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glish navy, once told me that he had repeatedly had specimens of these animals under observation for months at a time, and that they always had particular spots, generally depressions in rocks, which they regarded as homes, and to which they would always return. Romanes, the English biologist and naturalist, makes a like statement in his "Mental Evolution in Animals."
Ants are, of the entire insect world, probably the most gifted home-finders. Time and again have I tested them in this, sometimes taking them what must have been to these little creatures enormous distances from their nests before freeing them. Of course the ants experimented with were marked, otherwise I could not have watched them
successfully. When an ant is taken into new surroundings and set free, it at first runs here and there and every where. As soon, however, as it regains its equanimity and recovers from its fright, it turns towards home. At first it proceeds slowly, every now and then climbing tall blades of grass and from these high places viewing the surrounding country in search of landmarks. As soon as it arrives among scenes partially familiar to it, it ceases to climb grass-blades or weeds. and accelerates its pace. When it arrives among wellknown and accustomed surroundings it runs along at its utmost speed, and fairly races into its nest.
ment, the cutting with the diamond chisel, and the hand shading of the brush. A genial, grey-haired man had under his brush Stephen dividing his cloak with his sword. While we were admiring the rich coloring, the art workman jocosely said: "'E's not cuttin' 'is cloak in 'alf; the hother won't get 'is good share.". In these stained-glass rooms the signs of work were cheery and inspiring. Often there was the buzz of friendly talk, and the whole fellowship appeared to be one of intelligence and mutual interest, and certainly in that department, these words of Morris have been fulfilled: "This seems to me most important-that our daily and necessary work, which we could not. escape if we would, which we would not forego if we could, should be human, serious, and pleasurable, not machine-like, trivial, or grievous. I call this, not the very foundation of architecture in all senses of the word, but of happiness also in all conditions of life." Amid this glass art work we are pleasantly reminded of the story of Morris's and Burne-Jones's college days together, of their query as to calling in life, since they were both supposed to be destined for the service of the Church, and, finally, of their mutual pledge to devote their lives to art. This comradeship of purpose and work has lasted long years, and many English churches have been abundantly served in these glorious windows.
Next we passed into the mazes of weaving-the plainer rug-weaving, the daintier silk-weaving, and the wonderful tapestry-work. In all these rooms there were simply hand-looms, which moved back and forth with a sort of click-clack of sociability, but with no wearying thunder. There were younger people at the heavier looms where the rugs were growing, but the two places of honor were held by the patriarchs of the art; a greyhaired man who was carrying through his loom the daintiest silk brocade in white and green and gold, and who stopped with the pleasure of the artist
to turn it over that we might see the beautiful imagery of the light side; over by a quiet window sat an old, old lady gently casting her shuttle threaded with pale blue silk, and who smiled when we wondered what fair maiden should be gowned in it. Of this beautiful work, yet possibly monotonous, William Morris writes quite justly: "I do not call the figureweaver's craft a dull one, if he be set to do things which are worth doing; to watch the web growing day by day, almost magically, in anticipation of the time when it is to be taken out, and one can see it on the right side in all its well-schemed beauty, to make something beautiful, that will last, out of a few threads of silk and wool, seems to me not an unpleasant way of earning one's livelihood, so long as one lives and works in a pleasant place, with work-day not too long, and a book or two to be got at."
But, oh! the tapestries! Two looms were bearing these lovely burdens. One picture growing in most delicate tints was a copy of Botticelli's "Spring," this the first time it has ever gone into tapestry, it being the special order of a woman who had long fancied it would well lend itself to being thus wrought. The other was "The Visit of the Magi," this being from Burne-Jones's design, and the third time, I think, it has gone on the Merton Abbey loom. The only discouraging feature of the tapestry-weaving was that these sensitive, quick fingers belonged to men from the Far East, and that it is not yet an English art. Our appreciative guide spoke in honest, rapturous terms of tapestries that during their weaving had lent their beauty to the factory and to all the workers. A series representing the King Arthur legends had been with them seven years. Seemingly they had grown to love them as their life, and now in rich memories their thoughts followed them to the courtly home whither they could not go. I know of no home adornment that Morris writes of with more keen feeling and
love than of wall-hangings.
These are the words in an essay where he is mourning the decadence of the art: "What a noble art it once was! To turn our chamber walls into the green woods of 'the leafy month of June,' populous of bird and beast, or a summer garden with man and maid playing round the fountains, or a solemn procession of the mythical warriors and heroes of old; that surely was worth the trouble of doing, and the money that had to be paid for it; that was no languid acquiescence in an upholsterer's fashion."
The pattern-stamping room seemed quite natural, for there we saw the glorious designs and rich coloring in the cretonnes and velvets and fabrics which American importers have gra ciously made more familiar to us. An old design was slowly growing under the strong and skilful hands of one of these art workers-a design that could easily suggest Mr. Morris's dictum, "The absolute necessities of this art are beauty of color and restfulness of form." It required muscle to carry the copper plate steadily, and perfection of touch to plant it firmly in its proper place. The coloring was in rich golden brown, which the interested stamper told us was the most durable color, it being practically rust! We all know Mr. Morris's love of the Persian designs which reappear with new life under his pencil, in stamped fabrics and in woven stuffs. If we heartily enjoy these gorgeous things, we may partially sympathize with Mr. Morris's feeling about the old Persian workers and designers when he writes: "I believe I am not thinking only of my own pleasure, but of the pleasure of many people, when I praise the usefulness of the lives of these men, whose names are long forgotten, but whose works we still wonder at. In their own way they meant to tell us how the flowers grew in the garden of Damascus, or how the hunt was up on the plains of Kirman, or how the tulips shone among the grass in the Mid-Persian valley, and how their souls delighted in it all, and what joy they had in life; nor did
they fail to make their meaning clear to some of us."
The allied craft of nearly all these arts is that of the dyer, and these pure, ravishing colors we next traced to their abiding-place in the Mertou Abbey vats. Certainly these seemed like magic caldrons! We hear much of the poet's love of color, and this poet's fondness is also ascribed to Morris.
But what other poet, besides feeling color and writing of color, could say, in discussing the niceties of the color craft, as Morris does in such plain workman's prose: “I myself have dyed wool by the self-same process that the Mosaical dyers used!" Mr. Morris rather enjoys color tirades, and, after having delighted in the perfect glasses or wools or fabrics from the factory, or having felt his painstaking care when looking in a vat where the dye had stood for seven years, we can quite easily sympathize with an attack upon the new dyes like this: "The fact is that every one of these colors is hideous in itself, whereas all the old dyes are in themselves beautiful colors-only extreme perversity could make an ugly color out of them. Under these circumstances it must, I suppose, be considered a negative virtue in the new dyes that they are as fugitive as the old ones are stable; but even on that head I will ask you to note one thing that condemns them finally-that whereas the old dyes, when fading, as all colors will do more or less, simply gradually change into paler tints of the same color, and are not unpleasant to look upon, the fading of the new dyes is a change into all kinds of abominable and livid hues. I mention this because otherwise it might be thought that a man with an artistic eye for color might so blend the hideous but bright aniline colors as to produce something at least tolerable; indeed, this is not unfrequently attempted to-day, but with small success, partly from the reason above mentioned, partly because the hues so produced by 'messing about,' as I should call it, have none of the quality or character which the simple drug
gives naturally. In short, this is what it comes to, that it would be better for us, if we cannot revive the now almost lost art of dyeing, to content ourselves with weaving our cloths of the natural color of the fiber, or to buy them colored by less civilized people than ourselves."
The workers in all these crafts, by their goodly occupation, eight-hour working day, and highest wages known in the trade, seem to be realizing, as far as is possible at present, the claims of a decent life as Mr. Morris has himself stated them: “First, a healthy body; second, an active mind in sympathy with the past, the present, and the future; thirdly, occupation fit for a healthy body and an active mind; and, fourthly, a beautiful world to live in."
From "A Visit to William Morris's Factory." By
Rho Fisk Zueblin.
From The Forum.
PARTNERS IN A COMMON PROGRESS. The history of civilization shows that its growth has been attended by slow but steady improvement in the condition of women, and that it may be measured very accurately by this standard. It is often assumed, by those who review this history, that the improvement has been wrung from unwilling men, or granted by generous ones, and that more may be got in the same way. It is also assumed to be not only improvement in the condition of women but progress toward the condition of men, although the one by no means implies the other. I venture to believe that man-the adult male human being-has had little to do with either the "subjection" or the "emancipation" of woman, and that her improvement is only one aspect of that progress of the race in which her share is precisely the same as his.
Primitive man was, no doubt, an ugly, ferocious brute, but there is evidence that primitive woman admired his ferocity and was quite ready to abandon him and follow a more ferocious brute with resignation and even
with exultation. If the woman of the heroic age was in constant danger of life-long slavery under covetous and able-bodied neighbors, her men-folks were, according to the "Odyssey," in no less danger of furnishing a bloody meal for dogs. Any delicate and refined woman of to-day would find the common life of a woman of the Dark Ages unendurable. The women of the Dark Ages were not over-refined, nor. for that matter, were those in the time of good Queen Bess; and the life of either of those periods would be misery and wretchedness to the men of the nineteenth century as well as to the
Those who talk of the subjection of woman to man's dominion, and her emancipation from his tyranny, forget that, during historical times, the whole human race has improved in the virtues of self-restraint and humanity, and that, even if there has as yet been no material progress in disinterested. ness, selfishness has unquestionably become more enlightened and broad minded. Instead of being something wrested from hard-hearted man, the the condition of improvement of woman is only one aspect of that progress which benefits all,—the young, the mature, the aged, women and men, alike. Man has not deliberately worked out his destiny. He has been shaped and controlled by influences of which he has been, for the most part, totally ignorant; influences which are purely natural, shining like the sun on the evil and the good, and descending like rain on the just and the unjust; and woman, like man, has had her part in the whole history of our race. While admitting that the average woman may not be the most admirable or the most useful one, men are tolerably unanimous in the opinion that differences there between the average male mind and the average female mind. They hold woman superior to man in concrete acquaintance with those principles of conduct which are of most general application, and in constitutional aptitude for applying them to special cases,
without deliberation, and, as it were, by instinct; so that she is able to act wisely in the affairs of practical common life without waiting to weigh motives and to compare consequences. In other words woman is held by man to surpass him in intuition.
On the other hand man holds himself superior in power to abstract and to compare, to deliberate, to suspend judgment, to reach new generalizations by the slow process of logical reasoning, and to perceive these generalizations in their pure and native light, free from all practical complications. By these means he is able to extend the domain of mind over nature and to escape competition by opening new fields for action. He believes he Las especial aptitude for winning his way in the field where bold and aggressive qualities count. He takes upon himself the task of challenging competition by striking out into new lines; and he believes he excels woman in power to discern the laws of thought, of society, and of the material universe, and in ability to make these discoveries the basis of conduct, and thus to widen the sphere of human activity. Where intuitions, instincts, emotions, and past experience furnish no guide to conduct, he believes his judgment is better than hers. His power to originate and to generalize from new experiences fits him for success in occupations where competition is fiercest; where marked success depends upon the addition to the knowledge and skill of his rivals of the inventiveness which gives him advantage over them.
If women wish to abandon the domain which he considers more properly their own, and to compete with him, they should have a fair field, but they can expect no favor. If they are driven to the wall they may, if they choose, attribute their "subjection" and his success to his big lungs and muscles, and to his brutal energy of body and mind, rather than to any difference of mental quality,- but the result will be the same.
From "Woman from the Standpoint of a Natural
ist." By Dr. W. K. Brooks.
VICTOR HUGO AND SAINTE-BEUVE.
24th December, . You do well to write to me, my friend; you do well, for the sake of all of us. My wife and I read your letters together, and we speak often of you with deep affection. The days you remind me of are very dear to me. Do you think they will never return? I hope they will. There! it will always be a pleasure to me to see you, a pleasure to write to you. There are only two or three things really worth having in life, and friendship is one of them. But let us write to each other, and often. Our hearts are still keeping up their intercourse. There is no breach between us.
[Sunday, 13th March, 1831]. I did not see you last night, my friend, and I was really sorry for it. have so much to say to you, so much to tell you about the pain you are giving me, so many heartfelt requests to make to you, my friend, for your own sake, Sainte-Beuve, whom I love more than myself. I want so much to hear you say that you love me still, to be able to believe it, that I must go and see you some of these days, and have a long, unreserved, and affectionate talk with you about all this. Does it not sometimes strike you that you may be Oh! I implore you, wrong, my friend? do not get this idea into your head; it is, perhaps, the only remaining hold I have over you. We will talk about it, will we not?
Now to unimportant matters.
Will you take "Notre-Dame de Paris" in hand? Do you still think you need not cut it up too much; for if it is to be 602 LIVING AGE. VOL. XII.
cut up, I had rather it was not done by you. If so, put a short paragraph in the Globe, to-morrow or the next day, with a notice that the book will appear on Wednesday. I have told Gosselin to send you one of the first copies. You will read it, won't you? And then you will tell me quite frankly if you think you can review it; and one of these days I will go and write in your copy that I always am, have been, and shall be, your best friend,
Friday, 18th March, 1831.
My Friend, I did not wish to write to you with the impression made by your letter fresh in my mind. It was too sad and too bitter. I should have been unjust in my turn. I wanted to wait for a few days. To-day, at all events, I am calm, and I can read your letter again without reopening too widely the deep wound it gave me. I must tell you, I did not think that what has passed between us, what is known to us alone, could ever be forgotten, especially by you, by the Sainte-Beuve that I have known. Oh, yes! I say it with greater sorrow for you than for myself, you are very different from what you were. You must remember, if your new friends have not made even the shadow of your old ones fade from your mind, you must remember what passed between us in the most painful moment of my life, when I had to choose between her and you; recollect what I said to you, what I proposed to you, what I offered to you with the firm resolution, as you know, of keeping my promise, and doing what you wished. Recollect all this, and then reflect that you have just written to me that I showed a want of openness, of confidence, and of sincerity towards you in this matter. This is what you brought yourself to write hardly three months afterwards. I forgive you from this moment. Perhaps a day will come when you will not forgive yourself for it.
Your friend still, in spite of yourself, ́ V. H.