what_sharply: "And do you not think, Mr. Carlyle, that as much genius can be shown in the handling of cavalry as in the writing of books? "` "Well," he said, “there is something in that." So I went on to expound to him what General Jacob had taught me about the fifteen campaigns of Hannibal, the battle of Dunbar, where the Lord delivered the enemy into the hand of Cromwell, and the letter of Hyder Ali to the English general. I concluded by referring to the battle of Rossbach, where Seidlitz, in command of the cavalry, repeatedly refused to obey the order of the king to charge until the right moment arrived, when he forthwith swept the foe from the field. Mr. Carlyle looked interested, but said nothing. When "The History of Frederick the Great" appeared, however, I was amused to find that Seidlitz and Ziethen had become great cavalry commanders, and that no mention was made of "famous gallopers." The thoughts of an age are the heritage of the age in common; but he who, passing those thoughts through the alembic of his own carpet of exquisite color and texture, and resolved to carry both of them with me through Afghanistan and Beloochistan for transmission to Cheyne Row. These articles, in fact, formed my only luggage, besides what was contained in my saddlebags. The robe and rug reached Mr. Carlyle in due course, and many years afterwards my friend Miss F. told me that he had placed the little carpet under his writing-table in the upper chamber, and that the camel's-hair robe had been turned into a sort of dressing-gown, and used by him to the end of his life. She added, that it was this robe in which the late Sir Edgar Boehm had enveloped Carlyle's sitting figure, now placed in the Chelsea Gardens, and that the little carpet had been taken by Carlyle in a fit of tenderness to the dressing-table of his wife. Recalling these statements, I remember the fable of the earthen vessel which an Oriental picked out of the stream, and, bringing it to his nostrils addressed it: "Why, you must be made of roses.' "No," replied the vessel, "I am only an earthen pot; but I used to hold rose-genius, reproduces them in language leaves, and still keep their scent." But I have omitted to mention two remnants of conversation; one related to Miss Martineau, who had been extremely kind to me when in London, honoring me by correspondence, and associating my name with her contributions to the Daily News. Asking Mr. Carlyle his estimate of her genius, and alluding in particular to her able summary of the Positive Philosophy, he paused for a moment, and then said slowly, "Well, she is the sort of a woman that would have made a good matron in a hospital." I did not continue the subject. The other conversation related to Frederick the Great, whose history he was then writing. He explained that his view of Frederick was that he found himself set to govern a country with a simply insufferable frontier, and that Frederick had therefore, by the only possible means, namely, drilled force, resolved to render his frontier a tolerable one, and moderately secure against surrounding enemies. I asked him what he thought of Frederick's cavalry generals, Seidlitz and Ziethen. "Well," he said, "they were just famous gallopers." Now this was, perhaps, the only subject upon which my philosopher and guide could have roused me into contradiction. But fresh from my cavalry general, and imbued with all his lessons concerning the cavalry genius of Hannibal, Cromwell, Hyder Ali, and others, I rejoined some which men will not willingly let die, stamps the age with his image and superscription, and his works shine on through a long posterity. It was thus that Shakespeare, chancing to light on an old and unknown sonnet, turned it, by a stroke of his pen, into the deathless lines now inscribed below his statue in Westminster Abbey: "Style gives immortality." After many years I again returned from the East, and again met Carlyle, but he seemed to me an altered man. The enthusiasm was gone, and he appeared to take less interest in men and in affairs. The last time I saw him he was passing into the London Library. He looked aged, bent, and hopelessly sad; the wreck of a long and of a well-spent life. I lifted my hat to him, but he did not seem really to recognize me, and so he disappeared into the library, and not long after, through death, into eternity. I am told that in his last hours he repeated Garth's lines: To die is landing on some silent shore, Where billows never break nor tempests roar; Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 'tis o'er. But this is hearsay; and it is not thus that my mind's eye beholds him. I prefer to imagine those dreamily intent eyes regarding us from eternity's stillness, for death is not a curtain with a skull behind it. As to his books, I find that Carlyle's writings still survive, and that some among them are more than ever read by the people. His later efforts never attracted me, and it irritates my flesh to read through "Frederick; " but England is now realiz ing much that was predicted in "Past and Present." His "Sartor" has appeared like a new revelation, and his "Hero Worship" has taught many a young trifler to become earnest in thought and courageous in work. His essays influenced the lives of many, for he knew how to lift and cheer the existence of another, although he was incapable of rendering his own life cheerful. Emerson said of him that he was a "marvellous child." Still more recently I was invited by some friends to look over Carlyle's old dwelling-place. Arriving at the door, I found the number changed, and panes of glass smashed in the dining-room window. Inside the house was desolate and bare; its rooms quite mute; its tenants passed away. In the drawing-room I whispered to my friend, "I see things here you cannot see; he sat there; " and there between the windows stood the little couch on which she rested with her pet dog. Passing into the back room, a druggist's bottle stood on the mantelpiece labelled, for Mrs. Carlyle, and half-filled with medicine, which she will never take. Looking out of the window, the little garden had all gone astray, and the walls stared emptily on one another. I turned from the scene as one turns from the ambitions of life on finding at last what folly they are. Still Carlyle, though dead, yet speaketh, and his works do follow him Onward, upward, his soul's flight, From Temple Bar. AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF GOUNOD. CHRISTMAS eve, many, many years ago. It had been bitterly cold all day, and towards night a white mist had risen from the turbid, swollen river, wrapping its banks and the streets abutting on it in a semi-opaque cloud that shed weird, fantastic shadows on the familiar landmarks and objects all round, and transformed them into so many ghoul-like, uncouth monsters, startling the belated wayfarers and causing them to hurry on towards the wished-for haven - home. The clock of Notre-Dame had just boomed forth eight strokes, but the sound fell with a dull thud upon the air and scarcely roused an echo. All but the main thoroughfares leading southward from the Seine were deserted, and in the long, narrow Rue Mazarine, behind the Institute of France, there were not a dozen people abroad. The few that were paid no attention whatsoever to a tall old man who was dragging himself painfully along towards the quay, standing still now and then to indulge in a prolonged shiver, because, apparently, he had not the strength to shiver and to be moving at the same time. He leant heavily on a thick stick while his left arm held closely pressed against his body an oblong object wrapped in a chequered cotton handkerchief. He was but thinly clad, in fact, he represented the shorn human creature to whom, unlike to the lamb under similar conditions, the wind was not tempered. A pair of summer trousers, and a threadbare coat, buttoned up to the chin, prob. ably to hide the absence of linen, were all the armor against the raw, icy moisture that fell from above and trickled profusely down his flowing white beard and hair, the latter crowned by a broadbrimmed soft hat pulled over the eyes, as a means, perhaps, to escape recognition, though recognition, Heaven knows, would perhaps have been the best thing that could have befallen him. When the old man got to the riverside, he stood for a moment undecided, then crossed the Pont-des-Arts, looking neither to the right nor left; maybe, the water would have proved too strong a temptation to lie down and "have done with it," and he would not yield to it. Entering by the southern gate, he made his way across the Place du Carrousel and the maze of illsmelling slums which in those days separated the Tuileries from the Palais-Royal, and at last found himself in the centre of fashionable Paris, for half a century ago the erstwhile residence of Cardinals Richelieu and Mazarin could still lay claim to that title. He seemed fairly dazzled by the lights, the bustle of the crowd, "on enjoyment bent," and made the turn of the gardens several times, apparently unable or afraid to come to a decision. In another moment, however, he stopped in the Fountain's Court under a wooden awning at the angle of that busy passage. He firmly planted his back against the wall, put his stick within reach of him, and began undoing the parcel he had carried under his left arm. It contained a violin and its bow. Having examined its strings, he carefully folded his handkerchief in four, placed it on his left shoulder and began to tune his instrument. But at the first notes of the sad and sentimental romance he endeavored to play, the poor feilow himself stood aghast, while a couple of irreverential urchins whom the sound had attracted to the spot, set up a derisive howl and belabored him with merciless chaff. He stopped short and sank down on the steps of the alley, his instrument on his knees, murmuring to himself: "Great God! I can no longer play," while a big sob choked all further utterance. He had been sitting thus for several minutes, when at the other end of the passage there entered a party of three young men who were evidently in high spirits, for they sang as they went; they sang a ditty very popular in those days with the students of the Conservatoire de Musique. They did not see the old fiddler, for one stumbled against his outstretched leg, and a second almost knocked his hat off his head, while the third positively drew back startled as the old man rose proudly, but despondingly, to his feet. "I am sure, we are very sorry, monsieur, and beg your pardon, but we did not see you. I hope we did not hurt you?" Isaid the latter. "No, you did not hurt me," was the answer while the speaker stooped to pick up his hat; but his interlocutor was too quick for him, and handed it to him. Then, and then only, he noticed the instrument in the old man's hands. "You are a musician, monsieur?" he said deferentially. "I was so once," sighed the old man, while two big tears coursed down his wrinkled cheeks; seeing which the three young men came closer to him. "What is the matter?" they asked all at once. "Do you feel ill, and can we do anything for you?" For a moment the old man preserved a deep silence, then, with a look that would have melted a heart of stone, held out his hat to them. "Give me a trifle for the love of God," he whispered softly. "I can no longer earn my living with my instrument; my fingers have become stiff, and my daughter is dying of consumption and want." This time it was the young fellows' turn to be silent. Confusion was written on their faces, and for the first time in their lives perhaps, they felt ashamed, nay, angry at being poor. They all fumbled in their pockets, but the result of their investigations was lamentable; the combined capital of two was sixteen sous, the third only produced a small cube of rosin, with out which the violinist scarcely ever stirs abroad. They kept looking at one another for a few moments, then one spoke up. 66 Sixteen sous is of no use, friends; we want more, much more than that to relieve our fellow-artist. A pull, and a strong pull all together. You, Adolphe, take the violin and accompany Gustave, while I go round with the hat." In the twinkling of an eye the preparations for carrying out the project are finished; coat-collars are turned up, the hair is brought over the features to disguise them, and to make detection still more difficult, hats are tilted forward to conceal the eyes. Then the young fellow who has been the prime mover in the whole, gives the signal to start. "It is Christmas eve, Adolphe," he says, "and remember that at this performance the Almighty is as likely to be among the audience as not. So do your very best." And Adolphe does his very best, assuredly; for scarcely have the first notes of the "Carnaval de Venise "fallen upon the air than every window round about is flung wide open, disclosing eager listeners, while below in the galleries and gardens of the Palais-Royal, the passers-by stop as if rooted to the spot or else retrace their steps to swell the serried group slowly gathering round the performer. And when the last notes have died away, there is a frantic shout of approval, while the hat of the old man, placed by the lamppost is rapidly filling, not only with copper but with silver coins also. The three young fellows do not allow the excitement to cool; in another moment the strains of the violin are heard again, but now they accompany a voice of mar-. vellous sweetness, compass, and puritythat of Gustave, who sings the favorite cavatina from "La Dame Blanche" in such a manner as to keep his listeners spell-bound. Meanwhile the audience has assumed unwonted proportions, and when the singer has finished, it positively "rains money," which the promoter of the entertainment has all his work to pick up. But he is determined that the harvest shall be a good one, and shielding his face as much as possible from the now very interested gaze of his public, he continues his collection. "One more tune," he whispers to his companions, "and then we have done. You, Adolphe, while accompanying us, testifying their approval, had given without stint, and when the chequered handkerchief was tremblingly unfolded to receive the contents of the hat, the old man stood speechless with surprise and joy. Then he gasped : bring out those bass-notes of yours; I'll fresco entertainment and merely bent upon take the baritone part, and you, Gustave, my brave tenor, give us some more of your angel's strains. The heavens will open and the larks drop ready-roasted into the old man's mouth. Let us have the trio from 'Guillaume Tell' to finish up with; and, mind, we are singing for the honor of the Conservatoire as well as for a charitable purpose." There was no need of the reminder, the artistic spirit of the young fellows had been aroused already, and though the attendant circumstances of their performance were strange some might have said humiliating-they sang and played as probably they never sang and played in after life, when the most critical of European audiences hung upon their lips and instrument; they sang and played so as to galvanize into life the old man himself, who in the beginning had remained seated on the steps, but who now grasped his stick and led the trio with an authoritative gesture that bespoke the practised musician. He stood perfectly erect, the eyes so dull and listless but half an hour ago, flashed with intense excitement, he looked transformed, and the executants themselves felt that they were obeying a mas ter. The performance was at an end, the crowd slowly dispersed not without comments. "They are not street players," said some, "their voices are too fresh for that." "Street players," replied others, "of course they are not, they have done this for a wager, or perhaps they were hard up, and wanted a good lump sum for their Christmas supper." "Well, they have got it," said a third section, "that hat contains a great deal more money than we think. I saw two different gentlemen throw in a gold piece." . It was true; the hat contained a comparatively large sum; the well-to-do and critical among the andience, not stopping to enquire the hidden motives of the al "Your names; give me your names, that I may bless them on my death-bed; that my daughter may remember them in her prayers.' "My name is Faith," said the first young man. My name is Hope," said the second. "My name is Charity," said the third, who had looked to the financial success of the undertaking. "And you do not even know mine," sobbed the old man. "I might have been the merest impostor. My name is Chapner; I am an Alsatian, and for ten years I directed the orchestra of the opera at Strassburg. It is there I had the honor to mount Guillaume Tell.' Since I left my native country, misfortune has pursued me. You have saved mine and my daughter's life, for, thanks to you, we'll be able to go back. My daughter will recover her health in her native air, and among those I know there will be found a place for me, to teach what I can no longer perform. But I tell you, you shall be great among the greatest, when I am gone." "Amen," said the three young fellows as they led the old musician gently into the street and shook hands with him for the last time. But in spite of their attempted disguise, they had been recognized by one of the crowd, who told the tale. The name of the young violinist was Adolphe Hermann; that of the tenor was Gustave Roger, and the originator of the entertainment and collector still answers to that of Charles Gounod. The old man's prophecy has been fulfilled to the letter. ALBERT D. VANDAM. A HINDOO'S ELABORATE PURIFICATION. at one hundred and eighty rupees, and after Naaman would not have objected to this that in wheat. After the weighing he was method of purification as too simple. A made to sit on a square stone and his body Fyzabad Hindoo who had been outcasted for covered with dirt, the face only excepted; he the offence of eating cooked food in a rail- was then taken up by two men and thrown way train while there were persons of other into the river, and after a good bath he came castes in the same carriage with him has out and was received by the Brahmins, fully been restored to caste. The erring individ-restored to caste fellowship. The Brahmins ual, although not a wealthy man, had sufficient means to pay the cost of purification. He was first weighed in pice, and was valued informed the purified individual that a great favor had been conferred on him in weighing him in copper instead of silver. For EIGHT DOLLARS remitted directly to the Publishers, the LIVING AGE will be punctually forwarded for a year, free of postage. Remittances should be made by bank draft or check, or by post-office money-order, if possible. If neither of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks, and money-orders should be made payable to the order of LITTELI. & Co. Single copies of the LIVING AGE, 18 cents. |
