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The Last Leaf

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Title: The Last Leaf

Author: James Kendall Hosmer


        
Release date: May 1, 2004 [eBook #12429]
                Most recently updated: October 28, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAST LEAF ***

The Last Leaf

Observations, during Seventy-five Years,
of Men and Events in America and Europe


By
James Kendall Hosmer, LL.D.

Member of the Minnesota Historical Society, Corresponding Member
of the Massachusetts Historical Society and the Colonial Society of
Massachusetts

Author of "A Short History of German Literature," "The Story of the
Jews," the Lives of Samuel Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Sir Henry Vane,
etc.


1912




FOREWORD


Standing on the threshold of my eightieth year, stumbling badly,
moreover, through the mutiny, well justified, of a pair of worn-out
eyes, I, a veteran maker of books, must look forward to the closing of
an over-long series.

I retain in my memory certain films, which record impressions of long
ago. Can I not possibly develop and present these film records for a
moving picture of the men and events of an eventful period?

We old story-tellers do our talking under a heavy handicap. Homer,
long ago, found us garrulous, and compared us to cicadas chirping
unprofitably in the city-gate. In the modern time, too, Dr. Holmes,
ensconced in smug youth, could "sit and grin" at one of our kind as he

  "Totters o'er the ground
  With his cane."

He thought

  "His breeches and all that
  Were so queer."

The "all that" is significant. To the callow young doctor, men of our
kind were throughout queered, and so, too, think the spruce and jaunty
company who are shouldering us so fast out of the front place. In
their thought we are more than depositors of last leaves, in fact we
are last leaves ourselves, capable in the green possibly of a pleasant
murmur, but in the dry with no voice but a rattle prophetic of winter.
I hope Dr. Holmes lived to repent his grin. At any rate he lived to
refute the notion that youthful fire and white hairs exclude each
other. If we must totter, what ground we have to totter over, with
two generations and more behind us! The ground is ours. We only have
looked into the faces of the great actors, and have taken part in the
epoch-making events. As I unroll my panorama I may totter, but I hope
I shall not dodder.

Retiring, as I must soon do from my somewhat Satanic activity, from
"going to and fro in the earth and walking up and down in it," I can
claim, like my ill-reputed exemplar, to have encountered some patient
Jobs, servants of the Lord, but more who were impatient, yet not the
less the Lord's servants, and the outward semblance of these I try to
present. My pictures have to some extent been exhibited before, in
the _Atlantic Monthly_, the New York _Evening Post_, and
the Boston _Transcript_, and I am indebted to the courtesy of the
publishers of these periodicals for permission to utilise them here.
I am emboldened by the favour they met to present them again to
the public, retouched, and expanded. I attempt no elaborate
characterisation of men, or history of events or exposition of
philosophies. My films are snap-shots, caught from the curbstone, from
the gallery of an assembly, in a scholar's study, or by the light of
a camp-fire. I have ventured to address my reader as friend might talk
to a friend, with the freedom of familiar intercourse, and I hope that
the reader may not be conscious of any undue intrusion of the showman
as the figures and scenes appear. Go, little book, with this setting
forth of what you are and aim to do.

J.K.H.

MINNEAPOLIS, October, 4, 1912.




CONTENTS


CHAPTER I

STATESMEN OF OUR CRITICAL PERIOD

"Tippecanoe and Tyler too." Millard Fillmore. Abraham Lincoln at
Church. Stephen A. Douglas. Daniel Webster. William H. Seward. Edward
Everett. Robert C. Winthrop. Charles Sumner. John A. Andrew.


CHAPTER II

SOLDIERS I HAVE MET

U.S. Grant. Philip H. Sheridan. George G. Meade. W.T. Sherman. Jacob
D. Cox. N.P. Banks. B.F. Butler. John Pope. Henry W. Slocum. O.O.
Howard. Rufus Saxton. James H. Wilson. T.W. Sherman. Horatio G.
Wright. Isaac I. Stevens. Harvard Soldiers. W.F. Bartlett. Charles R.
Lowell. Francis C. Barlow.


CHAPTER III

HORACE MANN AND ANTIOCH COLLEGE

Horace Mann. "The New Wrinkle at Sweetbrier." Dramatics in the Schools
of Germany, of France, of England, at Antioch College.


CHAPTER IV

THE GIANT IN THE SPIKED HELMET

Prussia in 1870. Militarism in the Schools, in the Universities, in
the Home, in the Sepulchre. The Hohenzollern Lineage.


CHAPTER V

A STUDENT'S EXPERIENCE IN THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR

Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse. The Emperor Frederick. Wilhelm II. Francis
Joseph of Austria. King Ludwig of Bavaria. Munich in War-time. A
Deserted Switzerland. France in Arms. Paris on the Verge of the Siege.


CHAPTER VI

AMERICAN HISTORIANS

George Bancroft. Justin Winsor. John Fiske.


CHAPTER VII

ENGLISH AND GERMAN HISTORIANS

Sir Richard Garnett. S.R. Gardiner. E.A. Freeman. Goldwin Smith.
James Bryce. The House of Commons. Lord Randolph Churchill and W.E.
Gladstone as Makers of History. Von Treitschke. Ernst Curtius. Leopold
von Ranke. Theodor Mommsen. Lepsius. Hermann Grimm.


CHAPTER VIII

POETS AND PROPHETS

Henry W. Longfellow. Oliver Wendell Holmes. James Russell Lowell.
The Town of Concord. Henry D. Thoreau. Louisa M. Alcott. Nathaniel
Hawthorne. Ralph Waldo Emerson. Phillips Brooks.


CHAPTER IX

MEN OF SCIENCE

German Scientists: Kirchoff, the Physicist. Bunsen, the Chemist.
Helmholtz. American Scientists: Simon Newcomb, Asa Gray, Louis
Agassiz, Alexander Agassiz.


CHAPTER X

AT HAPHAZARD

William Grey, Ninth Earl of Stamford. The Franciscan of Salzburg. The
Berlin Dancer. Visits to Old Battle-fields. Eupeptic Musings.


INDEX




The Last Leaf




CHAPTER I


STATESMEN OF OUR CRITICAL PERIOD

I came to consciousness in the then small town of Buffalo in western
New York, whither, in Andrew Jackson's day, our household gods and
goods were conveyed from Massachusetts for the most part by the Erie
Canal, the dizzy rate of four miles an hour not taking away my baby
breath. Speaking of men and affairs of state, as I shall do in this
opening paper, I felt my earliest political thrill in 1840. I have a
distinct vision, the small boy's point of view being not much above
the sidewalk, of the striding legs in long processions, of wide-open,
clamorous mouths above, and over all of the flutter of tassels and
banners. Then began my knowledge of log-cabins, coon-skins, and of
the name hard cider, the thump of drums, the crash of brass-bands,
cockades, and torch-lights. My powers as a singer, always modest,
I first exercised on "For Tippecanoe and Tyler too," which still
obtrudes too obstinately upon my tympanum, though much fine harmony
heard since in cathedrals and the high shrines of music is quite
powerless now to make that organ vibrate. Four years later, my
emerging voice did better justice to "Harry Clay of Old Kentucky," and
my early teens found me in an environment that quickened prematurely
my interest in public affairs. My father, the pioneer apostle of an
unpopular faith, ministered in a small church of brick faced with
stone to a congregation which, though few in numbers, contained some
remarkable people. Millard Fillmore and his partner, Nathan K. Hall,
soon to be Postmaster-General, were of his fold, together with Hiram
Barton, the city's mayor, and other figures locally noteworthy.
Fillmore was only an accidental President, dominated, no doubt, and
dwarfed in the perspective by greater men, while the part he played
in a great crisis brought upon him obloquy with many good people. "Say
what you will about Fillmore," said a fellow-totterer to me the other
day, adjusting his "store" teeth for an emphatic declaration, "by
signing the Fugitive Slave Bill he saved the country. That act
postponed the Civil War ten years. Had it come in 1850, as it
assuredly would but for that scratch of Fillmore's pen, the Union
would have gone by the board. The decade that followed greatly
increased the relative strength of the North. A vast immigration
poured in which almost universally came to stand for the Union.
Moreover the expanding West, whose natural outlet until then had been
down the Mississippi to the South, became now linked to the East by
great lines of railroad, and West and East entered into such a new
bond of sympathy that there was nothing for it, in a time of trial,
but to stand together. As it was, it was only by the narrowest margin
that the Union weathered the storm. Had it come ten years earlier,
wreck would have been inevitable, and it is to Fillmore's signature
that we owe that blessed postponement." As the old man spoke, I had a
vision of the grave, troubled face of my father as he told us once of
a talk he had just had with Mr. Fillmore. The relations of the
pastor and the parishioner, always cordial, had become more than ever
friendly through an incident creditable to both. Mr. Fillmore had
good-naturedly offered my father a chaplaincy in the Navy, a post with
a comfortable salary, which he might easily hold, taking now and then
a pleasant sea-cruise with light duties, or indeed not leaving home
at all, by occasional trips and visits to the one man-of-war which the
Government maintained on the Great Lakes. To an impecunious minister,
with a large family to educate, it was a tempting offer. But my father
in those days was a peace-man, and he was also disinclined to nibble
at the public crib while rendering no adequate service. He declined
the appointment, a course much censured. "The fool parson, to let
such a chance go!" Mr. Fillmore admired it and their friendship became
heartier than ever. In the interview, my father had asked his friend
to explain his course on the Fugitive Slave Law, an act involving
suffering for so many, and no doubt took on a tone of remonstrance. He
told us the President raised his hands in vehement appeal. He had only
a choice between terrible evils--to inflict suffering which he hoped
might be temporary, or to precipitate an era of bloodshed with the
destruction of the country as a probable result. He did not do
evil that good might come, but of two imminent evils he had, as he
believed, chosen the lesser.

Fillmore lives in my memory a stately, massive presence, with hair
growing grey and kindly blue eyes looking down upon the little boy
with a pleasant greeting. His wife was gentle and unassuming. His
daughter Abby matured into much beauty and grace, and her sudden
death, by cholera, in the bloom of young womanhood cast a shadow
on the nation. They were homely folk, thrust up suddenly into high
position, but it did not turn their heads. In their lives they were
plainly sweet and honest. No taint of corruption attaches to Fillmore
in either his private or public career. He was my father's friend. I
think he meant well, and am glad that our most authoritative historian
of the period, Rhodes, can say that he discharged the duties of his
high office "with ability and honour."

When in February, 1861, Abraham Lincoln, on his way to Washington,
arrived in Buffalo Saturday night and it became known he would spend
Sunday, the town was alive with curiosity as to where he would go
to church. Mr. Lincoln was Mr. Fillmore's guest. They had known
each other well in Congress--Fillmore a veteran at the head of the
Committee of Ways and Means, Lincoln then quite unknown, serving his
only term. Both were Whigs of the old school, in close contact and I
suppose not afterwards far apart. Lincoln was prepared to execute
the Fugitive Slave Law, while Fillmore was devoted to the Union,
and probably would have admitted at the end that Lincoln's course
throughout was good. My father's church was looked on somewhat
askance. "It's lucky," said a parishioner once, "that it has a
stone face." Would Lincoln go to the Unitarian church? Promptly at
service-time Mr. Fillmore appeared with his guest, the two historic
figures side by side in the pew. Two or three rows intervened between
it and that in which sat my mother and our household. I beheld the
scene only through the eyes of my kindred, for by that time I had
flown the nest. But I may be pardoned for noting here an interesting
spectacle. As they stood during the hymns, the contrast was
picturesque. Both men had risen from the rudest conditions through
much early hardship. Fillmore had been rocked in a sap-trough in a
log-cabin scarcely better than Lincoln's early shelter, and the two
might perhaps have played an even match at splitting rails. Fillmore,
however, strangely adaptive, had taken on a marked grace of manner,
his fine stature and mien carrying a dignified courtliness which is
said to have won him a handsome compliment from Queen Victoria--a
gentleman rotund, well-groomed, conspicuously elegant. Shoulder to
shoulder with him rose the queer, raw-boned, ramshackle frame of
the Illinoisan, draped in the artless handiwork of a prairie tailor,
surmounted by the rugged, homely face. The service, which the new
auditor followed reverently, being finished, the minister, leaving the
pulpit, gave Lincoln God-speed--and so he passed on to his greatness.
My mother, sister, and brothers--the youngest of whom before two years
were gone was to fill a soldier's grave--stood close at hand.

I once saw Stephen A. Douglas, the man who was perhaps more closely
associated than any other with the fame of Lincoln, for he was the
human obstacle by overcoming whom Lincoln proved his fitness for the
supreme place. Douglas was a man marvellously strong. Rhodes declares
it would be hard to set bounds to his ability. I saw him in 1850, when
he was yet on the threshold, just beginning to make upon the country
an impress of power. Fillmore had recently, through Taylor's death,
become President, and was making his first visit to his home after his
elevation, with members of his Cabinet and other conspicuous figures
of his party. How Douglas came to be of the company I wonder, for he
was an ardent Jacksonian Democrat, but there he was on the platform
before the multitude, and I, a boy of sixteen, watched him curiously,
for he was young as compared with the grey heads about him. His
image, as he stood up to speak, is very clear to me even now--a face
strong-featured and ruddy with vigour beneath a massive forehead
whose thatch had the blackness and luxuriance of youth. His trunk was
disproportionately large, carried on legs sturdy enough but noticeably
short. The wits used to describe him as the statesman "with coat-tails
very near the ground." It is worth while to remark on this physical
peculiarity because it was the direct opposite of Lincoln's
configuration. He, while comparatively short-bodied, had, as all the
world knows, an abnormal length of limb, a fact which I suppose will
account for much of his ungainly manner. In an ordinary chair he was
undoubtedly uncomfortable, and hence his familiar attitude with his
feet on the table or over the mantelpiece. The two fought each other
long and sternly on those memorable platforms in Illinois in 1858, and
in their physique there must have been, as they stood side by side,
a grotesque parody of their intellectual want of harmony. Douglas's
usual sobriquet was "the little giant," and it fitted well--a man
of stalwart proportions oddly "sawed off." His voice was vibrant and
sonorous, his mien compelling. It was no great speech, a few sentences
of compliment to the city and of good-natured banter of the political
foes among whom he found himself; but it was _ex pede Herculem_,
a leader red-blooded to the finger-tips. I treasure the memory of this
brief touch into which I once came with Douglas for I have come to
think more kindly of him as he has receded. Not a few will now admit
that, taken generally, his doctrine of "squatter sovereignty" was
right. Congress ought not to have power to fix a status for people of
future generations. If a status so fixed becomes repugnant it will be
repudiated, and rightfully. Douglas was certainly cool over the woes
of the blacks; but he refused, it is said, to grow rich, when the
opportunity offered, from the ownership of slaves or from the proceeds
of their sale. His rally to the side of Lincoln at last was finely
magnanimous and it was a pleasant scene, at the inauguration of March
4, 1861, when Douglas sat close by holding Lincoln's hat. There was
an interview between the two men behind closed doors, on the night the
news of Sumter came, of which one would like to have a report. Lincoln
came out from it to issue, through the Associated Press, his call
for troops, and Douglas to send by the same channel the appeal to his
followers to stand by the Government. What could the administration
have done without the faithful arms and hearts of the War Democrats?
And what other voice but that of Douglas could have rallied them to
its support? Had he lived it seems inevitable that the two so long
rivals would have been close friends--that Douglas would have been in
Lincoln's Cabinet, perhaps in Stanton's place. This, however, is not
a memory but a might-have-been, and those are barred out in this Last
Leaf.

Daniel Webster came home to die in 1852. He was plainly failing fast,
but the State for which he stood hoped for the best, and arranged that
he should speak, as so often before, in Faneuil Hall. As I walked
in from Harvard College, over the long "caterpillar bridge" through
Cambridge Street and Dock Square, my freshman mind was greatly
perplexed. My mother's family were perfervid Abolitionists, accepting
the extremest utterances of Garrison and Wendell Phillips. I was
now in that environment, and felt strong impress from the power
and sincerity of the anti-slavery leaders. Fillmore and his
Postmaster-General, N.K. Hall, were old family friends. We children
had chummed with their children. Their kindly, honest faces were among
the best known to us in the circle of our elders. I had learned to
respect no men more. I was about to behold Webster, Fillmore's chief
secretary and counsellor. On the one hand he was much denounced, on
the other adored, in each case with fiery vehemence, and in my little
world the contrasting passions were wildly ablaze. In the mass that
crowded Faneuil Hall we waited long, an interval partly filled by the
eccentric and eloquent Father Taylor, the seamen's preacher, whom
the crowd espied in the gallery and summoned clamorously. My mood was
serious, and it jarred upon me when a classmate, building on current
rumours, speculated irreverently as to the probable contents of
the pitcher on Mr. Webster's desk. He came at last, tumultuously
accompanied and received, and advanced to the front, his large frame,
if I remember right, dressed in the blue coat with brass buttons and
buff vest usual to him on public occasions, which hung loosely
about the attenuated limbs and body. The face had all the majesty I
expected, the dome above, the deep eyes looking from the caverns, the
strong nose and chin, but it was the front of a dying lion. His colour
was heavily sallow, and he walked with a slow, uncertain step. His
low, deep intonations conveyed a solemn suggestion of the sepulchre.
His speech was brief, a recognition of the honour shown him, an
expression of his belief that the policy he had advocated and followed
was necessary to the country's preservation. Then he passed out to
Marshfield and the death-bed. What he said was not much, but it made
a strange impression of power, and here I am minded to tell an ancient
story. Sixty years ago, when I was ensconced in my smug youth, and
could "sit and grin," like young Dr. Holmes, at the queernesses of
the last leaves of those days, I heard a totterer whose ground was the
early decades of the last century, chirp as follows:

"This Daniel Webster of yours! Why, I can remember when he had a hard
push to have his ability acknowledged. We used to aver that he never
said anything, and that it was only his big way that carried the
crowd. I have in mind an old-time report of one of his deliverances:
'Mr. Chairman (_applause_), I did not graduate at this university
(_greater applause_), at this college (_tumultuous applause_),
I graduated at another college (_wild cheering with hats thrown
in the air_), I graduated at a college of my native State
(_convulsions of enthusiasm, during which the police spread
mattresses to catch those who leaped from the windows_).'"

That day in Faneuil Hall I felt his "big way" and it overpowered,
though the sentences were really few and commonplace. What must he
have been in his prime! What sentences in the whole history of oratory
have more swayed men than those he uttered! I recall that in 1861 we
young men of the North did not much argue the question of the right
of secession. The Constitution was obscure about it, and one easily
became befogged if he sought to weigh the right and the wrong of it.
But Webster had replied to Hayne. Those were the days when schoolboys
"spoke pieces," and in thousands of schoolhouses the favourite piece
was his matchless peroration. From its opening, "When my eyes shall
be turned to behold for the last time the sun in the heavens," to
the final outburst, "Liberty and Union, now and forever, one and
inseparable!" it was all as familiar to us as the sentences of the
Lord's Prayer, and scarcely less consecrated. No logical unravelling
of the tangle, but that burning expression of devotion to the Union,
lay behind the enthusiasm with which we sprang to arms. The ghost of
Webster hovered in the battle-smoke, and it was his call more than any
other that rallied and kept us at the firing-line.

I think my mother told me once that on the canal-boat as we went West
in the thirties, we had Webster for a time as a fellow-passenger, who
good-naturedly patted the heads of the two little boys who then made
up her brood. I wish I could be sure that the hand of Webster had once
rested on my head. His early utterances as to slavery are warm with
humane feeling. I have come to feel that his humanity did not cool,
but he grew into the belief that agitation at the time would make sure
the destruction of the country, in his eyes the supreme calamity. The
injustice, hoary from antiquity, not recognised as injustice until
within a generation or two, might wait a generation or two longer
before we dealt with it. Let the evil be endured a while that the
greater evil might not come. I neither defend nor denounce him. I am
now only remembering; and what a stately and solemn image it is to
remember!

       *       *       *       *       *

William H. Seward, unlike Webster, had the handicap of an unimpressive
exterior, nor had his voice the profound and conquering note which
is so potent an ally of the mind in subduing men. I heard Seward's
oration at Plymouth in 1855, a worthy effort which may be read in his
works, but I do better here to pick up only the straws, not meddling
with the heavy-garnered wheat. I recall an inconspicuous figure, of
ordinary stature, and a face whose marked feature was the large nose
(Emerson called it "corvine"), but that, as some one has said, is the
hook which nature makes salient in the case of men whom fortune is
to drag forward into leadership. He spoke in the pulpit of my
grandfather, who at the time had been for nearly sixty years minister
of the old Pilgrim parish. From that coign of vantage, my faithful
grandsire had no doubt smoked out many a sinner, and had not been
sparing of the due polemic fulminations in times of controversy. The
old theology, too, had undergone at his hands faithful fumigation to
make it sanitary for the modern generations. From one kind of smoke,
however, that venerable pulpit had been free until the hour of
Seward's arrival. It arched my eyebrows well when I saw him at the end
of his address light a cigar in the very shrine, a burnt-offering, in
my good grandfather's eyes certainly, more fitting for altars satanic.
My grandfather promptly called him down, great man though he was,
a rub which the statesman received from the white-haired minister,
good-naturedly postponing his smoke. But Seward rode rough-shod too
often over conventions, and sometimes over real proprieties. In an
over-convivial frame once, his tongue, loosened by champagne, nearly
wagged us into international complications, and there is a war-time
anecdote, which I have never seen in print and I believe is
unhackneyed, which casts a light. A general of the army, talking with
Lincoln and the Cabinet, did not spare his oaths. "What church do you
attend?" interposed the President at last, stroking his chin in his
innocent way. Confused at an inquiry so foreign to the topic under
discussion, the soldier replied he did not attend much of any church
himself, but his folks were Methodists. "How odd!" said. Lincoln,
"I thought you were an Episcopalian. You swear just like Seward, and
Seward is an Episcopalian."

But I should be sorry to believe there was any trouble with Seward but
a surface blemish. Though in '61 he advocated a foreign war as a
means for bringing together North and South, and desired to shelve
practically Lincoln while he himself stood at the front to manage the
turmoil, he made no more mistakes than statesmen in general. He had
been powerful for good before the war, and during its course, with
what virile stiffness of the upper lip did he face and foil the
frowning foreign world! He had the insight and candour to do full
justice at last to Lincoln, whom at first he depreciated. Then the
purchase of Alaska! Writing as I do on the western coast I am perhaps
affected by the glamour of that marvellous land. When news of the
bargain came in the seventies, the scorners sang:

  "Hear it all ye polar bears,
  Waltz around the pole in pairs.
  All ye icebergs make salaam,
  You belong to Uncle Sam.
  Lo, upon the snow too plain
  Falls his dark tobacco stain."

We thought that very funny and very apt,--but now! I am glad I have
his image vivid, in the pulpit beside my grandfather scratching a
match for a too careless cigar. Between smokes he had done, and was
still to do, some fine things.

       *       *       *       *       *

In those days, Edward Everett and Robert C. Winthrop were often
under my immature gaze. Men much alike in views, endowments, and
accomplishments, they had played out their parts in public life and
had been consigned to their Boston shelf. In the perspective they are
statuettes rather than statues, of Parian spotlessness, ribboned and
gilt-edged through an elegant culture, well appointed according to
the best taste, companion Sévres pieces, highly ornamental, and
effectually shelved. By the side of the robust protagonists of those
stormy years they stand as figurines, not figures, and yet it was
rather through their fate than through their fault perhaps that they
are what they are in our Pantheon. They were not at all without virile
quality. Everett bore himself well in some rough Senatorial debates,
and Winthrop, as Speaker of the House at Washington, was in stormy
times an able and respected officer. But coarse contacts jarred upon
their refinement; and when, like the public men in general who saw
in postponement of the slavery agitation the wiser course, they were
retired from the front, it is easy to see why the world judged them
as it did. Everett's son, Mr. Sidney Everett, at one time Assistant
Secretary of State, was my classmate, and honoured me once with a
request to edit his father's works. I declined the task, but not from
the feeling that the task was not worth doing. Everett had the idea
that the armed rush of the North and South against each other might
be stayed even at the last, by reviving in them the veneration for
Washington, a sentiment shared by both. The delivery of his oration on
Washington as a means to that end was well meant, but pathetic in its
complete futility to accomplish such a purpose. So small a spill of
oil upon a sea so raging! He was a master of beautiful periods, and I
desire here to record my testimony that he also possessed a power
for off-hand speech. The tradition is that his utterances were
all elaborately studied, down to the gestures and the play of the
features. I have heard him talk on the spur of the moment, starting
out from an incident close at hand and touching effectively upon
circumstances that arose as he proceeded.

Of the two men, often seen side by side, so similar in tastes,
education, and character, both for the same cause ostracised from
public life by their common wealth, a repugnance to reform which
scouted all counting of costs, Winthrop impressed me in my young days
as being the abler. His public career closed early, but he had time
to show he could be vigorous and finely eloquent. I remember him most
vividly as I saw him presiding at a Commencement dinner, a function
which he discharged with extraordinary felicity. He had an alertness,
as he stood lithe and graceful, derived perhaps from his strain of
Huguenot blood. His wit was excelling, his learning comprehensive and
well in hand. He was no more weighed down by his erudition than was
David by his sling. Encomium, challenge, repartee,--all were quick and
happy, and from time to time in soberer vein he passed over without
shock into befitting dignity. I have sat at many a banquet, but for me
that ruling of the feast by Winthrop is the masterpiece in that kind.
He lived long after retiring from politics, the main stay of causes
charitable, educational, and for civic betterment. My memory is
enriched by the image of him which it holds.

       *       *       *       *       *

Sixty years ago, one met, under the elms of the streets of Cambridge,
two men who plainly were close friends: one of moderate height,
well groomed in those days almost to the point of being dapper, very
courteous, bowing low to every student he met, Henry W. Longfellow.
Of him I shall have something to say later on. The other was a man
of unusual stature and stalwart frame, with a face and head of marked
power. His rich brown hair lay in heavy locks; the features were
patrician. He would have been handsome but for an hauteur about the
eyes not quite agreeable. His presence was commanding, not genial. It
was Charles Sumner.

I often encountered the two men in those days, receiving regularly
the poet's sunny recognition and the statesman's rather unsympathetic
stare. Both men were overwhelmingly famous, but, touched
simultaneously by warmth and frost, I, a shy youngster, could keep
my balance in their presence. Sumner in those years was the especial
_bête noire_ of the South and the conservative North, and the
idol of the radicals--at once the most banned and the most blessed
of men. I had, besides, a personal reason for looking upon him with
interest. He was a man with whom my father had once had a sharp
difference, and I wondered, as I watched the stride of the stately
Senator down the street, if he remembered, as my father did, that
difference of twenty-five years before.

My father, in the late twenties a divinity student at Harvard, was a
proctor, living in an entry of Stoughton Hall, for the good order
of which he was expected to care. The only man he ever reported was
Charles Sumner, and this was my father's story.

Sumner, an undergraduate, though still a boy, had nearly attained his
full stature and weight. He was athletic in his tastes, and given to
riding the velocipede of those days, a heavy, bonebreaking machine,
moved not by pedals but by thrusting the feet against the ground.
This Sumner kept in his room, carrying it painfully up the stairs, and
practised on it with the result, his size and energy being so
unusual, that the building, solid as it was, was fairly shaken, to
the detriment of plaster and woodwork, and the complete wreck of the
proper quiet of the place. My father remonstrated mildly, but without
effect. A second more emphatic remonstrance was still without effect,
whereupon came an ultimatum. If the disturbance continued, the
offender would be reported to the college authorities.

The bone-breaker crashed on and the stroke fell. Sumner was called up
before President Kirkland and received a reprimand. He came from the
faculty-room to the proctor's apartment in a very boyish fit of tears,
complaining between sobs that he was the victim of injustice, and
upbraiding the proctor. My father was short with him; he had brought
it upon himself, the penalty was only reasonable, and it would be
manly for him to take it good-naturedly. Long afterward, when Sumner
rose into great fame, my father remembered the incident perhaps too
vividly.

My curiosity as to whether Mr. Sumner had any rankling in his heart
from that old difference was at length gratified. The years passed,
the assault in the Senate Chamber by Brooks roused the whole country;
then came the time of slow recovery. Sumner had come back from the
hands of Dr. Brown-Séquard at Paris to Boston, and was mustering
strength to resume his great place. Calling one day on a friend in
Somerset Street, I found a visitor in the parlour, a powerful man
weighed down by physical disability, whom I recognised as the sufferer
whose name at the moment was uppermost in millions of hearts.

As he heard my name in the introduction which followed my entrance, he
said quickly, while shaking my hand, "I wonder if you are the son of
the man who reported me in college." The tone was not quite genial.
The old difference was not quite effaced. I told him as sturdily as I
could that I was the son of his old proctor and that I had often heard
my father tell the story. He said plainly he thought it unnecessary
and unfair, and that that was the only time since his childhood when
he had received a formal censure. Long after, he received censure from
the Massachusetts Legislature for an act greatly to his credit, the
suggestion that the captured battle-flags should be returned to the
Southern regiments from which they had been taken.

But it was only a momentary flash. He settled back into the easy-chair
with invalid languor, and began to tell me good-naturedly about his
old velocipede, describing its construction, and the feats he had been
able to perform on it, clumsy though it was. He could keep up with a
fast horse in riding into Boston, but at the cost of a good pair of
shoes. The contrivance supported the weight of the body, which rolled
forward on the wheels, leaving the legs free to speed the machine
by alternate rapid kicks. From that he branched off into college
athletics of his day in a pleasant fashion, and at the end of the not
short interview I felt I had enjoyed a great privilege.

Another contact with Charles Sumner was a rather memorable one. We
were in the second year of the Civil War. He was in his high place,
Chairman of the Committee on Foreign Affairs in the Senate, a main
pillar of the Northern cause. I meantime had been ordained as minister
of a parish in the Connecticut valley, and was a zealous upholder of
the cause of the Union. John A. Andrew was Governor of Massachusetts.
I had come to know him through having preached in the church at
Hingham with which he was connected. He was superintendent of the
Sunday-school, and had introduced me once for an address to his
charge. We were theologically in sympathy, but for me it was a closer
bond that he was the great war Governor.

At an Amherst commencement we had talked about recruiting in the
Connecticut valley, and he had impressed me much. Short in stature,
square, well-set in frame, he had a strong head and face. His colour
was white and pink almost like that of a boy, and the resolute blue
eyes looked out from under an abundant mat of light curling hair that
confirmed the impression he made of youth. Not many months before, he
had been the target of much ridicule, being held over-anxious about a
coming storm. He had bought three thousand overcoats for the militia,
and otherwise busied himself to have soldiers ready. He was "our merry
Andrew." But the Massachusetts Sixth had been first on the ground
at Washington, with many more close behind, and the Governor had had
splendid vindication.

Early in September, 1862, I went to Boston with a deputation of
selectmen from four towns of the Connecticut valley. They had an
errand, and my function was, as an acquaintance of the Governor, to
introduce them. Little we knew of what had just happened in Virginia,
the dreadful second Bull Run campaign, with the driving in upon
Washington of the routed Pope, and the pending invasion of Maryland.
The despatches, while not concealing disappointment, told an
over-flattering tale. More troops were wanted for a speedy finishing
of the war, which we fondly believed was, in spite of all, nearing its
end. Our errand was to ask that in a regiment about to be raised in
two western counties the men might have the privilege of electing the
officers, a pernicious practice which had been in vogue, and always
done much harm. But in those days our eyes were not open.

Entering the Governor's room in the State House with my farmer
selectmen, I found it densely thronged. Among the civilians were many
uniforms, and men of note in the field and out stood there in waiting.
Charles Sumner presently entered the room, dominating the company by
his commanding presence, that day apparently in full vigour,
alert, forceful, with a step before which the crowd gave way, his
masterfulness fully recognised and acknowledged. He took his seat with
the air of a prince of the blood at the table, close at hand to the
Chief Magistrate.

Naturally abashed, but feeling I was in for a task which must be
pushed through, I made my way to the other elbow of the Governor, who,
looking up from his documents, recognised me politely and asked what
I wanted. I stated our case, that a deputation from Franklin and
Hampshire counties desired the privilege for the men of the new
regiment about to be raised to elect their own officers, and not be
commanded by men whom they did not know.

"Where are your selectmen?" said Governor Andrew, rising and pushing
back his chair with an energy which I thought ominous. My companions
had taken up a modest position in a far corner. When I pointed them
out, the Governor made no pause, but proceeded to pour upon them
and me a torrent of impassioned words. He said that we were making
trouble, that the country was in peril, and that while he was trying
to send every available man to the front in condition to do effective
work he was embarrassed at home by petty interference with his
efforts. "I have at hand soldiers who have proved themselves brave
in action, have been baptised in blood and fire. They are fit through
character and experience to be leaders, and yet I cannot give them
commissions because I am blocked by this small and unworthy spirit of
hindrance."

For some minutes the warm outburst went on. The white, beardless face
flushed up under the curls, and his hands waved in rapid gesture. "A
capital speech, your Excellency," cried out Sumner, "a most capital
speech!" and he led the way in a peal of applause in which the crowd
in the chamber universally joined, and which must have rung across
Beacon Street to the Common far away. My feeble finger had touched the
button which brought this unexpected downpour, and for the moment I
was unpleasantly in the limelight.

"Now introduce me to your selectmen," said Governor Andrew, stepping
to my side. I led the way to the corner to which the delegation had
retreated, and presented my friends in turn. His manner changed. He
was polite and friendly, and when, after a hand-shaking, he went back
to his table, we felt we had not understood the situation and that our
petition should have been withheld. For my part, I enlisted at once as
a private and went into a strenuous campaign.

Sumner was intrepid, high-purposed, and accomplished, but what is
the world saying now of his judgment? His recent friendly but
discriminating biographer, Prof. George H. Haynes, declares that
even in matters of taste he was at fault. The paintings he thought
masterpieces, his gift to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts, are for the
most part consigned to the lumber-room. In sculpture his judgment
was not better. As to literary art, his writing was ponderous and
over-weighted with far-fetched allusion. The world felt horror at
the attack of Brooks, but the whole literature of invective contains
nothing more offensive than the language of Sumner which provoked it
and which he lavished right and left upon opponents who were sometimes
honourable. It was in the worst of taste.

In great affairs his service was certainly large. Perhaps he was at
his highest in the settlement of the _Trent affair_, but his
course in general in guiding our foreign relations was able
and useful. He put his hand to much reconstruction of ideas and
institutions. Often he made, but too often he marred. He suffered
sadly from the lack of a sense of humour. "What does Lincoln mean?"
he would blankly exclaim, impervious alike to the drollery and to the
keen prod concealed within it. In his fancied superiority he sought to
patronise and dominate the rude Illinoisian. The case is pathetic. The
width and the depth of the chasm which separates the two men in the
regard of the American people!




CHAPTER II


SOLDIERS I HAVE MET

In speaking of soldiers I shall do better to pay slight attention
to the men of chief importance; for them the trumpets have sounded
sufficiently and I came into personal contact with only one or two.
Grant, I saw once, after he was Lieutenant-General, on the platform of
a railroad station submitting stoically to the compliments of a lively
crowd of women. Once again I saw him, in academic surroundings, sturdy
and impassive, an incongruous element among the caps and gowns; but it
was among such men that he won what is to my mind one of his greatest
victories. What triumph of Grant's was greater than his subjugation
of Matthew Arnold! I rode once on the railroad-train for some hours
immediately behind Sheridan, and had a good chance to study the sinewy
little man in his trim uniform which showed every movement of his
muscles. Though the ride was hot and monotonous I was impressed with
his vitality. He seemed to have eyes all around his head. The man was
in repose, but it was the repose of a leopard; at a sudden call, every
fibre would evidently become tense, the servant of a nimble brain, and
an instant pounce upon any opposition could be depended upon. What a
pity, I found myself thinking, that the fellow has no longer a chance
for his live energy (the war was then well over), and I had to check
an incipient wish that a turmoil might arise that would again give a
proper scope to his soldierly force. Happily there was no longer need
for such service, but I feel that Sheridan was really more than a good
sword. One finds in his memoirs unexpected outbursts of fancy and high
sentiment, and he could admire the fine heroism of a character like
Charles Russell Lowell. It is fair to judge a man by what he admires.

At the Harvard commemoration of 1865, standing under the archway at
the northern end of Gore Hall, I encountered the thin, plainly clad
figure of Ralph Waldo Emerson. I was in soldier's dress and as he gave
me a nod of recognition he said, looking at my chevrons, very simply
but with feeling, "This day belongs to you." Passing around then
to the west front, I had before me a contrast in a brilliant group
marshalled by my friend and classmate Colonel Theodore Lyman, in
the centre of which rose the stately figure in full uniform of
Major-General Meade. "Ah, Jimmy," said Theodore with the aggressive
geniality which his old associates so well remember, "come right
here," and catching me by the arm he pulled the corporal into the
immediate presence of the victor of Gettysburg. "This is Corporal
Hosmer," said he, "and this, Jimmy, is Major-General Meade,"
introducing us with much friendly patting of my shoulder and a
handling of the Major-General almost equally familiar. He had long
been a trusted member of Meade's staff but the war was over and a
close friendship held them on common ground. "He has written a book,
General, about the war." Then came a word of commendation and the tall
General, as he gave my hand a cordial pressure, beamed down upon me
with pleasant eyes. In the peaceful time that had come, we were all
citizens together; the private and the General were on a level, though
that aquiline face had been called upon not long before to confront,
at the head of one hundred thousand men, the hosts of Lee.

Of our other great commanders I never saw Thomas, but my knowledge of
Sherman was something more than the mere glimpse I had of the figures
of his compeers. His home was in St. Louis, in which city I was then
residing, and he was much in society. He was really a Connecticut
Yankee though transplanted to Ohio, and he was, in figure and
character, thoroughly a New Englander. He was tall and slender, his
prominent forehead standing out from light straight hair, a stubby
beard veiling a well-pronounced and well-worked jaw (for he was one of
the readiest of talkers), it would require little scratching to get
to the uncontaminated Yankee underneath. A New Englander of the best
type, shrewd, kindly, deeply concerned for the welfare of his country
and of men. A fashionable lady invited him to dine without his wife.
Sherman, on arriving, found other ladies present; to his hostess, who
came forward to receive him with effusion, he said: "Madam, I dine
with Mrs. Sherman to-night," and the party went forward without the
lion who was to have given it distinction. He would not have his wife
slighted; nor in more important things would he endure to see a
lame outcome when he might set things in better shape. He encouraged
schools and worthy charities by giving them his hearty countenance.
No arm was more potent than his in saving the country, nor was his
patriotism selfish. He saved his country because he believed it was
for the good of the world.

Sherman has been criticised for his ruthlessness, but no one can say
that he was not effective. He bore on hard but with the belief that
only such action could bring the war to a close. No one could come in
contact with him without feeling that he was a soft-hearted man. It
was one of the most interesting evenings of my life when, as a guest
of N.O. Nelson, the philanthropic captain of industry in St. Louis,
I was one of a company of a dozen to hear Sherman tell John Fiske his
story of the war. We sat at table from seven o'clock until midnight,
the two illustrious figures with their heads together exchanging a
rapid fire of question and answer, but the rest of us were by no means
silent. Sherman was full of affability and took good-naturedly the
sharp inquiries. "How was it, General, at Shiloh; was not your line
quite too unguarded on the Corinth side, and was not the coming on of
Sidney Johnston a bad surprise for you?" "Oh, later in the war," said
Sherman, "we no doubt should have done differently, but we got ready
for them as they came on." "Was there not bad demoralisation," I
said, "ten thousand or more skulkers huddled under the bluff on the
Tennessee?" "Oh," said Sherman, "the rear of an army in battle is
always a sorry place; but on the firing line, where I was, things
did not look so bad."--"Your adversaries, General, were often good
fellows, were they not, and you are good friends now?" "The best
fellows in the world," said Sherman, "and as to friendship, Hood wants
me to be his literary executor and take care of his memoirs."

He was ready to confess to mistakes, and with frank and proper
exultation pointed out the gradual improvement and the triumphant
result. Plenty of good stories and much hearty laughter came in among
the more tragic episodes. We saw John Fiske take it all in, swaying
in his chair ponderously back and forth, but the _War in the
Mississippi Valley_, which came out soon after, showed that his
memory retained every point. On another occasion, as Sherman on a
stormy night took me home in his carriage, we skirted the blocks which
had been the site of Camp Jackson, the first field of the Civil War
that Sherman had witnessed. That was the beginning of things in
the West, and he on that day only a by-stander. He was at the time
possibly irresolute as to what he should do, and he certainly had no
premonition of the large part he was destined to play. As he looked
out of the window that night into the driving storm on the spot where
once he had brooded so anxiously, I wondered if he had any memory of
the soul struggle of that crisis.

After his death, there took place in the streets of St. Louis an
imposing military funeral. As the cortège paused for a moment, I stood
at the side of the gun-carriage which bore the coffin wrapped in the
flag, and paid my tribute to this good man and great citizen who had
played his part well.

A controversy, which has now died away, used to be waged during
and soon after the Civil War as to whether West Point had really
vindicated a place for itself. Many an American, full of that
over-confidence which besets us, maintained that a man could become a
good soldier by a turn of the hand as it were. Given courage, physical
vigour, and fair practical aptitude, a lawyer, a merchant, or a civil
engineer could take sword in hand and at short notice head a squadron
or muster an army. This view has so far as I know been set forward by
no one more plausibly than by Jacob D. Cox, a stout civilian soldier
who led well the Twenty-third Corps and later became Governor of Ohio
and a successful Secretary of the Interior. I once met General Cox
in an interesting way, on a Sunday afternoon, at the home of Judge
Alfonso Taft at Walnut Hills, a pleasant suburb of Cincinnati. Judge
Taft in those days was a somewhat noteworthy figure. He had served the
country well as Minister to Russia and also as a member of the Cabinet
at Washington, and was one of the foremost men of the fair city where
he lived. His sister-in-law married an intimate friend of mine, and
there were other reasons which gave me some title to his notice, and I
was for the time his guest. A sturdy white-haired boy of ten or so sat
at the table at dinner and hung with his brothers about the group of
elders as they talked in the afternoon. This boy was William H.
Taft taking in the scraps of talk as the chatting progressed on his
father's porch. General Cox dropped in for an afternoon call and I
scanned eagerly his scholarly face and figure, well knit through the
harshest experiences in camp and battle. He was a man of fine tastes
and well accomplished both in science and literature with a substratum
of manly tenacity and good sense, who did noble duty on many a field
and produced, in his _Military Reminiscences_ one of our most
satisfactory books on the Civil War period. The manner of the veteran
was simple and pleasant. Nothing betrayed that he had been the hero
in such an eventful past. I have of course no thought of sketching his
career or criticising his account of it. As to the point to which I
have referred, his claim that a peaceful American can be turned into
a soldier off-hand and that the West Pointers no more made good in the
war than did the civilians, he sets forth the case calmly. He takes
the curriculum at West Point as it was sixty years ago and plainly
shows that as regards acquirements in general it bears a poor
comparison with that of civilian universities and colleges of
that period. As to especial military education, he claims that the
instruction at West Point was comparatively trifling; the cadets were
well drilled only in the elements, while as regards the larger matters
of strategy and the management of armies there was slight opportunity
to learn. The cadet came out qualified to drill a company or at most
a regiment, while as to manoeuvring of divisions and corps he had no
chance to perfect himself. The cadet, moreover, had this handicap--he
had been made the slave of routine and his natural enterprise had been
so far repressed that he magnified petty details and precedents and
was slow to adapt himself to an unlooked-for emergency. He cites an
example where he himself was set to fight a battle by a West Point
superior with old-fashioned muzzle-loading guns, the improved arms
which were at hand and which might easily have been used with good
effect remaining in the rear. His conclusion is that a wide-awake
American trained in the hustle of daily life, with a good basis of
common sense and some capacity for adaptation, could, with a few
month's experience, undertake to good advantage the direction of
soldiers, and that the West Point preceding 1861 had an influence
rather nugatory in bringing about success. It is perhaps sufficient
answer to arguments of this kind that while during our Civil War there
was a most relentless sifting of men for high positions, little regard
being paid to the education and antecedents of those submitted to it,
the men who finally emerged at the front were almost exclusively West
Pointers. Grant, Sherman, Sheridan, and Thomas, the Union champions
_par excellence_, were West Pointers. Lee, Stonewall Jackson,
the Johnstons, and Longstreet are no less conspicuous among the
Confederates. Civilians for the most part were not found in the high
places, or if they were so placed the results were unfortunate, as in
the cases of Butler, Banks, and McClernand. There were of course
good soldiers who came from civil life. Cox himself is a conspicuous
instance, and there were Terry, John A. Logan, and other good division
commanders. On the Southern side may be instanced N.B. Forrest and
J.B. Gordon; but these men rarely attained to more than secondary
positions, the highest places falling, as if by gravitation, into the
hands of West Pointers. An influence there was in the little academy
on the Hudson which somehow brought to pass a superior warlike
efficiency. The training at West Point, supplemented as it usually was
by campaigning on the plains, although duty was done only by men in
squads, and the hardships and perils were scarcely greater than those
encountered by the ordinary pioneer and railroad-builder, somehow
evoked the field-marshal quality and made it easier to grapple
with the tremendous problems with which the army was so suddenly
confronted.

A certain pathos attaches to the story of some of those civilian
soldiers. In my youthful days, I had often seen N.P. Banks, who had
risen from the humblest beginning into much political importance. No
large distinction can be claimed for him in any direction, and for
elevation of character he was certainly not marked; but he was a man
of respectable ability and he climbed creditably from factory-boy to
mechanic and thence (through no noisome paths) to Congress, to the
post of Governor, and to the Speakership at Washington.

He had military ambition and with the beginning of the war went
at once into the army, unfortunately for him, as major-general
and commander of a department. Could he have gone in as captain or
colonel, his fortune would probably have been different. But, sent
to command in the Shenandoah Valley, it was his fate to meet at the
outset the most formidable of adversaries, Stonewall Jackson. He
was sorely hoodwinked and humiliated, but so were several of his
successors. At Cedar Mountain, understanding that his orders were
peremptory, he threw his corps upon double their numbers and fought
with all the bravery in the world though with defective tactics.
Another corps should have been at hand, but it failed to arrive. There
was a moment when Banks, weak though he was, was near to victory, but
he failed in the end in an impossible task and was made scapegoat for
the blunders of others. He was sent to supersede Butler in Louisiana
with a force quite inadequate for the duty expected. It was here that
I came into contact with him. Interested friends had laid my case
before him, as one who might serve well in a higher position than that
of a private, and he good-naturedly sent word to me to report to
him at a certain hour in the rotunda of the St. Charles Hôtel at New
Orleans. The city was in the firm grasp of the Union, as our transport
had sailed up the evening before. The ships of Farragut, their decks
crowded with blue jackets held under their broad-sides a dense and
sullen multitude. A heavy salute reverberated from the river as the
new commander took his place, but conditions were precarious.

As I walked up the street in my soldier's dress, a handsome Southern
girl almost ran me off the sidewalk with a look in her face which, but
for fear of the calaboose, might have been backed up by words and acts
of insult, while the faces of the men were full of hate. I stood
at last in the rotunda of the St. Charles Hôtel and presently the
commander-in-chief, threading his way through a throng of officers,
was at my side. I was much dishevelled and still ill after a stormy
passage in a crowded ship, but the General was very courteous to the
private. He had heard of my enlistment and indicated that he would be
glad to utilise me, as he desired to utilise every man, for the best
welfare of the service. What did I desire? I told him I had no thought
but to do my duty as well as I could wherever I might be put. He
discussed the situation reasonably, then offered me a clerkship at
headquarters, where I might escape the chief perils of the campaign
and where perhaps my education would serve the public. For a moment I
hesitated and he passed on, leaving me to decide. My friends felt that
I had not the physical strength for work in the field; should I accept
the snug place back of the firing-line or risk it at the front? By the
next day, I had fully determined to stick to my regiment. I sought
the General again at headquarters. Colonel Irwin of his staff at
the moment was arranging around his shoulders the yellow sash of the
major-general for the formal ceremony of taking command, which
was close at hand. But the General had a kindly recognition of the
private, assented to my decision, and gave me a pass to the regiment,
which had already been hurried onward to the front. I laid my knapsack
down by the side of that of my young brother in the camp, which was
then at the front.

Banks was a kindly man who meant and did the best he could for the
humblest soldier in his army. His further military career I can only
briefly sketch. He planned two fierce and calamitous assaults upon
Port Hudson; errors no doubt, but Grant and Lee at the moment were
making just such errors. The Red River campaign was a disastrous
failure, but Banks had every handicap which a general could suffer:
an insufficient force, a demand from the Administration that he
should attend to a civil reordering when only fighting was in place,
subordinates insolent and disobedient. And finally nature herself took
arms against him, for the Red River fell when, by all precedents, it
should have risen. It was an enterprise which his judgment utterly
disapproved, the difficulties of which he faced with good resolution.
It ended his career, for though once at a later time he went to
Congress, he ever afterwards stood a discredited figure, dying, as I
have heard, poor and broken-hearted in obscurity. His State has tried
to render him a late justice by setting him up in bronze on Beacon
Hill. It was done through opposition and the statue is sneered at more
often than admired. He was an able man I believe and meant well, and
I for one find it pathetic that the lines of my old commander did not
fall more pleasantly.

Butler, on the other hand, I do not regard as a pathetic figure. On
the night of my arrival in New Orleans, strolling about the strange
city, I found myself at headquarters, and a Massachusetts boy standing
sentry on the porch in a spirit of comradeship invited me up. As I
ascended the steps Butler, who had been standing at the door, closed
it with a crash and retired within. Through a crevice in the blinds
he was plain to be seen seated at his desk in profound thought, his
bull-dog face in repose, his rude forcefulness very manifest. His rule
at New Orleans had come to an end and no doubt he was pondering it and
dreaming of what the future had in store for him. His burly frame was
relaxed, his bluff unshaken countenance with the queer sinister cast
of the eyes fully lighted up by the lamp on his table. I studied him
at leisure, his marvellous energy for a moment in repose. In those
days his name was much in the mouths of men, and whatever may be said
in his disfavour, it cannot be denied after fifty years that his rule
of New Orleans was a masterpiece of resolution, a riding rough-shod
over a great disaffected city which marked him as full of intrepidity
and executive force. In the field he was a worse failure than ever
Banks had been. In my idea he deserves in 1864 the characterisation
by Charles Francis Adams. He was the Grouchy who made futile Grant's
advance upon Richmond and he blundered at Fort Fisher, but he was a
pachyderm of the toughest--too thick-skinned to be troubled by
the scratches of criticism, always floundering to the front with
unquenched energy, sometimes a power for good and sometimes for evil.
It is hard to strike the balance and say whether for the most part
he helped or hindered, but our past would lack a strong element of
picturesqueness if old Ben Butler were eliminated.

There were pathetic figures among the West Pointers as well as among
the civilian generals. At St. Louis, in the seventies, I used to see
sometimes an unobtrusive man in citizen's dress, marked by no trait
which distinguished him from the ordinary, a man serious in his
bearing, who one might easily think had undergone some crushing blow.
This was Major-General John Pope. His son was in our university and
his sister, a most kind and gracious lady, was a near friend. Pope
seems destined to go down in our history merely as a braggart and an
incompetent. Probably no man of that time meant better or was more
abused by capricious fate. Cox, whose daughter married the son of Pope
and who therefore came to know him well in his later years, defends
him vigorously. In the early years of the war he showed himself bold
and active. The capture of Island Number Ten with its garrison was
rather a naval and engineering exploit than an achievement of the
army, but Pope seems to have done well what was required of him and
probably deserved his promotion to the command of a corps at Corinth
when an advance southward was meditated in the early summer of '62.
It was with deep unwillingness that he received the summons of the
Administration to command an army in Virginia, and only assumed the
place from the feeling that a soldier must stand where he is put.
Arrived at Washington, he found himself in an atmosphere hot with
wrath and mortification. The Peninsular campaign had failed and strong
spirits like Stanton and Ben Wade, Chairman of the Committee on the
Conduct of the War, were on fire through disappointment. The new
General, whose position until within a few months had been a humble
one, was brow-beaten and dominated by powerful personalities and
forced to stand for acts and words which were not really his own.
He declared, said Cox, that his bombastic and truculent orders were
practically dictated by others. The declaration that his headquarters
would be his saddle, which Lee so wittily turned, saying, "then
his headquarters would be where his hindquarters ought to be," Pope
declares he never made. When his environment had in this way aroused
prejudice against him, he was set to command an army whose higher
officers felt outraged at his sudden rise over their heads and whose
soldiers were discouraged by defeat. He was expected to oppose skilful
and victorious foes with instruments that bent and broke in the crisis
as he tried to wield them. Only supreme genius could have wrought
success in such a situation, and that Pope did not at all possess. He
was only a man of resolution, with no exceptional gifts, who desired
to do his best for his country. In the West he had proceeded usefully
and honourably, and it was the worst misfortune for him that he was
taken for the new place. I hope that history will deal kindly with
him and that, since he was a worthy and strenuous patriot, he will not
live merely as an object of execration and ridicule.

In August, 1863, my too brief term of service having expired, I came
home to the Connecticut Valley and resumed my pulpit, which I had left
for a vacation and powder-smoke. Gettysburg and Vicksburg had taken
place, and we at the North too fondly hoped that all was over and that
we might confidently settle down to peace. When going west to Buffalo
for a visit I was delayed a few hours at Syracuse and took the
occasion to call on an intimate friend of my father and myself, the
Rev. Samuel J. May. Mr. May, a bright and beautiful spirit, was by
nature a strong peace man, but, fired by the woes of the slave, he
had become an extreme abolitionist and was ready to fight for his
principles. Entering Mr. May's quiet study I found him in intimate
talk with a man of unassuming demeanour, in citizen's dress, marked by
no distinction of face or figure. He might have been a delegate to
a peace convention, or a country minister from way-back calling on a
professional brother. What was my astonishment when Mr. May introduced
him as Major-General Henry W. Slocum, commander of the Twelfth Corps,
who, taking a short furlough after Gettysburg, was at home for the
moment and had dropped in for a friendly call. Slocum had been in the
thick of most of the bitter Virginia battles from the first, and all
the world knew that at Gettysburg, by beating back the thrust of
the Stonewall division toward the Baltimore pike, he had secured the
threatened rear of the army of the Potomac and averted defeat. This
had taken place in the preceding month, and I naturally marvelled that
the unpretending, simple man could be that victorious champion,
but for the time being we were there plain citizens, and, American
fashion, the Major-General and the Corporal shook hands and
fraternised on equal terms. It probably helped me with Slocum that I
too had been in danger. About the time he was defending Culp's Hill, I
had been in the ditch at the foot of the Port Hudson rampart.

While reticent as to his part at Gettysburg, he spoke with feeling of
what his corps had been through, and knowing that both Mr. May and
I were Massachusetts men took an evident pleasure in commending the
regiments from that State. Of the 2d Massachusetts he spoke with
high appreciation; it was an admirable body of men and thoroughly
disciplined. It was always ready; its losses were fearful and he felt
that he ought to spare it if he could, but a crisis always came when
only the best would answer, and again and again the 2d Massachusetts
was thrown in. Particularly at Gettysburg its services had been great
and its sacrifice costly. He spoke feelingly of the young officers who
had been slain and also of humbler men. Since that time I have stood
by the simple stone at the "bloody swale at the foot of Culp's Hill,"
which marked the position held that day by the 2d Massachusetts. It
takes no trained eye to see that it was a point of especial difficulty
and importance. Some of the men of that regiment who fell that day
were my own college comrades. I was glad to know from his lips that
the commander thought their work heroic.

One naturally brackets the name of Slocum with that of Howard,
secondary figures of course in the great Civil War drama and yet
both steadfast and worthy soldiers. They rose together into places of
responsibility during the Peninsular campaign, became commanders of
corps about the same time, served side by side at Gettysburg, went
together to the West, and finally, one at the head of Sherman's right
wing and the other at the head of the left, made the march to the sea
and through the Carolinas. Neither perhaps was a brilliant soldier.
So far as the records show, Slocum always did his work well, was
increasingly trusted to the last, and nowhere made a grave mistake. In
Howard's case, the rout at Chancellorsville will always detract from
his fame; he was, however, on that day new in his place, and the
infatuation of Hooker by an evil contagion passed down to his
lieutenants. But he too steadily improved, refusing resolutely to be
discouraged by his mistakes and always doing better next time. Perhaps
no one act during the war was more important than the occupation of
Cemetery Hill on the morning of July 1, 1863, by a Federal division.
I think that the credit of that act cannot be denied to Howard. In
a later time he passed under the control of Sherman in the West, a
shrewd and relentless judge of men, and Sherman trusted him to the
utmost. To a group of officers in their cups who were chaffing Howard
for being Puritanical, Sherman curtly said: "Let Howard alone; I want
one general who doesn't drink."

I saw General Howard at Gettysburg on the fortieth anniversary of
the battle. We were under the same roof, and during the evening I sat
close to him in the common room and heard him talk,--a strenuous old
man, his empty sleeve recalling tragically the combats through which
he had passed. Close by under the stars could still be traced the
lines occupied by Steinwehr's division, the troops which with such
momentous results Howard had posted on Cemetery Hill. I might easily
have talked with him, for he was affable to old and young, but I
preferred to study the good veteran from a distance and let others
draw out his story while I listened.

In the winter of 1861 I went to Port Royal, through the good offices
of my friend Rufus Saxton, then a captain and quartermaster of the
expedition under which Dupont had taken possession of the Sea Islands
in South Carolina. The capture of Port Royal had taken place a few
weeks before and the army was encamped on the conquered territory.
Saxton was an interesting figure, who in an unusual way showed during
the war a fine spirit of self-sacrifice. At the outbreak, a high
position in the field was within his grasp; he was second in command
to Lyon in St. Louis, and being intimate with McClellan might have
held a position of responsibility in the field. He was indeed made a
general. Once in 1862 he was in command of a considerable force,
and when Banks was driven out of the Shenandoah Valley by Stonewall
Jackson he withstood at Harper's Ferry the rush of the Confederates
into Maryland. But at the solicitation of Lincoln and Stanton he gave
up service in the field, for which he was well fitted and which he
earnestly desired, to act as Military Governor of the Sea Islands,
where his work was to receive and care for the thousands of negroes
who by the flight of their masters in that region had been left
to themselves. Here he remained throughout the war, while his old
comrades were winning fame at the head of divisions and corps, a
patient, humane teacher and administrator among the nation's wards.
He was content to live through the stirring time inconspicuous, but he
won the respect of all kindly hearts at the North and deep gratitude
from the helpless blacks whom he so long and humanely befriended.

I came in contact during that visit with a number of soldiers soon
to be famous. In the boat which carried me from the transport to the
shore I had as a fellow-passenger James H. Wilson, then a lieutenant
but soon to be a famous cavalry commander. He was a restless athletic
young man, who when I met him was on fire with wrath over the giving
up of Mason and Slidell, the news of which had come to the post by our
steamer. I tried to argue with him, that we had enough on our hands
with the South without rushing into war with England besides, but he
was impetuously confident that we could take care of all foes outside
and in, and maintained that the giving up of the envoys was a burning
shame. His vigour and confidence were excessive, I thought, but they
carried him far in a time soon to come.

I talked with General Thomas W. Sherman, the commander of the
expedition, in his tent, but was more interested in a dispute which
presently sprang up between the General and a companion of mine,
Jonathan Saxton, father of Rufus Saxton, an abolitionist of the most
perfervid type, a good talker and quite unabashed, plain farmer though
he was, by a pair of epaulettes.

Among our regular officers there were few abolitionists. Rufus Saxton
told me that Lyon was the only one of any distinction who could be so
classed among the men he knew. T.W. Sherman was like his fellows and
listened impatiently to what he felt was fanaticism gone mad, but the
fluent old farmer drove home his radicalism undauntedly. T.W. Sherman
before the war had been a well-known figure as commander of Sherman's
flying artillery, which was perhaps the most famous organisation of
the regular army, but his name scarcely appears in the history of the
Civil War, more perhaps from lack of good fortune than of merit. He
was crippled with wounds in the first important battle in which he
was concerned. The two brigadiers at Port Royal, Horatio G. Wright and
Isaac I. Stevens, both became soldiers of note. Wright was a handsome
fellow in his best years, whom I recall stroking his chin with an
amused quizzical expression while Jonathan Saxton poured out his
Garrisonism. His brigade lay well to the south and his headquarters
were at the old Tybee lighthouse which marked the entrance to the
harbour of Savannah. I climbed with him up the sand hill, from the top
of which we looked down upon Fort Pulaski then in Confederate hands
and within short range. We peered cautiously over the summit, for
shells frequently came from the fort. Wright held in his hand a
fragment of one which had just before exploded. "How well it took the
groove!" he said, pointing out to me the signs on the iron that the
rifled cannon from which it had come had given the missile in the
discharge the proper twist. Wright's after-career is part of the
war's history, always strenuous and constantly rising. The fame
which attaches to the Sixth Corps is largely due to the leadership of
Wright. If he fell short at Cedar Creek in 1864 it was a lapse which
may be pardoned in the circumstances. Sheridan retrieved the day
and magnanimously palliated the misfortune of Wright. "It might have
happened to me or to any man." The good soldier deserves the fine
monument which stands by his grave in the foreground at Arlington.

I had at Port Royal a long and friendly talk with Isaac I. Stevens. He
was already a man of note. After achieving the highest honours at West
Point he had gone to the West, and in the great unexplored Pacific
Northwest had conquered, built, and systematised until a fair
foundation was laid for the fine civilisation which now sixty years
later has been reared upon it. He was modest in his bearing, with
well-knit and sinewy frame, and possessed at the same time refined
manners and a taste for the higher things of life. Before the year had
passed, his life went out in the second battle of Bull Run. In the
end of that terrible campaign, he essayed with Phil Kearny to stem at
Chantilly the rush of Stonewall Jackson upon Washington. The attempt
was successful, but Stevens died waving the colours at the head of
his men. It is said that Lincoln had marked him for the command of the
Army of the Potomac. He had made good in all previous positions, and
perhaps would have made good in the chief place, but here I stumble
once more upon a might-have-been and am silent.

Dear ghosts of old-time friends swarm in my thought as I dream of
those days. The white marbles in Memorial Chapel solemnly bear the
names of Harvard's Civil War soldiers and tell how they died. There
was one of whom I might say much, an elder companion, a wise and
pleasant spirit who did something toward my shaping for life. A
cannon-ball at Cold Harbor was the end for him. There was another,
a brilliant, handsome young Irishman, bred a Catholic, who under the
influence of Moncure D. Conway had come out as a Unitarian and left
his Washington home for a radical environment in the North. He was
brilliant and witty with small capacity or taste for persistent
plodding, but forever hitting effectively on the spur of the moment.
He was as chivalrous as a palladin and went to his early grave
light-hearted, as part of the day's work which must not be shirked. I
have his image vividly as he laughed and joked in our last interview.
"Dress-parade at six o'clock; come over and see the dress-paradoes!"
He fell wounded at Chancellorsville, and while being carried off the
field was struck a second time as he lay on the stretcher, and so he
passed.

There were fine fellows, too, in those days who stood on the other
side: McKim, President of the Hasty Pudding Club, who fell in
Virginia; W.H.F. Lee, who was in the Law School and whom I recall as a
stalwart athlete rowing on the Charles. It helped me much a few years
ago when I visited many Southern battle-fields that I could tell old
Confederates "Rooney" Lee and I had in our youth been college mates.
My classmate J.B. Clark of Mississippi was a graceful magnetic fellow
who had small basis of scholarship, perhaps, but a marked power for
effective utterance. He fascinated us by his warm Southern fluency,
and we gave him at last the highest distinction we could confer, the
class oration. He left us then and we did not see him for fifty years.
He enlisted in the 21st Mississippi and passed through the roughest
hardships and perils. We felt afterwards that he held coldly aloof
from us through long years. At our jubilee, however, he came back
wrinkled and white-haired, but quite recognisable as the fascinating
boy of fifty years before. He had a long and good record behind him as
an officer of the University of Texas, and we gave him reason to think
that we loved him still. The most cordial meetings I have ever known
have been those between men who had fought each other bitterly, each
with an honest conviction that he was in the right, but who at last
have come out on common ground.

Among the Harvard soldiers three stand out in my thought as especially
interesting, William Francis Bartlett, Charles Russell Lowell, and
Francis Channing Barlow. Bartlett was younger than I, entering service
when scarcely beyond boyhood, losing a leg at Ball's Bluff, and when
only twenty-three Colonel of the 49th Massachusetts. I remember well
a beautiful night, the moon at the full, and the hospital on the
river bank just below Port Hudson where hundreds of wounded men were
arriving from a disastrous battle-field close at hand.

Bartlett had ridden into battle on horseback, his one leg making it
impossible for him to go on foot, and he was a conspicuous mark for
the sharpshooters. A ball had passed through his remaining foot, and
still another through his arm, causing painful wounds to which he was
forced to yield. He lay stretched out, a tall, slender figure with a
clear-cut patrician face, very pale and still but with every sign
of suffering stoically repressed. He was conscious as I stood for
a moment at his side. It was not a time to speak even a word, but
I hoped he might feel through some occult influence that a Harvard
brother was there at hand, full of sympathy for him. He afterwards
recovered in part, and, with unconquerable will, though he was only
a fragment of a man, went in again and was still again stricken. He
survived it all, and to me it was perhaps the most thrilling incident
of the Harvard commemoration of 1865 to see Bartlett, too crippled to
walk without their support, helped to a place of honour on the stage
by reverent friends.

Charles Russell Lowell was in the class preceding mine; his father had
been my father's classmate, and had done me many a favour; his mother
was Mrs. Anna Jackson Lowell, one of the best and ablest Boston women
of her time. In her house I had been a guest. Charles and James, the
sons, were youths of the rarest intellectual gifts, each first scholar
of his class, of whom the utmost was expected. How strange that
fate should have made them soldiers! They both perished on the
battle-field. As I remember Charlie Lowell, the boy was fitly the
father of the man. We were playing football one day on the Delta, the
old-fashioned game of those days, at which modern athletes smile, but
which we old fellows think was a good tough game for all that. I had
secured the ball, and thinking I had time, placed it rather leisurely,
promising myself an effective kick. A slight figure bounded with
lightning rush from the opposing line, and from under my very foot
drove the ball far behind me to a point which secured victory.

How little I knew that I had just witnessed a small exhibition of the
quickness and prompt decision which no long time after on critical
battle-fields were to be put to splendid use. He proved to be a nearly
perfect soldier; Sheridan said of him, that he knew of no virtue that
could be added to Lowell. To us he seems one of the manliest of men,
thoughtful for others, even for dumb beasts. In Edward Emerson's
charming life of him, nothing, perhaps, is sweeter than his affection
for his horses, of which it was said that thirteen were killed under
him before he came to death himself. He studied their characters as
if they had been human beings, and dwells in his letters on the
particular lovable traits each one showed--these mute companions who
stood so closely by him in life and death.

When our class first assembled in 1851 there was a slight boy
of seventeen in the company, Francis Channing Barlow. He was
inconspicuous through face or figure, but it early became clear that
he was to be our first scholar, and a wayward deportment with an
odd sardonic wit soon made him an object of interest. Barlow came
admirably fitted, and this good preparation, standing back of great
quickness and power of mind, made it easy for him almost without study
to take a leading place. As a boy he was well grounded, outside of his
special accomplishments, in Latin, Greek, and mathematics. I remember
his telling me that his mother read Plutarch to him when he was a
child, and that and many another good book he had thoroughly stored
away. Such accomplishments were an exasperation to us poor fellows who
had come in from the remote outskirts and found we must compete for
honours with men so well equipped. We perhaps magnified the gifts
and acquirements of the fellows who had been more favourably placed.
Barlow seemed like a paragon of scholarship, and the nonchalance with
which he always won in the classrooms was a constant marvel. He had a
queer way of turning serious things into fun. With a freshman
desire for self-improvement, a thing apt to evaporate in the college
atmosphere, we had formed a society for grave writing and debate and
hired for our meetings the lodge-room of the "Glorious Apollers" or
some such organisation. At an early meeting of the society, while
we were solemnly struggling through a dignified programme, Barlow
suddenly appeared from a side-door rigged out most fantastically in
plumes and draperies. He had somehow got hold of the regalia of the
order and drawlingly announced himself as the great panjandrum who had
come to take part. He danced and paraded before the conclave and had
no difficulty in turning the session into a wild revel of extravagant
guffaws and antics, and after that time the occasions were many when
Barlow gave a comic turn to things serious. It was said that Barlow,
going back and forth on the train between Concord and Boston as he
did at one time, got hold of an impressionable brake-man, and by
exhortation brought about in him a change of heart, after the most
approved evangelical manner, counterfeiting perfectly the methods of
a revivalist, which he did for the fun of the thing. The story, of
course, was an invention, but quite in character.

He was no respecter of conventions and sometimes trod ruthlessly upon
proprieties. "What will Barlow do next?" was always the question. In
the class-room he was never rattled in any emergency, his really sound
scholarship was always perfectly in hand and in a strait no one could
bluff it with such _sang-froid_ and audacity. He kept his place
at the head of the class to the very end, but there Robert Treat
Paine came out precisely his equal. Among the many thousand marks
accumulating through four years the total for both men was exactly
alike--a thing which I believe has never happened before or since.

Before the Arsenal in Cambridge stood an innocent old cannon that
had not been fired since the War of 1812, perhaps not since the
Revolution. The grass and flowers grew about its silent muzzle, and
lambs might have fed there as in the pretty picture of Landseer.
Any thought that the old cannon could go off had long ceased to be
entertained. One quiet night a tremendous explosion took place; the
cannon had waked up from its long sleep, arousing the babies over a
wide region and many a pane of glass was shivered. What had got into
the old cannon that night was long a mystery. Many years after Barlow
was discovered at the bottom of it--it was the first shot he ever
fired.

Dr. James Walker, the college president, said to a friend of mine at
the beginning of the war, speculating on the probable futures of the
boys who had been under his care, "There's Barlow, now he'll go in
and come out at the top." Barlow had been a sad puzzle to the faculty,
good men, often perplexed to know what to do with him or what would
become of him. Dr. Walker's astuteness divined well the outcome. As
I review those early years I can see now that Barlow then gave plain
signs of the qualities which he was later to display. I remember
sleeping with him once in a room in the top story of Stoughton in
our sophomore year and he talked for a great part of the night
about Napoleon. The Corsican was the hero who beyond all others had
fascinated him, whose career he would especially love to emulate.
We were a pair of boys in a peaceful college, living in a time which
apparently would afford no opportunity for a soldier's career. I have
often thought of that talk. Barlow was really not unlike the youthful
Napoleon, in frame he was slender and delicate, his complexion verged
toward the olive, his face was always beardless. I never saw him
thrown off his poise in any emergency. The straits of course are not
great in which a college boy is placed, but such as they were, Barlow
was always cool, with his mind working at its best in the midst of
them. He was never abashed, but had a resource and an apt one in
every emergency. He was absolutely intrepid before the thrusts of
our sharpest examiners and as I have said could bluff it boldly and
dexterously where his knowledge failed; then the odd cynicism with
which he turned down great pretentions and sometimes matters of
serious import, had a Napoleonic cast. In '61 he enlisted as a private
but rose swiftly through the grades to the command of a regiment. At
Antietam he had part of a brigade and coralled in a meteoric way on
Longstreet's front line some hundreds of prisoners. His losses were
great but he was in the thick of it himself, his poise unruffled
until he was borne desperately wounded from the field. The surgeon who
attended him told me, if I remember right, that a ball passed entirely
through his body carrying with it portions of his clothing, if such
a thing were possible; but, with his usual nonchalance he laughed at
wounds and while still weak and emaciated went back to his place
again in the following spring at the head of a brigade. He underwent
Chancellorsville, and for the Union cause it was a great misfortune
that his fine brigade was taken from its place on Hooker's right
before Stonewall Jackson made his charge. Had Barlow been there
he might have done something to stay the disaster. At Gettysburg,
however, he was in the front in command of a division. An old soldier,
a lieutenant that day under Barlow, told me that he had charge of the
ambulances of the division and on the march near Emmitsburg Barlow put
into the lieutenant's especial charge the ambulance of his wife who,
with a premonition of calamity, insisted on being near at hand to
help. When the battle joined and Gordon swept overwhelmingly upon
Barlow's division, the lieutenant had difficulty in restraining Mrs.
Barlow from rushing at once upon the field among the fighting men. He
held her back almost by force but she remained close at hand.
Barlow was again desperately wounded, so hurt that his death seemed
inevitable, and when the faithful wife, at last making her way,
presented herself even in the rebel lines with a petition for her
husband, supposed to be dying, Gordon chivalrously gave him up. It
was magnanimous, but for him ill-timed. Again Barlow laughed at his
wounds. In May, 1864, he was in the field at the head of the first
division of Hancock's corps and on the 12th of May performed the
memorable exploit, breaking fairly the centre of Lee's army and
bringing it nearer to defeat than it ever came until the catastrophe
at Appomattox. He captured the Spottsylvania salient together with the
best division of the army of northern Virginia, Stonewall Jackson's
old command, two generals, thirty colours, cannon, and small arms to
correspond. John Noyes, a soldier of a class after us, told me that in
the salient he and Barlow worked like privates in the confusion of the
capture, turning with their own hands against the enemy a cannon that
had just been taken. Barlow was as cool as when he fired off the old
cannon in Cambridge ten years before. This stroke proved futile, but
from no shortcoming of Barlow's. A few weeks later at Cold Harbor
he effected a lodgment within the Confederate works when all others
failed. That too proved futile, but his reputation was confirmed
as one of the most brilliant of division commanders. There is a
photograph in existence portraying Hancock and his division generals
as they appeared during that terrible campaign. It was taken in the
woods in the utmost stress of service. Barlow stands in the group just
as he looked in college, the face thin and beardless, almost that of
a boy, and marked with the nonchalance which always characterised
him. There are no military trappings, a rough checked shirt, trousers,
slouching from the waist to campaign boots, hang loosely about the
attenuated limbs. Soon after that he was carried from the field, not
wounded, but in utter exhaustion after exposures which no power of
will could surmount. A few months' respite and he was at his post
again, intercepting by a swift march Lee's retreating column, almost
the last warlike act of the Army of the Potomac before Appomattox.
In this "Last Leaf" I do not deal with "might-have-beens." I only
remember, but we old classmates of Barlow have a feeling that had
the war continued, if only the bullets to which he was always so
hospitable had spared him, he would have gone on to the command of
a corps, and perhaps even to greater distinctions. The photograph
of Barlow, published after his death in the _Harvard Graduates'
Magazine_, presents him as he was soon after the war was over. He
had recovered from the hardships, the face is fairly well rounded
but still rather that of a beardless, laughing boy than of a man. A
stranger studying the face would hear with incredulity the story of
the responsibilities and dangers which that face had confronted. He
laughed it all off lightly, and that was his way when occasionally in
his later years he came to our meetings.

I recall a reunion in 1865, ten years after our graduation. We sat in
full numbers about a sumptuous banquet at the Parker House in
Boston, and naturally in that year the returned soldiers were in the
foreground. In our class were two major-generals, four colonels, a
distinguished surgeon, and many more of lower rank. Barlow was the
central figure. Theodore Lyman, who presided, introduced him with a
glowing tribute, recounting his achievements, a long list from
the time he had entered as a private to his culmination as a full
Major-General. He called at last for nine cheers for the man who had
captured the Spottsylvania salient, and we gave them with a roar that
shook the building. Barlow was the only man in the room who showed not
the slightest emotion. He stood impassive, his face wearing his queer
smile. Other men might have been abashed at the tumultuous warmth of
such a reception from his old mates; a natural utterance at such a
time would have been an expression of joy that the war was over and
that the country had been saved, coupled with modest satisfaction
that he had borne some part in the great vindication, but that was
not Barlow's way. He laughed it off lightly, as if it had been a huge
joke. My classmate, the late Joseph Willard of Boston, told me of a
reunion of the class at a time much later. The men were discussing
the stained-glass window which it had been decided should be put in
Memorial Hall. Since the class had a distinguished military record it
was felt that there should be martial suggestion in the window and the
question was what classic warrior should be portrayed. The face, it
was thought, should have the lineaments of our most famous soldier.
Barlow, who was present, pooh-poohed the whole idea, especially the
suggestion that his face should appear, but someone present having
suggested Alcibiades, probably not seriously as a proper type, that
seemed to strike Barlow's sense of humour. That reckless classic
scapegrace to his cynical fancy perhaps might pass, he might be
Alcibiades, but who should be the dog? Alcibiades had a dog whose
misfortune in losing his tail has been transmitted through centuries
by the pen of Plutarch. "Who will be the dog?" said Barlow and called
upon someone to furnish a face for the hero's canine companion. The
scheme for the window came near to going to wreck amid the outbursts
of laughter. It was carried through later, however, but Alcibiades and
the dog do not appear, although Barlow does. No other Harvard soldier
reached Barlow's eminence, and probably in the whole Army of the
Potomac there were few abler champions. He was a strange, gifted,
most picturesque personality, no doubt a better man under his cynical
exterior than he would ever suffer it to be thought. His service was
great, and the memory of him is an interesting and precious possession
to those who knew him in boyhood and were in touch with him to the
end.




CHAPTER III


HORACE MANN AND ANTIOCH COLLEGE

The cataclysm of the Civil War, in which as the preceding pages show
I had been involved, had shaken me in my old moorings. I found myself
not content in a quiet parish in the Connecticut Valley, and as I
fared forth was fortunate enough to meet a leader in a remarkable
personage. Horace Mann was indeed dead, but remained, as he still
remains, a power. His brilliant gifts and self-consecration made him,
first, a great educational path-breaker. From that he passed into
politics, exhibiting in Congress abilities of the highest. Like an
inconstant lover, however, he harked back to his old attachment, and
putting aside a fine preferment, the governorship of Massachusetts, it
was said, forsook his old home for the headship of Antioch College in
south-western Ohio. I shall not dispute here whether or not he chose
wisely; much less, how far a lame outcome at Antioch was due to his
human limitations, and how far to the inevitable conditions. He was a
potent and unselfish striver for the betterment of men, and his words
and example still remain an inspiration.

My father in these years was a trustee of Antioch College, and this
brought our household into touch with the illustrious figure of whom
all men spoke. My memory holds more than a film of him, rather a vivid
picture, his stately height dominating my boyish inches, as I stood
in his presence. He was spare to the point of being gaunt, every fibre
charged with a magnetism which caused a throb in the by-stander. Over
penetrating eyes hung a beetling brow, and his aggressive, resonant
voice commanded even in slight utterances. I recall him in a public
address. The newspapers were full of the Strassburg geese, which,
nails being driven through their web feet to hold them motionless,
were fed to develop exaggerated livers,--these for the epicures of
Paris. "For health and wholesome appetite," he exclaimed, "I counsel
you to eschew _les patés de foie gras_, but climb a mountain or
swing an axe." No great sentence in an exhortation to vigorous, manful
living. But the scornful staccato with which he rolled out the French,
and the ringing voice and gesture with which he accompanied his
exhortation, stamped it indelibly. From that day to this, if I have
felt a beguilement toward the flesh-pots, I still hear the stern tones
of Horace Mann. In general his eloquence was extraordinary, and I
suppose few Americans have possessed a power more marked for cutting,
bitter speech. His invective was masterly, and too often perhaps
merciless, and it was a weapon he was not slow to wield on occasions
large and small. In Congress he lashed deservedly low-minded policies
and misguided blatherskites, but his wrathful outpourings upon pupils
for some trivial offence were sometimes over-copious. There are Boston
schoolmasters, still living perhaps, who yet feel a smart from his
scourge. His personality was so incisive that probably few were in any
close or long contact with him without a good rasping now and then. My
father was the most amiable of men, yet even he did not escape. As an
Antioch trustee he was in charge of funds which were not to be applied
unless certain conditions were satisfied. Horace Mann demanded the
money, and it was withheld on occasions and a deluge of ire was poured
upon my poor father's head. It did not cause him to falter in his
conviction of Horace Mann's greatness and goodness. Nor has this
over-ready impetuosity ever caused the world to falter in its
reverence. He came bringing not peace but a sword, in all the spheres
in which he moved, and in Horace Mann's world it was a time for the
sword. He was a path-breaker in regions obstructed by mischievous
accumulations. There was need of his virile championship, and
none will say that there was ever in him undue thought of self or
indifference to the best humanity.

My father held fast to the sharp-cornered saint and prophet,
though somewhat excoriated in the association. He held fast to his
trusteeship of Antioch; and in 1866, Horace Mann having some years
before been laid in his untimely grave, he stood in his place as
president of the college. Through the agency of my dear friends of
those years, Dr. Henry W. Bellows and Dr. Edward Everett Hale, I was
to go with him as, so to speak, his under-study, discharging the work
of English professor and sometimes the duties of preacher. I went
gladly. The spirit of the dead leader haunted pervasively the shades
where he had laboured and died. The tradition of Horace Mann
was paramount among the students, the graduates, and the whole
environment. I had felt as a boy the spell of his voice and presence
and knew no hero whom I could follow more cordially. It was a joy to
become domiciled in the house which had been built for him and where
he had breathed his last, and to labour day by day along the noble
lines which he had laid down. This was my post for six years, one of
which, however, was spent in Europe, in the hope of gaining an added
fitness for my place.

I have no mind to set down here a record of those Antioch years.
One experiment we tried in a field then very novel and looked upon
askance. To-day in our schools and universities the pageant and the
drama play a large part. Forty years ago they were unknown or in
hiding, and it may be claimed that our little fresh-water college
bore a part in initiating a development that has become memorable and
widely salutary. In 1872 I wrote out the story of our attempt for
Mr. Howells, in the _Atlantic Monthly_, a film which may
appropriately be staged among my pictures.

_The New Wrinkle at Sweetbrier; or, The Drama in Colleges_

I have been distressed, dear Fastidiosus, by your remonstrance
concerning the performance at our college at Sweetbrier of a "stage
play." You have heard the facts rightly; that it was given under
the superintendence of the English professor, the evening before
Commencement, "with many of the accessories of a theatre." You urge
that it is unprecedented to have at a dignified institution, which
aims at a high standard, under the superintendence of a professor,
such a performance; that it excites the prejudices of some people
against us; and you quote the sharp remarks of _David's Harp_,
the organ of the Dunkers. You urge that such things can be nothing
more than the play of boys and girls, and are something worse than
mere waste of time, for they set young people to thinking of the
theatre, which is irretrievably sunk and only harmful. In your
character of trustee, you are sorry it has been done, and beg that it
may not be done again.

I beg you to listen to a patient stating of the case. It is not
without precedent. When you were at Worms, in Germany, do you remember
in the Luther Memorial the superb figure of Reuchlin, on one of the
outer corners? One or two of the statues may be somewhat grander, but
no other seemed to me so handsome, as it stood colossal on its pillar,
the scholar's gown falling from the stately shoulders, and the face so
fine there in the bronze, under the abundant hair and cap. Reuchlin
is said to be the proper founder of the German drama. Before his time
there had been, to be sure, some performing of miracle-plays, and
perhaps things of a different sort. The German literary historians,
however, make it an era when Reuchlin came as professor to Heidelberg,
and, in 1497, set up a stage, with students for actors, at the house
of Johann, Kämmerer von Dalberg. He wrote his plays in Latin. If you
wish, I can send you their titles. Each act, probably, was prefaced by
a synopsis in German, and soon translations came into vogue, and were
performed as well. On that little strip of level which the crags and
the Neckar make so narrow, collected then, as now, a fair concourse of
bounding youth. One can easily fancy how, when the prototypes of
the trim Burschen of to-day stepped out in their representation, the
applause sounded across to the vineyards about the Heiligenberg and
Hirschgasse, and how now and then a knight and a dame from the court
of the Kurfürst came down the Schlossberg to see it all. What Reuchlin
began, came by no means to a speedy end. In the Jesuit seminaries in
Germany, in Italy too, and elsewhere, as the Reformation came on, I
find the boys were acting plays. This feature in the school was
held out as an attraction to win students; and in Prague the Fathers
themselves wrote dramas to satirise the Protestants, introducing
Luther as the comic figure. But what occurred in the Protestant world
was more noteworthy. As the choral singing of the schoolboys affected
in an important way the development of music, so the school-plays had
much to do with the development of the drama. Read Gervinus to see how
for a century or two it was the schools and universities that remained
true to a tolerably high standard, while in the world at large all
nobler ideals were under eclipse. It was jocund Luther himself who
took it under his especial sanction, as he did the fiddle and the
dance, in his sweet large-heartedness finding Scriptural precedents
for it, and encouraging the youths who came trooping to Wittenberg to
relieve their wrestling with Aristotle and the dreary controversy with
an occasional play. Melancthon, too, gave the practice encouragement,
until not only Wittenberg, but the schools of Saxony in general, and
Thuringia, whose hills were in sight, surpassed all the countries of
Germany in their attention to plays. In Leipsic, Erfurt, and Magdeburg
comedies were regularly represented before the schoolmasters. But
it was at the University of Strassburg, even at the time when the
unsmiling Calvin was seeking asylum there, that the dramatic life of
the German seminaries found a splendid culmination. Yearly, in the
academic theatre, took place a series of representations, by students,
of marvellous pomp and elaboration. The school and college plays were
of various characters. Sometimes they were from Terence, Plautus, or
Aristophanes; sometimes modifications of the ancient mysteries, meant
to enforce the Evangelical theology; sometimes comedies full of the
contemporary life. There are several men that have earned mention in
the history of German literature by writing plays for students.
The representations became a principal means for celebrating great
occasions. If special honour was to be done to a festival, or a
princely visit was expected, the market-place, the Rathhaus, or the
church was prepared, and it was the professor's or the schoolmaster's
duty to direct the boys in their performance of a play. We get
glimpses, in the chronicles, of the circumstances under which the
representations took place. The magistrates, even the courts, lent
brilliant dresses. One old writer laments that the ignorant people
have so little sense for arts of this kind. "Often tumult and mocking
are heard, for it is the greatest joy to the rabble if the spectators
fall down through broken benches." The old three-storied stage of the
mysteries was often retained, with heaven above, earth in the middle
space, and hell below; where, according to the stage direction of
the _Golden Legend_, "the devils walked about and made a great
noise." Lazarus is described as represented in the sixteenth century
before a hôtel, before which sat the rich man carousing, while
Abraham, in a parson's coat, looked out of an upper window. This
rudeness, however, belongs rather to the _Volks-comödie_ than the
_Schul-comödie_, whose adjuncts were generally far more rational,
and sometimes even brilliant, as in the Strassburg representations.
It was only in the seminaries that art was preserved from utter
decay. One may trace the _Schul-comödie_ until far down in the
eighteenth century, and in the last mention of it I find appears an
interesting figure. In 1780, at the military school in Stuttgart the
birthday of the Duke of Würtemberg was celebrated by a performance
of Goethe's _Clavigo_. The leading part was taken by a youth
of twenty-one, with high cheek-bones, a broad, low, Greek brow
above straight eyebrows, a prominent nose, and lips nervous with an
extraordinary energy. The German narrator says he played the part
"abominably, shrieking, roaring, unmannerly to a laughable degree." It
was the young Schiller, wild as a pythoness upon her tripod, with the
_Robbers_, which became famous in the following year.

But I do not mean, Fastidiosus, to cite only German precedents, nor to
uphold the college drama with the names of Reuchlin, Melancthon, and
Luther alone, majestic though they are. In the University of Paris
the custom of acting plays was one of high antiquity. In 1392 the
schoolboys of Angiers performed _Robin and Marian_, "as was their
annual custom"; and in 1477 the scholars of Pontoise represented "a
certain moralitie or farce, as is their custom." In 1558 the comedies
of Jacques Grévin were acted at the College of Beauvais at Paris; but
it is in the next century that we come upon the most interesting
case. In the days of Louis XIV. the girls' school at St. Cyr, of which
Madame de Maintenon was patroness, was, in one way and another, the
object of much public attention. Mademoiselle de Caylus, niece of
Madame de Maintenon, who became famous among the women of charming wit
and grace who distinguished the time, was a pupil at St. Cyr, and in
her memoirs gives a pleasant sketch of her school life. With the rest,
"Madame de Brinon," she says,

  first superior of St. Cyr, loved verse and the drama;
  and in default of the pieces of Corneille and Racine,
  which she did not dare to have represented, she
  composed plays herself. It is to her, and her taste
  for the stage, that the world owes _Esther_ and
  _Athalie_, which Racine wrote for the girls of St.
  Cyr. Madame de Maintenon wished to see one of
  Madame de Brinon's pieces. She found it such as
  it was, that is to say, so bad that she begged to
  have no more such played, and that instead some
  beautiful piece of Corneille or Racine should be
  selected, choosing such as contained least about
  love. These young girls, therefore, undertook the
  rendering of _Cinna_, quite passably for children who
  had been trained for the stage only by an old nun.
  They then played _Andromaque_; and, whether it was
  that the actresses were better chosen, or gained in
  grace through experience, it was only too well
  represented for Madame de Maintenon, causing her to
  fear that this amusement would fill them with sentiments
  the reverse of those which she wished to inspire.
  However, as she was persuaded that amusements
  of this sort were good for youth, she wrote
  to Racine, begging him to compose for her, in his
  moments of leisure, some sort of moral or historic
  poem, from which love should be entirely banished,
  and in which he need not believe that his reputation
  was concerned, since it would remain buried at St.
  Cyr. The letter threw Racine into great agitation.
  He wished to please Madame de Maintenon. To
  refuse was impossible for a courtier, and the
  commission was delicate for a man who, like him, had
  a great reputation to sustain. At last he found in
  the subject of Esther all that was necessary to
  please the Court.

So far Mademoiselle de Caylus. A French historian of literature draws
a pleasing picture of the old Racine superintending the preparation of
_Esther_,

  giving advice full of sense and taste on the manner
  of reciting his verses, never breaking their harmony
  by a vulgar diction, nor hurting the sense by a wrong
  emphasis. What a charm must the verses where
  Esther recounts the history of her triumph over her
  rivals have had in the mouth of Mademoiselle de
  Veillanne, the prettiest and most graceful of the
  pupils of St. Cyr! How grand he must have been,
  when, with that noble figure which Louis XIV. admired,
  he taught Mademoiselle de Glapion, whose
  voice went to the heart, to declaim the beautiful
  verses of the part of Mordecai!

The genius of Racine glows finely in _Esther._ In the choruses,
the inspirations of the Hebrew prophets, framed as it were in a Greek
mould, give impressive relief to the dialogue, as in Sophocles and
Aeschylus. It was played several times, and no favour was more envied
at the Court than an invitation to the representations. The literature
of the time has many allusions to them. The splendid world, in all its
lace and powder, crowded to the quiet convent. The great soldiers,
the wits, the beautiful women were all there. The king and Madame de
Maintenon sat in stiff dignity in the foreground. The appliances were
worthy of the magnificent Court. In Oriental attire of silk sweeping
to their feet, set off with pearl and gold, the loveliest girls of
France declaimed and sang the sonorous verse. It is really one of the
most innocent and charming pictures that has come down to us of this
age, when so much was hollow, pompous, and cruel.

Hamlet says to Polonius, "My lord, you played once in the university,
you say." To which Polonius replies, "That I did, my lord, and was
accounted a good actor. I did enact Julius Caesar. I was killed in the
Capitol." Do not suppose, Fastidiosus, that the playing of Polonius
was any such light affair as you and I used to be concerned in up in
the fourth story of "Stoughton," when we were members of the Hasty
Pudding. In the Middle Ages, in convents and churches, flourished the
mysteries; but, says Warton, in the _History of English Poetry_,
as learning increased, the practice of acting plays went over to the
schools and universities. Before the sixteenth century we may find
traces of dramatic vitality among the great English seminaries; but if
the supposition of Huber, in his account of English universities,
is correct, the real founder of the college drama in England was a
character no less dignified than its founder in Germany. Erasmus,
as he sits enthroned in a scholar's chair in the market-place at
Rotterdam, the buildings about leaning on their insecure foundations
out of the perpendicular, and the market-women, with their apple-bloom
complexions, crowding around him, shows a somewhat withered face
and figure, less genial than the handsome Heidelberg professor as he
stands at Worms. But it was Erasmus, probably, who, among many other
things he did while in England, lent an important impulse to the
acting of plays by students. He, no doubt, was no further interested
than to have masterpieces of Greek and Latin drama represented, that
the students might have exercise in those languages; but before the
reign of Henry VIII. was finished, the practice was becoming pursued
for other ends, and growing in importance. _Gammer Gurton's
Needle_, long supposed to be the first English comedy, was first
acted by students at Cambridge. That our more rollicking boys had
their counterparts then, we may know from its rousing drinking-song,
which the fellows rang out at the opening of the second act, way back
there in 1551. The chorus is not yet forgotten:

  "Backe and side go bare, go bare,
  Booth foot and hand go colde;
  But, belly, God send thee good ale inoughe,
  Whether it be new or olde!"

For the most part, probably, the performances were of a more dignified
character than this. Among the statutes of Trinity College, Cambridge,
1546, there is one entitled _de praefectu ludorum qui imperator
dicitur_, under whose direction and authority Latin comedies are
to be exhibited in the hall at Christmas. This "imperator" must be a
master of arts, and the society was to be governed by a set of laws
framed in Latin verse. The authority of this potentate lasted from
Christmas to Candlemas, during which time six spectacles were to be
represented. Dr. John Dee, a prodigy of that century, who might have
been illustrious like Bacon almost, but who wasted his later years
in astrological dreams, in his younger life, while Greek lecturer
at Cambridge, superintended in the refectory of the college the
representation of the [Greek: _Eirhênê_]; of Aristophanes, with
no mean stage adjuncts, if we may trust his own account. He speaks
particularly of the performance of a "Scarabeus, his flying up to
Jupiter's palace with a man and his basket of victuals on his back;
whereat was great wondering and many vain reports spread abroad of the
means how that was effected." The great Roger Ascham, too, has left
an indirect testimony to the splendour with which the Cambridge
performances at this time were attended. In a journey on the
Continent, wishing to express in the highest terms his sense of the
beauty of Antwerp, he can say nothing stronger than that it as far
surpasses other cities as the refectory of St. John's College at
Cambridge, when adorned for the Christmas plays, surpasses its
ordinary appearance. On these occasions, the most dignified personages
of the University were invited, and at length, as was the German
fashion, the representation of plays was adopted as part of the
entertainment of visitors. In 1564, Queen Elizabeth visited Cambridge,
and the picture transmitted to us of the festivities is full of
brilliant lights. With the rest, five doctors of the University
selected from all the colleges the youths of best appearance and
address, who acted before the queen a series of plays of varied
character, sometimes grave, sometimes gay, in part of classic, in
part of contemporary authorship. The theatre for the time was no other
place than the beautiful King's College chapel, across the entire
width of which the stage was built. For light, the yeomen of the royal
guard, their fine figures in brilliant uniform, stood in line from end
to end of the chapel, each holding a torch. It was a superb scene, no
doubt; the torches throwing their wavering glare against the tracery
and the low, pointed arch of window and portal, so beautiful in this
chapel, in the ruins of Kenilworth, or wherever it appears; the
great space filled with the splendour that Roger Ascham thought so
wonderful; and, among the glitter, the troop of handsome youths doing
their best to please the sovereign. Froude gives a story from De
Silva, the Spanish ambassador, which reflects so well the character
of the time, and shows up boyish human nature with such amusing
faithfulness, that I cannot omit it. When all was over, the students
would not let well enough alone, but begged the tired queen to see one
more play of their own devising, which they felt sure would give her
special pleasure. The queen, however, departed, going ten miles on
her journey to the seat of one of her nobility. The persistent boys
followed her, and she granted them permission to perform before her
in the evening. What should the unconscionable dogs do but drag in
the bitter trouble of the time, and heedlessly trample on the queen's
prejudices. The actors entered dressed like the bishops of Queen Mary,
who were then in prison. Bonner carried a lamb, at which he rolled his
eyes and gnashed his teeth. A dog brought up the rear, carrying the
Host in his mouth. What further was to follow no one can say. The
queen, who was never more than half a Protestant, and clung to the
mass all the more devoutly because she was obliged to resign so much,
filled the air with her indignation. She swore good round oaths, we
may be sure, and left the room in a rage. The lights were put out, and
the students made off in the dark as they could.

The history of the drama at Oxford has episodes of equal interest. The
visitor who goes through the lovely Christ Church meadows to the Isis
to see the boats, returning, will be sure to visit the refectory
of Christ Church. The room is very fine in its proportions and
decoration, and hung with the portraits of the multitude of brilliant
men who in their young days were Christ Church men. During all the
centuries that the rich dark stain has been gathering upon the carved
oak in the ceiling and wainscot, it has been the scene of banquets and
pageants without number, at which the most illustrious characters
of English history have figured. I doubt, however, if any of its
associations are finer than those connected with the student plays
that have been performed here. Passing over occasions of this kind
of less interest of which I find mention, in 1566 Elizabeth visited
Oxford, to do honour to whom in this great hall of Christ Church
plays were given. Oxford was determined not to be outdone by what had
happened at Cambridge two years before. From the accounts, the delight
of the hearty queen must have been intense; and as she was never
afraid to testify most frankly her genuine feelings, we may be sure
the Oxford authorities and their pupils must have presented their
entertainments with extraordinary pomp. The plays, as at Cambridge,
were of various character, but the one that gave especial pleasure was
an English piece having the same subject as the _Knighte's Tale
of Chaucer_, and called _Palamon and Arcite_. It would be
pleasant to know that the poet followed as far as possible the words
of Chaucer. There is a fine incident narrated connected with the
performance. In the scene of the chase, when

  "Theseus, with alle joye and blys,
  With his Ypolite, the faire queene,
  And Emelye, clothed al in greene,
  On hontyng be they riden ryally,"

a "cry of hounds" was counterfeited under the windows in the
quadrangle. The students present thought it was a real chase, and
were seized with a sudden transport to join the hunters. At this, the
delighted queen, sitting in stiff ruff and farthingale among her maids
of honour, burst out above all the tumult with "Oh, excellent! These
boys, in very truth, are ready to leap out of the windows to follow
the hounds!" When the play was over, the queen called up the poet,
who was present, and the actors, and loaded them with thanks and
compliments.

When, forty years after, in 1605, the dull James came to Oxford, the
poor boys had a harder time. A thing very noteworthy happened when
the king entered the city in his progress from Woodstock. If Warton's
notion is correct, scarcely the iron cross in the pavement that marks
the spot where the bishops were burned, or the solemn chamber in which
they were tried, yea, scarcely Guy Fawkes's lantern, which they show
you at the Bodleian, or the Brazen Nose itself, are memorials as
interesting as the archway leading into the quadrangle of St. John's
College, under whose carving, quaint and graceful, one now gets the
lovely glimpse into the green and bloom of the gardens at the back. At
this gate, three youths dressed like witches met the king, declaring
they were the same that once met Macbeth and Banquo, prophesying a
kingdom to one and to the other a generation of monarchs, that they
now appeared to show the confirmation of the prediction. Warton's
conjecture is that Shakespeare heard of this, or perhaps was himself
in the crowd that watched the boys as they came whirling out in their
weird dance, and that then and there was conceived what was to become
so mighty a product of the human brain,--Macbeth.

King James, however, received it all coldly. The University, kindled
by the traditions of Elizabeth's visit, did its best. Leland gives a
glimpse of the stage arrangements in Christ Church Hall. Towards the
end "was a scene like a wall, painted and adorned by stately pillars,
which pillars would turn about, by reason whereof, with the help of
other painted cloths, their stage did vary three times." But the
king liked the scholastic hair-splitting with which he was elsewhere
entertained better than the plays. In Christ Church Hall he yawned
and even went to sleep, saying it was all mere childish amusement. In
fact, the poor boys had to put up with even a worse rebuff; the
king spoke many words of dislike, and when, in one of the plays, a
pastoral, certain characters came in somewhat scantily attired, the
queen and maids of honour took great offence, in which the king, who
was not ordinarily over-delicate, concurred.

The practice of acting plays prevailed in the schools as well. The
visitor to Windsor will remember in what peace, as seen from the great
tower, beyond the smooth, dark Thames, the buildings of Eton lie
among the trees. Crossing into the old town and entering the school
precincts, where the stone stairways are worn by so many generations
of young feet, and where on the play-ground the old elms shadow turf
where so many soldiers and statesmen have been trained to struggle in
larger fields, there is nothing after all finer than the great hall.
In every age since the wars of the Roses, it has buzzed with the
boisterous life of the privileged boys of England, who have come
up afterward by the hundred to be historic men. There are still the
fireplaces with the monogram of Henry VI., the old stained glass,
the superb wood carving, the dais at the end. If there were no other
memory connected with the magnificent hall, it would be enough that
here, about 1550, was performed by the Eton boys, _Ralph Roister
Bolster_, the first proper English comedy, written by Nicholas
Udal, then head-master, for the Christmas holidays. He had the name
of being a stern master, because old Tusser has left it on record that
Udal whipped him,--

  "for fault but small,
  or none at all."

But the student of our old literature, reading the jolly play, will
feel that, though he could handle the birch upon occasion, there was
in him a fine genial vein. This was the first English comedy. The
first English tragedy, too, _Gorboduc_, was acted first by
students,--this time students of law of the Inner Temple,--and the
place of performance was close at hand to what one still goes to see
in the black centre of the heart of London, those blossoming gardens
of the Temple, verdant to-day as when the red-cross knights walked in
them, or the fateful red and white roses were plucked there, or the
voices of the young declaimers were heard from them, rolling out the
turgid lines of Sackville's piece, the somewhat unpromising day-spring
which a glorious sun-burst was to succeed. From Lincoln's Inn, in
1613, when the Princess Elizabeth married the elector-palatine and
went off to Heidelberg Castle, the students came to the palace with a
piece written by Chapman, and the performance cost a thousand pounds.

A famed contemporary of Udal was Richard Mulcaster, head-master of St.
Paul's school, and afterward of Merchant Taylors', concerning whom we
have, from delightful old Fuller, this quaint and naive description:

  In a morning he would exactly and plainly construe
  and parse the lesson to his scholars, which
  done, he slept his hour (custom made him critical
  to proportion it) in his desk in the school; but woe
  be to the scholar that slept the while. Awaking, he
  heard them accurately; and Atropos might be persuaded
  to pity as soon as he to pardon where he
  found just fault. The prayers of cockering mothers
  prevailed with him just as much as the requests of
  indulgent fathers, rather increasing than mitigating
  his severity on their offending children.

The name of this Rhadamanthus of the birch occurs twice in entries of
Elizabeth's paymaster, as receiving money for plays acted before
her; and a certain proficiency as actors possessed by students of
St. John's College at Oxford is ascribed to training given by old
Mulcaster at the Merchant Taylors' school.

But no one of the great English public schools has enjoyed so long
a fame in this regard as Westminster. According to Staunton, in his
_Great schools of England_, Elizabeth desired to have plays acted
by the boys, "Quo juventus turn actioni tum pronunciationi decenti
melius se assuescat," that the youth might be better trained in proper
bearing and pronunciation. The noted Bishop Atterbury wrote to a
friend, Trelawney, Bishop of Winchester, concerning a performance here
of Trelawney's son: "I had written to your lordship again on Saturday,
but that I spent the evening in seeing _Phormio_ acted in the
college chamber, where, in good truth, my lord, Mr. Trelawney played
Antipho extremely well, and some parts he performed admirably."
In 1695, Dryden's play of Cleomens was acted. Archbishop Markham,
head-master one hundred years ago, gave a set of scenes designed by
Garrick. In our own day, Dr. Williamson, head-master in 1828, drew
attention in a pamphlet to the proper costuming of the performers; and
when, in 1847, there was a talk of abolishing the plays, a memorial
signed by six hundred old "Westminsters" was sent in, stating it
as their "firm and deliberate belief, founded on experience and
reflection, that the abolition of the Westminster play cannot fail to
prove prejudicial to the interests and prosperity of the school." At
the present time the best plays of Plautus and Terence are performed
at Christmas in the school dormitory.

It all became excessive, and in Cromwell's time, with the accession
of the Puritans to power, like a hundred other brilliant traits of the
old English life from whose abuse had grown riot, it was purged away.
Ben Jonson, in _The Staple of Newes_, puts into the mouth of a
sour character a complaint which no doubt was becoming common in that
day, and was probably well enough justified.

  "They make all their schollers play-boyes! Is't
  not a fine sight to see all our children made
  enterluders? Doe we pay our money for this? Wee
  send them to learne their grammar and their Terence
  and they learne their play-bookes. Well they talk
  we shall have no more parliaments, God blesse us!
  But an we have, I hope Zeale-of-the-land Buzzy,
  and my gossip Rabby Trouble-Truth, will start up
  and see we have painfull good ministers to keepe
  schoole, and catechise our youth; and not teach 'em
  to speake plays and act fables of false newes."

Studying this rather unexplored subject, one gets many a glimpse of
famous characters in interesting relations. Erasmus says that Sir
Thomas More, "adolescens, comoediolas et scripsit et egit," and while
a page with Archbishop Moreton, as plays were going on in the palace
during the Christmas holidays, he would often, showing his schoolboy
accomplishment, step on the stage without previous notice, and
exhibit a part of his own which gave more satisfaction than the whole
performance besides.

In Leland's report of the theatricals where King James behaved so
ungraciously, "the machinery of the plays," he says, "was chiefly
conducted by Mr. Jones, who undertook to furnish them with rare
devices, but performed very little to what was expected." This is
believed to have been Inigo Jones, who soon was to gain great fame as
manager of the Court masques. The entertainment was probably ingenious
and splendid enough, but every one took his cue from the king's
pettishness, and poor "Mr. Jones" had to bear his share of the
ill-humour.

In 1629 a Latin play was performed at Cambridge before the French
ambassador. Among the student spectators sat a youth of twenty, with
long locks parted in the middle falling upon his doublet, and the
brow and eyes of the god Apollo, who curled his lip in scorn,
and signalised himself by his stormy discontent. Here is his
own description of his conduct: "I was a spectator; they thought
themselves gallant men, and I thought them fools; they made sport,
and I laughed; they mispronounced, and I misliked; and to make up the
Atticism, they were out and I hissed." It was the young Milton, in the
year in which he wrote the _Hymn on the Nativity._

Do I need to cite other precedents for the procedure at the
Sweetbrier? I grant you it cannot be done from the practice of
American colleges. The strictest form of Puritanism stamped itself too
powerfully upon our New England institutions at their foundation, and
has affected too deeply the newer seminaries elsewhere in the country,
to make it possible that the drama should be anything but an outlaw
here. Nevertheless, at Harvard, Yale, and probably every considerable
college of the country, the drama has for a long time led a
clandestine life in secret student societies, persecuted or at best
ignored by the college government,--an unwholesome weed that deserved
no tending, if it was not to be at once uprooted.

I do not advocate, Fastidiosus, a return to the ancient state of
things, which I doubt not was connected with many evils; but is there
not reason to think a partial revival of the old customs would be
worth while? It was not for mirth merely that the old professors and
teachers countenanced the drama. To the editors of _David's Harp_
I have sent this passage from Milton, noblest among the Puritans,
and have besought them to lay it before their consistory: "Whether
eloquent and graceful incitements, instructing and bettering the
nation at all opportunities, not only in pulpits, but after another
persuasive method, in theatres, porches, or whatever place or way, may
not win upon the people to receive both recreation and instruction,
let them in authority consult." The German schoolmasters and
professors superintended their boys in the representation of
religious plays to instruct them in the theology which they thought
all-important; in the performance of Aristophanes and Lucian, Plautus
and Terence, mainly in the hope of improving them in Greek and Latin:
and when the plays were in the vernacular, it was often to train their
taste, manners, and elocution. Erasmus and the Oxford and Cambridge
authorities certainly had the same ideas as the Continental scholars.
So the English schoolmasters in general, who also managed in the plays
to give useful hints in all ways. For instance, Nicholas Udal, in
the ingenious letter in _Ralph Roister Doister_, which is either
loving or insulting according to the position of a few commas or
periods, must have meant to enforce the doctrine of Chaucer's couplet:

  "He that pointeth ill,
  A good sentence may oft spill."

Madame de Maintenon was persuaded that amusements of this sort have
a value, "imparting grace, teaching a polite pronunciation, and
cultivating the memory"; and Racine commends the management of St.
Cyr, where "the hours of recreation, so to speak, are put to profit by
making the pupils recite the finest passages of the best poets." Here
is the dramatic instinct, almost universal among young people,
and which has almost no chance to exercise itself, except in the
performance of the farces to which we are treated in "private
theatricals." Can it not be put to a better use? It would be a
cumbrous matter to represent or listen to the _Aulularia_, or the
_Miles Gloriosus_, or the [Greek: Eirhênê], in which Dr. Dee and
his Scarabeus figured so successfully. The world is turned away from
that[1]; but here is the magnificent wealth of our own old dramatic
literature, in which is contained the richest poetry of our
language. It was never intended to be read, but to be heard in living
presentment. For the most part it lies almost unknown, except in the
case of Shakespeare, and him the world knows far too little. Who does
not feel what a treasure in the memory are passages of fine poetry
committed early in life?

[Footnote 1: The developments of the last forty years show this
judgment to be erroneous.]

Who can doubt the value to the bearing, the fine address, the literary
culture of a youth of either sex that might come from the careful
study and the attempt to render adequately a fine conception of some
golden writer of our golden age, earnestly made, if only partially
successful?

I say only partially successful, but can you doubt the capacity of our
young people to render in a creditable way the conceptions of a
great poet? Let us look at the precedents again. When Mademoiselle
de Caylus, in her account of St. Cyr, speaks of the representation of
_Andromaque_, she writes, "It was only too well done." And prim
Madame de Maintenon wrote to Racine: "Our young girls have played it
so well they shall play it no more"; begging him to write some moral
or historic poem. Hence came the beautiful masterpiece _Esther_,
to which the young ladies seem to have done the fullest justice, for
listen to the testimony. The brilliant Madame de Lafayette wrote:
"There was no one, great or small, that did not want to go, and this
mere drama of a convent became the most serious affair of the court."
That the admiration was not merely feigned because it was the fashion,
here is the testimony of a woman of the finest taste, Madame de
Sévigné, given in her intimate letters to her daughter, who, in these
confidences, spared no one who deserved criticism:

  The king and all the Court are charmed with
  _Esther_. The prince has wept over it. I cannot tell
  you how delightful the piece is. There is so perfect
  a relation between the music, the verses, the songs,
  and the personages, that one seeks nothing more.
  The airs set to the words have a beauty which cannot
  be borne without tears, and according to one's
  taste is the measure of approbation given to the
  piece. The king addressed me and said, "Madame,
  I am sure you have been pleased." I, without being
  astonished, answered, "Sire, I am charmed. What
  I feel is beyond words." The king said to me,
  "Racine has much genius." I said to him, "Sire,
  he has much, but in truth these young girls have
  much too; they enter into the subject as if they
  had done nothing else." "Ah! as to that," said he,
  "it is true." And then his Majesty went away and
  left me the object of envy.

Racine himself says in the Preface to _Esther_:

  The young ladies have declaimed and sung this
  work with so much modesty and piety, it has not
  been possible to keep it shut up in the secrecy of
  the institution; so that a diversion of young people
  has become a subject of interest for all the Court;

and what is still more speaking, he wrote at once the _Athalie_,
"la chef d'oeuvre de la poésie française," in the judgment of the
French critics, to be rendered by the some young tyros. When, in
1556, in Christ Church Hall, _Palamon and Arcite_ was finished,
outspoken Queen Bess, with her frank eyes full of pleasure, declared
"that Palamon must have been in love indeed. Arcite was a right
martial knight, having a swart and manly countenance, yet like a Venus
clad in armour." To the son of the dean of Christ Church, the boy of
fourteen, who played Emilie in the dress of a princess, her compliment
was still higher. It was a present of eight guineas,--for the
penurious sovereign, perhaps, the most emphatic expression of approval
possible.

Shall I admit for a moment that our American young folks have less
grace and sensibility than the French girls, and the Oxford youths who
pleased Elizabeth? Your face now, Fastidiosus, wears a frown like
that of Rhadamanthus; but I remember our Hasty-Pudding days, when you
played the part of a queen, and behaved in your disguise like Thor,
in the old saga, when he went to Riesenheim in the garb of Freya, and
honest giants, like Thrym, were frightened back the whole width of the
hall. Well, I do not censure it, and I do not believe you recall it
with a sigh; and the reminiscence emboldens me to ask you whether it
would not be still better if our dear Harvard, say (the steam of the
pudding infects me through twenty years), among the many new wrinkles
she in her old age so appropriately contracts, should devote an
evening of Commencement-time to a performance, by the students,
under the sanction and direction of professors, of some fine old
masterpiece?

At our little Sweetbrier we have young men and young women together,
as at Oberlin, Antioch, and Massachusetts normal schools. I have no
doubt our Hermione, when we gave the _Winter's Tale_, had all the
charm of Mademoiselle de Veillanne, who played Esther at St. Cyr. I
have no doubt our Portia, in the _Merchant of Venice_, in the
trial scene, her fine stature and figure robed in the doctor's long
silk gown, which fell to her feet, and her abundant hair gathered out
of sight into an ample velvet cap, so that she looked like a most wise
and fair young judge, recited

  "The quality of mercy is not strained,"

in a voice as thrilling as that in which Mademoiselle de Glapion gave
the part of Mordecai. I am sure Queen Elizabeth would think our young
cavaliers, well-knit and brown from the baseball-field, "right martial
knights, having swart and manly countenances." If she could have seen
our Antoninus, when we gave the act from Massinger's most sweet and
tender tragedy of the _Virgin Martyr_, or the noble Caesar, in
our selections from Beaumont and Fletcher's _False One_, she
would have been as ready with the guineas as she was in the case of
the son of the dean of Christ Church.

Our play at the last Commencement was _Much Ado about Nothing_.
It was selected six months before, and studied with the material
in mind, the students in the literature class, available for the
different parts. What is there, thought I, in Beatrice--sprightliness
covering intense womanly feeling--that our vivacious, healthful Ruth
Brown cannot master; and what in Benedick, her masculine counterpart,
beyond the power of Moore to conceive and render? It is chiefly
girlish beauty and simple sweetness that Hero requires, so she
shall be Edith Grey. Claudio, Leonato, Don John, Pedro,--we have
clean-limbed, presentable fellows that will look and speak them all
well; and as for lumbering Dogberry, Abbot, with his fine sense of the
ludicrous, will carry it out in the best manner. A dash of the pencil
here and there through the lines where Shakespeare was suiting his own
time, and not the world as it was to be after three hundred refining
years, and the marking out of a few scenes that could be spared from
the action, and the play was ready; trimmed a little, but with not
a whit taken from its sparkle or pathos, and all its lovelier poetry
untouched.

Then came long weeks of drill. In the passage,

  "O my lord,
  When you went onward to this ended action,
  I looked upon her with a soldier's eye," etc.,

Claudio caught the fervour and softness at last, and seemed (it
would have pleased Queen Bess better than Madame de Main tenon) like
Palamon, in love indeed. Ursula and Hero rose easily to the delicate
poetry of the passages that begin,

  "The pleasantest angling is to see the fish
  Cut with her golden oars the silver stream,"

and

  "Look where Beatrice like a lapwing runs."

Pedro got to perfection his turn and gesture in

  "The wolves have preyed; and look, the gentle day,
  Before the wheels of Phoebus, round about
  Dapples the drowsy east with spots of gray."

With the rough comedy of Dogberry and the watchmen, that foils so well
the sad tragedy of poor Hero's heart-breaking, and contrasts in
its blunders with the diamond-cut-diamond dialogue of Benedick and
Beatrice, there was less difficulty. From first to last, it was
engrossing labour, as hard for the trainer as the trained, yet still
delightful work; for what is a conscientious manager, but an artist
striving to perfect a beautiful dramatic picture? The different
personages are the pieces for his mosaic, who, in emphasis, tone,
gesture, by-play, must be carved and filed until there are no flaws
in the joining, and the shading is perfect. But all was ready at last,
from the roar of Dogberry at the speech of Conrade,

  "Away! you're an ass! you're an ass!"

to the scarcely articulate agony of Hero when she sinks to the earth
at her lover's sudden accusation,

  "O Heavens! how am I beset!
  What kind of catechising call you this?"

I fancy you ask, rather sneeringly, as to our scenery and stage
adjuncts. Once, in the great court theatre at Munich, I saw Wagner's
_Rheingold._ The king was present, and all was done for splendour
that could be done in that centre of art. When the curtain rose, the
whole great river Rhine seemed to be flowing before you across the
stage, into the side of whose flood you looked as one looks through
the glass side of an aquarium. At the bottom were rocks in picturesque
piles; and, looking up through the tide to the top, as a diver might,
the spectator saw the surface of the river, with the current rippling
forward upon it, and the sunlight just touching the waves. Through the
flood swam the daughters of the Rhine, sweeping fair arms backward
as they floated, their drapery trailing heavy behind them, darting
straight as arrows, or winding sinuously, from bottom to top, from
side to side, singing wildly as the Lorelei. The scene changed, and
it was the depths of the earth, red-glowing and full of gnomes. And a
third time, after a change, you saw from mountain-tops the city which
the giants had built in the heavens for the gods,--a glittering dome
or pinnacle now and then breaking the line of white palaces, now and
then a superb cloud floating before it, until, at last, a mist seemed
to rise from valleys below, wrapping it little by little, till all
became invisible in soft gradations of vapoury gloom. I shall never
again see anything like that, where an art-loving court subsidises
heavily scene-painter and machinist; but for all that, is it wise
to have only sneers for what can be brought to pass with more modest
means? Our hall at Sweetbrier is as large as the Christ Church
refectory, and handsomely proportioned and decorated. A wide stage
runs across the end. We found some ample curtains of crimson, set off
with a heavy yellow silken border of quite rich material, which had
been used to drape a window that had disappeared in the course of
repairs. This, stretched from side to side, made a wall of brilliant
colour against the gray tint of the room; and possibly Roger Ascham,
seeing our audience-room before and after the hanging of it, might
have had a thought of Antwerp. The stage is the one thing in the world
privileged to deceive. The most devoted reader of Ruskin can tolerate
shams here. The costumes were devised with constant reference to
Charles Knight, and, to the eye, were of the gayest silk, satin, and
velvet. There was, moreover, a profusion of jewels, which, for all
one could see, sparkled with all the lustre of the great Florentine
diamond, as you see it suspended above the imperial crowns in the
Austrian Schatz-Kammer at Vienna. The contrasts of tint were well
attended to. Pedro was in white and gold, Claudio in blue and silver,
Leonato in red; while our handsome Benedick, a youth of dark Italian
favour, in doublet of orange, a broad black velvet sash, and scarlet
cloak, shone like a bird of paradise.

There was a garden-scene, in the foreground of which, where the
eyes of the spectators were near enough to discriminate, were rustic
baskets with geraniums, fuchsias, and cactuses, to give a southern
air. In the middle distance, armfuls of honeysuckle in full bloom
were brought in and twined about white pilasters. There was an arbour
overhung with heavy masses of the trumpet-creeper. A tall column or
two surmounted with graceful garden-vases were covered about with
raspberry-vines, the stems of brilliant scarlet showing among the
green. A thick clump of dogwood, whose large white blossoms could
easily pass for magnolias, gave background. The green was lit with
showy colour of every sort,--handfuls of nasturtiums, now and then a
peony, larkspurs for blue, patches of poppies, and in the garden-vases
high on the pillars (the imposition!) clusters of pink hollyhocks
which were meant to pass for oleander-blossoms, and did, still, wet
with the drops of the afternoon shower, which had not dried away when
all was in place. When it comes to rain and dewdrops, dear Dr. Holmes,
a "fresh-water college" has an advantage. First, it was given under
gas; then, the hall being darkened, a magnesium-light gave a moon-like
radiance, in which the dew on the buds glistened, and the mignonette
seemed to exhale a double perfume, and a dreamy melody of Mendelssohn
sung by two sweet girl-voices floated out about the "pleached bower,"
like a song of nightingales. Then toward the end came the scene of the
chapel and Hero's tomb. No lovelier form was ever sculptured than that
of the beautiful Queen Louisa of Prussia, as she lies in the mausoleum
at Charlottenburg, carved by Rauch, asleep on the tomb in white
purity. To the eye, our Hero's tomb was just such a block of spotless
marble seen against a background of black, with just such a fair
figure recumbent upon it, whose palms and lids and draping the chisel
of an artist seemed to have folded and closed and hung,--all idealised
again by the magic of the magnesium-light. As the crimson curtain was
drawn apart, an organ sounded, and a far-away choir sent into the hush
the _Ave Verum_ of Mozart, low-breathed and solemn.

It was not Munich, Fastidiosus. They were American young men and young
women, with no resources but those of a rural college, and such as
their own taste and the woods and gardens could furnish; but the young
men were shapely and intelligent, and the young women had grace and
brightness; their hearts were in it, and in the result surely there
was a measure of "sweetness and light" for them and those who beheld.

You fear it may beget in young minds a taste for the theatre, now
hopelessly given over in great part to abominations. Why not a
taste that will lift them above the abominations? Old Joachim Greff,
schoolmaster at Dessau in 1545, who has a place in the history of
German poetry, has left it on record that he trained his scholars to
render noble dramas in the conscientious hope "that a little spark of
art might be kept alive in the schools under the ashes of barbarism."
"And this little spark," says Gervinus, "did these bold men, indeed,
through two hundred years, keep honestly until it could again break
out into flame." Instead of fearing the evil result, rather would I
welcome a revival of what Warton calls "this very liberal exercise."
Were Joachim Greffs masters in our high schools and in the English
chairs in our colleges, we might now and then catch a glimpse of
precious things at present hidden away in never-opened store-houses,
and see something done toward the development of a taste that should
drive out the _opera-bouffe_.

Here, at the end, Fastidiosus, is what I now shape in mind. Hippolyte
Taine, in one of his rich descriptions, thus pictures the performance
of a masque:

  The _élite_ of the kingdom is there upon the stage,
  the ladies of the court, the great lords, the queen,
  in all the splendour of their rank and their pride, in
  diamonds, earnest to display their luxury so that all
  the brilliant features of the nation's life are concentrated
  in the price they give, like gems in a casket.
  What adornment! What profusion of magnificence!
  What variety! What metamorphoses! Gold sparkles,
  jewels emit light, the purple draping imprisons
  within its rich folds the radiance of the lustres.
  The light is reflected from shining silk. Threads
  of pearl are spread in rows upon brocades sewed
  with thread of silver. Golden embroideries intertwine
  in capricious arabesques, costumes, jewels,
  appointments so extraordinarily rich that the stage
  seems a mine of glory.

The fashionable world of our time has little taste for such pleasures.
This old splendour we cannot produce; but the words which the
magnificent lords and ladies spoke to one another as they blazed,
were those that make up the Poetry of Fletcher's _Faithful
Shepherdess_, Ben Jonson's _Sad Shepherd_, and, finest of
all, the _Comus_ of Milton. They are the most matchless frames of
language in which sweet thoughts and fancies were ever set. After
all, before this higher beauty, royal pomp even seems only a coarse
excrescence, and all would be better if the accessories of the
rendering were very simple. Already in my mind is the grove for
_Comus_ designed; the mass of green which shall stand in the
centre, the blasted trunk that shall rise for contrast to one side,
and the vine that shall half conceal the splintered summit, the banks
of wild-flowers that shall be transferred, the light the laboratory
shall yield us to make all seem as if seen through enchanter's
incense. I have in mind the sweet-voiced girl who shall be the lost
lady and sing the invocation to Sabrina; the swart youth who shall be
the magician and say the lines,

  "At every fall, smoothing the raven down
  Of darkness till it smiled";

and the golden-haired maid who shall glide in and out in silvery
attire, as the attendant spirit. Come, Fastidiosus,--I shall invite
too the editors of _David's Harp_,--and you shall all own the
truth of Milton's own words, "that sanctity and virtue and truth
herself may in this wise be elegantly dressed," when the attendant
spirit recites:

  "Now my task is smoothly done,
  I can fly or I can run
  Quickly to the green earth's end,
  Where the bowed welkin low doth bend;
  And from thence can soar as soon
  To the corners of the moon.
  Mortals that would follow me,
  Love virtue; she alone is free,
  She can teach ye how to climb
  Higher than the sphery chime;
  Or if virtue feeble were,
  Heaven itself would stoop to her."




CHAPTER IV


THE GIANT IN THE SPIKED HELMET

In January of 1870, having decided to teach rather than preach, I
embarked for Germany to enjoy a year of foreign study. Like Western
professors in general (to borrow the witticism of President Eliot)
I occupied not so much a chair as a sofa, and felt that I needed
enlargement for the performance of my functions.

I think I saw a certain caricature first in Munich at the end of July,
then in two or three Swiss cities, then in Paris at the end of August,
then in Brussels and London; for it was popular, and the print-shops
had it everywhere. It was a map of Europe where the different
countries were represented by comical figures, each meant to hit off
the peculiarities of the nation it stood for, according to popular
apprehension. For Prussia there was an immense giant, one of whose
knees was on the stomach of Austria represented as a lank figure
utterly prostrate, while the other foot threatened to crush
South-western Germany. One hand menaced France, whose outline the
designer had managed to give rudely in the figure of a Zouave in
a fierce attitude; and the other was thrust toward Russia, a huge
colossus with Calmuck dress, and features. The most conspicuous thing
in the giant's dress was a helmet with a spike projecting from the
top, much too large for the head of the wearer, and therefore falling
over his eyes until they were almost blinded by it. The style of the
helmet was that of the usual head-dress of the Prussian soldier. The
caricature generally was not bad, and the hit at Prussia, half crushed
and blinded under the big helmet, was particularly good. Throughout
her whole history Prussia is either at war, or getting ready for war,
or lying exhausted through wounds and recovering strength. In Prussia
you found things of pugnacious suggestion always, and in the most
incongruous connections. Study the schools, and there was something
to call up the soldier. Study the church, and even there was a burly
polemic quality which you can trace back from to-day to the time when
the Prussian bishops were fighting knights. Study the people in their
quietest moods, in their homes, among their recreations, indeed, among
the graves of those they honour as the greatest heroes, and you found
the same overhanging shadow of war. This predominant martial quality
showed itself in ways sometimes brutal, sometimes absurd, sometimes
sublime.

I visited Prussia at a time of entire peace, for at my departure I
crossed the frontier (or that of the North German Confederation, the
whole of which, for convenience's sake, we will call Prussia) on the
very day when King William was shouldering aside so roughly at Ems
Benedetti and the famous French demands. The things to which I gave
attention for the most part were the things which belong to peace;
yet as I arrange my recollections I find that something military runs
through the whole of them. As one's letters when he has read them are
filed away on the pointed wire standing on the desk, so as regards my
Prussian experiences everything seems to have been filed away on the
spike of a helmet.

Going out early one May morning to get my first sight of Berlin, I
stood presently in a broad avenue. In the centre ran a wide promenade
lined with tall, full-foliaged trees, with a crowded roadway on each
side bordered by stately buildings. Close by me a colossal equestrian
statue in bronze towered up till the head of the rider was on a level
with the eaves of the houses. The rider was in cocked hat, booted and
spurred, the eye turned sharp to the left as if reconnoitring, the
attitude alert, life-like, as if he might dismount any moment if he
chose. In the distance down the long perspective of trees was a lofty
gate supported by columns, with a figure of Victory on the top in a
chariot drawn by horses. Close at hand again, under the porch of a
square strong structure, stood two straight sentinels. An officer
passed in a carriage on the farther side of the avenue. Instantly
the two sentinels stepped back in concert as if the same clock-work
regulated their movements, brought their shining pieces with perfect
precision to the "present," stood for an instant as if hewn from
stone, the spiked helmets above the blond faces inclining backward at
the same angle, then precisely together fell into the old position.
The street was "Unter den Linden." The tall statue was the memorial
of Frederick the Great. The gate down the long vista was the
Brandenburger Thor, surmounted by the charioted Victory which Napoleon
carried to Paris after Jena and which came back after Waterloo. The
solid building was the palace of iron-grey old King William; and when
the clock-work sentinels went through their salute, I got my first
sight of that famous Prussian discipline, against which before
the summer was through supple France was to crush its teeth all to
fragments, like a viper that has incautiously bitten at a file.

There never was a place with aspect more military than Berlin even
in peaceful times. In many quarters towered great barracks for the
troops. The public memorials were almost exclusively in honour of
great soldiers. There were tall columns, too, to commemorate victories
or the crushing out of revolutionary spirit; rarely, indeed, in
comparison, a statue to a man of scientific or literary or artistic
eminence. Frederick sits among the tree-tops of Unter den Linden, and
about his pedestal are life-size figures of the men of his age whom
Prussia holds most worthy of honour. At the four corners ride the
Duke of Brunswick and cunning Prince Heinrich, old Ziethen and fiery
Seydlitz. Between are a score or more of soldiers of lesser note, only
soldiers, spurred and sabre-girt,--except at the very back; and there,
just where the tail of Frederick's horse droops over, stand--whom
think you?--no others than Leasing, critic and poet, most gifted and
famous; and Kant, peer of Plato and Bacon, one of the most gifted
brains of all time. Just standing room for them among the hoofs and
uniforms at the tail of Frederick's horse! Every third man one met in
Berlin was a soldier off duty. Batteries of steel guns rolled by at
any time, obedient to their bugles. Squadrons of Uhlans in uniforms of
green and red, the pennons fluttering from the ends of their lances,
rode up to salute the king. Each day at noon, through the roar of
the streets, swelled the finest martial music; first a grand sound of
trumpets, then a deafening roll from a score of brazen drums. A heavy
detachment of infantry wheeled out from some barracks, ranks of strong
brown-haired young men stretching from sidewalk to sidewalk, neat in
every thread and accoutrement, with the German gift for music all, as
the stride told with which they beat out upon the pavement the rhythm
of the march, dropping sections at intervals to do the unbroken guard
duty at the various posts. Frequently whole army corps gathered to
manoeuvre at the vast parade-ground by the Kreuzberg in the outskirts.
On Unter den Linden is a strong square building, erected, after the
model of a Roman fortress, to be the quarters of the main guard. The
officers on duty at Berlin came here daily at noon to hear military
music and for a half-hour's talk. They came always in full uniform, a
collection of the most brilliant colours, hussars in red, blue, green,
and black, the king's body-guard in white with braid of yellow and
silver, in helmets that flashed as if made from burnished gold,
crested with an eagle with out-spread wings. The men themselves
were the handsomest one can see; figures of the finest symmetry and
stature, trained by every athletic exercise, and the faces often so
young and beautiful! Counts and barons were there from Pomerania and
old Brandenburg, where the Prussian spirit is most intense, and no
nobility is nobler or prouder. They were blue-eyed and fair-haired
descendants perhaps of the chieftains that helped Herman overcome
Varus, and whose names may be found five hundred years back among the
Deutsch Ritters that conquered Northern Europe from heathendom, and
thence all the way down to now, occurring in martial and princely
connection. It was the acme of martial splendour.

"But how do you bear it all?" you say to your Prussian friend, with
whom you stand looking on at the base of Billow's statue. "Is not this
enormous preparation for bloodshed something dreadful? Then the tax
on the country to support it all, the withdrawing of such a multitude
from the employments of peace." Your friend, who had been a soldier
himself, would answer: "We bear it because we must. It is the price
of our existence, and we have got used to it; and, after all, with the
hardship come great benefits. Every able-bodied young Prussian must
serve as a soldier, be he noble or low-born, rich or poor. If he
cannot read or write, he must learn. He must be punctual, neat,
temperate, and so gets valuable habits. His body is trained to be
strong and supple. Shoemaker and banker's son, count, tailor, and
farmer march together, and community of feeling comes about. The great
traditions of Prussian history are the atmosphere they breathe, and
they become patriotic. The soldier must put off marrying, perhaps half
forget his trade, and come into life poor; for who can save on nine
cents a day, with board and clothes? But it is a wonder if he is not
a healthy, well-trained, patriotic man." So talked your Prussian; and
however much of a peace-man you might be, you could not help owning
there was some truth in it. If you bought a suit of clothes,
the tailor jumped up from his cross-legged position, prompt and
full-chested, with tan on his face he got in campaigning; and it is
hard to say he had lost more than he gained in his army training. If
you went into a school, the teacher, with a close-clipped beard and
vigorous gait, who had a scar on his face from Königgrätz, seemed none
the worse for it, though he might have read a few books the less and
lost his student pallor. At any rate, bad or good, so it was; and so,
said the Prussian, it must be. Eternal vigilance and preparation! I
went in one day to the arsenal. The flags which Prussian armies had
taken from almost every nation in Europe were ranged against the
walls by the hundred; shot-shattered rags of silk, white standards of
Austria embroidered with gold, Bavaria's blue checker, above all the
great Napoleonic symbol, the N surrounded by its wreath. This was the
memorable tapestry that hung the walls, and opposite glittered the
waiting barrels and bayonets till one could almost believe them
conscious, and burning to do as much as the flintlocks that won
the standards. There was a needle-gun there or somewhere for every
able-bodied man, and somewhere else uniform and equipments. When I
landed in February on the bank of the Weser, the most prominent
object was the redoubt with the North German flag. When in midsummer
I crossed the Bavarian frontier among a softer people, the last marked
object was the old stronghold of Coburg, battered by siege after siege
for a thousand years. It was the spiked helmet at the entrance and
again at the exit; and from entrance to exit, few places or times were
free from some martial suggestion. It was a nation that had come to
power mainly through war, and been schooled into the belief that its
mailed fists alone could guarantee its life.

I visited a primary school. The little boys of six came with knapsacks
strapped to their backs for their books and dinners, instead of
satchels. At the tap of a bell they formed themselves into column
and marched like little veterans to the schoolroom door. I visited
a school for boys of thirteen or fourteen. Casting my eyes into
the yard, I saw the spiked helmet in the shape of the half-military
manoeuvres of a class which the teacher of gymnastics was training for
the severer drill of five or six years later. I visited the "prima,"
or upper class of a gymnasium, and here was the spiked helmet in a
connection that seemed at first rather irreverent. After all, however,
it was only thoroughly Prussian, and deserved to be looked upon as
a comical incongruity rather than gravely blamed. A row of cheap
pictures hung side by side upon the wall. First Luther, the rougher
characteristics of the well-known portrait somewhat exaggerated. The
shoulders were even larger than common. The bony buttresses of the
forehead over the eyes, too, as they rose above the strong lower face,
were emphasised, looking truly as though, if tongue and pen failed to
make a way, the shoulders could push one, and, if worse came to worst,
the head would butt one. Next to Luther was a head of Christ; then in
the same line, with nothing in the position or quality of the pictures
to indicate that the subjects were any less esteemed, a row of royal
personages, whose military trappings were made particularly plain.
It was all characteristic enough. The Reformer's figure stood for the
stalwart Protestantism of the Prussian character, still living and
militant in a way hard for us to imagine; the portraits of the royal
soldiers stood for its combative loyalty, ready to meet anything for
king and fatherland; and the head of Christ for its zealous faith,
which, however it may have cooled away among some classes of the
people, was still intense in the nation at large. I visited the best
school for girls in Berlin, and it was singular to find the spiked
helmet, among those retiring maidens even, and this time not hung upon
the wall nor outside in the yard. The teacher of the most interesting
class I visited--a class in German literature--was a man of
forty-five, of straight, soldierly bearing, a grey, martial moustache,
and energetic eye. He told me, as we walked together in the hall,
waiting for the exercise to commence, that he had been a soldier, and
it so happened that among the ballads in the lesson for that day was
one in honour of the Prussian troops at Rossbach. Over this the old
soldier broke out into an animated lecture, which grew more and more
earnest as he went forward; he showed how the idea of faithfulness to
duty had become obscured, but was enforced again by the philosopher
Kant in his teaching, and then brought into practice by the great
Frederick. The veteran plainly thought there was no duty higher than
that owed to the _schwarzer Adler_, the black eagle of Prussia.
Then came an account of the French horse before Rossbach; how they
rode out from Weimar, the troopers, before they went, ripping open the
beds on which they had slept and scattering the feathers to the wind
to plague the housewives,--a piece of ruthlessness that came home
thoroughly to the young housekeepers; then how _der alte
Fritz_, lying in wait behind Janus Hill, with General Seydlitz and
Field-marshal Keith, suddenly rushed out and put them all to rout.
The soldier was in a fever of patriotism and rage against the French
before his description was finished, and the faces of the girls
kindled in response. "They will some time," I thought, "be lovers,
wives, mothers of Prussian soldiers themselves, and this training will
keep alive in the home the national fire."

Admirable schools they all were, the presence of the spiked helmet
notwithstanding, and crowning them in the great Prussian educational
system came the famous universities. That at Berlin counted its
students by thousands, its professors by hundreds. There was no branch
of human knowledge without its teacher. One could study Egyptian
hieroglyphics or the Assyrian arrow-head inscriptions. A new pimple
could hardly break out on the blotched face of the moon, without
a lecture from a professor next day to explain the theory of its
development. The poor earthquakes were hardly left to shake in peace
an out-of-the-way strip of South American coast or Calabrian plain,
but a German professor violated their privacy, undertook to see whence
they came and whither they went, and even tried to predict when they
would go to shaking again. The vast building of the University stood
on Unter den Linden, opposite the palace of the king. Large as it was,
its halls were crowded at the end of every hour by the thousand or two
of young men, who presently disappeared within the lecture-rooms.
Here in past years had been Hegel and Fichte, the brothers Grimm, the
brothers Humboldt, Niebuhr, and Carl Ritter. Here in my time, were
Lepsius and Curtius, Virchow and Hoffman, Ranke and Mommsen,--the
world's first scholars in the past and present. The student selected
his lecturers, then went day by day through the semester to the plain
lecture-rooms, taking notes diligently at benches which had been
whittled well by his predecessors, and where he too most likely
carved his own autograph and perhaps the name of the dear girl he
adored,--for Yankee boys have no monopoly of the jack-knife.

Where could one find the spiked helmet in the midst of the scholastic
quiet and diligence of a German university? It was visible enough in
more ways than one. Here was one manifestation. Run down the long list
of professors and teachers in the _Anzeiger_, and you would find
somewhere in the list the _Fechtmeister_, instructor in fighting,
master of the sword exercise, and he was pretty sure to be one of
the busiest men in the company. To most German students, a sword, or
_Schläger_, was as necessary as pipe or beer-mug; not a slender
fencing-foil, with a button on the point, and slight enough to snap
with a vigorous thrust, but a stout blade of tempered steel, ground
sharp. With these weapons the students perpetrated savageries,
almost unrebuked, which struck an American with horror. Duels were
of frequent occurrence, taking place sometimes at places and on days
regularly set apart for the really bloody work. The fighters were
partially protected by a sort of armour, and the wounds inflicted were
generally more ghastly than dangerous; though a son of Bismarck was
said to have been nearly killed at Bonn a few years before, and there
was sometimes serious maiming. Perhaps one may say it was nothing but
very rough play, but it was the play of young savages, whose sport was
nothing to them without a dash of cruel rage. The practice dates from
the time when the Germans wore wolf-skins, and were barbarians roaring
in their woods. Perhaps the university authorities found it too
inveterate a thing to be done away with; perhaps, too, they felt,
thinking as it were under their spiked helmets, that after all it had
a value, making the young men cool in danger and accustoming them to
weapons. We, after all, cannot say too much. Often our young American
students in Germany take to the _Schläger_ as gracefully and
naturally as game-cocks to spurs. The most noted duellist at one of
the universities that winter was a burly young Westerner, who had
things at first all his own way. A still burlier Prussian from
Tübingen, however, appeared at last, and so carved our valiant
borderer's face, that thereafter with its criss-cross scars it looked
like a well-frequented skating-ground. Football, too, in America
probably kills and maims more in a year than all the German duels.

To crown all, the schools and University at Berlin were magnificently
supplemented in the great Museum, a vast collection, where one might
study the rise and progress of civilisation in every race of past ages
that has had a history, the present condition of perhaps every people,
civilised or wild, under the sun. In one great hall you were among the
satin garments and lacquered furniture of China; in another there was
the seal-skin work of the Esquimaux stitched with sinew. Now you sat
in a Tartar tent, now among the war-clubs, the conch-shell trumpets,
the drums covered with human skin of the Polynesians. Here it was
the feathery finery of the Caribs, here the idols and trinkets of the
negroes of Soudan. There too, in still other halls, was the history
of our own race; the maces the Teutons and Norsemen fought with, the
torcs of twisted gold they wore about their necks, the sacrificial
knives that slew the victims on the altars of Odin; so, too, what our
fathers have carved and spun, moulded, cast, and portrayed, until
we took up the task of life. In another place you found the great
collection made in Egypt by Lepsius. The visitor stood within the
facsimile of a temple on the banks of the Nile. On the walls and
lotus-shaped columns were processions of dark figures at the loom,
at the work of irrigation, marching as soldiers, or mourners at
funerals,--exact copies of the original delineations. There were
sphinx and obelisk, coffins of kings, mummies of priest and chieftain,
the fabrics they wore, the gems they cut, the scrolls they engrossed,
the tomb in which they were buried. Stepping into another section, you
were in Assyria, with the alabaster lions and plumed genii of the men
of Nineveh and Babylon. The walls again were brilliant, now with the
splendour of the palaces of Nebuchadnezzar; the captives building
temples, the chivalry sacking cities, the princes on their thrones.
Here too was Etruria revealed in her sculpture and painted vases; and
here too the whole story of Greece. Passing through these wonderful
halls, you reviewed a thousand years and more, almost from the epoch
of Cadmus, through the vicissitudes of empire and servitude, until
Constantinople was sacked by the Turks. The rude Pelasgic altar, the
sculptured god of Praxiteles, then down through the ages of decay to
the ugly painting of the Byzantine monk in the Dark Ages. So too the
whole history of Rome; the long heave of the wave from Romulus until
it becomes crested with the might and beauty of the Augustan age;
the sad subsidence from that summit to Goth and Hun. There was
architecture which the eyes of the Tarquins saw, there were statues of
the great consuls of the Republic, the luxury of the later Empire. You
saw it not only in models, but sometimes in actual relics. One's
blood thrilled when he stood before a statue of Julius Caesar, whose
sculptor, it is reasonable to believe, wrought from the life. It was
broken and discoloured, as it came from the Italian ruin where it had
lain since the barbarian raids. But the grace had not left the toga
folded across the breast, nor was the fine Roman majesty gone from the
head and face,--a head small, but high, with a full and ample brow, a
nose with the true eagle curve, and thin, firm lips formed to command;
a statue most subduing in its simple dignity and pathetic in its
partial ruin. And all this was free to the world as the air of heaven
almost. No fee for admission; the only requisitions, not to handle,
orderly behaviour, and decent neatness in attire. Here I saw too, when
I ascended the steps between the great bronze groups of statuary as I
entered, and again the last thing as I left, the spiked helmet on the
head of the stiff sentinel always posted at the door.

The German home was affectionate and genial. The American, properly
introduced, was sure of a generous welcome, for it was hard to find
a German who had not many relatives beyond the Atlantic. There were
courteous observances which at first put one a little aback. Sneezing,
for instance, was not a thing that could be done in a corner. If the
family were a bit old-fashioned, you would be startled and abashed
by hearing the "_prosits_" and "_Gesundheits_" from the
company, wishes that it might be for your advantage and health
sonorously given, with much friendly nodding in your direction. This
is a curious survival of an old superstition that sneezing perhaps
opened a passage through which an evil spirit might enter the body.
As you rose from the table it was the old-fashioned way, too, to go
through with a general hand-shaking, and a wish to every one that the
supper might set well. The Germans are long-lived, and almost every
domestic hearthstone supports the easy-chairs of grandparents.
Grandfather was often fresh and cheerful, the oracle and comforter of
the children, treated with deference by those grown up, and presented
to the guest as the central figure of the home. As the younger ones
dropped off to bed and things grew quieter, grandfather's chair was
apt to be the centre toward which all tended, and, of course, the old
man talked about his youth. Here are the reminiscences I heard once at
the end of a merry evening, and at other times I heard something not
unlike: "Children and grandchildren and guest from over the sea, when
I was a boy, Prussia was struggling with the first Napoleon; and
when I was eighteen I marched myself under Blücher beyond the Rhine.
Sometimes we went on the run, sometimes we got lifts in relays of
waggons, and so I have known the infantry even to make now and then
fifty miles a day. Matters were pressing, you see (_sehen Sie
'mal_). At last we crossed at Coblentz, and got from there into
Belgium the first days of June. We met the French at Ligny,--a close,
bitter fight,--and half my battalion were left behind there where they
had stood. We were a few paces off, posted in a graveyard, when the
French cavalry rode over old Marshal Vorwärts, lying under his horse.
I saw the rush of the French, then the countercharge of the Prussian
troopers when missed the General and drove the enemy back till they
found him again; though what it all meant we never knew till it was
over. Then, after mighty little rest, we marched fast and far, with
cannon-thunder in our ears in a constant mutter, always growing
louder, until in the afternoon we came at a quickstep through a piece
of woods out upon the plain by Waterloo, where they had been fighting
all day. Our feet sucked in the damp ground, the wet grain brushed our
knees, as our compact column spread out into more open order and went
into fire. What a smoke there was about La Haye Sainte and Hougomont,
with now lines of red infantry, or a column in dark blue, or a mass
of flashing cuirassiers hidden for a moment, then reappearing! It was
take and give, hot and heavy, for an hour or so about Planchenoit. A
ball grazed my elbow and another went through my cap; but at sunset
the French were broken, and we swept after the rout as well as we
could through the litter, along the southward roads. We were at a halt
for a minute, I remember, when a rider in a chapeau with a plume, and
a hooked nose underneath, trotted up, wrapped in a military cloak,
and somebody said it was Wellington." Grandfather was sure to be at
a white heat before he had finished, and so, too, his audience. The
athletic student grandson, with a deep scar across his cheek from a
_Schläger_ cut, rose and paced the room. The _Fräulien_,
his sister, to whom the retired grenadier has told the story of the
feather-beds at Weimar, showed in her eves she remembered it all.
"Yes, friend American!" breaks in the father of the family, "and it
all must be done over again. Sooner or later it must come, a great
struggle with France; the Latin race or the Teutonic, which shall be
supreme in Europe? We are ready now; arsenals filled, horses waiting,
equipments for everybody. Son Fritz there has his uniform ready, and
somewhere there is one for me. _Donnerwetter_! If they get into
Prussia, they'll find a tough old _Landsturm_! Only let Vater
Wilhelm turn his hand, and to-morrow close upon a million trained and
well-armed troops could be stepping to the drum." It was an evening at
the end of June. Napoleon was having the finishing touches put to the
new Opera House at Paris, thinking, so far as the world could tell,
of nothing more important than how many imperial eagles it would do to
put along the cornice. King William was packing for Ems, designing
to be back at the peaceful unveiling of his father's statue the first
week in August. Bismarck was at his Pomeranian estate, in poor health,
it was said, plotting nothing but to circumvent his bodily trouble.
In less than a month full-armed Prussia was on the march. I could
understand the readiness, when I thought of the spiked helmet I had
seen in the Prussian home that quiet summer night.

The German _Friedhof_, or burying-ground, had never the extent or
magnificence of some American cemeteries. Even near the cities it was
small and quiet, showing, however, in the well-kept mounds and stones
there was no want of care. Every old church, too, was floored with
the memorial tablets of those buried beneath, and bare upon walls and
columns monuments in the taste of the various ages that have come
and gone since the church was built. Graves of famous men, here as
everywhere, were places of pilgrimage, and here as everywhere to
see which are the most honoured tombs, was no bad way of judging the
character of the people. Among the scholars of Germany there have been
no greater names than those of Jakob and Wilhelm Grimm, brothers not
far apart in the cradle, not far apart in death, who lived and worked
together their full threescore years and ten. They were two wonderful
old men, with faces--as I saw them together in a photograph shown me
by Hermann Grimm, the well-known son of Wilhelm--full of intellectual
strength, and yet with the sweetness and innocence of children. They
lie now side by side in the Matthäi Kirchhof at Berlin, in graves
precisely similar, with a lovely rose-bush scattering petals
impartially on the turf above both, and solid twin stones at their
heads, meant to endure apparently as long as their fame. Hither come a
large and various company of pilgrims,--children who love the brothers
Grimm for their fairy-tales, young students who have been kindled by
their example, and grey old scholars who respect their achievements
as the most marvellous work of the marvellous German erudition. The
little North German city, Weimar, is closely associated with the
great literary men of the last hundred years. Here several of them
accomplished their best work under the patronage of an enlightened
duke, and finally found their graves. An atmosphere of reverend
quiet seemed to hang over it as I walked through its shaded
streets,--streets where there is never bustle, and which appear to
be always remembering the great men who have walked in them. In the
burying-ground in the outskirts I found the mausoleum of the ruling
house, a decorated hall of marble with a crypt underneath in which
are the coffins. The members of the Saxe-Weimar family for many
generations are here; the warlike ancestor with his armour rusting on
the dusty lid, grand-duke and duchess, and the child that died before
it attained the coronet. But far more interesting than any of these
are two large plain caskets of oak, lying side by side at the foot of
the staircase by which you descend. In these are the bones of Goethe
and Schiller. The heap of wreaths, some of them still fresh, which lay
on the tops, the number on the coffin of Schiller being noticeably the
larger, showed how green their memory had been kept in the heart of
the nation. I was only one of a great multitude of pilgrims who are
coming always, their chief errand being to see the graves of these
famous dead within the quiet town. In the side of the Schloss Kirche,
in the city of Wittenberg, is an old archway, with pillars carved as
if twisted and with figures of saints overhead, the sharpness of the
cutting being somewhat broken and worn away through time. It is
the doorway which rang loud three hundred years ago to the sound of
Luther's hammer as he nailed up his ninety-five theses. Within the
church, about midway toward the altar and near the wall, the guide
lifts an oaken trap-door and shows you, beneath, the slab which covers
Luther's ashes. Just opposite, in a sepulchre precisely similar, lies
Melancthon, and in the chancel near by, in tombs rather more stately,
the electors of Saxony that befriended the reformers. A spot worthy
indeed to be a place of pilgrimage! attracting not only those who
bless the men, but those who curse them. Charles V. and Alva stood
once on the pavement where the visitor now stands, and the Emperor
commanded the stone to be removed from the grave of Luther. Did the
body turn in its coffin at the violation? It might well have been so,
for never was there fiercer hate. For three centuries the generations
have trooped hitherward, more often drawn in reverence, but sometimes
through very hatred, a multitude too mighty to be numbered. But there
is a grave in Prussia, where, if I mistake not, the pilgrims are
more numerous and the interest, for the average Prussian, deeper than
scholar or poet or reformer call out. The garrison church at Potsdam
has a plain name and is a plain edifice, when one thinks of the
sepulchre it holds. Hung upon the walls are dusty trophies; there are
few embellishments besides. You make your way through the aisles
among the pews where the regiments sit at service, marching from their
barracks close by, then through a door beneath the pulpit enter a
vault lighted by tapers along the wall. Two heavy coffins stand on the
stone floor,--the older one that of Frederick William I., that despot,
partially insane, perhaps, who yet accomplished great things for
Prussia; the other that of his famous son, Frederick the Great, whose
sword cut the path by which Prussia advanced to her vast power. On the
copper lid formerly lay that sword, until the great Napoleon when
he stood there, feeling a twinge of jealousy perhaps over the dead
leader's fame, carried it away with him. Father and son lie quietly
enough now side by side, though their relations in life were stormy.
About the great soldier's sleep every hour rolls the drumbeat from the
garrison close by. The tramp of the columns as they come in to worship
jar the warrior's ashes. The dusky standards captured in the Seven
Years' War droop about him. The hundred intervening years have
blackened them, already singed in the fire of Zorndorf, Leuthen, and
Torgau. The moth makes still larger the rent where the volleys passed.
The spiked helmet is even here among the tombs; and schooled as the
Prussians are among the din of trumpets and smoke of wars, no other
among the mighty graves in their land holds dust, in their thought, so
heroic.

Seven hundred years ago Frederick's ancestor Conrad, the younger son
of a family of some rank, but quite undistinguished, riding down from
the little stronghold of Hohenzollern in Swabia, with nothing but a
good head and arm, won favour with the Emperor Barbarossa and became
at last Burggraf of Nuremberg. I saw the old castle in which this
Conrad lived and his line after him for several generations. It rises
among fortifications the plan for which Albert Dürer drew, with narrow
windows in the thick masonry of the towers, the battlements worn by
the pacing to and fro of sentinels in armour, and an ancient linden in
the court-yard, planted by an empress a thousand years ago it is said,
with as green a canopy to throw over the tourist to-day as it threw
over those old Hohenzollerns. Conrad transmitted to his descendants
his good head and strong arm, until at length becoming masters of
Baireuth and Anspach, they were Margraves and ranked among important
princes. Their seat now was at Culmbach, in the great castle of the
Plessenburg. I saw one May morning the grey walls of the old nest high
on its cliff at the junction of the red and white Main, threatening
still, for it is now a Bavarian prison. The power of the house grew
slowly. In one age it got Brandenburg, in another the great districts
of Ost and West Preussen; now it was possessions in Silesia, now again
territory on the Rhine. Power came sometimes through imperial gift,
sometimes through marriage, sometimes through purchase or diplomacy
or blows. From poor soldiers of fortune to counts, from counts to
princes, from princes to electors, and at last kings. Sometimes
they are unscrupulous, sometimes feeble, sometimes nobly heroic
and faithful; more often strong than weak in brain and hand.
The Hohenzollern tortoise keeps creeping forward in its history,
surpassing many a swift hare that once despised it in the race. I
believe it is the oldest princely line in Europe. There is certainly
none whose history on the whole is better. Margraf George of
Anspach-Baireuth was perhaps the finest character among the Protestant
princes of the Reformation, without whom the good fight could not have
been fought. When Charles V. besieged Metz in the winter (which, with
Lorraine, had just been torn from Germany by the French), and was
compelled by the cold to withdraw, it was a Hohenzollern prince, one
of the first soldiers of the time, who led the rear-guard over ground
which another Hohenzollern, Prince Frederick Charles, has again made
famous. Later, in Frederick the Great, the house furnished one of the
firmest hands that ever held a royal sceptre. His successors have been
men of power.

They are good types of their stock, and Prussia is worthy of the
leadership to which she is advancing. In the cathedral of Speyer stand
the statues of the mighty German Kaisers, who six hundred years ago
wore the purple, and, after their wild battle with the elements of
disorder about them, were buried at last in its crypts. They are
majestic figures for the most part, idealised by the sculptor, and
yet probably not far beyond nature; for the imperial dignity was not
hereditary, but given to the man chosen for it, and the choice was
often a worthy one. They were leaders in character as well as station,
and it is right to give their images the bearing of men strong in war
and council. I felt that if the ancient dignity was to be revived in
our own day, and the sceptre of Barbarossa and Rudolph of Hapsburg to
be extended again over a united Germany, there had been few princes
more worthy to hold it than the modern Hohenzollern.

In speaking of this great people so as to give the best idea of them
in a short space, I have seized on what seemed to me in those days
the most salient thing, and described various phases of their life as
pervaded by it. The fighting spirit was bred in their bones. They were
a nation of warriors almost as much as the Spartans, and stood ready
on the instant to obey the tap of the drum calling to arms. Such
constant suggestions of war were painful. The spiked helmet is never
an amiable head-dress; "but," said the representative Prussian,
"there is no help for it. We have been a weak people wedged in between
powerful unscrupulous neighbours, and have had a life-and-death
struggle to wage almost constantly with one or the other of these, or
all at once. And in what way is our situation different now? Is Russia
less ambitious? How many swords has France beaten into ploughshares?
What pruning-hooks have been made from the spears of Austria? Let
us know on what conditions we can live other than wearing our spiked
helmets, and we will embrace them." It was not an easy matter to argue
down your resolute Prussian when he turned to you warmly, after you
had been crying peace to him.

As I pondered, I thought perhaps it is a necessity, since the world is
what it is, that Europe should still be a place of discord. America,
however, is practically one, not a jarring company of nations
repeating the protracted agony of the Old World. We have no question
of the "balance of power" coming up in every generation, settled only
to be unsettled amid devastation and slaughter. We can grow forward
unhindered, with hardly more than a feather's weight of energy taken
for fighting from the employments of peace. America stands indeed a
nation blessed of God; and there is nothing better worth her while to
pray for than that a happier time may come to her giant brother over
the sea; that the strength of such an arm may not always waste itself
wielding the sword; that the sensibilities of such a heart may not be
crushed or brutalised in carnage that forever repeats itself; that
the noble head may some time exchange the spiked helmet for the olive
chaplet of peace.




CHAPTER V


A STUDENT'S EXPERIENCE IN THE FRANCO-PRUSSIAN WAR

We rememberers lie under certain suspicion. "Uncle Mose," said an
inquirer, his intonation betraying scepticism, "they say you remember
General Washington." "Yaas, Boss," replied Uncle Mose, "I used to
'member Gen'l Washington, but sence I jined de church I done forgot."
Not having joined Uncle Mose's church, my memory has not experienced
the ecclesiastical discouragement that befell him. I humbly trust,
however, it needs no chastening, and aver that I do not go for my
facts to my imagination. I am now in foreign parts dealing with
personages of especial dignity and splendour and must establish my
memory firmly in the reader's confidence.

I was a student in Germany in 1870. In the spring at Berlin, passing
by the not very conspicuous royal palace on Unter den Linden, one day
I studied the front with some interest. The two sentinels stood in the
door saluting with clock-work precision the officers who frequently
passed. A watchful policeman was on the corner, but there was little
other sign that an important personage was within the walls. With some
shock I suddenly caught sight, in a window close at hand, of a tall,
robust figure with a rugged but not ungenial face surmounted by
grizzled hair, in uniform with decorations hanging upon the broad
breast, who, as I glanced up, saluted me with an unlooked-for nod. I
knew at once it was the King of Prussia, who before the year was ended
was to be crowned as Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse at Versailles. I was
thoroughly scared, as I did not know that it was the habit of the King
to stand in the window and good-naturedly greet the passer-by.

That was my first sight of a real king. But there is another figure
which I contemplate with more interest. The 31st of May of 1870 was a
day sent from heaven, brilliant sunshine after a period of cloud; the
spring lording it in the air, the trees and grass in their freshest
luxuriance. I was at Potsdam that day; in the wide-stretching gardens
that surround the New Palace. As I walked, I came to a cord drawn
across the path, indicating that visitors were to go no farther. Close
by stood a tall young grenadier on duty as a sentinel, but willing to
chat. Looking beyond the cord into the reserved space I presently saw
coming up from a secluded path, a low carriage drawn by a pony led by
a groom in which was seated a lady dressed in white. She was not of
distinguished appearance but my grenadier told me that it was the
Crown Princess of Prussia, the daughter of the Queen of England.
From the screen of the bush I watched her with natural interest. The
carriage paused and a group of little boys and girls came running
out from the thicket attended by a governess or two and a tutor. The
little girls had their hands full of flowers, which, running forward,
they threw into the carriage. The boys, too, ran up with pretty
demonstrations, and a straight little fellow of ten years or so
hurried to the groom and began to pat the pony's nose. These, I
learned, were the princes and princesses of the royal family. The
little fellow patting the pony's nose was the eldest and destined to
emerge into history as Kaiser Wilhelm the Second.

And now, from a door of the palace, not far distant, came striding
a notable figure, tall and stalwart, in the undress uniform of a
Prussian General. Under his fatigue cap the blond hair was abundant; a
wave of brown beard swept flown upon his breast. The face was full of
intelligence and authority, but at that moment most kindly as his blue
eyes sought the group that stood in the foreground. It was the Crown
Prince of Prussia, destined at length to be the Emperor Friedrich.
The carriage passed on, the Crown Prince walking, with his hand on the
side, while the Princess held her parasol over his head, laughing at
the idea evidently, that so sturdy a soldier needed that kind of a
screen.

The Crown Prince Friedrich was unpopular in those days as too
domestic, standing too much withdrawn from the bustling world, but
there was no failure when the stress came. Only a few weeks passed
before the stout soldier, whom I had seen throwing lilies and
sheltered from the sun by his wife's parasol, was at the head of
a great army corps, crushing the power of France at Worth and
Weissembourg; but the report was that he had said, "I do not like war,
and if I am ever King I shall never make war."

A few weeks after the Potsdam incident I was in the city of Vienna.
One morning, like thunder out of a clear sky, news came of the
outbreak of the Franco-Prussian war. I read the paper, but, not
feeling that the news need interfere with my sight-seeing, went to the
Hofbourg, the old palace, in the heart of the city, of the Imperial
family of Austria. The building is extensive; the streets of the city
at that time running under it here and there in tunnels. I visited
the _Schatz_ Kammer, the treasure-room, and saw men go almost
demented at the spectacle of the gold and jewels heaped up in the
cases. The sight of the splendour, the heaped-up jewels, the
batons, the faded, and sometimes bloody, garments, the trinkets and
decorations, associated with towering personalities of the past,
attuned my spirit for some adventure above the commonplace. As I came
down into the street, narrow and overhung by the confining arch, a
soldier passed me on the run into an open space just beyond, where
instantly a battalion hurried out to stand at present. Then in the
distance I heard galloping of horses and an open carriage rapidly
approached, in which were seated four figures, protected from the
light rain by grey overcoats, wearing the chapeaux which have come
down from Napoleonic times. The carriage passed so near that I was
obliged to press back against the wall to save my feet from the
wheels, and a figure on the back seat, who, for the moment, was within
arm's reach, I recognised as Francis Joseph.

He was then a man in his best years, a strong, sensible if not
impressive face, and a well-knit frame. He had driven in from
Schönbrunn to attend a council meeting, and the day for him was no
doubt a most critical one. War had come. It was only four years after
Königgrätz. His old enemy, Prussia, was about to hurl herself, with
who could tell what allies, against France. What stand should Austria
take? If the Kaiser was agitated, his face did not show it; it was
significant of quiet, cool poise. Excitement was repressed, while good
sense weighed and determined. Few sovereigns have been obliged to face
so often situations of the utmost difficulty. I can believe that with
similar imperturbability Francis Joseph has confronted the series of
perplexities which make up the tangled story of his long career, and
I count it good fortune that I witnessed, in a moment of supreme
embarrassment, the balance and resolution with which the good ruler
went to his task. Austria, as the world knows, decided that day to be
neutral in the Franco-Prussian quarrel.

The disorder in the land made me feel that I must get nearer to my
base, so I hurriedly left Vienna for Munich, which I found seething
with agitation, for, like Austria, Bavaria had only a few years before
been Prussia's enemy, and so far as the populace was concerned all
was in doubt as to what course would now be taken. The rumour was that
McMahon had crossed the Rhine at Strassburg with 150,000 men, and was
marching to interpose between Northern and Southern Germany.

At the Ober-Pollinger I heard in the inn, amid the stormy discussion
of the crisis, something quite out of harmony with the spirit of the
hour. The first performance was to be given

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