Is Polite Society Polite? And Other Essays BY MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE (continued 2)

A last word of mine shall commend this Paris to those who are yet to visit it. Let me pray such as may have this experience not to suppose that they have read the wonderful riddle of this city's life when they shall have seen a few of its shops, palaces, and picture-galleries. If they wish to understand what the French people are, and why they are what they are, they will have to study history, politics, and human nature pretty deeply.

If they wish to have an idea of what the French may become, they must keep their faith in all that America finds precious and invaluable,—in free institutions, in popular education, and, above all, in the heart of the people. Never let them believe that while freedom ennobles the Anglo-Saxon, it brutalizes the Gaul. Despotism brutalizes for long centuries, and freedom cannot ennoble in a moment. But give it time and room, and it will ennoble. And let Americans who go to Paris remember that they should there represent republican virtue and intelligence.

How far this is from being the case some of us may know, and others guess. Americans who visit Paris very generally relax their rules of decorum and indulge in practices which they would not venture to introduce at home. Hence they are looked upon with some disfavor by the more serious part of the French people, while the frivolous ridicule them at will. But I could wish that, in visiting a nation to whom we Americans owe so much, we could think of something besides our own amusement and the buying of pretty things to adorn our persons and our houses. I could wish that we might visit schools, prisons, Protestant churches, and hear something of the charities and reforms of the place, and of what the best thinkers are doing and saying. I blush to think of the gold which Americans squander in Paris, and of the bales of merchandise of all sorts which we carry away. Far better would it be if we made friends with the best people, exchanging with them our best thought and experience, helping and being helped by them in the good works which redeem the world. Better than the full trunk and empty purse, which usually mark a return from Paris, will be a full heart and a hand clasping across the water another hand, pure and resolute as itself,—the hand of progress, the hand of order, the hand of brotherly kindness and charity.

Greece Revisited

I SPEAK of a country to which all civilized countries are deeply indebted.

The common speech of Europe and America shows this. In whatever way the languages of the western world have been woven and got together, they all show here and there some golden gleam which carries us back to the Hellenic tongue. Philosophy, science, and common thought alike borrow their phraseology from this ancient source.

I need scarcely say by what a direct descent all arts may claim to have been recreated by Greek genius, nor can I exaggerate the importance of the Greek poets, philosophers, and historians in the history of literature. Rules of correct thinking and writing, the nice balance of rhetoric, the methods of oratory, the notions of polity, of the correlations of social and national interests,—in all of these departments the Greeks may claim to have been our masters, and may call us their slow and blundering pupils.

A wide interval lies between these glories and the Greece of to-day. Nations, like individuals, have their period of growth and decay, their limit of life, which human devices seem unable to prolong. But while systems of government and social organization change, race perseveres. The Greeks, like the Hebrews, when scattered and powerless at home, have been potent abroad. Deprived for centuries of political and national existence, the spirit of their immortal literature, the power of their subtle and ingenious mind, have leavened and fashioned the mind, not of Europe only, but of the thinking world.

Let us recall the briefest outline of the story. The states of ancient Greece, always divided among themselves, in time invited the protection of the Roman Empire, hoping thereby to attain peace and tranquillity. Rome of to-day shows how her officials of old plundered the temples and galleries of the Greeks, while her literary men admired and imitated the Hellenic authors.

At a later day, the beauty of the Orient seduced the stern heart of Roman patriotism. A second Rome was built on the shores of the Bosphorus,—a city whose beauty of position excelled even the dignity of the seven hills. Greek and Roman, eastern and western, became mingled and blent in a confusion with which the most patient scholar finds it difficult to deal. Then came a political division,—eastern and western empires, eastern and western churches, the Bishop of Rome and the Patriarch of Constantinople. Other great changes follow. The western empire crumbles, takes form again under Charlemagne, finally disappears. The eastern empire follows it. The Turk plants his standard on the shores of the Bosphorus. The sacred city falls into his hands, without contradiction, so far as Europe is concerned. The veil of a dark and bloody barbarism hides the monuments of a most precious civilization. It is the age of blood. The nations of Western Europe have still the faith and the attributes of bandits. The Turkish ataghan is stronger than the Greek pen and chisel. The new race has a military power of which the old could only faintly dream.

And so the last Constantine falls, and Mahmoud sweeps from earth the traces of his reign. In the old Church of St. Sophia, now the Mosque of Omar, men show to-day, far up on one of the columns, the impress of the conqueror's bloody hand, which could only strike so high because the floor beneath was piled fathom-deep with Christian corpses.

Another period follows. The Turk establishes himself in his new domain, and employs the Greek to subjugate the Greek. Upon each Greek family the tribute of a male child is levied; and this child is bred up in Turkish ways, and taught to turn his weapon against the bosom of his mother country. From these babes of Christian descent was formed the corps of the Janissaries, a force so dangerous and deadly that the representative of Turkish rule was forced at a later day to plan and accomplish its destruction.

The name "Greek" in this time no longer suggested a nation. I myself, in my childhood, knew a young Greek, escaped from the massacres of Scio, who told me that when, having learned English, he heard himself spoken of as "the Greek," his first thought was that those who so spoke of him were waiting to cut his throat.

Now follows another epoch. Western Europe is busied in getting a little civilization. Baptized mostly by force, vi et armis, she has still to be Christianized: she has America to discover and to settle. She has to go to school to the ghosts of Greece and Arabia, in order to have a grammar and to learn arithmetic. There are some wars of religion, endless wars for territorial aggrandizement. Europe is still a congress of the beasts,—lion, tiger, boar, rhinoceros, all snared together by the tortuous serpent of diplomacy.

I pause, for out of this dark time came your existence and mine. A small barque crosses the sea; a canoe steals toward the issue of a mighty river. Such civilization as Europe has plants itself out in a new country, in a virgin soil; and in the new domain are laid the foundations of an empire whose greatness is destined to reside in her peaceful and beneficent offices. Her task it shall be to feed the starving emigrant, to give land and free citizenship to those dispossessed of both by the greed of the old feudal systems.

In the fulness of this young nation's life, a cry arose from that ancient mother of arts and sciences. The Greek had arisen from his long sleep, had become awake to the fact that civilization is more potent than barbarism. Strong in this faith, Greece had closed in a death struggle with the assassin of her national life. Through the enthusiasm of individuals, not through the policy of governments, the desperate, heroic effort received aid. From the night of ages, from the sea of blood, Greece arose, shorn of her fair proportions, pointing to her ruined temples, her mutilated statues, her dishonored graves.

Americans may be thankful that this strange resurrection was not beheld by our fathers with indifference. From their plenty, a duteous tribute more than once went forth to feed and succor the country to which all owe so much. And so an American, to-day, can look upon the Acropolis without a blush—though scarcely without a tear.

Contenting myself with this brief retrospect, I must turn from the page of history to the record of individual experience.

My first visit to Athens was in the year 1867. The Cretans were at this time engaged in an energetic struggle for their freedom, and my husband was the bearer of certain funds which he and others had collected in America for the relief of the destitute families of the insurgents. A part of this money was employed in sending provisions to the Island of Crete, where the women and children had taken refuge in the fortresses of the mountains, subject to great privations, and in danger of absolute starvation.

With the remainder of the fund, schools were endowed in Athens for the children of the Cretan refugees. My husband's efforts were seconded by an able Greek committee; and when, at the close of his labors, he turned his face homeward, he was followed by the prayers and thanksgivings of those whose miseries he had been enabled to relieve.

Nearly ten years later than the time just spoken of, I again threaded my way between the isles of Greece and arrived at the Piræus, the ancient port of Athens. A railway now connects these two points; but on this occasion, we did not avail ourselves of it, preferring to take a carriage for the short distance.

In approaching Athens for the second time, my first surprise was to find that it had grown to nearly double the size which I remembered ten years before. The cleanly, thrifty, and cheerful aspect of the city presented the greatest contrast to the squalor and filth of Constantinople, which I had just left. The perfect blue of the heavens brought out in fine effect the white marble of the new buildings, some of which are costly and even magnificent. Yet there, in full sight, towering above everything else, stood the unattainable beauty, the unequalled, unrivalled Parthenon.

I made several pilgrimages to the Acropolis, eager to revive my recollection respecting the design and history of its various monuments. I listened again and again to the statements of well-read archæologists concerning the uses of the temples, the positions of the statues and bas-reliefs, the hundred gates, and the triumphal road which led up to the height crowned with glories.

But while I gave ear to what is more easily forgotten than remembered,—the story of the long-vanished past,—my eyes received the impression of a beauty that cannot perish. I did not say to the Parthenon: Thou wert, but, Thou art so beautiful, in thy perfect proportion, in thy fine workmanship!

What silver chisel turned the tender leaves of this marble foliage? Here is a little bit, a yard or so, which has escaped the gnawing of the elements, lying turned away from the course of the winds and rains! No king of to-day, in building his palace, can order such a piece of work. Artist he can find none to equal it. And I am proud to say that no king nor millionaire to-day can buy this, or any other fragment belonging to this sacred spot. What England took before Greece became a power again, she may keep, because the British Museum is a treasure-house for the world. But she will never repeat the theft: she is too wise to-day. Christendom is too wise, and the Greeks have learned the value of what they still possess.

At the Acropolis, the theatre of Bacchus had been excavated a short time before my previous visit. Near it they have now brought to light the temple of Æsculapius. This temple, with the theatre of Bacchus and that of Herodius Atticus, occupies the base of the Acropolis, on the side that looks toward the sea.

As one stands in the light of the perfect sky, discerning in the distance that perfect sea, something of the cheerfulness of the ancient Greeks makes itself felt, seems to pervade the landscape. Descending to the theatre of Bacchus, the visitor may call up in his mind the vision of the high feast of mirth and hilarity. Here was the stage; here are, still entire, the marble seats occupied by the priests and other high dignitaries, with one or two interesting bas-reliefs of the god.

When I visited Greece in 1867, I found no proper museum containing the precious fragments and works of art still left to the much-plundered country. Some of these were preserved in the Theseion, a fine temple well known to many by engravings. They were, however, very ill-arranged, and could not be seen with comfort. I now found all my old favorites and many others enshrined in the three museums which had been added to the city during my absence.

One of them is called the Barbakion. It contains, among other things, a number of very ancient vases, on one of which the soul is represented by a female figure with wings. Among these vases is a series relating to family events, one showing a funeral, one a nativity, while two others commemorate a bridal occasion. In one of these last, the bride sits holding Eros in her arms, while her attendants present the wedding gifts; in the other, moves the bridal procession, accompanied by music. Here are preserved many small figures in clay, commonly spoken of in Greece as the Tanagra dolls. A fine collection of these has been given to the Boston Art Museum by a well-known patron of all arts, the late Thomas G. Appleton. Here we saw a cremating pot of bronze, containing the charred remains of a human body. I afterwards saw—at the Keramika, an ancient cemetery—the stone vase from which this pot was taken.

Among the objects shown at this museum was a beautiful set of gold jewelry found in the cemetery just mentioned. It consisted of armlets, bracelets, ear-rings, and a number of finger-rings, among which was one of the coiled serpents so much in vogue to-day. I found here some curious flat-bottomed pitchers, with a cocked-hat cover nicely fitted on. This Greek device may have supplied the pattern for the first cocked hat,—Dr. Holmes has told us about the last.

But nothing in this collection impressed me more than did an ancient mask cast from a dead face. This mask had lately been made to serve as a matrix; and a plaster cast, newly taken from it, gave us clearly the features and expression of the countenance, which was removed from us by æons of time.

A second museum is that built at the Acropolis, which contains many fragments of sculpture, among which I recognized a fine bas-relief representing three women carrying water-jars, and a small figure of wingless Victory, both of which I had seen twelve years before, exposed to the elements.

But the principal museum of the city, a fine building of dazzling white marble, is the patriotic gift of a wealthy Greek, who devoted to this object a great part of his large fortune. In this building are arranged a number of the ancient treasures brought to light through the persevering labors of Dr. and Mrs. Schliemann. As the doctor has published a work giving a detailed account of these articles, I will mention only a few of them.

Very curious in form are the gold cups found in the treasury of Agamemnon. They are shaped a little like a flat champagne glass, but do not expand at the base, standing somewhat insecurely upon the termination of their stems. Here, too, are masks of thin beaten gold, which have been laid upon the faces of the dead. Rings, ear-rings, brooches, and necklaces there are in great variety; among the first, two gold signet rings of marked beauty. I remember, also, several sets of ornaments, resembling buttons, in gold and enamel.

From the main building, we passed into a fine gallery filled with sculptures, many of which are monumental in character. I will here introduce two pages from my diary, written almost on the spot:—

Nothing that I have seen in Athens or elsewhere impresses me like the Greek marbles which I saw yesterday in the museum, most of which have been found and gathered since my visit in 1867. A single monumental slab had then been excavated, which, with the help of Pausanias, identified the site of the ancient Keramika, a place of burial. Here have been found many tombs adorned with bas-reliefs, with a number of vases and several statues. How fortunate has been the concealment of these works of art until our time, by which, escaping Roman rapacity and Turkish barbarism, they have survived the wreck of ages, to show us, to-day, the spirit of family life among the ancient Greeks! Italy herself possesses no Greek relics equal in this respect to those which I contemplated yesterday. For any student of art or of history, it is worth crossing the ocean and encountering all fatigues to read this imperishable record of human sentiment and relation; for while the works of ancient art already familiar to the public show us the artistic power and the sense of beauty with which this people were so marvellously endowed, these marbles make evident the feelings with which they regarded their dead.

Perhaps the first lesson one draws from their contemplation is the eternity, so to speak, of the family affections. No words nor work have ever portrayed a regard more tender than is shown in these family groups, in which the person about to depart is represented in a sitting posture, while his nearest friends or relatives stand near, expressing in their countenances and action the sorrow and pathos of the final separation. Here an aged father gives the last blessing to the son who survives and mourns him. Here a dying mother reclines, surrounded by a group of friends, one of whom bears in her arms the infant whose birth, presumably, cost the mother her life. Two other slabs represent partings between a mother and her child. In one of these the young daughter holds to her bosom a dove, in token of the innocence of her tender age. In the other, the mother is bending over the daughter with a sweet, sad seriousness. Other groups show the parting of husband and wife, friend from friend; and I now recall one of these in which the expression of the clasped hands of two individuals excels in tenderness anything that I have ever seen in paint or marble. The Greeks, usually so reserved in their portrayal of nature, seem in these instances to have laid aside the calm cloak of restraint which elsewhere enwrapped them, in order to give permanent expression to the tender and beautiful associations which hallow death.

It would take me long to tell how much Athens has been enriched by the munificence of her wealthy merchants, whose shrewdness and skill in trade are known all over the world. Of some of these, dying abroad, the words may well be quoted: "Moriens reminiscitur Argos," as they have bequeathed for the benefit of their beloved city the sums of money which have a permanent representation in the public buildings I have mentioned, and many others. Better still than this, a number of individuals of this class have returned to Greece, to end their days beneath their native skies, and the social resources of the metropolis are enlarged by their presence.

This leads us to what may interest many more than statements concerning buildings and antiquities,—the social aspect of Athens.

The court and high society, or what is called such, asks our first attention. The royal palace, a very fine one, was built by King Otho. The present King and Queen are very simple in their tastes. One meets them walking among the ruins and elsewhere in plain dress, with no other escort than a large dog. The visit which I now describe took place in Carnival time, and we heard, on our arrival, of a court ball, for which we soon received cards. We were admonished by the proper parties to come to the palace before nine o'clock, in order that we might be in the ball-room before the entrance of the King and Queen. We repaired thither accordingly, and, passing through a hall lined with officials and servants in livery, ascended the grand staircase, and were soon in a very elegant ball-room, well filled with a creditable beau monde. The servants of the palace all wore Palikari costume,—the white skirt and full-sleeved shirt, with embroidered vest and leggings. The ladies present were attired with a due regard for Paris in general, and for Worth in particular. The gentlemen were either in uniform, or in that inexpressibly sleek and mournful costume which is called "evening dress."

We were presently introduced to the maids of honor, one of whom bore the historic name of Kolokotronis. They were dressed in white, and wore badges on which the crown and the King's initial letter were wrought in small brilliants. Many of the ladies displayed beautiful diamonds.

Presently a hush fell on the rapidly talking assembly. People ranged themselves in a large circle, and the sovereigns entered. The Queen wore a dress of white tulle embroidered with red over white silk, and a garland of flowers in which the same color predominated. Her corsage was adorned with knots of diamonds and rubies, and she wore a complete parure of the same costly stones. Their majesties made the round of the circle. We, as strangers, were at once presented to the Queen, who with great affability said to me: "I hear that you have been in Egypt, and that your daughter ascended the great Pyramid." I made as low a courtesy as was consistent with my dignity as president of a number of clubs. One or two further remarks were interchanged, and the lovely, gracious blonde moved on.

When the presentations and salutations were over, the royal pair proceeded to open the ball, having each some high and mighty partner for the first contredanse. The Queen is very fond of dancing, and is happier than some other queens in being allowed to waltz to her heart's content.

There were at the ball three of our fellow-countrymen who could dance. Two of them wore the uniform of our navy, and had kept it very fresh and brilliant. These Terpsichorean gentlemen were matched by three ladies well versed in the tactics of the German. Suddenly a swanlike, circling movement began to distinguish itself from the quick, hopping, German waltz which prevails everywhere in Europe. People looked on with surprise, which soon brightened into admiration. And if any one had said to me: "What is that, mother?" I should have replied: "The Boston, my child."

Lest the Queen's familiarity with my movements should be thought to imply some previous acquaintance between us, I must venture a few words of explanation.

In the first place, I must mention a friend, Mr. Paraskevaïdes, who had been very helpful to Dr. Howe and myself on the occasion of our visit to Athens in 1867. This gentleman was one of the first to greet my daughter and myself, when she, for the first, and I, for the second time, arrived in Athens. It was from him that we heard of the court ball just mentioned, and through him that we received the cards enabling us to attend it. I had given Mr. Paraskevaïdes a copy of the Woman's Journal, published in Boston, containing a letter of mine describing a recent visit to Cairo and the Pyramids. Our friend called at the palace to speak of my presence in Athens to the proper authorities, and by chance encountered the Queen as she was stepping into her carriage for a drive. He told her that the widow and daughter of Dr. Howe would attend the evening's ball. She asked what he held in his hand. "A paper, printed in Boston, containing a letter written by Mrs. Howe." "Lend it to me," said the Queen. "I wish to read Mrs. Howe's letter." Thus it was that the Queen was able to greet me with so pleasant a mark of interest.

The King and Queen withdrew just before supper was announced, which was very considerate on their part; for, as royal personages may not eat with others, we could not have had our supper if they had not taken theirs elsewhere. We were then escorted to the banquet hall, where were spread a number of tables, at which the guests stood, and regaled themselves with such customary viands as cold chicken, salad, sandwiches, ices, and fruit. All of the usual wines were served in profusion, with nice black coffee to keep people awake for the German, or, as it is called in Europe, the cotillon. And presently we marched back to the ball-room, and the sovereigns re-appeared. The Germanites took chairs, the chaperons kept their modest distance, and the thing that hath no end began, the Queen making the first loop in the mazy weaving of the dance. The next thing that I remember was, three o'clock in the morning, a sleepy drive in a carriage, and the talk that you always hear going home from a party. Now, I ask, was not this orthodox?

This being the gay season of the year, we were present at various festivities whose elegance would have done honor to London or Paris. I particularly remember, among these, a fancy ball at the house of Mr. and Mrs. Zyngros. Our hostess was a beautiful woman, and looked every inch a queen, as she stood at the head of her stately marble stairway, in the gold and crimson costume of Catherine de Medici. The ball-room was thronged with Spanish gipsies, Elizabethan nobles, harlequins, Arcadian shepherds, and Greek peasants. I may also mention another ball, at which a band of maskers made their appearance, splendidly attired, and voluble with the squeaking tone which usually accompanies a mask. The master and mistress of the house were prepared for this interruption, which added greatly to the gaiety of the occasion.

I have given a little outline of these gay doings, in order that you may know that the modern Athens is entitled to boast that she possesses all the appliances of civilization. Now let me say a few words of things more interesting to people of thoughtful minds.

I remember with great pleasure an evening passed beneath the roof of Dr. and Mrs. Schliemann. Well known as is Dr. Schliemann by reputation, it is less generally known that his wife, a Greek woman, has had very much to do with both his studies and the success of his excavations. She is considered in Greece a woman of unusual culture, being well versed in the ancient literature of her country. I was present once at a lecture which she gave in London, before the Royal Historical Society. At the close of the lecture, Lord Talbot de Malahide announced that Mrs. Schliemann had been elected a member of the society. The Duke of Argyll was present on this occasion, and among those who commented upon the opinions advanced in the lecture was Mr. Gladstone. Mrs. Schliemann, however, bears her honors very modestly, and is a charming hostess, gracious and friendly, thoroughly liked and esteemed in this her native country, and elsewhere.

The soirée at Mrs. Schliemann's was merely a conventional reception, with dancing to the music of a pianoforte. We were informed that our hostess was suffering from the fatigues undergone in assisting her husband's labors, and that the music and dancing were introduced to spare her the strain of overmuch conversation. She was able, however, to receive morning visitors on one day of every week, and I took advantage of this opportunity to see her again. I spoke of her little boy, a child of two years, who had been pointed out to me in the Park, by my friend Paraskevaïdes. He bore the grandiose name of Agamemnon. Presently we heard the voice of a child below stairs, and Mrs. Schliemann said: "That is my baby; he has just come in with his nurse." I asked that we might see him, and the nurse brought him into the drawing-room. At sight of us, he began to kick and scream. Wishing to soothe him, I said: "Poor little Agamemnon!" Mrs. Schliemann rejoined: "I say, nasty little Agamemnon!"

Is it to be supposed that I entered and left Athens without uttering the cabalistic word "club"? By no means. I found myself one day invited to speak to a number of ladies, at a friend's house, upon a theme of my own choosing; and this theme was, "The Advancement of Women as Promoted by Association." My audience, numbering about forty, was the best that could be gathered in Athens. I found there, as I have found elsewhere in Europe, great need of the new life which association gives, but little courage to take the first step in a new direction. I could only scratch my furrow, drop my seed, and wait, like Miss Flyte, in "Bleak House," for a result, if need be, "on the day of judgment."

It is a delight to speak of a deeper furrow which was drawn, ten years earlier, by an abler hand than mine, though several of us gave some help in the work done at that time. I allude to the efforts made by my dear husband in behalf of the suffering Cretans, when they were struggling bravely for the freedom which Europe still denies them. Some of the money raised by his earnest efforts, as I have already said, found its way to the then desolate island, in the shape of provisions and clothing for the wives and children of the combatants. Some of it remained in Athens, and paid for the education of a whole generation of Cretan children exiled from their homes, and rendered able, through the aid thus afforded, to earn their own support.

Some of the money, moreover, went to found an industrial establishment in Athens, which has since been continued and enlarged by funds derived from other sources. This establishment began with two or three looms, the Cretan women being expert weavers, and the object being to enable them to earn their bread in a strange city. And it now has at least a dozen looms, and the Dorian mothers, stately and powerful, sit at them all day long, weaving dainty silken webs, gossamer stuffs, strong cotton fabrics, and serviceable carpets.

In those days I saw Marathon for the first time, and learned the truth of Lord Byron's lines:—

The mountains look on Marathon,

And Marathon looks on the sea.

This expedition occupied the whole of a winter day. We started from the hotel after early breakfast, and did not regain it until long after dark. Our carriages were accompanied by an escort of dragoons, which the Greek government supplies, not in view of any real danger from brigands, but in order to afford strangers every possible security. A drive of some three hours brought us to the spot.

A level plain, between the mountains and the sea; a mound, raised at its centre, marking the burial-place of those who fell in the famous battle; a sea-beach, washed by blue waves, and basking in the golden Attic sunlight—this is what we saw at Marathon.

Here we gathered pebbles, and I preserved for some days a knot of daisies growing in a grassy clod of earth. But my mind saw in Marathon an earnest of the patriotic spirit which has lifted Greece from such ruin as the Persians were never able to inflict upon her. Worthy descendants of those ancient heroes were the patriots who fought, in our own century, the war of Greek independence. I am glad to think that all heroic deeds have a fatherhood of their own, whose line never becomes extinct.

Those who would institute a comparison between ancient and modern art should first compare the office of art in ancient times with the function assigned it in our own.

The sculptures of classic Greece were primarily the embodiment of its popular theology and the record of its patriotic heroism. They are not, as we might think them, fancy-free. The marble gods of Hellas characterize for us the morale of that ancient community. They expressed the religious conviction of the artist, and corresponded to the faith of the multitude. If we recognize the freedom of imagination in their conception, we also feel the reverence which guided the sculptor in their execution. As Emerson has said:—

Himself from God he could not free.

How necessary these marbles were to the devotion of the time, we may infer from the complaint reported in one of Cicero's orations,—that a certain Greek city had been so stripped of its marbles that its people had no god left to pray to.

In the city of the Cæsars, this Greek art became the minister of luxury. The ethics of the Roman people chiefly concerned their relation to the state, to which their church was in great measure subservient. The statues stolen from the worship of the Greeks adorned the baths and palaces of the Emperors. This we must think providential for us, since it is in this way that they have escaped the barbarous destruction which for ages swept over the whole of Greece, and to whose rude force, column, monument, and statue were only raw material for the lime-kiln.

Still more secondary is the position of sculpture in the civilization of to-day. Here and there a monument or statue commemorates some great name or some great event. But these are still outside the current of our daily life. Marble is to us a gospel of death, and we grow less and less fond of its cold abstraction. The glitter of bric-à-brac, bits of color, an unexpected shimmer here and there—such are the favorite aspects of art with us.

In saying this, I remember that many beautiful works of art have been purchased by wealthy Americans, and that a surprising number of our people know what is worth purchasing in this line. And yet I think that in the houses of these very people, art is rather the servant of luxury than the embodiment of any strong and sincere affection.

We cannot turn back the tide of progress. We cannot make our religion sculpturesque and picturesque. God forbid that we should! But we can look upon the sculptures of ancient Greece with reverent appreciation, and behold in them a record of the naïve and simple faith of a great people.

If we must speak thus of plastic art, what shall we say of the drama?

Sit down with me before this palace of Œdipus, whose façade is the only scenic aid brought to help the illusion of the play. See how the whole secret and story of the hero's fate is wrought out before its doors, which open upon his youthful strength and glory, and close upon his desolate shame and blindness. Follow the majestic tread of the verse, the perfect progress of the action, and learn the deep reverence for the unseen powers which lifts and spiritualizes the agony of the plot.

Where shall we find a parallel to this in the drama of our day? The most striking contrast to it will be furnished by what we call a "realistic" play, which is a play devised upon the supposition that those who will attend its representation are not possessed of any imagination, but must be dazzled through their eyes and deafened through their ears, until the fatigue of the senses shall take the place of intellectual pleasure. The dénouement will, no doubt, present, as it can, the familiar moral that virtue is in the end rewarded, and vice punished. But such virtue! and such vice! How shall we be sure which is which?

During this visit, I had an interview which brought me face to face with some of the Cretan chiefs, who were exiles in Athens at the time of my visit, in consequence of their participation in the more recent efforts of the Islanders to free themselves from the Turkish rule.

I received, one day, official notice that a committee, appointed by a number of the Cretan exiles, desired permission to wait upon me, with the view of presenting an address which should recognize the efforts made by Dr. Howe in behalf of their unfortunate country. In accordance with this request, I named an hour on the following day, and at the appointed time my guests made their appearance. The Cretan chiefs were five in number. All of them, but one, were dressed in the picturesque costume of their country. This one was Katzi Michælis, the youngest of the party, and somewhat more like the world's people than the others. Two of these were very old men, one of them numbering eighty-four years, and bearing a calm and serene front, like one of Homer's heroes. This was old Korakas, who had only laid down his arms within two years. The chiefs were accompanied by several gentlemen, residents of Athens. One of these, Mr. Rainieri, opened proceedings by a few remarks in French, setting forth the object of the visit, and introducing the address of the Cretan committee, which he read in their own tongue:—

Madam,—

We, the undersigned, emigrants from Crete, who await in free Greece the complete emancipation of our country, have learned with pleasure the fact of your presence in Athens. We feel assured that we shall faithfully interpret the sentiments of our fellow-countrymen by saluting your return to this city, and by assuring you, at the same time, that the remembrance of the benefits conferred by your late illustrious husband is always living in our hearts. When the sun of liberty shall arise upon the Island of Crete, the Cretans will, no doubt, decree the erection of a monument which will attest to succeeding generations the gratitude of our country toward her noble benefactor. For the moment, Madam, deign to accept the simple expression of our sentiments, and our prayers for the prosperity of your family and your nation, to which we and our children shall ever be bound by the ties of gratitude.

The substance of my reply to Mr. Rainieri was as follows:—

My Dear Sir,—

I beg that you will express to these gentlemen my gratitude for their visit, and for the sentiments communicated in the address to which I have just listened. I am much moved by the mention made of the services which my late illustrious husband was able to render to the cause of Greece in his youth, and to that of Crete in his later life. It is true that his earliest efforts, outside of his native country, were for Greek independence, and that his latest endeavors in Europe were made in aid of the Cretans, who have struggled with so much courage and perseverance to deliver their country from the yoke of Turkish oppression. Pray assure these gentlemen that my children and I will never cease to pray for the welfare of Greece, and especially for the emancipation of Crete. Though myself already in the decline of life, I yet hope that I shall live long enough to see the deliverance of your island, τἡν ἑλευθερἱαν τἡς Κρἡτης.

A Greek newspaper's report of this occasion remarked:—

The last words of Mrs. Howe's reply, spoken in Greek, brought tears to the eyes of the heroes, most of whom had known the ever-memorable Dr. Howe in the glorious days of the war of 1821, and had fought with him against the oppressors. Mr. Rainieri interpreted the meaning of Mrs. Howe's words to his fellow-citizens. After this, Mrs. Howe gave orders for refreshments, and began to talk slowly, but distinctly, in Greek, to the great pleasure of all present, who heard directly from her the voice of her heart.

I will only add that all parties stood during the official part of the interview. This being at an end, coffee and cordials were brought, and we sat at ease, and chatted as well as my limited use of the modern Greek tongue allowed. Before we separated, one of the Greeks present invited the chiefs and myself and daughter to a feast which he proposed to give at Phaleron, in honor of the meeting which I have just described.

Some account of this festivity may not be uninteresting to my readers. I must premise that it was to be no banquet of modern fashion, but a feast of the Homeric sort, in which a lamb, roasted whole in the open air, would be the principal dish. Phaleron, where it was appointed to take place, is an ancient port, only three miles distant from Athens. The sea view from this point is admirable. The bay is small, and its surroundings are highly picturesque. Classic as was the occasion, the unclassic railway furnished our conveyance.

The Cretan chiefs came punctually to the station, and presently we all entered a parlor-car, and were whisked off to the scene of action. This was the hotel at Phaleron, where we found a long table handsomely set out, and adorned with fruits and flowers. The company dispersed for a short time,—some to walk by the shore; some to see the lambs roasting on their spit in the courtyard; I, to sit quietly for half an hour, after which interval, dinner was announced.

Mr. Rainieri gave me his arm, and seated me on his right. On my right sat Katzi Michælis. My daughter and a young cousin were twined in like blooming roses between the gray old chieftains. Paraskevaïdes, the giver of the feast, looked all aglow with pleasure and enthusiasm. Our soup was served,—quite a worldly, French soup. But the Greeks insist that the elaborate style of cookery usually known as French originated with them. Then came a Cretan dish consisting of the liver and entrails of the lambs, twisted and toasted on a spit. Some modern entremets followed, and then, as pièce de résistance, the lambs, with accompanying salad. Each of the elder chiefs, before tasting his first glass of wine, rose and saluted the company, making especial obeisance to the master of the feast.

The Homeric rage of hunger and thirst having been satisfied, it became time for us to make the most of a reunion so rare in its elements, and necessarily so brief. I will here quote partially the report given in one of the Greek papers of the time. The writer says: "During dinner many warm toasts were drunk. Mr. Rainieri drank to the health of Mrs. Howe. Mr. Paraskevaïdes drank to the memory of Dr. Howe and the health of all freedom-loving Americans, giving his toast first in Greek and afterwards in English. To all this, Mrs. Howe made answer in French, with great sympathy and eloquence." So the paper said, but I will only say that I did as well as I was able.

At the mention of Dr. Howe's name, old Korakas rose, and said: "I assure Mrs. Howe that when, with God's will, Crete becomes free, the Cretans will erect a statue to the memory of her ever-memorable husband." At this time, I thought it only right to propose the memory of President Felton, former president of Harvard University, in his day an ardent lover of Greek literature, and of the land which gave it birth. The eldest son of this lamented friend sat with us at the table, and had become so proficient in the language of the country as to be able to acknowledge the compliment in Greek, which the reporter qualifies as excellent. Apropos of this same reporter, let me say that he entered so heartily into the spirit of the feast as to improvise on the spot some lines of poetry, of which the following is a free translation:—

I greet the warriors of brave Crete

Assembled in this place.

Each of them represents her mountains,

Each her heart, each her breath.

If life may be measured by struggles,

So great is her life,

That on the day when she becomes free

Two worlds will be filled with the joy of her freedom.

The report says truly that the heroes of Crete, with their white beards, resembled gods of Olympus. The three oldest—Korakas, Kriaris, and Syphacus—spoke of the days in which Dr. Howe, while taking part with them in the military operations of the war of Greek independence, at the same time made his medical skill availing to the sick and wounded.

When we had risen from the board, passing into another room, my daughter saw a ball lying on the table, and soon engaged the ancient chiefs in the pastime of throwing and catching it. "See," said one of the company, "Dr. Howe's daughter is playing with the men who, fifty years ago, were her father's companions in arms."

After the simple patriarchal festivity, the return, even to Athens, seemed a return to the commonplace.

A word regarding the Greek church belongs here. Its ritual represents, without doubt, the most ancient form of worship which can have representation in these days. The church calls itself simply orthodox. It classes Christians as orthodox, Romanist, and Protestant, and condemns the two last-named confessions of faith equally as heresies. The Greek church in Greece has little zeal for the propaganda of its special doctrine, but it has great zeal against the introduction of any other sect within the boundaries of its domain. Protestant and Catholic congregations are tolerated in Greece, but the attempt to educate Greek children in the tenets held by either is not tolerated, is in fact prohibited by government. I found the religious quiet of Athens somewhat disturbed by the presence of several missionaries, supported by funds from America, who persisted in teaching and preaching; one, after the form of the Baptist, another, after that of the Presbyterian body. The schools formerly established in connection with these missions have been forcibly closed, because those in charge of them would not submit them to the religious authority of the Greek priesthood.

The Sunday preaching of the missionaries, on the other hand, still went on, making converts from time to time, and supplying certainly a direct and vivid influence quite other than the extremely formal teaching of the state church. The most prominent of these missionaries are Greeks who have received their education in America, and who combine a fervent love for their mother country with an equally fervent desire for her religious progress. One can easily understand the attachment of the Greeks to their national church. It has been the ark of safety by which their national existence has been preserved.

When the very name of Hellene was almost obliterated from the minds of those entitled to bear it, the Greek priesthood were unwearied in keeping alive the love of the ancient ritual and doctrine, the belief in the Christian religion. This debt of gratitude is warmly remembered by the Greeks of to-day, and their church is still to them the symbol of national, as well as of religious, unity. On the other hand, the progress of religious thought and culture carries inquiring minds beyond the domain of ancient and literal interpretation, and the outward conformity which society demands is counter-balanced by much personal scepticism and indifference. The missionaries, who cannot compete in polite learning with the élite of their antagonists, are yet much better informed than the greater part of the secular clergy, and represent, besides, something of American freedom, and the right and duty of doing one's own thinking in religious matters, and of accepting doctrines, if at all, with a living faith and conviction, not with a dead and formal assent. It is one of those battles between the Past and the Future which have to fight themselves out to an issue that outsiders cannot hasten.

Shall I close these somewhat desultory remarks with any attempt at a lesson which may be drawn from them? Yes; to Americans I will say: Love Greece. Be glad of the men who rose up from your midst at the cry of her great anguish, to do battle in her behalf. Be glad of the money which you or your fathers sent to help her. America never spends money better than in this way. Remember what this generation may be in danger of forgetting,—that we can never be so great ourselves as to be absolved from regarding the struggle for freedom, in the remotest corners of the earth, with tender sympathy and interest. And in the great reactions which attend human progress, when self-interest is acknowledged as the supreme god everywhere, and the ideals of justice and honor are set out of sight and derided, let the heart of this country be strong to protest against military usurpation, against barbarous rule. Let America invite to her shores the dethroned heroes of liberal thought and policy, saying to them: "Come and abide with us; we have a country, a hand, a heart, for you."

The Salon in America

THE word "society" has reached the development of two opposite meanings. The generic term applies to the body politic en masse; the specific term is technically used to designate a very limited portion of that body. The use, nowadays, of the slang expression "sassiety" is evidence that we need a word which we do not as yet possess.

It is with this department of the human fellowship that I now propose to occupy myself, and especially with one of its achievements, considered by some a lost art,—the salon.

This prelude of mine is somewhat after the manner of Polonius, but, as Shakespeare must have had occasion to observe, the mind of age has ever a retrospective turn. Those of us who are used to philosophizing must always go back from a particular judgment to some governing principle which we have found, or think we have found, in long experience. The question whether salons are possible in America leads my thoughts to other questions which appear to me to lie behind this one, and which primarily concern the well-being of civilized man.

The uses of society, in the sense of an assemblage for social intercourse, may be briefly stated as follows: first of all, such assemblages are needed, in order to make people better friends. Secondly, they are needed to enlarge the individual mind by the interchange of thought and expression with other minds. Thirdly, they are needed for the utilization of certain sorts and degrees of talent which would not be available either for professional, business, or educational work, but which, appropriately combined and used, can forward the severe labors included under these heads, by the instrumentality of sympathy, enjoyment, and good taste.

Any social custom or institution which can accomplish one or more of these ends will be found of important use in the work of civilization; but here, as well as elsewhere, the ends which the human heart desires are defeated by the poverty of human judgment and the general ignorance concerning the relation of means to ends. Society, thus far, is a sort of lottery, in which there are few prizes and many blanks, and each of these blanks represents some good to which men and women are entitled, and which they should have, and could, if they only knew how to come at it.

Thus, social intercourse is sometimes so ordered that it develops antagonism instead of harmony, and makes one set of people the enemies of another set, dividing not only circles, but friendships and families. This state of things defeats society's first object, which, in my view, is to make people better friends. Secondly, it will happen, and not seldom, that the frequent meeting together of a number of people, necessarily restricted, instead of enlarging the social horizon of the individual, will tend to narrow it more and more, so that sets and cliques will revolve around small centres of interest, and refuse to extend their scope.

In this way, end number two, the enlargement of the individual mind is lost sight of, and, end number three, the interchange of thought and experience does not have room to develop itself.

People say what they think others want to hear: they profess experiences which they have never had. Here, consequently, a sad blank is drawn, where we might well look for the greatest prize; and, end number four, the utilization of secondary or even tertiary talents is defeated by the application of a certain fashion varnish, which effaces all features of individuality, and produces a wondrously dull surface, where we might have hoped for a brilliant variety of form and color.

These defects of administration being easily recognized, the great business of social organizations ought to be to guard against them in such wise that the short space and limited opportunity of individual life should have offered to it the possibility of a fair and generous investment, instead of the uncertain lottery of which I spoke just now.

One of the great needs of society in all times is that its guardians shall take care that rules or institutions devised for some good end shall not become so perverted in the use made of them as to bring about the result most opposed to that which they were intended to secure. This, I take it, is the true meaning of the saying that "the price of liberty is eternal vigilance," no provision to secure this being sure to avail, without the constant direction of personal care to the object.

The institution of the salon might, in some periods of social history, greatly forward the substantial and good ends of human companionship. I can easily fancy that, in other times and under other circumstances, its influence might be detrimental to general humanity and good fellowship. We can, in imagination, follow the two processes which I have here in mind. The strong action of a commanding character, or of a commanding interest, may, in the first instance, draw together those who belong together. Fine spirits, communicative and receptive, will obey the fine electric force which seeks to combine them,—the great wits, and the people who can appreciate them; the poets, and their fit hearers; philosophers, statesmen, economists, and the men and women who will be able and eager to learn from the informal overflow of their wisdom and knowledge.

Here we may have a glimpse of a true republic of intelligence. What should overthrow it? Why should it not last forever, and be handed down from one generation to another?

The salon is an insecure institution; first, because the exclusion of new material, of new men and new ideas, may so girdle such a society that its very perfection shall involve its death. Then, on account of the false ideas and artificial methods which self-limiting society tends to introduce, in time the genuine basis of association disappears from view: the great name is wanted for the reputation of the salon, not the great intelligence for its illumination. The moment that you put the name in place of the individual, you introduce an element of insincerity and failure.

There is a sort of homage quite common in society, which amounts to such flattery as this: "Madam, I assure you that I consider you an eminently brilliant and successful sham. Will you tell me your secret, or shall I, a worker in the same line, tell you mine?" Again, the contradictory objects of our desired salon are its weakness. We wish it to exclude the general public, but we dreadfully desire that it shall be talked about and envied by the general public. These two opposite aims—a severe restriction of membership, and an unlimited extension of reputation—are very likely to destroy the social equilibrium of any circle, coterie, or association.

Such contradictions have deep roots; even the general conduct of neighborhood evinces them. People are often concerned lest those who live near them should infringe upon the rights and reserves of their household. In large cities, people sometimes boast with glee that they have no acquaintance with the families dwelling on either side of them. And yet, in some of those very cities, social intercourse is limited by regions, and one street of fine houses will ignore another, which is, to all appearances, as fine and as reputable. Under these circumstances, some may naturally ask: "Who is my neighbor?" In the sense of the good Samaritan, mostly no one.

Dante has given us pictures of the ideal good and the ideal evil association. The company of his demons is distracted by incessant warfare. Weapons are hurled back and forth between them, curses and imprecations, while the solitary souls of great sinners abide in the torture of their own flame. As the great poet has introduced to us a number of his acquaintance in this infernal abode, we may suppose him to have given us his idea of much of the society of his own time. Such appeared to him that part of the World which, with the Flesh and the Devil, completes the trinity of evil. But, in his Paradiso, what glimpses does he give us of the lofty spiritual communion which then, as now, redeemed humanity from its low discredit, its spite and malice!

Resist as we may, the Christian order is prevailing, and will more and more prevail. At the two opposite poles of popular affection and learned persuasion, it did overcome the world, ages ago. In the intimate details of life, in the spirit of ordinary society, it will penetrate more and more. We may put its features out of sight and out of mind, but they are present in the world about us, and what we may build in ignorance or defiance of them will not stand. Modern society itself is one of the results of this world conquest which was crowned with thorns nearly two thousand years ago. In spite of the selfishness of all classes of men and women, this conquest puts the great goods of life within the reach of all.

I speak of Christianity here, because, as I see it, it stands in direct opposition to the natural desire of privileged classes and circles to keep the best things for their own advantage and enjoyment. "What, then!" will you say, "shall society become an agrarian mob?" By no means. Its great domain is everywhere crossed by boundaries. All of us have our proper limits, and should keep them, when we have once learned them.

But all of us have a share, too, in the good and glory of human destiny. The free course of intelligence and sympathy in our own commonwealth establishes here a social unity which is hard to find elsewhere. Do not let any of us go against this. Animal life itself begins with a cell, and slowly unfolds and expands until it generates the great electric currents which impel the world of sentient beings.

The social and political life of America has passed out of the cell state into the sweep of a wide and brilliant efficiency. Let us not try to imprison this truly cosmopolitan life in cells, going back to the instinctive selfhood of the barbaric state.

Nature starts from cells, but develops by centres. If we want to find the true secret of social discrimination, let us seek it in the study of centres,—central attractions, each subordinated to the governing harmony of the universe, but each working to keep together the social atoms that belong together. There was a time in which the stars in our beautiful heaven were supposed to be kept in their places by solid mechanical contrivances, the heaven itself being an immense body that revolved with the rest. The progress of science has taught us that the luminous orbs which surround us are not held by mechanical bonds, but that natural laws of attraction bind the atom to the globe, and the globe to its orbit.

Even so is it with the social atoms which compose humanity. Each of them has his place, his right, his beauty; and each and all are governed by laws of belonging which are as delicate as the tracery of the frost, and as mighty as the frost itself.

The club is taking the place of the salon to-day, and not without reason. I mean by this the study, culture, and social clubs, not those modern fortresses in which a man rather takes refuge from society than really seeks or finds it. I have just said that mankind are governed by centres of natural attraction, around which their lives come to revolve. In the course of human progress, the higher centres exercise an ever-widening attraction, and the masses of mankind are brought more and more under their influence.

Now, the affection of fraternal sympathy and good-will is as natural to man, though not so immediate in him, as are any of the selfish instincts. Objects of moral and intellectual worth call forth this sympathy in a high and ever-increasing degree, while objects in which self is paramount call forth just the opposite, and foster in one and all the selfish principle, which is always one of emulation, discord, and mutual distrust. While a salon may be administered in a generous and disinterested manner, I should fear that it would often prove an arena in which the most selfish leadings of human nature would assert themselves.

In the club, a sort of public spirit necessarily develops itself. Each of us would like to have his place there,—yes, and his appointed little time of shining,—but a worthy object, such as will hold together men and women on an intellectual basis, gradually wins for itself the place of command in the affections of those who follow it in company. Each of these will find that his unaided efforts are insufficient for the furthering and illustration of a great subject which all have greatly at heart. I have been present at a forge on which the pure gold of thought has been hammered by thinkers into the rounded sphere of an almost perfect harmony. One and another and another gave his hit or his touch, and when the delightful hour was at an end, each of us carried the golden sphere away with him.

The club which I have in mind at this moment had an unfashionable name, and was scarcely, if at all, recognized in the general society of Boston. It was called the Radical Club,—and the really radical feature in it was the fact that the thoughts presented at its meetings had a root, and were, in that sense, radical. These thoughts, entertained by individuals of very various persuasions, often brought forth strong oppositions of opinion. Some of us used to wax warm in the defence of our own conviction; but our wrath was not the wrath of the peacock, enraged to see another peacock unfold its brilliant tail, but the concern of sincere thinkers that a subject worth discussing should not be presented in a partial and one-sided manner, to which end, each marked his point and said his say; and when our meeting was over, we had all had the great instruction of looking into the minds of those to whom truth was as dear as to ourselves, even if her aspect to them was not exactly what it was to us.

Here I have heard Wendell Phillips and Oliver Wendell Holmes; John Weiss and James Freeman Clarke; Athanase Coquerel, the noble French Protestant preacher; William Henry Channing, worthy nephew of his great uncle; Colonel Higginson, Dr. Bartol, and many others. Extravagant things were sometimes said, no doubt, and the equilibrium of ordinary persuasion was not infrequently disturbed for a time; but the satisfaction of those present when a sound basis of thought was vindicated and established is indeed pleasant in remembrance.

I feel tempted to introduce here one or two magic-lantern views of certain sittings of this renowned club, of which I cherish especial remembrance. Let me say, speaking in general terms, that, albeit the club was more critical than devout, its criticism was rarely other than serious and earnest. I remember that M. Coquerel's discourse there was upon "The Protestantism of Art," and that in it he combated the generally received idea that the church of Rome has always stood first in the patronage and inspiration of art. The great Dutch painters, Holbein, Rembrandt, and their fellows, were not Roman Catholics. Michael Angelo was protestant in spirit; so was Dante. I cannot recall with much particularity the details of things heard so many years ago, but I remember the presence at this meeting of Charles Sumner, George Hillard, and Dr. Hedge. Mr. Sumner declined to take any part in the discussion which followed M. Coquerel's discourse. Colonel Higginson, who was often present at these meetings, maintained his view that Protestantism was simply the decline of the Christian religion. Mr. Hillard quoted St. James's definition of religion, pure and undefiled,—to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world. Dr. Hedge, who was about to withdraw, paused for a moment to say: "The word 'religion' is not rightly translated there; it should mean"—I forgot what. The doctor's tone and manner very much impressed a friend, who afterwards said to me: "Did he not go away 'like one who wraps the drapery of his couch about him'?"

Or it might be that John Weiss, he whom a lady writer once described as "four parts spirit and one part flesh," gave us his paper on Prometheus, or one on music, or propounded his theory of how the world came into existence. Colonel Higginson would descant upon the Greek goddesses, as representing the feminine ideals of the Greek mythology, which he held to be superior to the Christian ideals of womanhood,—dear Elizabeth Peabody and I meeting him in earnest opposition. David Wasson, powerful in verse and in prose, would speak against woman suffrage. When driven to the wall, he confessed that he did not believe in popular suffrage at all; and when forced to defend this position, he would instance the wicked and ill-governed city of New York as reason enough for his views. I remember his going away after such a discussion very abruptly, not at all in Dr. Hedge's grand style, but rather as if he shook the dust of our opinions from his feet; for no one of the radicals would countenance this doctrine, and though we freely confessed the sins of New York, we believed not a whit the less in the elective franchise, with amendments and extensions.

Dr. Oliver Wendell Holmes, one day, if I remember rightly, gave a very succinct and clear statement of the early forms of Calvinistic doctrine as held in this country, and Wendell Phillips lent his eloquent speech to this and to other discussions.

When I think of it, I believe that I had a salon once upon a time. I did not call it so, nor even think of it as such; yet within it were gathered people who represented many and various aspects of life. They were real people, not lay figures distinguished by names and clothes. The earnest humanitarian interests of my husband brought to our home a number of persons interested in reform, education, and progress. It was my part to mix in with this graver element as much of social grace and geniality as I was able to gather about me. I was never afraid to bring together persons who rarely met elsewhere than at my house, confronting Theodore Parker with some archpriest of the old orthodoxy, or William Lloyd Garrison with a decade, perhaps, of Beacon Street dames. A friend said, on one of these occasions: "Our hostess delights in contrasts." I confess that I did; but I think that my greatest pleasure was in the lessons of human compatibility which I learned on this wise. I started, indeed, with the conviction that thought and character are the foremost values in society, and was not afraid nor ashamed to offer these to my guests, with or without the stamp of fashion and position. The result amply justified my belief.

Some periods in our own history are more favorable to such intercourse than others. The agony and enthusiasm of the civil war, and the long period of ferment and disturbance which preceded and followed that great crisis,—these social agitations penetrated the very fossils of the body politic. People were glad to meet together, glad to find strength and comfort among those who lived and walked by solid convictions. We cannot go back to that time; we would not, if we could; but it was a grand time to live and to work in.

I am sorry when I see people build palaces in America. We do not need them. Why should we bury fortune and life in the dead state of rooms which are not lived in? Why should we double and triple for ourselves the dangers of insufficient drainage or defective sanitation? Let us have such houses as we need,—comfortable, well aired, well lighted, adorned with such art as we can appreciate, enlivened by such company as we can enjoy. Similarly, I believe that we should, individually, come much nearer to the real purpose of a salon by restricting the number of our guests and enlarging their variety.

If we are to have a salon, do not let us think too much about its appearance to the outside world,—how it will be reported, and extolled, and envied. Mr. Emerson withdrew from the Boston Radical Club because newspaper reports of its meetings were allowed. We live too much in public to-day, and desire too much the seal of public notice.

There is not room in our short human life for both shams and realities. We can neither pursue nor possess both. I think of this now entirely with application to the theme under consideration. Let us not exercise sham hospitality to sham friends. Let the heart of our household be sincere; let our home affections expand to a wider human brotherhood and sisterhood. Let us be willing to take trouble to gather our friends together, and to offer them such entertainment as we can, remembering that the best entertainment is mutual.

But do not let us offend ourselves or our friends with the glare of lights, the noise of numbers, in order that all may suffer a tedious and joyless being together, and part as those who have contributed to each other's ennui, all sincere and reasonable intercourse having been wanting in the general encounter.

We should not feel bound, either, to the literal imitation of any facts or features of European life which may not fit well upon our own. In many countries, the currents of human life have become so deepened and strengthened by habit and custom as to render change very difficult, and growth almost impossible. In our own, on the contrary, life is fresh and fluent. Its boundaries should be elastic, capable even of indefinite expansion.

In the older countries of which I speak, political power and social recognition are supposed to emanate from some autocratic source, and the effort and ambition of all naturally look toward that source, and, knowing none other, feel a personal interest in maintaining its ascendency, the statu quo. In our own broad land, power and light have no such inevitable abiding-place, but may emanate from an endless variety of points and personalities.

The other mode of living may have much to recommend it for those to whom it is native and inherited, but it is not for us. And when we apologize for our needs and deficiencies, it should not be on the ground of our youth and inexperience. If the settlement of our country is recent, we have behind us all the experience of the human race, and are bound to represent its fuller and riper manhood. Our seriousness is sometimes complained of, usually by people whose jests and pleasantries fail to amuse us. Let us not apologize for this, nor envy any nation its power of trifling and of persiflage. We have mighty problems to solve; great questions to answer. The fate of the world's future is concerned in what we shall do or leave undone.

We are a people of workers, and we love work—shame on him who is ashamed of it! When we are found, on our own or other shores, idling our life away, careless of vital issues, ignorant of true principles, then may we apologize, then let us make haste to amend.

Aristophanes

WHEN I learned, last season, that the attention of the school[A] this year would be in a good degree given to the dramatists of ancient Greece, I was seized with a desire to speak of one of these, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude. This is the great Aristophanes, the first, and the most illustrious, of comic writers for the stage,—first and best, at least, of those known to Western literature.

In the chance talk of people of culture, one hears of him all one's life long, as exceedingly amusing. From my brothers in college, I learned the "Frog Chorus" before I knew even a letter of the Greek alphabet. Many a decade after this, I walked in the theatre of Bacchus at Athens, and seeing the beauty of the marble seats, still ranged in perfect order, and feeling the glory and dignity of the whole surrounding, I seemed to guess that the comedies represented there were not desired to amuse idle clowns nor to provoke vulgar laughter.

At the foot of the Acropolis, with the Parthenon in sight and the colossal statue of Minerva towering above the glittering temples, the poet and his audience surely had need to bethink themselves of the wisdom which lies in laughter, of the ethics of the humorous,—a topic well worth the consideration of students of philosophy. The ethics of the humorous, the laughter of the gods! "He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh them to scorn." Did not even the gentle Christ intend satire when, after recognizing the zeal with which an ox or an ass would be drawn out of a pit on the sacred day, he asked: "And shall not this woman, whom Satan hath bound, lo! these eighteen years, be loosed from her infirmity on the sabbath day?"

When a Greek tragedy is performed before us, we are amazed at its force, its coherence, and its simplicity. What profound study and quick sense of the heroic in nature must have characterized the man who, across the great gulf of centuries, can so sweep our heart-strings, and draw from them such responsive music! Our praise of these great works almost sounds conceited. It would be more fitting for us to sit in silence and bewail our own smallness. Comedy, too, has her grandeur; and when she walks the stage in robe and buskins, she, too, is to receive the highest crown, and her lessons are to be laid to heart.

I will venture a word here concerning the subjective side of comedy. Is it the very depth and quick of our self-love which is reached by the subtle sting which calls up a blush where no sermonizing would have that effect? Deep satire touches the heroic within us. "Miserable sinners are ye all," says the preacher, "vanity of vanities!" and we sit contentedly, and say Amen. But here comes some one who sets up our meannesses and incongruities before us so that they topple over and tumble down. And then, strange to say, we feel in ourselves this same power; and considering our follies in the same light, we are compelled to deride, and also to forsake them.

The miseries of war and the desirableness of peace were impressed strongly on the mind of Aristophanes. The Peloponnesian War dragged on from year to year with varying fortune; and though victory often crowned the arms of the Athenians, its glory was dearly paid for by the devastation which the Lacedæmonians inflicted upon the territory of Attica. "The Acharnians," "The Knights," and "Peace" deal with this topic in various forms. In the first of these is introduced, as the chief character, Dikæopolis, a country gentleman who, in consequence of the Spartan invasion, has been forced to forsake his estates, and to take shelter in the city. He naturally desires the speedy conclusion of hostilities, and to this end attends the assembly, determined, as he says:

To bawl, to abuse, to interrupt the speakers

Whenever I hear a word of any kind,

Except for an immediate peace.

This method reminds us of the obstructionists in the British Parliament. One man speaks of himself as loathing the city and longing to return

To my poor village and my farm

That never used to cry: "Come buy my charcoal,"

Nor "buy my oil," nor "buy my anything,"

But gave me what I wanted, freely and fairly,

Clear of all cost, with never a word of buying.

After various laughable adventures, Dikæopolis finds it possible to conclude a truce with the invaders on his own account, in which his neighbors, the Acharnians, are not included. He returns to his farm, and goes forth with wife and daughter to perform the sacrifice fitting for the occasion.

DIKÆOPOLIS

Silence! Move forward, the Canephora.

You, Xanthias, follow close behind her there

In a proper manner, with your pole and emblem.

WIFE

Set down the basket, daughter, and begin

The ceremony.

DAUGHTER

Give me the cruet, mother,

And let me pour it on the holy cake.

DIKÆOPOLIS

O blessed Bacchus, what a joy it is

To go thus unmolested, undisturbed,

My wife, my children, and my family,

With our accustomed joyful ceremony,

To celebrate thy festival in my farm.

Well, here's success to the truce of thirty years.

WIFE

Mind your behavior, child. Carry the basket

In a modest, proper manner; look demure;

Mind your gold trinkets, they'll be stolen else.

Dikæopolis now intones a hymn to Bacchus, but is interrupted by the violent threats of his war-loving neighbors, the Acharnians, who break out in injurious language, and threaten the life of the miscreant who has made peace with the enemies of his country solely for his own interests. With a good deal of difficulty, he persuades the enraged crowd to allow him to argue his case before them, and this fact makes us acquainted with another leading trait in Aristophanes; viz., his polemic opposition to the poet Euripides. Dikæopolis, wishing to make a favorable impression upon the rustics, hies to the house of Euripides, whose servant parleys with him in true transcendental language.

DIKÆOPOLIS

Euripides within?

SERVANT

Within, and not within. You comprehend me?

DIKÆOPOLIS

Within and not within! What do you mean?

SERVANT

His outward man

Is in the garret writing tragedy;

While his essential being is abroad

Pursuing whimsies in the world of fancy.

The visitor now calls aloud upon the poet:

Euripides, Euripides, come down,

If ever you came down in all your life!

'Tis I, Dikæopolis, from Chollidæ.

This Chollidæ probably corresponded to the Pea Ridge often quoted in our day. Euripides declines to come down, but is presently made visible by some device of the scene-shifter. In the dialogue that follows, Aristophanes ridicules the personages and the costumes brought upon the stage by Euripides, and reflects unhandsomely upon the poet's mother, who was said to have been a vender of vegetables. Dikæopolis does not seek to borrow poetry or eloquence from Euripides, but prays him to lend him "a suit of tatters from a worn-out tragedy."

For mercy's sake, for I'm obliged to make

A speech in my own defence before the chorus,

A long pathetic speech, this very day,

And if it fails, the doom of death betides me.

Euripides now asks what especial costume would suit the need of Dikæopolis, and calls over the most pitiful names in his tragedies: "Do you want the dress of Oineos?"—"Oh, no! something much more wretched."—"Phœnix? "—"No; much worse than Phœnix."—"Philocletes?"—"No."—"Lame Bellerophon?" Dikæopolis says:

'Twas not Bellerophon, but very like him,

A kind of smooth, fine-spoken character;

A beggar into the bargain, and a cripple

With a grand command of words, bothering and begging.

Euripides by this description recognizes the personage intended, viz., Telephus, the physician, and orders his servant to go and fetch the ragged suit, which he will find "next to the tatters of Thyestes, just over Ino's." Dikæopolis exclaims, on seeing the mass of holes and patches, but asks, further, a little Mysian bonnet for his head, a beggar's staff, a dirty little basket, a broken pipkin; all of which Euripides grants, to be rid of him. All this insolence the visitor sums up in the following lines:—

I wish I may be hanged, my dear Euripides,

If ever I trouble you for anything,

Except one little, little, little boon,

A single lettuce from your mother's stall.

This is more than Euripides can bear, and the gates are now shut upon the intruder.

Later in the play, Dikæopolis appears in company with the General Lamachus. A sudden call summons this last to muster his men and march forth to repel a party of marauders. Almost at the same moment, Dikæopolis is summoned to attend the feast of Bacchus, and to bring his best cookery with him. In the dialogue that follows, the valiant soldier and the valiant trencherman appear in humorous contrast.

LAMACHUS

Boy, boy, bring out here my haversack.

DIKÆOPOLIS

Boy, boy, hither bring my dinner service.

LAMACHUS

Bring salt flavored with thyme, boy, and onions.

DIKÆOPOLIS

Bring me a cutlet. Onions make me ill.

LAMACHUS

Bring hither pickled fish, stale.

DIKÆOPOLIS

And to me a fat pudding. I will cook it yonder.

LAMACHUS

Bring me my plumes and my helmet.

DIKÆOPOLIS

Bring me doves and thrushes.

LAMACHUS

Fair and white is the plume of the ostrich.

DIKÆOPOLIS

Fair and yellow is the flesh of the dove.

LAMACHUS

O man! leave off laughing at my weapons.

DIKÆOPOLIS

O man! don't you look at my thrushes.

LAMACHUS

Bring the case that holds my plumes.

DIKÆOPOLIS

And bring me a dish of hare.

LAMACHUS

But the moths have eaten my crest.

Dikæopolis makes some insolent rejoinder, at which the general takes fire. He calls for his lance; Dikæopolis, for the spit, which he frees from the roast meat. Lamachus raises his Gorgon-orbed shield; Dikæopolis lifts a full-orbed pancake. Lamachus then performs a mock act of divination:—

Pour oil upon the shield. What do I trace

In the divining mirror? 'Tis the face

Of an old coward, fortified with fear,

That sees his trial for desertion near.

DIKÆOPOLIS

Pour honey on the pancake. What appears?

A comely personage, advanced in years,

Firmly resolved to laugh at and defy

Both Lamachus and the Gorgon family.

In "The Frogs," god and demigod, Bacchus and Hercules, are put upon the stage with audacious humor. The first has borrowed the costume of the second, in which unfitting garb he knocks at Hercules' door on his way to Hades, his errand being to find and bring back Euripides. The dearth of clever poets is the reason alleged for this undertaking. Hercules suggests to him various poets who are still on earth. Bacchus condemns them as "warblers of the grove; poor, puny wretches!" He now asks Hercules for introductions to his friends in the lower regions, and for

Any communication about the country,

The roads, the streets, the bridges, public houses

And lodgings, free from bugs and fleas, if possible.

Hercules mentions various ways of arriving at the infernal regions: "The hanging road,—rope and noose?"—"That's too stifling."—"The pestle and mortar, then,—the beaten road?"—"No; that gives one cold feet."—"Go, then, to the tower of the Keramicus, and throw yourself headlong." No; Bacchus does not wish to have his brains dashed out. He would go by the road which Hercules took. Of this, Hercules gives an alarming account, beginning with the bottomless lake and the boat of Charon. Bacchus determines to set forth, but is detained by the recalcitrance of his servant, Xanthias, who refuses to carry his bundle any further.

A funeral now comes across the stage. Bacchus asks the dead man if he is willing to carry some bundles to Hell for him. The dead man demands two drachmas for the service. Bacchus offers him ninepence, which he angrily refuses, and is carried out of sight. Charon presently appears, and makes known, like a good ferryman, the points at which he will deliver passengers.

Who wants the ferryman?

Anybody waiting to remove from the sorrows of life?

A passage to Lethe's wharf? to Cerberus' Beach?

To Tartarus? to Tenaros? to Perdition?

Just so, in my youth, sailing on the Hudson, one heard all night the sound of Peekskill landing! Fishkill landing! Rhinebeck landing!—with darkness and swish of steam quite infernal enough.

Charon takes Bacchus on board, but compels him to do his part of the rowing, promising him: "As soon as you begin you shall have music that will teach you to keep time."

This music is the famous "Chorus of the Frogs," beginning, "Brokekekesh, koash, koash," and running through many lines, with this occasional refrain, of which Bacchus soon tires, as he does of the oar. His servant Xanthias is obliged to make the journey by land and on foot, Charon bidding him wait for his master at the Stone of Repentance, by the Slough of Despond, beyond the Tribulations. After encountering the Empousa, a nursery hobgoblin, they meet the spirits of the initiated, singing hymns to Bacchus—whom they invoke as Jacchus—and to Ceres. This part of the play, intended, Frere says, to ridicule the Eleusinian mysteries, is curiously human in its incongruity,—a jumble of the beautiful and the trivial. I must quote from it the closing strophe:—

Let us hasten, let us fly

Where the lovely meadows lie,

Where the living waters flow,

Where the roses bloom and blow.

Heirs of immortality,

Segregated safe and pure,

Easy, sorrowless, secure,

Since our earthly course is run,

We behold a brighter sun.

Such sweet words we to-day could expect to hear from the lips of our own dear ones, gone before.

Very incongruous is certainly this picture of Bacchus, in a cowardly and ribald state of mind, listening to the hymn which celebrates his divine aspect. Jacchus, whom the spirits invoke, is the glorified Bacchus, the highest ideal of what was vital religion in those days. But the god himself is not professionally, only personally, present, and, wearing the disguise of Hercules, in no way notices or responds to the strophes which invoke him. He asks the band indeed to direct him to Pluto's house, which turns out to be near at hand.

Before its door, Bacchus is seized with such a fit of timidity that, instead of knocking, he asks his servant to tell him how the native inhabitants of the region knock at doors. Reproved by the servant, he knocks, and announces himself as the valiant Hercules. Æacus, the porter, now rushes out upon him with violent abuse, reviling him for having stolen, or attempted to steal, the watch-dog, Cerberus, and threatening him with every horror which Hell can inflict. Æacus departs, and Bacchus persuades his servant to don the borrowed garb of Hercules, while he loads himself with the baggage which the other was carrying. Proserpine, however, sends her maid to invite the supposed Hercules to a feast of dainties. Xanthias now assumes the manners befitting the hero, at which Bacchus orders him to change dresses with him once more, and assume his own costume, which he does. Hardly have they done this, when Bacchus is again set upon by two frantic women, who shriek in his ears the deeds of gluttony committed by Hercules in Hades, and not paid for.

There; that's he

That came to our house, ate those nineteen loaves.

Aye; sure enough. That's he, the very man;

And a dozen and a half of cutlets and fried chops,

At a penny ha' penny apiece. And all the garlic,

And the good green cheese that he gorged at once.

And then, when I called for payment, he looked fierce

And stared me in the face, and grinned and roared.

The women threaten the false Hercules with the pains and penalties of swindling. He now pretends to soliloquize: "I love poor Xanthias dearly; that I do."

"Yes," says Xanthias, "I know why; but it's of no use. I won't act Hercules." Xanthias, however, allows himself to be persuaded, and when Æacus, appearing with a force, cries: "Arrest me there that fellow that stole the dog," Xanthias contrives to make an effectual resistance. Having thus gained time, he assures Æacus that he never stole so much as a hair of his dog's tail; but gives him leave to put Bacchus, his supposed slave, to the torture, in order to elicit from him the truth. Æacus, softened by this proposal, asks in which way the master would prefer to have his slave tortured. Xanthias replies:

In your own way, with the lash, with knots and screws,

With the common, usual, customary tortures,

With the rack, with the water torture, any sort of way,

With fire and vinegar—all sorts of ways.

Bacchus, thus driven to the wall, proclaims his divinity, and claims Xanthias as his slave. The latter suggests that if Bacchus is a divinity, he may be beaten without injury, as he will not feel it. Bacchus retorts, "If you are Hercules, so may you." Æacus, to ascertain the truth, impartially belabors them both. Each, in turn, cries out, and pretends to have quoted from the poets. Æacus, unable to decide which is the god and which the impostor, brings them both before Proserpine and Pluto.

In the course of a delicious dialogue between the two servants, Æacus and Xanthias, it is mentioned that Euripides, on coming to the shades, had driven Æschylus from the seat of honor at Pluto's board, holding himself to be the worthier poet. Æschylus has objected to this, and the matter is now to be settled by a trial of skill in which Bacchus is to be the umpire.

The shades of Euripides and Æschylus appear in the next scene, with Bacchus between them. Æschylus wishes the trial had taken place elsewhere. Why? Because while his tragedies live on earth, those of Euripides are dead, and have descended with him to bear him company in Hell. The encounter of wits between the two is of the grandiose comic, each taunting the other with his faults of composition. Euripides says of Æschylus:

He never used a simple word

But bulwarks and scamanders and hippogriffs and Gorgons,

Bloody, remorseless phrases.

Æschylus rejoins:

Well, then, thou paltry wretch, explain

What were your own devices?

Euripides says that he found the Muse

Puffed and pampered

With pompous sentences, a cumbrous huge virago.

In order to bring her to a more genteel figure:

I fed her with plain household phrase and cool familiar salad,

With water gruel episode, with sentimental jelly,

With moral mince-meat, till at length I brought her into compass.

I kept my plots distinct and clear to prevent confusion.

My leading characters rehearsed their pedigrees for prologues.

"For all this," says Æschylus, "you ought to have been hanged." Æschylus now speaks of the grand old days, of the great themes and works of early poetry:

Such is the duty, the task of a poet,

Fulfilling in honor his duty and trust.

Look to traditional history, look;

See what a blessing illustrious poets

Conferred on mankind in the centuries past.

Orpheus instructed mankind in religion,

Reclaimed them from bloodshed and barbarous rites.

Musæus delivered the doctrine of medicine,

And warnings prophetic for ages to come.

Next came old Hesiod, teaching us husbandry,

Rural economy, rural astronomy,

Homely morality, labor and thrift.

Homer himself, our adorable Homer,

What was his title to praise and renown?

What but the worth of the lessons he taught us,

Discipline, arms, and equipment of war.

And here the poet comes to speak of a question which is surely prominent to-day in the minds of thoughtful people. Æschylus, in his argument against Euripides, speaks of the noble examples which he himself has brought upon the stage, reproaches his adversary with the objectionable stories of Sthenobæus and Phædra, with which he, Euripides has corrupted the public taste.

Euripides alleges in his own defence that he did not invent those stories. "Phædra's affair was a matter of fact." Æschylus rejoins:

A fact with a vengeance, but horrible facts

Should be buried in silence, not bruited abroad,

Nor brought forth on the stage, nor emblazoned in poetry.

Children and boys have a teacher assigned them;

The bard is a master for manhood and youth,

Bound to instruct them in virtue and truth

Beholden and bound.

I do not know which of the plays of Aristophanes is considered the best by those who are competent to speak authoritatively upon their merits; but of those that I know, this drama of "The Frogs" seems to me to exhibit most fully the scope and extent of his comic power. Condescending in parts to what is called low comedy,—i.e., the farcical, based upon the sense of what all know and experience,—it rises elsewhere to the highest domain of literary criticism and expression.

The action between Bacchus and his slave forcibly reminds us of Cervantes, though master and man alike have in them more of Sancho Panza than of Quixote. In the journey to the palace of Pluto, I see the prototype of what the great mediæval poet called "The Divine Comedy." I find in both the same weird imagination, the same curious interbraiding of the ridiculous and the grandiose. This, of course, with the difference that the Greek poet affords us only a brief view of Hell, while Dante detains us long enough to give us a realizing sense of what it is, or might be. This same mingling of the awful and the grotesque suggests to me passages in our own Hawthorne, similarly at home with the supernatural, which underlies the story of "The Scarlet Letter," and flashes out in "The Celestial Railroad." But I must come back to Dante, who can amuse us with the tricks of demons, and can lift us to the music of the spheres. So Aristophanes can show us, on the one hand, the humorous relations of a coward and a clown; and, on the other, can put into the mouth of the great Æschylus such words as he might fitly have spoken.