It
was 'The Lerouge Affair,' but it did not even under newspaper cir-
cumstances find any considerable favor until it caught the eye of the
astute Millaud, the founder of the Petit Journal.
was 'The Lerouge Affair,' but it did not even under newspaper cir-
cumstances find any considerable favor until it caught the eye of the
astute Millaud, the founder of the Petit Journal.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v11 - Fro to Gre
Just so
the legends which are the subjects of pictures, the profound myths
which are represented in the antique marbles, amaze and revolt
him; as, indeed, such things need to be judged of by another
standard than that of the Connecticut Blue Laws. He criticizes
severely pictures, feeling quite sure that his natural senses are
better means of judgment than the rules of connoisseurs,-not
feeling that to see such objects mental vision as well as fleshly
eyes are needed, and that something is aimed at in art beyond
the imitation of the commonest forms of nature. This is Jona-
than in the sprawling state, the booby truant, not yet aspiring
enough to be a good schoolboy. Yet in his folly there is a
meaning; add thought and culture to his independence, and he
will be a man of might: he is not a creature without hope, like
the thick-skinned dandy of the class first specified.
## p. 6126 (#96) ############################################
6126
SARAH MARGARET FULLER
1
I
The artists form a class by themselves. Yet among them,
though seeking special aims by special means, may also be found
the lineaments of these two classes, as well as of the third, of
which I am now to speak.
This is that of the thinking American, a man who, recog-
nizing the immense advantage of being born to a new world and
on a virgin soil, yet does not wish one seed from the past to be
lost. He is anxious to gather and carry back with him every
plant that will bear a new climate and new culture. Some will
dwindle; others will attain a bloom and stature unknown before.
He wishes to gather them clean, free from noxious insects, and
to give them a fair trial in his new world. And that he may
know the conditions under which he may best place them in that
new world, he does not neglect to study their history in this.
—
The history of our planet in some moments seems so pain-
fully mean and little,—such terrible bafflings and failures to com-
pensate some brilliant successes; such a crushing of the mass of
men beneath the feet of a few, and these too often the least
worthy; such a small drop of honey to each cup of gall, and in
many cases so mingled that it is never one moment in life
purely tasted; above all, so little achieved for humanity as a
whole, such tides of war and pestilence intervening to blot out
the traces of each triumph,- that no wonder if the strongest
soul sometimes pauses aghast; no wonder if the many indolently
console themselves with gross joys and frivolous prizes. Yes!
those men are worthy of admiration, who can carry this cross
faithfully through fifty years; it is a great while for all the
agonies that beset a lover of good, a lover of men; it makes a
soul worthy of a speedier ascent, a more productive ministry in
the next sphere. Blessed are they who ever keep that portion of
pure, generous love with which they began life! How blessed
those who have deepened the fountains, and have enough to
spare for the thirst of others! Some such there are; and feeling
that, with all the excuses for failure, still only the sight of those
who triumph gives a meaning to life or makes its pangs endura-
ble, we must arise and follow.
## p. 6127 (#97) ############################################
SARAH MARGARET FULLER
6127
A CHARACTER SKETCH OF CARLYLE
LETTER TO R. W. EMERSON
From Memoirs': Paris,
1846
ENJOYED the time extremely [in London]. I find myself much.
in my element in European society. It does not indeed come
up to my ideal, but so many of the incumbrances are cleared
away that used to weary me in America, that I can enjoy a
freer play of faculty, and feel, if not like a bird in the air, at
least as easy as a fish in water.
"
Of the people I saw in London, you will wish me to speak
first of the Carlyles. Mr. Carlyle came to see me at once, and
appointed an evening to be passed at their house. That first
time I was delighted with him. He was in a very sweet
humor,-full of wit and pathos, without being overbearing or
oppressive. I was quite carried away with the rich flow of his
discourse; and the hearty, noble earnestness of his personal being
brought back the charm which once was upon his writing, before
I wearied of it. I admired his Scotch, his way of singing his
great
full sentences, so that each one was like the stanza of a
narrative ballad. He let me talk, now and then, enough to free
my lungs and change my position, so that I did not get tired.
That evening he talked of the present state of things in England,
giving light, witty sketches of the men of the day, fanatics and
others, and some sweet, homely stories he told of things he had
known of the Scotch peasantry. Of you he spoke with hearty
kindness; and he told with beautiful feeling a story of some
poor farmer or artisan in the country, who on Sunday lays aside.
the cark and care of that dirty English world, and sits reading
the Essays and looking upon the sea.
<
of a <
The second time, Mr. Carlyle had a dinner party, at which
was a witty, French, flippant sort of a man, named Lewes, author
History of Philosophy,' and now writing a life of Goethe,
a task for which he must be as unfit as irreligion and sparkling
shallowness can make him. But he told stories admirably, and
was allowed sometimes to interrupt Carlyle a little,-of which
was glad, for that night he was in his acrid mood; and
though much more brilliant than on the former evening, grew
wearisome to me, who disclaimed and rejected almost everything
he said.
one
## p. 6128 (#98) ############################################
6128
SARAH MARGARET FULLER
Accustomed to the infinite wit and exuberant richness of his
writings, his talk is still an amazement and a splendor scarcely
to be faced with steady eyes. He does not converse, only
harangues. It is the usual misfortune of such marked men,-
happily not one invariable or inevitable,— that they cannot allow
other minds room to breathe and show themselves in their atmos-
phere, and thus miss the refreshment and instruction which the
greatest never cease to need from the experience of the humblest.
Carlyle allows no one a chance, but bears down all opposition,
not only by his wit and onset of words, resistless in their sharp-
ness as so many bayonets, but by actual physical superiority,—
raising his voice and rushing on his opponent with a torrent of
sound. This is not in the least from unwillingness to allow free-
dom to others. On the contrary, no man would more enjoy a
manly resistance in his thoughts. But it is the impulse of a
mind accustomed to follow out its own impulse, as the hawk its
prey, and which knows not how to stop in the chase.
Carlyle indeed is arrogant and overbearing; but in his arro-
gance there is no littleness, no self-love. It is the heroic arro-
gance of some old Scandinavian conqueror; it is his nature, and
the untamable impulse that has given him power to crush the
dragons. He sings rather than talks. He
pours upon you a
kind of satirical, heroical, critical poem, with regular cadences,
and generally catching up, near the beginning, some singular
epithet which serves as a refrain when his song is full, or with
which, as with a knitting-needle, he catches up the stitches, if he
has chanced now and then to let fall a row. For the higher
kinds of poetry he has no sense, and his talk on that subject is
delightfully and gorgeously absurd. He sometimes stops a min-
ute to laugh at it himself, then begins anew with fresh vigor; for
all the spirits he is driving before him as Fata Morgana, ugly
masks, in fact, if he can but make them turn about; but he
laughs that they seem to others such dainty Ariels. His talk,
like his books, is full of pictures; his critical strokes masterly.
Allow for his point of view, and his survey is admirable. He is a
large subject. I cannot speak more or wiselier of him now, nor
needs it; his works are true, to blame and praise him,- the
Siegfried of England, great and powerful, if not quite invul-
nerable, and of a might rather to destroy evil than legislate for
good.
## p. 6129 (#99) ############################################
6129
THOMAS FULLER
(1608-1661)
HE fragrance which surrounds the writings of Thomas Fuller
seems blended of his wit, his quaint worldliness, his sweet
Ce and happy spirit. The after-glow of the dazzling day of
Shakespeare and his brotherhood rests upon the pages of this divine.
In Fuller the world-spir
the world-spirit of the Elizabethan dramatists becomes
urbanity, the mellow humor of the dweller in the town. Too well
satisfied with the kindly comforts of life to agonize over humanity
and the eternal problems of existence, Fuller, although a Church of
England clergyman, was no less a cavalier
at heart than the most jaunty follower of
King Charles. He had not the intensity
of nature which characterizes the theolo-
gian by the grace of God. His Holy and
Profane State,' his 'Good Thoughts in
Bad Times,' and 'Good Thoughts in Worse
Times,' evidence a comfortable and reason-
able reliance on the Unseen; but they will
not be read for their spiritual insight so
much as for their well-seasoned and de-
lightful English. That quaint and fragrant
style of his lends charm even to those pas-
sages in which his thought is commonplace.
THOMAS FULLER
It is in Thomas Fuller the historian and biographer, that poster-
ity recognizes a man of marked intellectual power. His scholarship
is exhibited in such a work as the Church History of Britain'; his
peculiar faculty for happy description in the Worthies of England. '
Fuller was fitted by temperament and training to be a recorder of
his own country and countrymen. His life was spent upon his island;
his love was fastened upon its places and its people. Born the same
year as Milton, 1608, the son of a clergyma of the same name as
his own, he was from boyhood both a scholar and an observer of men
and things. His education at Cambridge fostered his love of books.
His subsequent incumbency of various comfortable livings afforded
him opportunities for close acquaintance with the English world of
his day, and especially with its "gentry. " By birth, education, and
inclination, Fuller was an aristocrat. During the civil war he took
the side of King Charles, to whose stately life and mournful death
he has devoted the last volume of his great work, the History of
XI-384
## p. 6130 (#100) ###########################################
6130
THOMAS FULLER
the Church of Britain. '
Under the Protectorate, the genial priest
and man of the world found himself in an alien atmosphere. Like
many others in Anglican orders, he was "silenced" by the sour Puri-
tan authorities, but was permitted to preach again in London by the
grace of Cromwell. He was subsequently appointed chaplain to
Charles II. , but did not live long after the Restoration, dying of a
fever in 1661.
An early instance of modern scholarship is found in the histories
written by Thomas Fuller. Being by nature an antiquarian, he was
not inclined to find his material at second hand. He went back
always to the earliest sources for his historical data. It is this fact
which gives their permanent value to the History of the Church of
Britain' and to the History of the Holy War. ' These works bear
witness to wide and patient research, to a thorough sifting of mate-
rial. The antiquarian spirit displayed in them loses some of its
scholarly dignity, and takes on the social humor of the gossip, in the
'Worthies of England. ' Fuller's other writings may be of more
intrinsic value, but it is through the Worthies' that he is remem-
bered and loved. The book is rich in charm. It is as quaint as an
ancient flower garden, where blooms of every sort grow in lavish
tangle. He considers the counties of England, one by one, telling of
their physical characteristics, of their legends, of their proverbs, of
the princely children born in them, of the other "Worthies" - schol-
ars, soldiers, and saints who have shed lustre upon them. Fuller
gathered his material for this variegated record from every quarter
of his beloved little island. As a chaplain in the Cavalier army, he
had many opportunities of visiting places and studying their people.
As an incumbent of country parishes, he would listen to the ram-
blings of the old women of the hamlets, for the sake of discovering
in their talk some tradition of the country-side, or some quaint bit
of folk-lore. He writes of the strange, gay, sad lives of princely
families as familiarly as he writes of the villagers and townsfolk.
Sometimes an exquisite tenderness lies like light upon his record, as
in this, of the little Princess Anne, daughter to Charles I. :—
-
SHE was a very pregnant lady above her years, and died in her infancy,
when not fully four years old. Being minded by those about her to call upon
God even when the pangs of death were upon her, "I am not able," saith she,
"to say my long prayer" (meaning the Lord's Prayer), "but I will say my
short one, Lighten mine eyes, O Lord, lest I sleep the sleep of death. >>>
This done, the little lamb gave up the ghost.
Because of passages like these, Thomas Fuller will always be
numbered among those writers who, irrespective of their rank in the
world of letters, awaken a deep and lasting affection in the hearts of
their readers.
## p. 6131 (#101) ###########################################
THOMAS FULLER
6131
THE KING'S CHILDREN
From The Worthies of England'
K
ATHERINE, fourth daughter to Charles the First and Queen
Mary, was born at Whitehall (the Queen mother then being
at St. James), and survived not above half an hour after
her baptizing; so that it is charity to mention her, whose memory
is likely to be lost, so short her continuance in this life,- the
rather because her name is not entered, as it ought, into the
register of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields; as indeed none of the King's
children, save Prince Charles, though they were born in that
parish. And hereupon a story depends.
I am credibly informed that at the birth of every child of
kings born at Whitehall or St. James's, full five pounds were
ever faithfully paid to some unfaithful receivers thereof, to record
the names of such children in the register of St. Martin's. But
the money being embezzled (we know by some, God knows by
whom), no memorial is entered of them. Sad that bounty should
betray any to baseness, and that which was intended to make
them the more solemnly remembered should occasion that they
should be more silently forgotten! Say not, "Let the children.
of mean persons be written down in registers: kings' children
are registers to themselves;" or, "All England is a register to
them; » for sure I am, this common confidence hath been the
cause that we have been so often at a loss about the nativities
and other properties of those of royal extraction.
A LEARNED LADY
From The Worthies of England'
M
ARGARET MORE. -Excuse me, reader, for placing a lady among
men and learned statesmen. The reason is because of
her unfeigned affection to her father, from whom she
would not willingly be parted (and from me shall not be), either
living or dead.
She was born in Bucklersburie in London at her father's
house therein, and attained to that skill in all learning and lan-
guages that she became the miracle of her age. Foreigners
## p. 6132 (#102) ###########################################
6132
THOMAS FULLER
took such notice thereof that Erasmus hath dedicated some epis-
tles unto her. No woman that could speak so well did speak so
little; whose secrecy was such, that her father intrusted her with
his most important affairs.
Such was her skill in the Fathers that she corrected a de-
praved place in Cyprian; for where it was corruptly written
"Nisi vos sinceritas" she amended it "Nervos sinceritas. " Yea,
she translated Eusebius out of Greek; but it was never printed,
because J. Christopherson had done it so exactly before.
She was married to William Roper of Eltham in Kent, Esquire,
one of a bountiful heart and plentiful estate. When her father's
head was set up on London Bridge, it being suspected it would
be cast into the Thames to make room for divers others (then
suffering for denying the King's supremacy), she bought the head
and kept it for a relic (which some called affection, others reli-
gion, others superstition in her), for which she was questioned
before the Council, and for some short time imprisoned until she
had buried it; and how long she herself survived afterwards is to
me unknown.
HENRY DE ESSEX, STANDARD-BEARER TO HENRY II.
From The Worthies of England'
I
T HAPPENED in the reign of this King, there was a fierce battle
fought in Flintshire in Coleshall, between the English and
Welsh, wherein this Henry de Essex, animum et signum simul
abjecit,-betwixt traitor and coward,-cast away both his courage
and banner together, occasioning a great overthrow of English.
But he that had the baseness to do, had the boldness to deny,
the doing of so foul a fact, until he was challenged in combat
by Robert de Momford, a knight, eye-witness thereof, and by
him overcome in a duel. Whereupon his large inheritance was
confiscated to the King, and he himself, partly thrust, partly
going, into a convent, hid his head in a cowl, under which,
between shame and sanctity, he blushed out the remainder of
his life.
## p. 6133 (#103) ###########################################
THOMAS FULLER
6133
TH
THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER
From The Holy and Profane State>
ERE is scarcely any profession in the commonwealth more
necessary, which is so slightly performed. The reasons
any
whereof I conceive to be these: First, young scholars make
this calling their refuge; yea, perchance before they have taken
degree in the university, commence schoolmasters in the
country, as if nothing else were required to set up this profes-
sion but only a rod and a ferula. Secondly, others who are able
use it only as a passage to better preferment, to patch the rents
in their present fortune, till they can provide a new one and
betake themselves to some more gainful calling. Thirdly, they
are disheartened from doing their best with the miserable reward
which
in some places they receive, being masters to their child-
ren and slaves to their parents. Fourthly, being grown rich,
they grow negligent, and scorn to touch the school but by the
proxy of the usher. But see how well our schoolmaster behaves
himself.
He
studieth his scholars' natures as carefully as they were
books,
and ranks their dispositions into several forms. And
though it may seem difficult for him in a great school to descend
to all
make
particulars, yet experienced schoolmasters may quickly
a grammar of boys' natures, and reduce them all-saving
some few exceptions—to these general rules:—
I.
Those that are ingenious and industrious.
The conjunc-
tion of two such planets in a youth presages much good unto
him.
To such a lad a frown may be a whipping, and a whip-
ping a
death; yea, where their master whips them once, shame
whips them all the week after. Such natures he useth with all
gentleness.
2.
Those that are ingenious and idle. These think, with the
hare in the fable, that running with snails-so they count the rest
of their schoolfellows-they shall come soon enough to the post,
though sleeping a good while before their starting.
Oh! a good
rod would finely take them napping!
3.
Those that are dull and diligent. Wines, the stronger
they be, the more lees they have when they are new. Many
boys are muddy-headed till they be clarified with age, and such
## p. 6134 (#104) ###########################################
6134
THOMAS FULLER
afterwards prove the best. Bristol diamonds are both bright, and
squared, and pointed by nature, and yet are soft and worthless;
whereas Orient ones in India are rough and rugged naturally.
Hard, rugged, and dull natures of youth acquit themselves after-
wards the jewels of the country, and therefore their dullness at
first is to be borne with if they be diligent. The schoolmaster
deserves to be beaten himself, who beats Nature in a boy for a
fault. And I question whether all the whipping in the world
can make their parts, which are naturally sluggish, rise one
minute before the hour Nature hath appointed.
4. Those that are invincibly dull, and negligent also. Correc-
tion may reform the latter, not amend the former. All the
whetting in the world can never set a razor's edge on that which
hath no steel in it. Such boys he consigneth over to other pro-
fessions. Shipwrights and boat-makers will choose those crooked
pieces of timber which other carpenters refuse. Those may make
excellent merchants and mechanics who will not serve for
scholars.
He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teaching; not lead-
ing them rather in a circle than forwards. He minces his pre-
cepts for children to swallow, hanging clogs on the nimbleness
of his own soul, that his scholars may go along with him.
ON BOOKS
From The Holy and Profane State ›
IT
T IS a vanity to persuade the world one hath much learning by
getting a great library. As soon shall I believe every one
is valiant that hath a well-furnished armory. I guess good
housekeeping by the smoking, not the number of the tunnels, as
knowing that many of them-built merely for uniformity—are
without chimneys, and more without fires.
Some books are only cursorily to be tasted of: namely, first,
voluminous books, the task of a man's life to read them over;
secondly, auxiliary books, only to be repaired to on occasions;
thirdly, such as are mere pieces of formality, so that if you look
on them you look through them, and he that peeps through the
casement of the index sees as much as if he were in the house.
But the laziness of those cannot be excused who perfunctorily
pass over authors of cons
onsequence, and only trade in their tables
## p. 6135 (#105) ###########################################
THOMAS FULLER
6135
and contents.
These, like city cheaters, having gotten the names
of all country gentlemen, make silly people believe they have
long lived in those places where they never were, and flourish
with skill in those authors they never seriously studied.
LONDON
From The Worthies of England'
IT
Tis the second city in Christendom for greatness, and the first
for good government. There is no civilized part of the
world but it has heard thereof, though many with this mis-
take: that they conceive London to be the country and England
but the city therein.
Some have suspected the declining of the lustre thereof, be-
cause of late it vergeth so much westward, increasing in build-
ings, Covent Garden, etc. But by their favor (to disprove their
fear) it will be found to burnish round about with new struct-
ures daily added thereunto.
It oweth its greatness under God's divine providence to the
well-conditioned river of Thames, which doth not (as some tyrant
rivers of Europe) abuse its strength in a destructive way, but
employeth its greatness in goodness, to be beneficial to com-
merce, by the reciprocation of the tide therein. Hence it was
that when King James, offended with the city, threatened to re-
move his court to another place, the Lord Mayor (boldly enough)
returned that "he might remove his court at his pleasure, but
could not remove the river Thames. "
Erasmus will have London so called from Lindus, a city of
Rhodes; averring a great resemblance betwixt the languages and
customs of the Britons and Grecians. But Mr. Camden (who no
doubt knew of it) honoreth not this his etymology with the least
mention thereof. As improbable in my apprehension is the
deduction from Lud's-Town,-town being a Saxon, not British
termination; and that it was so termed from Lan Dian, a temple
of Diana (standing where now St. Paul's doth), is most likely in
my opinion.
## p. 6136 (#106) ###########################################
6136
THOMAS FULLER
MISCELLANEOUS SAYINGS
I'
T IS dangerous to gather flowers that grow on the banks of the
pit of hell, for fear of falling in; yea, they which play with
the Devil's rattles will be brought by degrees to wield his
sword; and from making of sport they come to doing of mis-
chief.
A public office is a guest which receives the best usage from
them who never invited it.
Scoff not at the natural defects of any, which are not in their
power to amend. Oh! 'tis cruel to beat a cripple with his own
crutches.
Learning has gained most by those books by which the print-
ers have lost.
Moderation is the silken string running through the pearl
chain of all virtues.
To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body;
no less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul.
The lion is not so fierce as painted.
Their heads sometimes so little that there is no room
for wit; sometimes so long that there is no wit for so much
room.
·
Often the cock-loft is empty in those whom nature hath built
many stories high.
The Pyramids themselves, doting with age, have forgotten the
names of their founders.
One that will not plead that cause wherein his tongue
must be confuted by his conscience.
But our captain counts the image of God nevertheless his
image-cut in ebony as if done in ivory; and in the blackest
Moors he sees the representation of the King of Heaven.
_
## p. 6137 (#107) ###########################################
6137
ÉMILE GABORIAU
(1835-1873)
O SPEAK of the detective novel is to speak of Gaboriau. He
cannot be called the father of it; but the French novelist
made his field so peculiarly his own, developed its type of
human nature so painstakingly, created so distinctive a reputation
associated with it, that it is doubtful whether any one can be said to
have outrivaled him.
Born at Saujon, in the Department of the Charente-Inférieure, in
1835, Gaboriau drifted from school into the cavalry service; then into
three or four less picturesque methods of keeping body and soul to-
gether; and finally, by a kind of literary accident, he became the
private secretary of the Parisian novelist Paul Féval. His first suc-
cessful story ran as a continued one in a journal called Le Pays.
It
was 'The Lerouge Affair,' but it did not even under newspaper cir-
cumstances find any considerable favor until it caught the eye of the
astute Millaud, the founder of the Petit Journal. Millaud recognized
in the fiction a new note in detective-novel making. He transferred
it to another journal, Le Soleil. There it made an instant and tre-
mendous success.
From that moment Gaboriau's career was determined and fortu-
nate. In rapid succession followed The Crime of Orcival' (1867);
'File No. 113' (1867); the elaborate Slaves of Paris' (1869); M. Le-
coq' (1869),—in which title appears the name of the moving spirit
of almost all the other stories; The Infernal Life' (1870); and four
or five others. All these stories have been translated into almost
every modern language that has a reading public. They brought
Gaboriau a large income during his lifetime, and they are still valu-
able literary properties. Their author died in Paris, his health broken
in consequence of incessant overwork, in September 1873.
Gaboriau elevated the detective story to something like a superior
plane in popular fiction. It is a question whether he did not say in
a large measure the strongest word in it, and to all intents and pur-
poses the last word. His books all have a certain resemblance, in
that we start into a complex drama with a riddle of crime. The un-
folding always brings us sooner or later to a dramatic family secret,
of which the original crime has only been an outside detail.
The
## p. 6138 (#108) ###########################################
6138
ÉMILE GABORIAU
-
secret is the mainspring of the book, and about the middle of it the
reader finds himself chiefly absorbed by it. Indeed, Gaboriau's novels
have often been spoken of as "told backward. " Most of the novels
too gain their movement from one source - the wonderful shrewdness
and audacity of a certain M. Lecoq of the Paris detective service.
M. Lecoq was really an exaggeration of the well-known and wonder-
fully able Paris detective, M. Vidocq; and there are dozens of epi-
sodes in the course of Vidocq's brilliant professional career which
Gaboriau did not dress up so very much in introducing them into his
stories. There is an individuality to each novel, in spite of the fam-
ily likeness. Occasionally, like Dickens, the author attacked abuses
with effect; as in 'The Infernal Life' and 'The Slaves of Paris,' and
other books where he has set forth the merciless system of private
blackmailing in Paris with little exaggeration.
As to literary manner, Gaboriau was not a writer of the first
order, even as a French popular novelist. But he knew how to write;
and there is a correctness of diction and a nervous vivacity that is
much to his credit, considering the rapidity with which he produced
his work, and the fact that he had no sufficient early training for his
profession. He is seldom slipshod, and he is never really negligent.
He has been criticized for making his dénouements too simple, if one
regards them as a whole process; but his details are full of variety,
and the reader of Gaboriau never is troubled to keep his attention on
the author's pages, even in the case of those stories that are not of
the first class among his works. Perhaps the best of all the novels
is one of the shorter ones, 'File No. 113. '
THE IMPOSTOR AND THE BANKER'S WIFE: THE ROBBERY
From File No. 113'
R
AOUL SPENCER, supposed to be Raoul de Clameran, began to
triumph over his instincts of revolt. He ran to the door
and rang the bell. It opened.
"Is my aunt at home? " he asked the footman.
"Madame is alone in the boudoir next her room," replied the
servant.
Raoul ascended.
Clameran had said to Raoul, "Above all, be careful about your
entrance; your appearance must express everything, and thus you
will avoid impossible explanations. "
The suggestion was useless.
## p. 6139 (#109) ###########################################
EMILE GABORIAU
6139
When Raoul entered the little reception-room, his pale face
and wild eyes frightened Madame Fauvel, who cried:-
"Raoul! What has happened to you? "
The sound of her gentle voice produced upon the young va-
grant the effect of an electric shock. He trembled from head to
foot: yet his mind was clear; Louis had not been mistaken in
him. Raoul continued his rôle as if on the stage, and as assur-
ance came to him his knavery crushed his better nature.
"Mother, the misfortune which has come to me," he replied,
"is the last one. "
―
Madame Fauvel had never seen him like this. Trembling
with emotion, she rose and stood before him, with her tender face
near his.
She fixed in a steady gaze the power of her will, as if
she meant to read the depths of his soul.
"What is it? " she insisted. "Raoul, my son, tell me. "
He pushed her gently away.
"What has happened," he replied in a choked voice which
pierced the heart of Madame Fauvel, "proves that I am un-
worthy of you, unworthy of my noble and generous father. ”
She moved her head in protestation.
"Ah! " he continued, "I know and judge myself. No one
could reproach my own infamous conduct so cruelly as my own
conscience. I was not born wicked, but I am a miserable fool.
I have hours when, as if in a vertigo, I do not know what I am
doing. Ah! I should not have been like this, mother, if you had
been with me in my childhood. But brought up among strangers,
and left to myself without any guides but my own instincts, I
am at the mercy of my own passions. Possessing nothing, not
even my stolen name, I am vain and devoured by ambition.
Poor and without resources but your help, I have the tastes and
vices of a millionaire's son. Alas! when I recovered you, the
harm was done. Your affection, your maternal tenderness which
have given me my only days of happiness, could not save me.
I who have suffered so much, who have endured so many priva-
tions, who have known hunger, have been spoiled by this new
luxury with which you have surrounded me. I threw myself into
pleasure as a drunkard rushes for the strong drink of which he
has been deprived. "
Raoul expressed himself with such intense conviction and as-
surance that Madame Fauvel did not interrupt.
Mute and terrified, she dared not question him, fearful of
learning some horrible news.
## p. 6140 (#110) ###########################################
6140
ÉMILE GABORIAU
He however continued:-
"Yes, I have been a fool. Happiness
has passed by me, and I did not know enough to stretch out my
hand to take it. I have rejected an exquisite reality for the pur-
suit of a phantom. I, who should have spent my life by your
side and sought constantly for new proofs of my love and grati-
tude, I, a dark shadow, give you a cruel stab, cause you sorrow,
and render you the most unfortunate of beings. Ah! what a
brute I have been! For the sake of a creature whom I should
despise, I have thrown to the wind a fortune whose every piece
of gold has cost you a tear! With you lies happiness. I know it
too late. "
He stopped, overcome by the thought of his evil conduct,
ready to burst into tears.
"It is never too late to repent, my son," murmured Madame
Fauvel, and redeem your wrong. "
«<
"Ah, if I could! " cried Raoul; "but no, it is too late. Who
knows how long my good resolutions will last? It is not only
to-day that I have condemned myself without pity. Seized by
remorse at each new failure, I have sworn to regain my self-
respect. Alas! to what has my periodical repentance amounted?
At the first new temptation I forget my remorse and my oaths.
You consider me a man: I am only an unstable child. I am
weak and cowardly, and you are not strong enough to dominate
my weakness and control my vacillating character. I have the
best intentions in the world, yet my actions are those of a scoun-
drel. The gap between my position and my nature is too wide
for me to reconcile them. Who knows where my deplorable
character may lead me? "
He gave a gesture expressing recklessness, and added, "I
myself will bring justice upon myself. "
Madame Fauvel was too deeply agitated to follow Raoul's
sudden moods.
"Speak! " she cried; "explain yourself. Am I not your mother?
You must tell me the truth; I must hear all. "
He appeared to hesitate, as if he feared to give so terrible a
shock to his mother. Finally, in a hollow voice he said, "I am
ruined! "
"Ruined! "
"Yes, and I have nothing more to wait for nor to hope for.
I am dishonored, and through my own fault, my own grievous
fault! "
"Raoul! »
## p. 6141 (#111) ###########################################
ÉMILE GABORIAU
6141
"It is true. But fear not, mother; I will not drag the name
that you bestowed upon me in the dirt. I have the vulgar cour-
age not to survive my dishonor. Go, waste no sympathy on me.
I am one of those creatures of destiny who have no refuge save
death. I am the victim of fate. Have you not been forced to
deny my birth? Did not the memory of me haunt you and de-
prive your nights of sleep? And now, having found you, in
exchange for your devotion I bring into your life a bitter curse. "
"Ungrateful child! Have I ever reproached you? "
"Never. And therefore with your blessing, and with your
loved name on his lips, your Raoul will - die! "
"Die? You ? »
"Yes, mother: honor bids it. I am condemned by inexorable
judges-my will and my conscience. "
An hour earlier Madame Fauvel would have sworn that Raoul
had made her suffer all that a woman could endure; and now he
had brought her a new grief so acute that the former ones
seemed naught in comparison.
"What have you done? " she stammered.
«< Money was intrusted to me. I played, and lost it. "
"Was it a large amount? "
"No, but neither you nor I can replace it. Poor mother, have
I not taken everything from you? Haven't you given me your
last jewel? "
"But M. De Clameran is rich; he has put his fortune at my
disposal. I will order the carriage and go to him. "
"M. De Clameran, mother, is absent for eight days; and I must
have the money to-night, or I am lost. Go! I have thought of
everything before deciding. But one loves life at twenty! "
He drew a pistol half out of his pocket, saying with a grim
smile, "This will arrange everything. "
Madame Fauvel was too unnerved in reflecting upon the
horror of the conduct of the supposed Raoul de Clameran to
fancy that this last wild menace was but a means for obtaining
money.
Forgetting the past, ignoring the future, and concentrating her
thought on the present situation, she saw but one thing-that
her son was about to kill himself, and that she was powerless to
arrest his suicide.
"Wait, wait," she said; "André will soon return, and I will
tell him that I have need of How much did you lose? "
-
## p. 6142 (#112) ###########################################
6142
ÉMILE GABORIAU
"Thirty thousand francs. "
"You shall have them to-morrow. "
"I must have them to-night. "
She seemed to be going mad; she wrung her hands in' de-
Do you
spair.
"To-night! " she said: "why didn't you come sooner?
To-night there is no one to open the
lack confidence in me?
safe without that->
-
The expectant Raoul caught the word. He gave an exclama-
tion of joy, as if a light had broken upon his dark despair.
"The safe! " he cried; "do you know where the key is? »
"Yes, it is here. "
"Thank heaven! "
He looked at Madame Fauvel with such a demoniacal glance
that she dropped her eyes.
"Give it to me, mother," he entreated.
"Miserable boy! "
"It is life that I ask of you. "
This prayer decided her. Taking a candle, she stepped quickly
into her room, opened the writing-desk, and there found M. Fau-
vel's own key.
But as she was handing it to Raoul, reason returned.
"No," she murmured; "no, it is impossible. "
He did not insist, and indeed seemed willing to retire.
"Ah, well! " he said. "Then, my mother, one last kiss. "
She stopped him:- "What will you do with the key, Raoul?
Have you also the secret word? "
"No, but I can try. "
---
"You know there is never money in the safe. ”
"Let us try. If I open it by a miracle, and if there is
money in the box, then I shall believe that God has taken pity
upon us. "
"And if you do not succeed? Then will you swear that you
will wait until to-morrow? »
"Upon the memory of my father, I swear it. "
"Then here is the key! Come. "
They had now reached Prosper's office, and Raoul had placed
the lamp on a high shelf, from which point it lighted the entire
room. He had recovered all of his self-possession, or rather that
peculiar mechanical precision of action which seems to be inde-
pendent of the will, and which men accustomed to peril always
## p. 6143 (#113) ###########################################
ÉMILE GABORIAU
6143
His
find at their service in times of pressing need. Rapidly, and
with the dexterity of experience, he placed the five buttons of
the iron box upon the letters forming the name g,y,p,s,y.
expression during this short performance was one of intense
anxiety. He began to fear that the excited energy which he
had summoned might fail him, and also that if he did open the
box he might not find the hoped-for sum. Prosper might have
changed the letters, and he might have been sent to the bank
that day.
Madame Fauvel watched Raoul with pathetic distress. She
read in his wild eyes that despair of the unfortunate, who so
passionately desire a result that they fancy their unassisted will
can overcome all obstacles.
Being intimate with Prosper, and having frequently watched
him close the office, Raoul knew perfectly well-indeed, he had
made it a study and attempted it himself, for he was a far-seeing
youth-how to manipulate the key in the lock.
He inserted it gently, turned it, pushed it in deeper, and
turned it again, then he pushed it in with a violent shock and
turned it once more. His heart beat so loudly that Madame
Fauvel could hear it.
The word had not been changed: the box opened.
the legends which are the subjects of pictures, the profound myths
which are represented in the antique marbles, amaze and revolt
him; as, indeed, such things need to be judged of by another
standard than that of the Connecticut Blue Laws. He criticizes
severely pictures, feeling quite sure that his natural senses are
better means of judgment than the rules of connoisseurs,-not
feeling that to see such objects mental vision as well as fleshly
eyes are needed, and that something is aimed at in art beyond
the imitation of the commonest forms of nature. This is Jona-
than in the sprawling state, the booby truant, not yet aspiring
enough to be a good schoolboy. Yet in his folly there is a
meaning; add thought and culture to his independence, and he
will be a man of might: he is not a creature without hope, like
the thick-skinned dandy of the class first specified.
## p. 6126 (#96) ############################################
6126
SARAH MARGARET FULLER
1
I
The artists form a class by themselves. Yet among them,
though seeking special aims by special means, may also be found
the lineaments of these two classes, as well as of the third, of
which I am now to speak.
This is that of the thinking American, a man who, recog-
nizing the immense advantage of being born to a new world and
on a virgin soil, yet does not wish one seed from the past to be
lost. He is anxious to gather and carry back with him every
plant that will bear a new climate and new culture. Some will
dwindle; others will attain a bloom and stature unknown before.
He wishes to gather them clean, free from noxious insects, and
to give them a fair trial in his new world. And that he may
know the conditions under which he may best place them in that
new world, he does not neglect to study their history in this.
—
The history of our planet in some moments seems so pain-
fully mean and little,—such terrible bafflings and failures to com-
pensate some brilliant successes; such a crushing of the mass of
men beneath the feet of a few, and these too often the least
worthy; such a small drop of honey to each cup of gall, and in
many cases so mingled that it is never one moment in life
purely tasted; above all, so little achieved for humanity as a
whole, such tides of war and pestilence intervening to blot out
the traces of each triumph,- that no wonder if the strongest
soul sometimes pauses aghast; no wonder if the many indolently
console themselves with gross joys and frivolous prizes. Yes!
those men are worthy of admiration, who can carry this cross
faithfully through fifty years; it is a great while for all the
agonies that beset a lover of good, a lover of men; it makes a
soul worthy of a speedier ascent, a more productive ministry in
the next sphere. Blessed are they who ever keep that portion of
pure, generous love with which they began life! How blessed
those who have deepened the fountains, and have enough to
spare for the thirst of others! Some such there are; and feeling
that, with all the excuses for failure, still only the sight of those
who triumph gives a meaning to life or makes its pangs endura-
ble, we must arise and follow.
## p. 6127 (#97) ############################################
SARAH MARGARET FULLER
6127
A CHARACTER SKETCH OF CARLYLE
LETTER TO R. W. EMERSON
From Memoirs': Paris,
1846
ENJOYED the time extremely [in London]. I find myself much.
in my element in European society. It does not indeed come
up to my ideal, but so many of the incumbrances are cleared
away that used to weary me in America, that I can enjoy a
freer play of faculty, and feel, if not like a bird in the air, at
least as easy as a fish in water.
"
Of the people I saw in London, you will wish me to speak
first of the Carlyles. Mr. Carlyle came to see me at once, and
appointed an evening to be passed at their house. That first
time I was delighted with him. He was in a very sweet
humor,-full of wit and pathos, without being overbearing or
oppressive. I was quite carried away with the rich flow of his
discourse; and the hearty, noble earnestness of his personal being
brought back the charm which once was upon his writing, before
I wearied of it. I admired his Scotch, his way of singing his
great
full sentences, so that each one was like the stanza of a
narrative ballad. He let me talk, now and then, enough to free
my lungs and change my position, so that I did not get tired.
That evening he talked of the present state of things in England,
giving light, witty sketches of the men of the day, fanatics and
others, and some sweet, homely stories he told of things he had
known of the Scotch peasantry. Of you he spoke with hearty
kindness; and he told with beautiful feeling a story of some
poor farmer or artisan in the country, who on Sunday lays aside.
the cark and care of that dirty English world, and sits reading
the Essays and looking upon the sea.
<
of a <
The second time, Mr. Carlyle had a dinner party, at which
was a witty, French, flippant sort of a man, named Lewes, author
History of Philosophy,' and now writing a life of Goethe,
a task for which he must be as unfit as irreligion and sparkling
shallowness can make him. But he told stories admirably, and
was allowed sometimes to interrupt Carlyle a little,-of which
was glad, for that night he was in his acrid mood; and
though much more brilliant than on the former evening, grew
wearisome to me, who disclaimed and rejected almost everything
he said.
one
## p. 6128 (#98) ############################################
6128
SARAH MARGARET FULLER
Accustomed to the infinite wit and exuberant richness of his
writings, his talk is still an amazement and a splendor scarcely
to be faced with steady eyes. He does not converse, only
harangues. It is the usual misfortune of such marked men,-
happily not one invariable or inevitable,— that they cannot allow
other minds room to breathe and show themselves in their atmos-
phere, and thus miss the refreshment and instruction which the
greatest never cease to need from the experience of the humblest.
Carlyle allows no one a chance, but bears down all opposition,
not only by his wit and onset of words, resistless in their sharp-
ness as so many bayonets, but by actual physical superiority,—
raising his voice and rushing on his opponent with a torrent of
sound. This is not in the least from unwillingness to allow free-
dom to others. On the contrary, no man would more enjoy a
manly resistance in his thoughts. But it is the impulse of a
mind accustomed to follow out its own impulse, as the hawk its
prey, and which knows not how to stop in the chase.
Carlyle indeed is arrogant and overbearing; but in his arro-
gance there is no littleness, no self-love. It is the heroic arro-
gance of some old Scandinavian conqueror; it is his nature, and
the untamable impulse that has given him power to crush the
dragons. He sings rather than talks. He
pours upon you a
kind of satirical, heroical, critical poem, with regular cadences,
and generally catching up, near the beginning, some singular
epithet which serves as a refrain when his song is full, or with
which, as with a knitting-needle, he catches up the stitches, if he
has chanced now and then to let fall a row. For the higher
kinds of poetry he has no sense, and his talk on that subject is
delightfully and gorgeously absurd. He sometimes stops a min-
ute to laugh at it himself, then begins anew with fresh vigor; for
all the spirits he is driving before him as Fata Morgana, ugly
masks, in fact, if he can but make them turn about; but he
laughs that they seem to others such dainty Ariels. His talk,
like his books, is full of pictures; his critical strokes masterly.
Allow for his point of view, and his survey is admirable. He is a
large subject. I cannot speak more or wiselier of him now, nor
needs it; his works are true, to blame and praise him,- the
Siegfried of England, great and powerful, if not quite invul-
nerable, and of a might rather to destroy evil than legislate for
good.
## p. 6129 (#99) ############################################
6129
THOMAS FULLER
(1608-1661)
HE fragrance which surrounds the writings of Thomas Fuller
seems blended of his wit, his quaint worldliness, his sweet
Ce and happy spirit. The after-glow of the dazzling day of
Shakespeare and his brotherhood rests upon the pages of this divine.
In Fuller the world-spir
the world-spirit of the Elizabethan dramatists becomes
urbanity, the mellow humor of the dweller in the town. Too well
satisfied with the kindly comforts of life to agonize over humanity
and the eternal problems of existence, Fuller, although a Church of
England clergyman, was no less a cavalier
at heart than the most jaunty follower of
King Charles. He had not the intensity
of nature which characterizes the theolo-
gian by the grace of God. His Holy and
Profane State,' his 'Good Thoughts in
Bad Times,' and 'Good Thoughts in Worse
Times,' evidence a comfortable and reason-
able reliance on the Unseen; but they will
not be read for their spiritual insight so
much as for their well-seasoned and de-
lightful English. That quaint and fragrant
style of his lends charm even to those pas-
sages in which his thought is commonplace.
THOMAS FULLER
It is in Thomas Fuller the historian and biographer, that poster-
ity recognizes a man of marked intellectual power. His scholarship
is exhibited in such a work as the Church History of Britain'; his
peculiar faculty for happy description in the Worthies of England. '
Fuller was fitted by temperament and training to be a recorder of
his own country and countrymen. His life was spent upon his island;
his love was fastened upon its places and its people. Born the same
year as Milton, 1608, the son of a clergyma of the same name as
his own, he was from boyhood both a scholar and an observer of men
and things. His education at Cambridge fostered his love of books.
His subsequent incumbency of various comfortable livings afforded
him opportunities for close acquaintance with the English world of
his day, and especially with its "gentry. " By birth, education, and
inclination, Fuller was an aristocrat. During the civil war he took
the side of King Charles, to whose stately life and mournful death
he has devoted the last volume of his great work, the History of
XI-384
## p. 6130 (#100) ###########################################
6130
THOMAS FULLER
the Church of Britain. '
Under the Protectorate, the genial priest
and man of the world found himself in an alien atmosphere. Like
many others in Anglican orders, he was "silenced" by the sour Puri-
tan authorities, but was permitted to preach again in London by the
grace of Cromwell. He was subsequently appointed chaplain to
Charles II. , but did not live long after the Restoration, dying of a
fever in 1661.
An early instance of modern scholarship is found in the histories
written by Thomas Fuller. Being by nature an antiquarian, he was
not inclined to find his material at second hand. He went back
always to the earliest sources for his historical data. It is this fact
which gives their permanent value to the History of the Church of
Britain' and to the History of the Holy War. ' These works bear
witness to wide and patient research, to a thorough sifting of mate-
rial. The antiquarian spirit displayed in them loses some of its
scholarly dignity, and takes on the social humor of the gossip, in the
'Worthies of England. ' Fuller's other writings may be of more
intrinsic value, but it is through the Worthies' that he is remem-
bered and loved. The book is rich in charm. It is as quaint as an
ancient flower garden, where blooms of every sort grow in lavish
tangle. He considers the counties of England, one by one, telling of
their physical characteristics, of their legends, of their proverbs, of
the princely children born in them, of the other "Worthies" - schol-
ars, soldiers, and saints who have shed lustre upon them. Fuller
gathered his material for this variegated record from every quarter
of his beloved little island. As a chaplain in the Cavalier army, he
had many opportunities of visiting places and studying their people.
As an incumbent of country parishes, he would listen to the ram-
blings of the old women of the hamlets, for the sake of discovering
in their talk some tradition of the country-side, or some quaint bit
of folk-lore. He writes of the strange, gay, sad lives of princely
families as familiarly as he writes of the villagers and townsfolk.
Sometimes an exquisite tenderness lies like light upon his record, as
in this, of the little Princess Anne, daughter to Charles I. :—
-
SHE was a very pregnant lady above her years, and died in her infancy,
when not fully four years old. Being minded by those about her to call upon
God even when the pangs of death were upon her, "I am not able," saith she,
"to say my long prayer" (meaning the Lord's Prayer), "but I will say my
short one, Lighten mine eyes, O Lord, lest I sleep the sleep of death. >>>
This done, the little lamb gave up the ghost.
Because of passages like these, Thomas Fuller will always be
numbered among those writers who, irrespective of their rank in the
world of letters, awaken a deep and lasting affection in the hearts of
their readers.
## p. 6131 (#101) ###########################################
THOMAS FULLER
6131
THE KING'S CHILDREN
From The Worthies of England'
K
ATHERINE, fourth daughter to Charles the First and Queen
Mary, was born at Whitehall (the Queen mother then being
at St. James), and survived not above half an hour after
her baptizing; so that it is charity to mention her, whose memory
is likely to be lost, so short her continuance in this life,- the
rather because her name is not entered, as it ought, into the
register of St. Martin's-in-the-Fields; as indeed none of the King's
children, save Prince Charles, though they were born in that
parish. And hereupon a story depends.
I am credibly informed that at the birth of every child of
kings born at Whitehall or St. James's, full five pounds were
ever faithfully paid to some unfaithful receivers thereof, to record
the names of such children in the register of St. Martin's. But
the money being embezzled (we know by some, God knows by
whom), no memorial is entered of them. Sad that bounty should
betray any to baseness, and that which was intended to make
them the more solemnly remembered should occasion that they
should be more silently forgotten! Say not, "Let the children.
of mean persons be written down in registers: kings' children
are registers to themselves;" or, "All England is a register to
them; » for sure I am, this common confidence hath been the
cause that we have been so often at a loss about the nativities
and other properties of those of royal extraction.
A LEARNED LADY
From The Worthies of England'
M
ARGARET MORE. -Excuse me, reader, for placing a lady among
men and learned statesmen. The reason is because of
her unfeigned affection to her father, from whom she
would not willingly be parted (and from me shall not be), either
living or dead.
She was born in Bucklersburie in London at her father's
house therein, and attained to that skill in all learning and lan-
guages that she became the miracle of her age. Foreigners
## p. 6132 (#102) ###########################################
6132
THOMAS FULLER
took such notice thereof that Erasmus hath dedicated some epis-
tles unto her. No woman that could speak so well did speak so
little; whose secrecy was such, that her father intrusted her with
his most important affairs.
Such was her skill in the Fathers that she corrected a de-
praved place in Cyprian; for where it was corruptly written
"Nisi vos sinceritas" she amended it "Nervos sinceritas. " Yea,
she translated Eusebius out of Greek; but it was never printed,
because J. Christopherson had done it so exactly before.
She was married to William Roper of Eltham in Kent, Esquire,
one of a bountiful heart and plentiful estate. When her father's
head was set up on London Bridge, it being suspected it would
be cast into the Thames to make room for divers others (then
suffering for denying the King's supremacy), she bought the head
and kept it for a relic (which some called affection, others reli-
gion, others superstition in her), for which she was questioned
before the Council, and for some short time imprisoned until she
had buried it; and how long she herself survived afterwards is to
me unknown.
HENRY DE ESSEX, STANDARD-BEARER TO HENRY II.
From The Worthies of England'
I
T HAPPENED in the reign of this King, there was a fierce battle
fought in Flintshire in Coleshall, between the English and
Welsh, wherein this Henry de Essex, animum et signum simul
abjecit,-betwixt traitor and coward,-cast away both his courage
and banner together, occasioning a great overthrow of English.
But he that had the baseness to do, had the boldness to deny,
the doing of so foul a fact, until he was challenged in combat
by Robert de Momford, a knight, eye-witness thereof, and by
him overcome in a duel. Whereupon his large inheritance was
confiscated to the King, and he himself, partly thrust, partly
going, into a convent, hid his head in a cowl, under which,
between shame and sanctity, he blushed out the remainder of
his life.
## p. 6133 (#103) ###########################################
THOMAS FULLER
6133
TH
THE GOOD SCHOOLMASTER
From The Holy and Profane State>
ERE is scarcely any profession in the commonwealth more
necessary, which is so slightly performed. The reasons
any
whereof I conceive to be these: First, young scholars make
this calling their refuge; yea, perchance before they have taken
degree in the university, commence schoolmasters in the
country, as if nothing else were required to set up this profes-
sion but only a rod and a ferula. Secondly, others who are able
use it only as a passage to better preferment, to patch the rents
in their present fortune, till they can provide a new one and
betake themselves to some more gainful calling. Thirdly, they
are disheartened from doing their best with the miserable reward
which
in some places they receive, being masters to their child-
ren and slaves to their parents. Fourthly, being grown rich,
they grow negligent, and scorn to touch the school but by the
proxy of the usher. But see how well our schoolmaster behaves
himself.
He
studieth his scholars' natures as carefully as they were
books,
and ranks their dispositions into several forms. And
though it may seem difficult for him in a great school to descend
to all
make
particulars, yet experienced schoolmasters may quickly
a grammar of boys' natures, and reduce them all-saving
some few exceptions—to these general rules:—
I.
Those that are ingenious and industrious.
The conjunc-
tion of two such planets in a youth presages much good unto
him.
To such a lad a frown may be a whipping, and a whip-
ping a
death; yea, where their master whips them once, shame
whips them all the week after. Such natures he useth with all
gentleness.
2.
Those that are ingenious and idle. These think, with the
hare in the fable, that running with snails-so they count the rest
of their schoolfellows-they shall come soon enough to the post,
though sleeping a good while before their starting.
Oh! a good
rod would finely take them napping!
3.
Those that are dull and diligent. Wines, the stronger
they be, the more lees they have when they are new. Many
boys are muddy-headed till they be clarified with age, and such
## p. 6134 (#104) ###########################################
6134
THOMAS FULLER
afterwards prove the best. Bristol diamonds are both bright, and
squared, and pointed by nature, and yet are soft and worthless;
whereas Orient ones in India are rough and rugged naturally.
Hard, rugged, and dull natures of youth acquit themselves after-
wards the jewels of the country, and therefore their dullness at
first is to be borne with if they be diligent. The schoolmaster
deserves to be beaten himself, who beats Nature in a boy for a
fault. And I question whether all the whipping in the world
can make their parts, which are naturally sluggish, rise one
minute before the hour Nature hath appointed.
4. Those that are invincibly dull, and negligent also. Correc-
tion may reform the latter, not amend the former. All the
whetting in the world can never set a razor's edge on that which
hath no steel in it. Such boys he consigneth over to other pro-
fessions. Shipwrights and boat-makers will choose those crooked
pieces of timber which other carpenters refuse. Those may make
excellent merchants and mechanics who will not serve for
scholars.
He is able, diligent, and methodical in his teaching; not lead-
ing them rather in a circle than forwards. He minces his pre-
cepts for children to swallow, hanging clogs on the nimbleness
of his own soul, that his scholars may go along with him.
ON BOOKS
From The Holy and Profane State ›
IT
T IS a vanity to persuade the world one hath much learning by
getting a great library. As soon shall I believe every one
is valiant that hath a well-furnished armory. I guess good
housekeeping by the smoking, not the number of the tunnels, as
knowing that many of them-built merely for uniformity—are
without chimneys, and more without fires.
Some books are only cursorily to be tasted of: namely, first,
voluminous books, the task of a man's life to read them over;
secondly, auxiliary books, only to be repaired to on occasions;
thirdly, such as are mere pieces of formality, so that if you look
on them you look through them, and he that peeps through the
casement of the index sees as much as if he were in the house.
But the laziness of those cannot be excused who perfunctorily
pass over authors of cons
onsequence, and only trade in their tables
## p. 6135 (#105) ###########################################
THOMAS FULLER
6135
and contents.
These, like city cheaters, having gotten the names
of all country gentlemen, make silly people believe they have
long lived in those places where they never were, and flourish
with skill in those authors they never seriously studied.
LONDON
From The Worthies of England'
IT
Tis the second city in Christendom for greatness, and the first
for good government. There is no civilized part of the
world but it has heard thereof, though many with this mis-
take: that they conceive London to be the country and England
but the city therein.
Some have suspected the declining of the lustre thereof, be-
cause of late it vergeth so much westward, increasing in build-
ings, Covent Garden, etc. But by their favor (to disprove their
fear) it will be found to burnish round about with new struct-
ures daily added thereunto.
It oweth its greatness under God's divine providence to the
well-conditioned river of Thames, which doth not (as some tyrant
rivers of Europe) abuse its strength in a destructive way, but
employeth its greatness in goodness, to be beneficial to com-
merce, by the reciprocation of the tide therein. Hence it was
that when King James, offended with the city, threatened to re-
move his court to another place, the Lord Mayor (boldly enough)
returned that "he might remove his court at his pleasure, but
could not remove the river Thames. "
Erasmus will have London so called from Lindus, a city of
Rhodes; averring a great resemblance betwixt the languages and
customs of the Britons and Grecians. But Mr. Camden (who no
doubt knew of it) honoreth not this his etymology with the least
mention thereof. As improbable in my apprehension is the
deduction from Lud's-Town,-town being a Saxon, not British
termination; and that it was so termed from Lan Dian, a temple
of Diana (standing where now St. Paul's doth), is most likely in
my opinion.
## p. 6136 (#106) ###########################################
6136
THOMAS FULLER
MISCELLANEOUS SAYINGS
I'
T IS dangerous to gather flowers that grow on the banks of the
pit of hell, for fear of falling in; yea, they which play with
the Devil's rattles will be brought by degrees to wield his
sword; and from making of sport they come to doing of mis-
chief.
A public office is a guest which receives the best usage from
them who never invited it.
Scoff not at the natural defects of any, which are not in their
power to amend. Oh! 'tis cruel to beat a cripple with his own
crutches.
Learning has gained most by those books by which the print-
ers have lost.
Moderation is the silken string running through the pearl
chain of all virtues.
To smell to a turf of fresh earth is wholesome for the body;
no less are thoughts of mortality cordial to the soul.
The lion is not so fierce as painted.
Their heads sometimes so little that there is no room
for wit; sometimes so long that there is no wit for so much
room.
·
Often the cock-loft is empty in those whom nature hath built
many stories high.
The Pyramids themselves, doting with age, have forgotten the
names of their founders.
One that will not plead that cause wherein his tongue
must be confuted by his conscience.
But our captain counts the image of God nevertheless his
image-cut in ebony as if done in ivory; and in the blackest
Moors he sees the representation of the King of Heaven.
_
## p. 6137 (#107) ###########################################
6137
ÉMILE GABORIAU
(1835-1873)
O SPEAK of the detective novel is to speak of Gaboriau. He
cannot be called the father of it; but the French novelist
made his field so peculiarly his own, developed its type of
human nature so painstakingly, created so distinctive a reputation
associated with it, that it is doubtful whether any one can be said to
have outrivaled him.
Born at Saujon, in the Department of the Charente-Inférieure, in
1835, Gaboriau drifted from school into the cavalry service; then into
three or four less picturesque methods of keeping body and soul to-
gether; and finally, by a kind of literary accident, he became the
private secretary of the Parisian novelist Paul Féval. His first suc-
cessful story ran as a continued one in a journal called Le Pays.
It
was 'The Lerouge Affair,' but it did not even under newspaper cir-
cumstances find any considerable favor until it caught the eye of the
astute Millaud, the founder of the Petit Journal. Millaud recognized
in the fiction a new note in detective-novel making. He transferred
it to another journal, Le Soleil. There it made an instant and tre-
mendous success.
From that moment Gaboriau's career was determined and fortu-
nate. In rapid succession followed The Crime of Orcival' (1867);
'File No. 113' (1867); the elaborate Slaves of Paris' (1869); M. Le-
coq' (1869),—in which title appears the name of the moving spirit
of almost all the other stories; The Infernal Life' (1870); and four
or five others. All these stories have been translated into almost
every modern language that has a reading public. They brought
Gaboriau a large income during his lifetime, and they are still valu-
able literary properties. Their author died in Paris, his health broken
in consequence of incessant overwork, in September 1873.
Gaboriau elevated the detective story to something like a superior
plane in popular fiction. It is a question whether he did not say in
a large measure the strongest word in it, and to all intents and pur-
poses the last word. His books all have a certain resemblance, in
that we start into a complex drama with a riddle of crime. The un-
folding always brings us sooner or later to a dramatic family secret,
of which the original crime has only been an outside detail.
The
## p. 6138 (#108) ###########################################
6138
ÉMILE GABORIAU
-
secret is the mainspring of the book, and about the middle of it the
reader finds himself chiefly absorbed by it. Indeed, Gaboriau's novels
have often been spoken of as "told backward. " Most of the novels
too gain their movement from one source - the wonderful shrewdness
and audacity of a certain M. Lecoq of the Paris detective service.
M. Lecoq was really an exaggeration of the well-known and wonder-
fully able Paris detective, M. Vidocq; and there are dozens of epi-
sodes in the course of Vidocq's brilliant professional career which
Gaboriau did not dress up so very much in introducing them into his
stories. There is an individuality to each novel, in spite of the fam-
ily likeness. Occasionally, like Dickens, the author attacked abuses
with effect; as in 'The Infernal Life' and 'The Slaves of Paris,' and
other books where he has set forth the merciless system of private
blackmailing in Paris with little exaggeration.
As to literary manner, Gaboriau was not a writer of the first
order, even as a French popular novelist. But he knew how to write;
and there is a correctness of diction and a nervous vivacity that is
much to his credit, considering the rapidity with which he produced
his work, and the fact that he had no sufficient early training for his
profession. He is seldom slipshod, and he is never really negligent.
He has been criticized for making his dénouements too simple, if one
regards them as a whole process; but his details are full of variety,
and the reader of Gaboriau never is troubled to keep his attention on
the author's pages, even in the case of those stories that are not of
the first class among his works. Perhaps the best of all the novels
is one of the shorter ones, 'File No. 113. '
THE IMPOSTOR AND THE BANKER'S WIFE: THE ROBBERY
From File No. 113'
R
AOUL SPENCER, supposed to be Raoul de Clameran, began to
triumph over his instincts of revolt. He ran to the door
and rang the bell. It opened.
"Is my aunt at home? " he asked the footman.
"Madame is alone in the boudoir next her room," replied the
servant.
Raoul ascended.
Clameran had said to Raoul, "Above all, be careful about your
entrance; your appearance must express everything, and thus you
will avoid impossible explanations. "
The suggestion was useless.
## p. 6139 (#109) ###########################################
EMILE GABORIAU
6139
When Raoul entered the little reception-room, his pale face
and wild eyes frightened Madame Fauvel, who cried:-
"Raoul! What has happened to you? "
The sound of her gentle voice produced upon the young va-
grant the effect of an electric shock. He trembled from head to
foot: yet his mind was clear; Louis had not been mistaken in
him. Raoul continued his rôle as if on the stage, and as assur-
ance came to him his knavery crushed his better nature.
"Mother, the misfortune which has come to me," he replied,
"is the last one. "
―
Madame Fauvel had never seen him like this. Trembling
with emotion, she rose and stood before him, with her tender face
near his.
She fixed in a steady gaze the power of her will, as if
she meant to read the depths of his soul.
"What is it? " she insisted. "Raoul, my son, tell me. "
He pushed her gently away.
"What has happened," he replied in a choked voice which
pierced the heart of Madame Fauvel, "proves that I am un-
worthy of you, unworthy of my noble and generous father. ”
She moved her head in protestation.
"Ah! " he continued, "I know and judge myself. No one
could reproach my own infamous conduct so cruelly as my own
conscience. I was not born wicked, but I am a miserable fool.
I have hours when, as if in a vertigo, I do not know what I am
doing. Ah! I should not have been like this, mother, if you had
been with me in my childhood. But brought up among strangers,
and left to myself without any guides but my own instincts, I
am at the mercy of my own passions. Possessing nothing, not
even my stolen name, I am vain and devoured by ambition.
Poor and without resources but your help, I have the tastes and
vices of a millionaire's son. Alas! when I recovered you, the
harm was done. Your affection, your maternal tenderness which
have given me my only days of happiness, could not save me.
I who have suffered so much, who have endured so many priva-
tions, who have known hunger, have been spoiled by this new
luxury with which you have surrounded me. I threw myself into
pleasure as a drunkard rushes for the strong drink of which he
has been deprived. "
Raoul expressed himself with such intense conviction and as-
surance that Madame Fauvel did not interrupt.
Mute and terrified, she dared not question him, fearful of
learning some horrible news.
## p. 6140 (#110) ###########################################
6140
ÉMILE GABORIAU
He however continued:-
"Yes, I have been a fool. Happiness
has passed by me, and I did not know enough to stretch out my
hand to take it. I have rejected an exquisite reality for the pur-
suit of a phantom. I, who should have spent my life by your
side and sought constantly for new proofs of my love and grati-
tude, I, a dark shadow, give you a cruel stab, cause you sorrow,
and render you the most unfortunate of beings. Ah! what a
brute I have been! For the sake of a creature whom I should
despise, I have thrown to the wind a fortune whose every piece
of gold has cost you a tear! With you lies happiness. I know it
too late. "
He stopped, overcome by the thought of his evil conduct,
ready to burst into tears.
"It is never too late to repent, my son," murmured Madame
Fauvel, and redeem your wrong. "
«<
"Ah, if I could! " cried Raoul; "but no, it is too late. Who
knows how long my good resolutions will last? It is not only
to-day that I have condemned myself without pity. Seized by
remorse at each new failure, I have sworn to regain my self-
respect. Alas! to what has my periodical repentance amounted?
At the first new temptation I forget my remorse and my oaths.
You consider me a man: I am only an unstable child. I am
weak and cowardly, and you are not strong enough to dominate
my weakness and control my vacillating character. I have the
best intentions in the world, yet my actions are those of a scoun-
drel. The gap between my position and my nature is too wide
for me to reconcile them. Who knows where my deplorable
character may lead me? "
He gave a gesture expressing recklessness, and added, "I
myself will bring justice upon myself. "
Madame Fauvel was too deeply agitated to follow Raoul's
sudden moods.
"Speak! " she cried; "explain yourself. Am I not your mother?
You must tell me the truth; I must hear all. "
He appeared to hesitate, as if he feared to give so terrible a
shock to his mother. Finally, in a hollow voice he said, "I am
ruined! "
"Ruined! "
"Yes, and I have nothing more to wait for nor to hope for.
I am dishonored, and through my own fault, my own grievous
fault! "
"Raoul! »
## p. 6141 (#111) ###########################################
ÉMILE GABORIAU
6141
"It is true. But fear not, mother; I will not drag the name
that you bestowed upon me in the dirt. I have the vulgar cour-
age not to survive my dishonor. Go, waste no sympathy on me.
I am one of those creatures of destiny who have no refuge save
death. I am the victim of fate. Have you not been forced to
deny my birth? Did not the memory of me haunt you and de-
prive your nights of sleep? And now, having found you, in
exchange for your devotion I bring into your life a bitter curse. "
"Ungrateful child! Have I ever reproached you? "
"Never. And therefore with your blessing, and with your
loved name on his lips, your Raoul will - die! "
"Die? You ? »
"Yes, mother: honor bids it. I am condemned by inexorable
judges-my will and my conscience. "
An hour earlier Madame Fauvel would have sworn that Raoul
had made her suffer all that a woman could endure; and now he
had brought her a new grief so acute that the former ones
seemed naught in comparison.
"What have you done? " she stammered.
«< Money was intrusted to me. I played, and lost it. "
"Was it a large amount? "
"No, but neither you nor I can replace it. Poor mother, have
I not taken everything from you? Haven't you given me your
last jewel? "
"But M. De Clameran is rich; he has put his fortune at my
disposal. I will order the carriage and go to him. "
"M. De Clameran, mother, is absent for eight days; and I must
have the money to-night, or I am lost. Go! I have thought of
everything before deciding. But one loves life at twenty! "
He drew a pistol half out of his pocket, saying with a grim
smile, "This will arrange everything. "
Madame Fauvel was too unnerved in reflecting upon the
horror of the conduct of the supposed Raoul de Clameran to
fancy that this last wild menace was but a means for obtaining
money.
Forgetting the past, ignoring the future, and concentrating her
thought on the present situation, she saw but one thing-that
her son was about to kill himself, and that she was powerless to
arrest his suicide.
"Wait, wait," she said; "André will soon return, and I will
tell him that I have need of How much did you lose? "
-
## p. 6142 (#112) ###########################################
6142
ÉMILE GABORIAU
"Thirty thousand francs. "
"You shall have them to-morrow. "
"I must have them to-night. "
She seemed to be going mad; she wrung her hands in' de-
Do you
spair.
"To-night! " she said: "why didn't you come sooner?
To-night there is no one to open the
lack confidence in me?
safe without that->
-
The expectant Raoul caught the word. He gave an exclama-
tion of joy, as if a light had broken upon his dark despair.
"The safe! " he cried; "do you know where the key is? »
"Yes, it is here. "
"Thank heaven! "
He looked at Madame Fauvel with such a demoniacal glance
that she dropped her eyes.
"Give it to me, mother," he entreated.
"Miserable boy! "
"It is life that I ask of you. "
This prayer decided her. Taking a candle, she stepped quickly
into her room, opened the writing-desk, and there found M. Fau-
vel's own key.
But as she was handing it to Raoul, reason returned.
"No," she murmured; "no, it is impossible. "
He did not insist, and indeed seemed willing to retire.
"Ah, well! " he said. "Then, my mother, one last kiss. "
She stopped him:- "What will you do with the key, Raoul?
Have you also the secret word? "
"No, but I can try. "
---
"You know there is never money in the safe. ”
"Let us try. If I open it by a miracle, and if there is
money in the box, then I shall believe that God has taken pity
upon us. "
"And if you do not succeed? Then will you swear that you
will wait until to-morrow? »
"Upon the memory of my father, I swear it. "
"Then here is the key! Come. "
They had now reached Prosper's office, and Raoul had placed
the lamp on a high shelf, from which point it lighted the entire
room. He had recovered all of his self-possession, or rather that
peculiar mechanical precision of action which seems to be inde-
pendent of the will, and which men accustomed to peril always
## p. 6143 (#113) ###########################################
ÉMILE GABORIAU
6143
His
find at their service in times of pressing need. Rapidly, and
with the dexterity of experience, he placed the five buttons of
the iron box upon the letters forming the name g,y,p,s,y.
expression during this short performance was one of intense
anxiety. He began to fear that the excited energy which he
had summoned might fail him, and also that if he did open the
box he might not find the hoped-for sum. Prosper might have
changed the letters, and he might have been sent to the bank
that day.
Madame Fauvel watched Raoul with pathetic distress. She
read in his wild eyes that despair of the unfortunate, who so
passionately desire a result that they fancy their unassisted will
can overcome all obstacles.
Being intimate with Prosper, and having frequently watched
him close the office, Raoul knew perfectly well-indeed, he had
made it a study and attempted it himself, for he was a far-seeing
youth-how to manipulate the key in the lock.
He inserted it gently, turned it, pushed it in deeper, and
turned it again, then he pushed it in with a violent shock and
turned it once more. His heart beat so loudly that Madame
Fauvel could hear it.
The word had not been changed: the box opened.
