No More Learning

The editor's lip quivered, and his cheek grew pale; he looked
anxiously around — hesitated - delayed; the crowd became impa-
tient. Slowly he gave the sign; the keeper, who was behind the
den, cautiously removed the grating, and the lion leaped forth
with a mighty and glad roar of release. The keeper hastily
retreated through the grated passage leading from the arena, and
left the lord of the forest — and his prey.
Glaucus had bent his limbs so as to give himself the firmest
posture at the expected rush of the lion, with his small and
shining weapon raised on high, in the faint hope that one well-
directed thrust (for he knew that he should have time but for
one) might penetrate through the eye to the brain of his grim foe.
But to the unutterable astonishment of all, the beast seemed
not even aware of the presence of the criminal.
At the first moment of its release it halted abruptly in the
arena, raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with
impatient signs, then suddenly it sprang forward, but not on the
Athenian. At half-speed it circled round and round the space,
turning its vast head from side to side with an anxious and per-
turbed gaze, as if seeking only some avenue of escape; once or
twice it endeavored to leap up the parapet that divided it from
the audience, and on falling, uttered rather a baffled howl than
its deep-toned and kingly roar. It evinced no sign either of
wrath or hunger; its tail drooped along the sand, instead of
lashing its gaunt sides; and its eye, though it wandered at times
to Glaucus, rolled again listlessly from him. At length, as if
tired of attempting to escape, it crept with a moan into its cage,
and once more laid itself down to rest.
The first surprise of the assembly at the apathy of the lion
soon grew converted into resentment at its cowardice; and the
populace already merged their pity for the fate of Glaucus into
angry compassion for their own disappointment.
The editor called to the keeper:- "How is this? Take the
goad, prick him forth, and then close the door of the den. ”
As the keeper, with some fear but more astonishment, was
preparing to obey, a loud cry was heard at one of the entrances
of the arena; there was a confusion, a bustle — voices of remon-
strance suddenly breaking forth, and suddenly silenced at the


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EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
2719
reply. All eyes turned in wonder at the interruption, toward the
quarter of the disturbance; the crowd gave way, and suddenly
Sallust appeared on the senatorial benches, his hair disheveled —
breathless — heated — half exhausted. He cast his eyes hastily
round the ring Remove the Athenian! ” he cried; haste- he
is innocent! Arrest Arbaces the Egyptian — he is the murderer
of Apæcides!
Art thou mad, O Sallust! ” said the prætor, rising from his
seat. “What means this raving ? ”
“Remove the Athenian! - Quick! or his blood be on your
head. Prætor, delay, and you answer with your own life to the
Emperor! I bring with me the eye-witness to the death of the
priest Apæcides. Room there, stand back, give way. People of
Pompeii, fix every eye upon Arbaces; there he sits! Room there
for the priest Calenus! ”
Pale, haggard, fresh from the jaws of famine and of death,
his face fallen, his eyes dull as a vulture's, his broad frame gaunt
as a skeleton, Calenus was supported into the very row in which
Arbaces sat. His releasers had given him sparingly of food; but
the chief sustenance that nerved his feeble limbs was revenge!
«The priest Calenus — Calenus! » cried the mob. It is he?
No— it is a dead man! »
"It is the priest Calenus,” said the prætor, gravely.
hast thou to say ? ”
«Arbaces of Egypt is the murderer of Apæcides, the priest of
Isis; these eyes saw him deal the blow. It is from the dungeon
into which he plunged me - it is from the darkness and horror
of a death by famine — that the gods have raised me to proclaim
his crime! Release the Athenian- he is innocent! »
“It is for this, then, that the lion spared him. A miracle! a
miracle ! » cried Pansa.
"A miracle! a miracle! ” shouted the people; “remove the
Athenian - Arbaces to the lion. ”
And that shout echoed from hill to vale from coast to sea
Arbaces to the lion.
“Officers, remove the accused Glaucus
-remove, but guard
him yet,” said the prætor. « The gods lavish their wonders upon
this day. ”
As the prætor gave the word of release, there was a cry of
joy: a female voice, a child's voice; and it was of joy! It rang
through the heart of the assembly with electric force; it was
( What


## p. 2720 (#284) ###########################################

2720
EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
touching, it was holy, that child's voice. And the populace
echoed it back with sympathizing congratulation.
“Silence! ” said the grave prætor; «who is there ? ”
« The blind girl — Nydia,” answered Sallust; it is her hand
that has raised Calenus from the grave, and delivered Glaucus
from the lion. ”
"Of this hereafter,” said the prætor. "Calenus, priest of Isis,
thou accusest Arbaces of the murder of Apæcides ? »
«I do! ”
« Thou didst behold the deed ? »
« Prætor — with these eyes –
“Enough at present—the details must be reserved for more
suiting time and place. Arbaces of Egypt, thou hearest the
charge against thee — thou hast not yet spoken — what hast thou
to say? "
The gaze of the crowd had been long riveted on Arbaces;
but not until the confusion which he had betrayed at the first
charge of Sallust and the entrance of Calenus had subsided. At
the shout, “Arbaces to the lion! ” he had indeed trembled, and
the dark bronze of his cheek had taken a paler hue. But he
had soon recovered his haughtiness and self-control. Proudly he
returned the angry glare of the countless eyes around him; and
replying now to the question of the prætor, he said, in that ac-
cent so peculiarly tranquil and commanding which characterized
his tones:
"Prætor, this charge is so mad that it scarcely deserves reply.
My first accuser is the noble Sallust — the most intimate friend
of Glaucus! My second is a priest: I revere his garb and call-
ing - but, people of Pompeii! ye know somewhat of the charac-
ter of Calenus — he is griping and gold-thirsty to a proverb; the
witness of such men is to be bought! Prætor, I am innocent!
“ Sallust,” said the magistrate, “where found you Calenus ? ”
"In the dungeons of Arbaces. ”
“Egyptian," said the prætor, frowning, “thou didst, then, dare
to imprison a priest of the gods — and wherefore ? »
"Hear me,” answered Arbaces, rising calmly, but with agita-
tion visible in his face.
This man
came to threaten that he
would make against me the charge he has now made, unless I
would purchase his silence with half my fortune; I remonstrated
- in vain. Peace there - let not the priest interrupt me! Noble
prætor - and ye, O people! I was a stranger in the land - I


## p. 2721 (#285) ###########################################

EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
2721
knew myself innocent of crime — but the witness of a priest
against me might yet destroy me. In my perplexity I decoyed
him to the cell whence he has been released, on pretense that it
was the coffer-house of my gold. I resolved to detain him there
until the fate of the true criminal was sealed and his threats
could avail no longer; but I meant no worse.
I may have erred
- but who among ye will not acknowledge the equity of self-
preservation ? Were I guilty, why was the witness of this priest
silent at the trial ? — then I had not detained or concealed him.
Why did he not proclaim my guilt when I proclaimed that of
Glaucus ? Prætor, this needs an answer. For the rest, I throw
myself on your laws. I demand their protection. Remove hence
the accused and the accuser. I will willingly meet, and cheer-
fully abide by the decision of, the legitimate tribunal. This is
no place for further parley. "
“He says right,” said the prætor. “Ho! guards — remove
Arbaces - guard Calenus! Sallust, we hold you responsible for
your accusation.
Let the sports be resumed. ”
“What! ” cried Calenus, turning round to the people,
« shall
Isis be thus contemned ? Shall the blood of Apæcides yet cry
for vengeance? Shall justice be delayed now, that it may be
frustrated hereafter? Shall the lion be cheated of his lawful
prey? A god! a god! - I feel the god rush to my lips! To the
lion to the lion with Arbaces! »
His exhausted frame could support no longer the ferocious
malice of the priest; he sank on the ground in strong convul-
sions; the foam gathered to his mouth; he was as a man,
indeed, whom a supernatural power had entered! The people
saw, and shuddered.
“It is a god that inspires the holy man! To the lion with
the Egyptian! ”
With that cry up sprang, on moved, thousands upon thou-
sands. They rushed from the heights; they poured down in the
direction of the Egyptian. In vain did the ædile command; in
vain did the prætor lift his voice and proclaim the law. The
people had been already rendered savage by the exhibition of
blood; they thirsted for more; their superstition was aided by
their ferocity. Aroused, inflamed by the spectacle of their vic-
tims, they forgot the authority of their rulers. It was one of
those dread popular convulsions common to crowds wholly igno-
rant, half free and half servile, and which the peculiar constitution
V-171


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EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
of the Roman provinces so frequently exhibited. The power of
the prætor was a reed beneath the whirlwind; still, at his word
the guards had drawn themselves along the lower benches, on
which the upper classes sat separate from the vulgar. They
made but a feeble barrier; the waves of the human sea halted
for a moment, to enable Arbaces to count the exact moment of
his doom! In despair, and in a terror which beat down even
pride, he glanced his eye over the rolling and rushing crowd;
when, right above them, through the wide chasm which had
been left in the velaria, he beheld a strange and awful appari-
tion; he beheld, and his craft restored his courage!
He stretched his hand on high; over his lofty brow and royal
features there came an expression of unutterable solemnity and
command.
“Behold! ” he shouted with a voice of thunder, which stilled
the roar of the crowd: "behold how the gods protect the guilt-
less! The fires of the avenging Orcus burst forth against the
false witness of my accusers! ”
The eyes of the crowd followed the gesture of the Egyptian,
and beheld with dismay a vast vapor shooting from the summit
of Vesuvius in the form of a gigantic pine-tree; the trunk,
blackness — the branches fire! a fire that shifted and wavered
in its hues with every moment, now fiercely luminous, now of a
dull and dying red, that again blazed terrifically forth with intol-
erable glare!
There was a dead, heart-sunken silence; through which there
suddenly broke the roar of the lion, which was echoed back from
within the building by the sharper and fiercer yells of its fellow-
beast. Dread seers were they of the Burden of the Atmosphere,
and wild prophets of the wrath to come!
Then there arose on high the universal shrieks of women; the
men stared at each other, but were dumb. At that moment
they felt the earth shake under their feet; the walls of the theatre
trembled; and beyond in the distance they heard the crash of
falling roofs; an instant more, and the mountain cloud seemed
to roll toward them, dark and rapid, like a torrent; at the same
time it cast forth from its bosom a shower of ashes mixed with
vast fragments of burning stone! over the crushing vines, over
the desolate streets, over the amphitheatre itself; far and wide,
with many a mighty splash in the agitated sea, fell that awful
shower!


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EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
2723
No longer thought the crowd of justice or of Arbaces; safety
for themselves was their sole thought. Each turned to fly -- each
dashing, pressing, crushing against the other. Trampling reck
lessly over the fallen, amid groans and oaths and prayers and
sudden shrieks, the enormous crowd vomited itself forth through
the numerous passages. Whither should they fly? Some, antici-
pating a second earthquake, hastened to their homes to load
themselves with their more costly goods and escape while it was
yet time; others, dreading the showers of ashes that now fell
fast, torrent upon torrent, over the streets, rushed under the
roofs of the nearest houses, or temples, or sheds — shelter of any
kind - for protection from the terrors of the open air. But
darker, and larger, and mightier, spread the cloud above them.
It was a sudden and more ghastly Night rushing upon the realm
of Noon!
KENELM AND LILY
From Kenelm Chillingly)
THE
he children have come,- some thirty of them, pretty as Eng-
lish children generally are, happy in the joy of the summer
sunshine, and the flower lawns, and the feast under cover
of an awning suspended between chestnut-trees and carpeted
with sward.
No doubt Kenelm held his own at the banquet, and did his
best to increase the general gayety, for whenever he spoke the
children listened eagerly, and when he had done they laughed
mirthfully.
“The fair face I promised you,” whispered Mrs. Braefield, is
not here yet.
I have a little note from the young lady to say
that Mrs. Cameron does not feel very well this morning, but
hopes to recover sufficiently to come later in the afternoon. ”
And
pray
who is Mrs. Cameron ? »
"Ah! I forgot that you are a stranger to the place. Mrs.
Cameron is the aunt with whom Lily resides. Is it not a pretty
name, Lily ? »
“Very! emblematic of a spinster that does not spin, with a
white head and a thin stalk. "
« Then the name belies my Lily; as you will see. ”


## p. 2724 (#288) ###########################################

2724
EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
The children now finished their feast and betook themselves
to dancing, in an alley smoothed for a croquet-ground and to
the sound of a violin played by the old grandfather of one of the
party. While Mrs. Braefield was busying herself with forming
the dance, Kenelm seized the occasion to escape from a young
nymph of the age of twelve, who had sat next to him at the
banquet and taken so great a fancy to him that he began to
fear she would vow never to forsake his side, — and stole away
undetected.
There are times when the mirth of others only saddens us,
especially the mirth of children with high spirits, that jar on our
own quiet mood. Gliding through a dense shrubbery, in which,
though the lilacs were faded, the laburnum still retained here
and there the waning gold of its clusters, Kenelm came into a
recess which bounded his steps and invited him to repose. It
was a circle, so formed artificially by slight trellises, to which
clung parasite roses heavy with leaves and flowers. In the midst
played a tiny fountain with a silvery murmuring sound; at the
background, dominating the place, rose the crests of stately trees,
on which the sunlight shimmered, but which rampired out all
horizon beyond. Even as in life do the great dominant pas-
sions - love, ambition, desire of power, or gold, or fame, or
knowledge — form the proud background to the brief-lived flow-
erets of our youth, lift our eyes beyond the smile of their bloom,
catch the glint of a loftier sunbeam, and yet - and yet - exclude
our sight from the lengths and the widths of the space which
extends behind and beyond them.
Kenelm threw himself on the turf beside the fountain. Froin
afar came the whoop and the laugh of the children in their
sports or their dance. At the distance their joy did not sadden
him - he marveled why; and thus, in musing reverie, thought to
explain the why to himself.
"The poet,” so ran his lazy thinking, has told us that dis-
tance lends enchantment to the view,' and thus compares to the
charm of distance the illusion of hope. But the poet narrow's
the scope of his own illustration. Distance lends enchantment to
the ear as well as to the sight; nor to these bodily senses alone.
Memory, no less than hope, owes its charm to the far away. '
"I cannot imagine myself again a child when I am in the
midst of yon noisy children. But as their noise reaches me here,
subdued and mellowed; and knowing, thank Heaven! that the


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EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
2725
urchins are not within reach of me, I could readily dream myself
back into childhood and into sympathy with the lost playfields of
school.
« So surely it must be with grief: how different the terrible
agony for a beloved one just gone from earth, to the soft regret
for one who disappeared into heaven years ago! So with the art
of poetry: how imperatively, when it deals with the great emo-
tions of tragedy, it must remove the actors from us, in propor-
tion as the emotions are to elevate, and the tragedy is to please
us by the tears it draws! Imagine our shock if a poet were to
place on the stage some wise gentleman with whom we dined
yesterday, and who was discovered to have killed his father and
married his mother. But when Edipus commits those unhappy
mistakes nobody is shocked. Oxford in the nineteenth century is
a long way off from Thebes three thousand or four thousand
years ago.
"And,” continued Kenelm, plunging deeper into the maze of
metaphysical criticism, “even where the poet deals with persons
and things close upon our daily sight - if he would give them
poetic charm he must resort to a sort of moral or psychological
distance; the nearer they are to us in external circumstance, the
farther they must be in some internal peculiarities. Werter and
Clarissa Harlowe are described as contemporaries of their artistic
creation, and with the minutest details of an apparent realism;
yet they are at once removed from our daily lives by their idio-
syncrasies and their fates. We know that while Werter and Clar-
issa are so near to us in much that we sympathize with them as
friends and kinsfolk, they are yet as much remote from us in
the poetic and idealized side of their natures as if they belonged
to the age of Homer; and this it is that invests with charm the
very pain which their fate inflicts on Thus, I suppose, it
must be in love. If the love we feel is to have the glamor of
poetry, it must be love for some one morally at a distance from
our ordinary habitual selves; in short, differing from us in at-
tributes which, however near we draw to the possessor, we can
never approach, never blend, in attributes of our own; so that
there is something in the loved one that always remains an
ideal -a mystery -'a sun-bright summit mingling with the
sky! )
From this state, half comatose, half unconscious, Kenelm was
roused slowly, reluctantly. Something struck softly on his cheek
us.


## p. 2726 (#290) ###########################################

2726
EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
- again a little less softly; he opened his eyes — they fell first
upon two tiny rosebuds, which, on striking his face, had fallen
on his breast; and then looking up, he saw before him, in an
opening of the trellised circle, a female child's laughing face.
Her hand was still uplifted, charged with another rosebud; but
behind the child's figure, looking over her shoulder and holding
back the menacing arm, was a face as innocent but lovelier far
the face of a girl in her first youth, framed round with the
blossoms that festooned the trellis. How the face became the
flowers! It seemed the fairy spirit of them.
Kenelm started and rose to his feet. The child, the one
whom he had so ungallantly escaped from, ran towards him
through a wicket in the circle. Her companion disappeared.
"Is it you ? ” said Kenelm to the child - "you who pelted me
so cruelly ? Ungrateful creature! Did I not give you the best
strawberries in the dish, and all my own cream ? ”
« But why did you run away and hide yourself when you
ought to be dancing with me?
” replied the young lady, evading,
with the instinct of her sex, all answer to the reproach she had
deserved.
"I did not run away; and it is clear that I did not mean to
hide myself, since you so easily found me out. But who was the
young lady with you? I suspect she pelted me too, for she
seems to have run away to hide herself. ”
“No, she did not pelt you; she wanted to stop me, and you
would have had another rosebud – oh, so much bigger! - if she
had not held back my arm. Don't you know her — don't you
know Lily? ”
“No; so that is Lily? You shall introduce me to her. ”
By this time they had passed out of the circle through the
little wicket opposite the path by which Kenelm had entered,
and opening at once on the lawn. Here at some distance the
children were grouped; some reclined on the grass, some walking
to and fro, in the interval of the dance.
Before he had reached the place, Mrs. Brae field met him.
Lily is come! ”
“I know it-I have seen her. ”
“Is not she beautiful ? »
"I must see more of her if I am to answer critically; but
before you introduce me, may I be permitted to ask who and
what is Lily? ”


## p. 2727 (#291) ###########################################

EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
2727
« Did you
Mrs. Braefield paused a moment before she answered, and yet
the answer was brief enough not to need much consideration:
«She is a Miss Mordaunt, an orphan; and as I before told you,
resides with her aunt, Mrs. Cameron, a widow. They have the
prettiest cottage you ever saw on the banks of the river, or rather
rivulet, about a mile from this place. Mrs. Cameron is a very
good, simple-hearted woman. As to Lily, I can praise her beauty
only with safe conscience, for as yet she is a mere child — her
mind quite unformed. ”
ver meet any man, much less any woman, whose
mind was formed ? » muttered Kenelm. "I am sure mine is not,
and never will be on this earth. ”
Mrs. Braefield did not hear this low-voiced observation. She
was looking about for Lily; and perceiving her at last as the
children who surrounded her were dispersing to renew the dance,
she took Kenelm's arm, led him to the young lady, and a formal
introduction took place.
Formal as it could be on those sunlit swards, amidst the joy
of summer and the laugh of children. In such scene and such
circumstance, formality does not last long. I know not how it
was, but in a very few minutes Kenelm and Lily had ceased to
be strangers to each other. They found themselves seated apart
from the rest of the merry-makers, on the bank shadowed by
lime-trees; the man listening with downcast eyes, the girl with
mobile shifting glances, now on earth, now on heaven, and talking
freely, gayly - like the babble of a happy stream, with a silvery
dulcet voice and a sparkle of rippling smiles.
No doubt this is a reversal of the formalities of well-bred
life and conventional narrating thereof. According to them, no
doubt, it is for the man to talk and the maid to listen; but I
state the facts as they were, honestly. And Lily knew no more
of the formalities of drawing-room life than a skylark fresh from
its nest knows of the song-teacher and the cage. She was still
so much of a child. Mrs. Braefield was right — her mind was
still so unformed.
What she did talk about in that first talk between them that
could make the meditative Kenelm listen so mutely, so intently,
I know not; at least I could not jot it down on paper. I fear
it was very egotistical, as the talk of children generally is -
about herself and her aunt and her home and her friends all
her friends seemed children like herself, though younger -


## p. 2728 (#292) ###########################################

2728
EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
soon
Clemmy the chief of them. Clemmy was the one who had taken
a fancy to Kenelm. And amidst all the ingenuous prattle there
came flashes of a quick intellect, a lively fancy — nay, even
poetry of expression or of sentiment. It might be the talk of a
child, but certainly not of a silly child.
But as
as the dance was over, the little ones again
gathered round Lily. Evidently she was the prime favorite of
them all; and as her companions had now become tired of dan-
cing, new sports were proposed, and Lily was carried off to
“Prisoner's Base. ”
“I am very happy to make your acquaintance, Mr. Chillingly,”
said a frank, pleasant voice; and a well-dressed, good-looking
man held out his hand to Kenelm.
“My husband,” said Mrs. Braefield with a certain pride in
her look.
Kenelm responded cordially to the civilities of the master
of the house, who had just returned from his city office, and
left all its cares behind him. You had only to look at him to
see that he was prosperous and deserved to be so. There were
in his countenance the signs of strong sense, of good-humor-
above all, of an active, energetic temperament. A man of broad
smooth forehead, keen hazel eyes, firm lips and jaw; with a
happy contentment in himself, his house, the world in general,
mantling over his genial smile, and outspoken in the metallic
ring of his voice.
“You will stay and dine with us, of course,” said Mr. Brae-
field; “and unless you want very much to be in town to-night, I
hope you will take a bed here. ”
Kenelm hesitated.
"Do stay at least till to-morrow," said Mrs. Braefield. Kenelm
hesitated still; and while hesitating, his eyes rested on Lily,
leaning on the arm of a middle-aged lady, and approaching the
hostess — evidently to take leave.
“I cannot resist so tempting an invitation,” said Kenelm, and
he fell back a little behind Lily and her companion.
“Thank you much for so pleasant a day,” said Mrs. Cameron
to the hostess. Lily has enjoyed herself extremely. I only
regret we could not come earlier. "
If you are walking home,” said Mr. Braefield, «let me
accompany you. I want to speak to your gardener about his
heart's-ease -it is much finer than mine. "


## p. 2729 (#293) ###########################################

EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
2729
“If so,” said Kenelm to Lily, “may I come too ? Of all
flowers that grow, heart's-ease is the one I most prize. ”
A few minutes afterward Kenelm was walking by the side of
Lily along the banks of a little stream tributary to the Thames;
Mrs. Cameron and Mr. Braefield in advance, for the path only
held two abreast.
Suddenly Lily left his side, allured by a rare butterfly -- I
think it is called the Emperor of Morocco — that was sunning its
yellow wings upon a group of wild reeds. She succeeded in
capturing this wanderer in her straw hat, over which she drew
her sun-veil. After this notable capture she returned demurely
to Kenelm's side.
“Do you collect insects ? ” said that philosopher, as much sur-
prised as it was his nature to be at anything.
Only butterflies,” answered Lily; "they are not insects, you
know; they are souls. ”
“Emblems of souls, you mean at least so the Greeks prettily
represented them to be. ”
“No, real souls the souls of infants that die in their cradles
unbaptized; and if they are taken care of, and not eaten by birds,
and live a year, then they pass into fairies. ”
"It is a very poetical idea, Miss Mordaunt, and founded on
evidence quite as rational as other assertions of the metamor-
phosis of one creature into another. Perhaps you can do what
the philosophers cannot - tell me how you learned a new idea to
be an incontestable fact ? »
“I don't know,” replied Lily, looking very much puzzled :
“perhaps I learned it in a book, or perhaps I dreamed it. ”
« You could not make a wiser answer if you were a philoso-
pher. But you talk of taking care of butterflies: how do you do
that ? Do you impale them on pins stuck into a glass case ? ”
“Impale them! How can you talk so cruelly? You deserve
to be pinched by the fairies. ”
"I am afraid,” thought Kenelm, compassionately, “that my
companion has no mind to be formed; what is euphoniously
called (an innocent. )
He shook his head and remained silent.
Lily resumed — "I will show you my collection when we get
home — they seem so happy. I am sure there are some of them
who know me — - they will feed from my hand. I have only had
one die since I began to collect them last summer. ”
)))


## p. 2730 (#294) ###########################################

2730
EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON
« Then you have kept them a year; they ought to have turned
into fairies. ”
"I suppose many of them have. Of course I let out all those
that had been with me twelve months — they don't turn to fairies
in the cage, you know. Now I have only those I caught this
year, or last autumn; the prettiest don't appear till the autumn. ”
The girl here bent her uncovered head over the straw hat,
her tresses shadowing it, and uttered loving words to the pris-
Then again she looked up and around her, and abruptly
stopped and exclaimed:-
“How can people live in towns – how can people say they are
ever dull in the country? Look,” she continued, gravely and
earnestly — "look at that tall pine-tree, with its long branch
sweeping over the water; see how, as the breeze catches it, it
changes its shadow, and how the shadow changes the play of the
sunlight on the brook:-
oner.
This «
(Wave your tops, ye pines;
With every plant, in sign of worship wave. '
What an interchange of music there must be between Nature
and a poet! ”
Kenelm was startled.
an innocent! »
» — this a girl who
had no mind to be formed! In that presence he could not be
cynical; could not speak of Nature as a mechanism, a lying hum-
bug, as he had done to the man poet. He replied gravely:-
“The Creator has gifted the whole universe with language,
but few are the hearts that can interpret it. Happy those to
whom it is no foreign tongue, acquired imperfectly with care
and pain, but rather a native language, learned unconsciously
from the lips of the great mother. To them the butterfly's wing
may well buoy into heaven a fairy's soul! »
When he had thus said, Lily turned, and for the first time
attentively looked into his dark soft eyes; then instinctively she
laid her light hand on his arm, and said in a low voice, “Talk
on — talk thus; I like to hear you. ”
But Kenelm did not talk on. They had now arrived at the
garden-gate of Mrs. Cameron's cottage, and the elder persons in
advance paused at the gate and walked with them to the house.


## p. 2731 (#295) ###########################################

2731
HENRY CUYLER BUNNER
(1855-1896)
pass.
HE position which Henry Cuyler Bunner has come to occupy
in the literary annals of our time strengthens as the days
If the stream of his genius flowed in gentle rivulets,
it traveled as far and spread its fruitful influence as wide as many a
statelier river. He was above all things a poet. In his prose as in
his verse he has revealed the essential qualities of a poet's nature:
he dealt with the life which he saw about him in a spirit of broad
humanity and with genial sympathy. When he fashioned the tender
triolet on the pitcher of mignonette, or
sang of the little red box at Vesey Street,
he wrote of what he knew; and his stories,
even when embroidered with quaint fancies,
tread firmly the American soil of the nine-
teenth century. But Bunner's realism never
concerned itself with the record of triviali-
ties for their own sake. When he portrayed
the lower phases of city life, it was the
humor of that life he caught, and not its
sordidness; its kindliness, and not its bru-
tality. His mind was healthy, and since
it was a poet's mind, the point upon ch
HENRY C. BUNNER
it was so nicely balanced was love: love of
the trees and flowers, love of his little brothers in wood and field,
love of his country home, love of the vast city in its innumerable
aspects; above all, love of his wife, his family, and his friends; and
all these outgoings of his heart have found touching expression in
his verse. Indeed, this attitude of affectionate kinship with the
world has colored all his work; it has made his satire sweet-tem-
pered, given his tales their winning grace, and lent to his poetry its
abiding power.
The work upon which Bunner's fame must rest was all produced
within a period of less than fifteen years. He was born in 1855 at
Oswego, New York. He came to the city of New York when very
young, and received his education there. A brief experience of busi-
ness life sufficed to make his true vocation clear, and at the age of
eighteen he began his literary apprenticeship on the Arcadian.
When that periodical passed away, Puck was just struggling into



## p. 2732 (#296) ###########################################

2732
HENRY CUYLER BUNNER
existence, and for the English edition, which was started in 1877,
Bunner's services were secured. Half of his short life was spent in
editorial connection with that paper. To his wisdom and literary
abilities is due in large measure the success which has always
attended the enterprise. Bunner had an intimate knowledge of
American character and understood the foibles of his countrymen;
but he was never cynical, and his satire was without hostility.
He despised opportune journalism. His editorials were clear and
vigorous; free not from partisanship, but from partisan rancor, and
they made for honesty and independence. His firm stand against poli-
tical corruption, socialistic vagaries, the misguided and often criminal
efforts of labor agitators, and all the visionary schemes of diseased
minds, has contributed to the stability of sound and self-respecting
American citizenship.
Bunner's first decided success in story-telling was The Midge,'
which appeared in 1886. It is a tale of New York life in the inter-
esting old French quarter of South Fifth Avenue. Again, in “The
Story of a New York House,' he displayed the same quick feeling
for the spirit of the place, as it was and is. This tale first appeared
in the newly founded Scribner's Magazine, to which he has since
been a constant contributor. Here some of his best short stories
have been published, including the excellent (Zadoc Pine, with its
healthy presentation of independent manhood in contest with the
oppressive exactions of labor organizations. But Bunner was no be-
liever in stories with a tendency; the conditions which lie at the root
of great sociological questions he used as artistic material, never as
texts. His stories are distinguished by simplicity of motive; each is
related with fine unobtrusive humor and with an underlying pathos,
never unduly emphasized. The most popular of his collections of
tales is that entitled Short Sixes, which, having first appeared in
Puck, were published in book form in 1891. A second volume came
out three years later. When the shadow of death had already fallen
upon Bunner, a new collection of his sketches was in process of
publication: Jersey Street and Jersey Lane. ' In these, as in the
still more recent Suburban Sage,' is revealed the same fineness of
sympathetic observation in town and country that we have come to
associate with Bunner's name. Among his prose writings there re-
mains to be mentioned the series from Puck entitled Made in
France. These are an application of the methods of Maupassant to
American subjects; they display that wonderful facility in reprodu-
cing the flavor of another's style which is exhibited in Bunner's verse
in a still more eminent degree. His prose style never attained the
perfection of literary finish, but it is easy and direct, free from senti-
mentality and rhetoric; in the simplicity of his conceptions and the
delicacy of his treatment lies its chief charm.


## p. 2733 (#297) ###########################################

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER
2733
Bunner's verse, on the other hand, shows a complete mastery of
form. He was a close student of Horace; he tried successfully the
most exacting of exotic verse-forms, and enjoyed the distinction of
having written the only English example of the difficult Chant-
Royal. Graceful vers de société and bits of witty epigram flowed from
him without effort. But it was not to this often dangerous facility
that Bunner owed his poetic fame. His tenderness, his quick sym-
pathy with nature, his insight into the human heart, above all, the
love and longing that filled his soul, have infused into his perfected
rhythms the spirit of universal brotherhood that underlies all genu-
ine poetry. His Airs from Arcady' (1884) achieved a success unusual
for a volume of poems; and the love lyrics and patriotic songs of
his later volume, (Rowen, maintain the high level of the earlier
book. The great mass of his poems is still buried in the back num-
bers of the magazines, from which the best are to be rescued in a
new volume. If his place is not among the greatest of our time,
he has produced a sufficient body of fine verse to rescue his name
from oblivion and render his memory dear to all who value the
legacy of a sincere and genuine poet. He died on May uth, 1896, at
the age of forty-one.
TRIOLET
A
PITCHER of mignonette,
In a tenement's highest casement:
Queer sort of flower-pot - yet
That pitcher of mignonette
Is a garden in heaven set,
To the little sick child in the basement
The pitcher of mignonette,
In the tenement's highest casement.
Copyrighted by Charles Scribner's Sons.
THE LOVE-LETTERS OF SMITH
From (Short Sixes )
HEN the little seamstress had climbed to her room in the
story over the top story of the great brick tenement
house in which she lived, she was quite tired out. If
you do not understand what a story over a top story is, you
must remember that there are no limits to human greed, and


## p. 2734 (#298) ###########################################

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER
2734
hardly any to the height of tenement houses. When the man
who owned that seven-story tenement found that he could rent
another floor, he found no difficulty in persuading the guardians
of our building laws to let him clap another story on the roof,
like a cabin on the deck of a ship; and in the southeasterly of
the four apartments on this floor the little seamstress lived.
You could just see the top of her window from the street — the
huge cornice that had capped the original front, and that served
as her window-sill now, quite hid all the lower part of the story
on top of the top story.
The little seamstress was scarcely thirty years old, but she
was such an old-fashioned little body in so many of her looks
and ways that I had almost spelled her “sempstress,” after the
fashion of our grandmothers. She had been a comely body,
too; and would have been still, if she had not been thin and
pale and anxious-eyed.
She was tired out to-night, because she had been working
hard all day for a lady who lived far up in the New Wards”
beyond Harlem River, and after the long journey home she had
to climb seven flights of tenement-house stairs. She was too
tired, both in body and in mind, to cook the two little chops
she had brought home. She would save them for breakfast, she
thought. So she made herself a cup of tea on the miniature
stove, and ate a slice of dry bread with it. It was too much
trouble to make toast.
But after dinner she watered her flowers. She was never too
tired for that, and the six pots of geraniums that caught the
south sun on the top of the cornice did their best to repay her.
Then she sat down in her rocking-chair by the window and
looked out. Her eyry was high above all the other buildings,
and she could look across some low roofs opposite and see the
further end of Tompkins Square, with its sparse spring green
showing faintly through the dusk. The eternal roar of the city
floated up to her and vaguely troubled her. She was a country
girl; and although she had lived for ten years in New York,
she had never grown used to that ceaseless murmur. To-night
she felt the languor of the new season, as well as the heavi-
ness of physical exhaustion. She was almost too tired to go to
bed.
She thought of the hard day done and the hard day to be
begun after the night spent on the hard little bed. She thought


## p. 2735 (#299) ###########################################

HENRY CUYLER BUNNER
2735
of the peaceful days in the country, when she taught school in
the Massachusetts village where she was born. She thought of a
hundred small slights that she had to bear from people better
fed than bred. She thought of the sweet green fields that she
rarely saw nowadays. She thought of the long journey forth and
back that must begin and end her morrow's work, and she won-
dered if her employer would think to offer to pay her fare.
Then she pulled herself together. She must think of more
agreeable things or she could not sleep. And as the only agree-
able things she had to think about were her flowers, she looked
at the garden on top of the cornice.
A peculiar gritting noise made her look down, and she saw a
cylindrical object that glittered in the twilight, advancing in an
irregular and uncertain manner toward her flower-pots. Looking
closer, she saw that it was a pewter beer-mug, which somebody
in the next apartment was pushing with a two-foot rule. On top
of the beer-mug was a piece of paper, and on this paper was
written, in a sprawling, half-formed hand:-
porter
pleas excuse the libberty And
drink it
The seamstress started up in terror and shut the window. She
remembered that there was a man in the next apartment.