of the masses, of the grotesque and the novel with the imaginative. In this country, the West—and California, the farthest border of the West—is the hotbed of slang. A Western writer "spreads himself" at the expense of a rival who "welters" in "gush" or "slops over" too profusely. His darling aim is to get his own "head level" and to send his opponent off "on his ear." Of some of the phrases of this kind the origin is difficult to trace, and generally not worth tracing. Others are markedly metaphorical fittings of words with new meanings, and often highly expressive meanings. They are efforts of fancy not conveyed in metre, nor even in prose, but condensed into a single word or phrase. They thus become portable enough to run like lightning from tongue to tongue and pen to pen over a continent. But, like other electric flashes, they are not usually of long duration. If quickly started, they are as quickly forgotten. Each generation or decade or year manufactures its own supply of slang words, and seldom bequeaths any of them as a permanent inheritance. Delineators of rude or low life, like the littérateurs of the Pacific coast school, Dickens and Thackeray, embed in their writings the slang of their day; but it stays there, recommended though it may be by the brilliancy of its setting, and rarely passes into currency outside of their pages. Its flavor is usually too local and fugitive for that.
As slang blends in one direction with genuine poetry, in another it sinks into the base jargon invented by evil-doers for the disguise of their intercourse and concealment of their purposes. Of the latter description are the dialects of the prize-ring and the fraternity of thieves. These are rich and copious, and often ingenious, like the other devices of their originators. How far the gypsy language may be included with them it is impossible to say; but it has been largely borrowed from by them, thanks either to community of objects, and consequent sympathy of feelings, or to its obscurity and shapelessness, and the utter ignorance of it among the intelligent and plunderable classes.
These classes have a slang of their own too; and some of it gets established in the language. Broadly speaking, all foreign words which are adopted from affectation, and not from the growing necessities of science and thought, may be ranked as slang. That they should occasionally effect a lodgment it is not at all indispensable that they should impart a new idea. Very often they merely elbow out an old member of the vernacular conveying precisely the same meaning. It would be easy to cite such cases, and to point to naturalized foreigners, now unnoticed in every-day intercourse, but at their first appearance conspicuous enough in fashionable slang. Scores of them have been introduced to us by the milliner and the tailor. Vouched for by such august authority, they are of course elegant. But they are nothing more. More solid merit than theirs, in the eyes of the student of language, belongs to the humbler products of the popular fancy—words more pointed, more pithy and more graphic, but more fleeting.
The patent on sewing-machines has passed into limbo with the patent on the revolver and the steam-engine and the patent on gunpowder, if Friar Bacon ever entered his caveat, paid his fee, fought the pirates through the courts and took one out—a point on which history, which chronicles the minutest military or judicial homicide and the most contemptible court-intrigue of his day, forgets to inform us. His last possible renewal, however, would have in any case died out long ago, and left his valuable contribution to human happiness as common property as the contrivance of the blind, bedevilled, rich and unhappy originator of the sewing-machine.
This great change extinguishes a tribe of agents as numerous and troublesome as any that roams the Upper Missouri or the Lower Colorado. As numerous, did we say? It outnumbered all the septs of the Sioux—did more travelling and peopled more lodges. It had its peculiar literature and its peculiar vehicles. We have known a single contract made with a Western carriage-factory for five hundred sewing-machine wagons, for the use of one out of the fifteen or twenty companies. All these gay and jaunty equipages go into quod, like the tumbrils and ambulances left over in 1865, and with them, into yet more helpless disuse, a mass of literature, written, printed and oral, great beyond computation. It is a fossil industry whereof even the bones have suddenly perished. To its credit, be it said, it died game, struggling to the last, its battlefield the lobbies of Congress and the halls of the Patent Office. Gold and greenbacks were shed like water, but not much blood save the blood of the grape. All was in vain. The little needle, with an eye near the point, the sharp steel weapon of Howe that so long held at bay all assailants, puzzled a succession of judges of first and second instance, original and appellate, and enriched a generation of attorneys, was forced finally to succumb. All the world and his wife—his wife especially—may make and use a needle with any style or position of hole without paying a cent of royalty for the inestimable privilege. That historic implement has the largest liberty, and may disport itself in an infinity of scrolls and intricacies over the raiment of male and female. The befrogged officer is no longer limited in the arabesques of braid and tinsel that make gay his manly breast. He commands all the resources of Snip's imagination, and whirligigs beyond what hath entered the mind of man to conceive will shortly meander over the cerulean expanse.
Is there not a lull in the quack-medicine business? Its advertisements do not appear to us to shine with the brilliancy of old. Those astonishing portraits of Old Doctor So-and-So, and the gorgeous perspective view of the interior of Professor Snooks's laboratory, all alive with forty 'prentice-power pill-machines and tincture-vats like the pools of a swimming academy, have ceased to illustrate the condition of modern art and medicine.
Possibly, the sensational style has been found to have lost its force, and a more quiet and stately tone to be more promotive of the popularity of bread-pills and root-bitters. It looks more professional. Mountebankery in physic has been overdone, as it has in a great many other things. The quacks, if they successfully inculcate this lesson and bring in a corresponding reform, will have been useful public servants. Others have been forcing the pace as well as they, and may well slacken speed, if not call a halt. The blatant and dogmatic has been increasingly predominant in the announcement of new theories, notions and "missions." We are all concerned in seeing it checked, and simple truth and plodding inquiry once more given a chance. Repeated disappointments have made the world distrustful of startling discoveries and sweeping panaceas—a fact which should commend itself to the attention of all the charlatans, and of those who, not charlatans, have caught from them the fashion of violent and premature trumpeting. Political and social cure-alls will have to work their way slowly and painfully into notice. They must submit to the rules of trade, and not look for success until they have demonstrated that what they offer in the market is what it pretends to be. The world is tired of being taken by storm. Just now it is in a more than usually distrustful mood—in a state of marked disillusionment. It declines to have a creed of any kind slammed into its face—so many new ones have palpably failed, and so many old ones have proved themselves possessed of forgotten virtues. Good and evil have proved to be omnipresent, and to pervade everything, like iron and sulphur.
E. C. B.