THE GALAXY. (continued 2)

"I'll get Mr. Money to look into all that," Mrs. Money said decisively. "He understands all about these things, and nothing could be hidden from him."

Miss Blanchet modestly intimated that she had confided her suspicions to her brother, and begged him to try and find out something.

"Oh, he never could understand anything about it!" Lucy said. "Poets never know about these things. It's just in papa's line. He'll find out. They can't baffle him. I know they have been cheating Nola—I know they have! I know there's a will hidden away somewhere, making her the rightful heir or whatever it is."

"About this gentleman—this lover. Is he a nice person?" Mrs. Money began.

"Mr. Augustus Sheppard?" Mary asked, mentioning his name for the first time in the conversation.

"Augustus Sheppard! Is that his name?" Lucy demanded eagerly.

"Why then, papa knows him! Indeed he does. I do declare papa knows everything!"

"Why do you think, dear, that he knows this gentleman?"

"Because I heard him asking Nola about Mr. Augustus Sheppard the other day, mamma, in our drawing-room."

"He couldn't have known this, I think," Miss Blanchet said.

"Oh, no, I suppose not; but he knows him, and he'll tell us all about him. Why wouldn't Nola have him, Miss Blanchet?"

"He is rather a formal sort of person, and heavy, and not the least in the world poetic or romantic; and Minola does not like him at all. She doesn't think his feelings are very deep; but there I am sure she is wrong," the poetess added emphatically. "She has never had occasion to make a study of human feelings as others have."

"You think he has deep feelings?" Mrs. Money asked, turning the full light of her melancholy eyes upon Mary, and with her whole soul already in the question.

"Oh, yes; I know he has. I know that he will persevere, and will try to make Minola marry him still. He is a man I should be afraid of if he were disappointed. I should indeed."

"Mamma, don't you think we had better have Nola to stay with us for a while?" Lucy asked. "Miss Blanchet could describe him, or get a photograph, and we could give orders that no such man was ever to be admitted if he should call and ask to see her. Some one should always go out with her, or she should only go in the carriage. I dread this man; I do indeed. Miss Blanchet is quite right, and she knows more than she says, I dare say. Such terrible things have happened, you know. I read in a paper the other day of a young man who fell in love with a girl—in the country it was, I think, or in Spain perhaps, or somewhere—and she would not marry him; and he hid himself with a long dagger, and when she was going to church he stabbed her several times."

"I don't think Mr. Augustus Sheppard would be likely to do anything of that kind," Miss Blanchet said. "He's a very respectable man, and a steady, grave sort of person."

"You never can tell," Lucy declared. "When those quiet men are in love and disappointed, they are dreadful! I've read a great many things just like that in books."

"Well, dear," Mrs. Money said, "we'll ask your papa. If he knows this gentleman—this person—he can tell us what sort of man he is. It doesn't seem that he is in London now."

"He may have come to-day," said Lucy.

Miss Theresa looked at her watch.

"Mamma dear, I don't think Miss Grey is coming in just yet, and it's growing late, and I have to attend the Ladies' Committee of the Saint Angulphus Association, at four."

"You go, mamma, with Theresa," Lucy exclaimed. "I'll wait; I must see Nola. I begin to be alarmed. It's very odd her staying out. I think something must really have happened. That man may have been in town, waiting somewhere. You go. When I have seen Nola, and am satisfied that she is safe, I can get home in the omnibus, or the underground, or the steamboat, or somehow. I'll find my way, you may be sure."

"My dear," her mother said, "you were never in an omnibus in your life."

"Papa goes in omnibuses, and he says he doesn't care whether other people do or not."

"But a lady, my dear——"

"Oh, I've seen them in the streets full of women! They don't object to ladies at all."

"But my dear young lady," Miss Blanchet pleaded, "there is not the slightest occasion for your staying. Mr. Sheppard isn't at all that kind of person. Minola is quite safe. She is often out much later than this, although I confess that I did expect her home much earlier to-day."

"I'll stay till Nola comes," the positive little Lucy declared, "unless Miss Blanchet turns me out; and there's an end of that. So, mamma dear, you and Tessy do as you please, and never mind me."

"When Minola does come——" Mary Blanchet began to say.

"When she does come?" Lucy interrupted in portentous accents. "Say if she does come, Miss Blanchet."

"When she does come, please don't say anything of Mr. Sheppard. Of course she would not like to think that we spoke about such a subject."

"Oh, of course, of course!" all the ladies chorused, with looks expressive of immense caution and discretion; and in true feminine fashion all honestly assuming that there could be nothing wrong in talking over anybody's supposed secrets so long as the person concerned did not know of the talk.

"I see Miss Grey," said the quiet Theresa suddenly. She had been looking out of the window to see if the carriage was near. As a professed saint she had naturally less interest in ordinary human creatures than her mother and sister had.

"Thank heaven!" Lucy exclaimed.

"Dear Lucy!" Theresa interposed in tones of mild remonstrance, as if she would suggest that not everybody had a right to make reference to heaven, and that heaven would probably resent any allusion to it by the unqualified.

"Well, I am thankful that she is coming all the same; but I wish you wouldn't call her Miss Grey, Tessy. It seems cold and unfriendly. Call her Nola, please."

Mary Blanchet went to the door and exchanged a brief word or two with Minola, in order that she might be prepared for her visitors. Minola came in, looking very handsome, with her color heightened by a quick walk home and the little excitement of her morning.

"How lovely you are looking, Nola, dear!" Lucy exclaimed, after the first greetings were over. "You look as if you had been having an adventure."

"I have had a sort of adventure," Minola answered with a faint blush.

The one thought went through the minds of all her listeners at the same moment, and it shaped itself into a name—"Mr. Augustus Sheppard." All were silent and breathless.

"It was not much," Minola hastened to say. "Only I met Mr. Victor Heron in Regent's Park, and I have been walking with him."

Most of her listeners seemed relieved.

"I wish I had met him," Lucy blurted out. "He is very handsome, and I should like to have walked with him. Oh, what nonsense I am talking!" and she grew red, and jumped up and looked out of the window.

Then they all talked about something else, and the visit closed with a promise that Minola and Mary Blanchet would present themselves at one of Mrs. Money's little weekly receptions, out of season, which was to take place the following evening; and after which Mrs. Money hoped to decoy them into staying for the night. Mary Blanchet went to bed that night in an ecstasy of happiness, only disturbed now and then by a torturing doubt as to whether Mrs. Money would be equally willing to receive her if she had known that she had been the keeper of the court-house at Keeton; and whether she ought not to forewarn Mrs. Money of the fact; and whether she ought not, at least, to call Minola's attention to the question, and submit to her judgment.

CHAPTER IX.

IN SOCIETY.

Mr. Money was not a very regular visitor at his wife's little receptions out of the season. In the season, and when they had larger and more formal gatherings, he showed himself as much as was fitting and regular; for many of the guests then were virtually his guests, persons who desired especially to see him, and of whose topics he could talk. A good many foreign visitors were there usually—scientific men, and railway contractors, and engineers, and shipbuilders, from Germany, Italy, and Russia, and of course the United States, who looked upon Mr. Money as a person of great importance and distinction, and would not have cared anything about most of Mrs. Money's guests.

The foreigners were curiously right and wrong. Mr. Money was a person of importance and distinction. Every Londoner who knew anything knew his name, and knew that he was clever and distinguished. If a Russian stranger of rank were dining with a Cabinet minister, and were to express a wish to see and know Mr. Money, the minister would think the wish quite natural, and would take his friend down to the lobby of the House of Commons, and make him acquainted with Mr. Money. We have all been foreigners ourselves somewhere, and we know how our longing to see some celebrity, as we suppose, of the land we are visiting, some one whose name was familiar to us in England, has been occasionally checked and chilled by our finding that in the celebrity's own city no one seems to have heard of him. There are only too many celebrities of this kind which shine, like the moon, for those who are a long way off. But Mr. Money was a man of mark in London, as well as in St. Petersburg and New York. Therein the foreigners found themselves right. Yet Mr. Money's position was somewhat peculiar for all that, in a manner no stranger could well appreciate. The Cabinet minister did not ask Mr. Money to meet his friend at dinner; or, at all events, would never have been able to say to his friend, "Money? Oh, yes! Of course you ought to know him. He is coming to-morrow to dine with us. Won't you come and meet him?" The most the Cabinet minister would do would be to get up a little dinner party, suitably adjusted for the express purpose of bringing his friend and Mr. Money together. It would be too much to say that Mr. Money was under a cloud. There rather seemed to be a sort of faint idea abroad that he ought to be, or some day would be, under a cloud, no one knew why.

No such considerations as these, however, would have affected the company who gathered round Mrs. Money in the out-of-season evenings, or could have been appreciated by them. They were, for the most part, entirely out of Mr. Money's line. He came among them irregularly and at intervals; and if he found there any man or woman he knew or was taken with, he talked to him or her a good deal, and perhaps, if it were a man, he carried him and one or two others off to his own study or smoking-room, where they discoursed at their ease. Sometimes Lucelet was sent to her papa, if he was not making his appearance in the drawing-room, to beg him to accomplish some such act of timely intervention. Somebody, perhaps, presented himself among Mrs. Money's guests who was rather too solid, or grave, or scientific, or political, to care for the general company, and to be of any social benefit to them; or some one, as we have said, in whose eyes Mr. Money would be a celebrity, and Mrs. Money's guests counted for nothing. Then Lucy went for her father, if he was in the house, and drew him forth. He was wonderfully genial with his womankind. They might disturb him at any moment and in any way they chose. He seemed to have as little idea of grumbling if they disturbed him as a Newfoundland dog would have of snapping at his master's children if they insisted on rousing him up from his doze in the sun.

Mr. Money talked very frankly of his daughters and their prospects sometimes.

"My girls are going to marry any one they like," he would often say; "the poorer the better, so far as I am concerned, so long as they like the girls and the girls like them." As chance would have it, a rich man fell in love with Theresa, and she, in her quiet, sanctimonious way, loved him, and that was settled.

"Now, Lucelet, look out for yourself," Mr. Money would, say to his blushing daughter. "If you fall in love with some fine young fellow, I don't care if he hasn't sixpence. Only be sure, Mrs. Lucelet, that you are in love with him, and that he is in love with you, and not with your expectations."

Lucelet generally smiled and saucily tossed her head, as one who should say that she considered herself a person quite qualified to make an impression without the help of any expectations.

"I sometimes wish the right man would come along, Lucelet," Mr. Money said one day, throwing his arm round his pretty daughter's shoulder, and drawing her to him.

"Papa! do you want to get rid of me so soon? I wonder at you. I know I don't want to get rid of you."

"No, no, dear; it isn't that. Never mind. Where's your mamma? Just run and ask her"—and Mr. Money started something else, and put an end to the conversation.

Mr. Money's ideas with regard to the future of his daughters did not fail to become known among his acquaintances in general, and would doubtless have drawn young men in goodly numbers around his home, even if Lucelet were far less pretty than she really was. But in any case Mrs. Money loved to be friendly to young people, and her less formal parties were largely attended, almost always, by the young. Miss Theresa's future husband did not come there often. He had known the family chiefly through Mr. Money and Parliament; and, coming once to dine with Mr. Money, he fell fairly in love with the dove-like eyes and saintly ways of Theresa. Theresa was therefore what her father would have called "out of the swim." She looked tolerantly upon her mother's little gatherings of poets en herbe, artists who were great to their friends, patriots hunting for constituencies, orators who had not yet caught the speaker's eye, and persons who had tried success in all these various paths and failed. She looked on them tolerantly, but her soul was not in them; it floated above them in a purer atmosphere. It was now, indeed, floating among the spires of the church which her lover was to build.

One peculiarity seemed common to the guests whom Mrs. Money gathered around her. On any subject in which they felt the slightest interest they never felt the slightest doubt. The air they breathed was that of conviction; the language they talked was that of dogma. The men and women they knew were the greatest, most gifted, and most beautiful in the world; the men and women they did not know were nothing—were beneath contempt. Every one had what Lowell calls an "I-turn-the-crank-of-the-universe air." In that charmed circle every one was either a genius destined yet to move the world, or a genius too great for the dull, unworthy world to comprehend. It was a happy circle, where success or failure came to just the same.

All in a flutter of delight was Mary Blanchet when preparing to enter that magical circle. She was going at last to meet great men and brilliant women. Perhaps, some day, she might even come to be known among them—to shine among them. She could never be done embracing Minola for having brought her to the gate of that heaven. She spent all the day dressing herself and adjusting her hair; but as the hours went on she became almost wretched from nervousness. When it was nearly time for them to go she was quivering with agitation. They went in a brougham hired specially for the occasion, because, although Mrs. Money offered to send her carriage, and Mary would have liked it much, Minola would hear of nothing of the kind. Mary was engaged all the way in the brougham in the proper adjustment of her gloves. At last they came to the place. Minola did the gentleman's part, and handed her agitated companion out. Mary Blanchet saw a strip of carpet on the pavement, an open door with servants in livery standing about, blazing lights, brightly dressed women going in, a glimpse of a room with a crowd of people, and then Minola and she found themselves somehow in a ladies' dressing-room.

"Minola, darling, don't go in without me. I am quite nervous—I should never venture to go in alone."

Minola did not intend to desert her palpitating little companion, who now indeed clung to her skirts and would not let her go had she been inclined. Miss Blanchet might have been a young beauty just about to make her début at a ball, so anxious was she about her appearance, about her dress, about her complexion; and at the same time she was so nervous that she could hardly compel her trembling fingers to give the finishing touches which she believed herself to need. Minola looked on wondering, puzzled, and half angry. The poetess was unmistakably a little, withered, yellowing old maid. She had not even the remains of good looks. No dressing or decoration possible to woman could make her anything but what she was, or deceive any one about her, or induce any one to feel interested in her. The handsome, stately girl who stood smiling near her was about to enter the drawing-room quite unconcerned as to her own appearance, and indeed not thinking about it; and the homely little old maid was quite distressed lest the company generally should not sufficiently admire her, or should find any fault with her dress.

"Come along, you silly poetess," said Minola at last, breaking into a laugh, and fairly drawing her companion away from the looking-glass. "What do you think anybody will care about you or me? We'll steal in unnoticed, and we'll be all right."

"It's the first time I ever was in London society, Minola, dear, and I'm quite nervous."

"It's the first time I ever was in London society, and I'm not a bit nervous. No one knows us, dear—and no one cares. So come along."

She fairly carried Mary Blanchet out of the dressing-room, along a corridor lined with seats, on which people who had been in the drawing-room and had come out, were chattering, and flirting, and lounging—and at last over the threshold of the drawing-room, and into the presence of the hostess. A few friendly words were got through, and Minola dragged her companion along through the crowd into the recess formed by a window where there were some unoccupied seats.

"Now, Mary, that's done. The plunge is made, dear! We are in society! Let us sit down here—and look at it."

"This," said Mary faintly—"this, at last, is society."

"I suppose it is, dear. At least it will do very well for you and me. We should never know any difference. Imagine all these people marquises and countesses, and what more can we want to make us happy? They may be marquises and countesses for all I know."

"I should think there must be some great poets, and authors, and artists, Minola. I am sure there must be. Oh, there is my brother!"

In effect Mr. Herbert Blanchet had already fixed his dark eyes on Minola, and was making his way up to her retreat, rather to Minola's distress. He addressed Minola at once with that undefinable manner of easy and kindly superiority which he always adopted toward women, and which, it must be owned, impressed some women a great deal. To his sister he held out, while hardly looking at her, an encouraging hand of recognition.

"Have you seen Delavar's picture?" he asked Minola.

"No. Who is Delavar?"

"Delavar? He was the greatest painter of our time—at least of his school; for I don't admit that his school is the true one."

"Oh, is his picture here?"

"In the other room—yes. He painted it for Mr. Money—for Mrs. Money rather I should say—and it has just been sent home. Come with me and I will show it to you."

"And Mary?"

"We'll come back for Mary presently. The rooms are too full. We couldn't all get through. If you'll take my arm, Miss Grey!"

Minola rose and took his arm, and they made their way slowly through the room. They moved even more slowly than was necessary, for Herbert Blanchet was particularly anxious to show off his companion and himself to the fullest advantage. The moment Minola entered the room he saw that she was the handsomest girl there, and that her dressing was simple, graceful, and picturesque. He knew that before a quarter of an hour had passed everybody would be asking who she was, and he resolved to secure for himself the effect of being the first to parade her through the rooms. He was a singularly handsome man—as has been said before—almost oppressively handsome; and a certain wasted look about his eyes and cheeks added a new and striking effect to his appearance. He was dark, she was fair; he was a tall man, she was a rather tall girl; and if his face had a worn look, hers had an expression of something like habitual melancholy, which was not perhaps in keeping with her natural temperament, and which lent by force of contrast an additional charm to her eyes when they suddenly lit up at the opening of any manner of animated conversation. No combination could be more effective, Mr. Blanchet felt, than that of his appearance and hers; and then she was a new figure. So he passed slowly on with her, and he knew that most people looked at them as they passed. He took good care, too, that they should be engaged in earnest talk.

"I am delighted to have you all to myself for a moment, Miss Grey—to tell you that I know all about your goodness to Mary. That is why I would not bring her with us now. No—you must let me speak—I am not offering you my thanks. I know you would not care about that. But I must tell you that I know what you have done. I have no doubt that you are her sole support—poor Mary!"

"I am her friend, Mr. Blanchet—only that."

"Her only friend too. Her brother has not done much for her. To tell you the truth, Miss Grey, it isn't in his power now. You don't know the struggles of us, the unsuccessful men in literature, who yet have faith in ourselves. I am very poor. My utmost effort goes in keeping a decent dress-coat and buying a pair of gloves; I don't complain—I am not one bit deterred, and I only trouble you with this confession, because whatever I may have been in the past I had rather you knew me to be what I am—a wretched, penniless struggler—than believe that I left my sister to be a burden on your friendship."

"Mary is the only friend I have," said Minola. "It is not wonderful if I wish to keep her with me. And you will make a great success some time."

He shook his head.

"If one hadn't to grind at things for bare living, one might do something. I am not bad enough, or good enough; and that's the truth of it. I dare say if I were mean enough to hunt after some woman with money, I might have succeeded as well as others—but I couldn't do that."

"No, I am sure you could not."

"I am not mean enough for that. But I am not high-minded enough to accept any path, and be content with it and proud of it. Now I shan't bore you any more about myself. I wanted you to know this that you might not think too harshly of me. I know you felt some objection to me at first; you need not try politely to deny it."

"Oh, no; I don't want to deny it. I prefer truth to politeness, a great deal. I did think you had neglected your sister; but really I was not surprised. I believe other men do the same thing."

"But now you see that I have some excuse?"

"I am glad to hear it, Mr. Blanchet."

"Glad to hear that I am so wretchedly poor, Miss Grey?" he said with a smile, and bending his eyes on her. "Glad to hear that your friend's brother is such a failure?"

"I would rather a thousand times hear that you were poor than that you were heartless. I don't call it a failure to be poor. I should call it a failure to be selfish and mean."

She spoke in a low tone, but very earnestly and eagerly, and she suddenly thought she was speaking too eagerly, and stopped.

"Well," he said, after a moment's pause, "here is the picture. We shall get to it presently, when these people move away."

They had entered, through a curtained door, a small room which was nearly filled with people standing before a picture, and admiringly criticising it. Minola, with all her real or fancied delight in noting the jealousies and weaknesses of men and women, could hear no words of detraction or even dispraise.

"Is the painter here?" she asked of her companion in a whisper.

"No; I haven't seen him. Perhaps he'll come in later on."

"Would you think it cheap cynicism if I were to ask why they all praise the picture—why they don't find any fault with it?"

"Oh, because they are all of the school, and they must support their creed. Our art is a creed to us. I don't admit that I am of Delavar's school any more; in fact, I look upon him as a heretic. He is going in for mere popularity; success has spoilt him. But to most of these people here he is still a divinity. They haven't found him out yet."

"Oh!"

This little exclamation broke from Minola as some people at length struggled their way outward, and allowed her to see the whole of the picture.

"What is it called?" she asked.

"Love stronger than death."

The scene was a graveyard, under a sickly yellow moon, rising in a livid and greenish sky. A little to the left of the spectator was seen a freshly-opened grave. In the foreground were two figures—one that of a dead girl, whom her lover had just haled from her coffin, wrapped as she was in her cerements of the tomb; the other that of the lover. He had propped the body against the broken hillock of the grave, and he was chanting a love-song to it which he accompanied on his lute. His face suggested the last stage of a galloping consumption, further enlivened by the fearsome light of insanity in his eyes. Some dreary bats flopped and lollopped through the air, and a few sympathetic toads came out to listen to the lay of the lover. The cypresses appeared as if they swayed and moaned to the music; and the rank weeds and grasses were mournfully tremulous around the sandalled feet of the forlorn musician.

Minola at first could not keep from shuddering. Then there followed a shocking inclination to laugh.

"What do you think of it?" Blanchet asked.

"Oh, I don't like it at all."

"No? It is trivial. Mere prettiness; just a striving after drawing-room popularity. No depth of feeling; no care for the realistic power of the scene. Pretty, pleasing—nothing more. Surface only; no depth."

"But it is hideous," Minola said.

"Hideous? Oh, no! Decay is loveliness; decay is the soul of really high art when you come to understand it. But there is no real decay there. That girl's face is pretty waxwork. There's no death there," and he turned half away in contempt. "That is what comes of being popular and a success. No; Delavar is done. I told him so."

"He is quite new to me," said Minola. "I never heard of him before."

"He's getting old now," Blanchet said. "He must be quite thirty. Let me see—oh, yes; fully that. He had better join the pre-Raphaelites now; or send to the Royal Academy; or hire a gallery and exhibit his pictures at a shilling a head. I fancy they would be quite a success."

Some of this conversation took place as they were making their way through the crowd with the intention of entering the drawing-room again. Minola was greatly amused, and in a manner interested. The whole thing was entirely new to her. As they passed into the corridor there were one or two vacant seats.

"Will you rest for a moment?" Blanchet said, motioning toward a seat.

"Hadn't we better go back for Mary?"

"We'll go back presently. She is very happy; she loves above all things observing a crowd."

Minola would have liked very much to observe the crowd herself and to have people pointed out to her. Blanchet, however, though he saluted several persons here and there, did not seem particularly interested in any of them. Minola sat down for a while to please him, and to show that she had no thought of giving herself airs merely because she was enabled to be kind to his sister.

Blanchet threw himself sidelong across his chair and leaned toward Minola's seat. He knew that people were looking at him and wondering who his companion was, and he felt very happy.

"I wish I might read some of my poems to you, Miss Grey," he said. "I should like to have your opinion, because I know it would be sincere."

"I should be delighted to hear them, but I don't think I should venture to give an opinion; my opinion would not be worth anything."

"When may I come and read one or two to you and Mary? To-morrow afternoon?"

"Oh, yes; we are staying here tonight, but we shall be at home in the afternoon. Are these published poems? Pray, excuse me—I quite forgot; you don't publish. You don't care for fame—the fame that sets other people wild."

He smiled, and slightly shrugged his shoulders.

"We don't care for the plaudits of the stupid crowd," he said; "that is quite true. We don't care for popularity, and to have our books lying on drawing-room tables, and kept by the booksellers bound in morocco ready to hand, to be given away as gift books to young ladies. But we should like the admiration of a chosen few. The truth is, that I don't publish my poems because I haven't the money. They would be a dead loss, of course, to any one who printed them; I am proud to say that. I would not have them printed at all if they couldn't be artistically and fitly brought out; and I haven't the money, and there's an end. But if I might read my poems to you, that would be something."

Minola began to be full of pity for the poor poet, between whom and possible fame there stood so hard and prosaic a barrier. She was touched by the proud humility of his confession of ambition and poverty. Three sudden questions flashed through her mind. "I wonder how much it would cost? and have I money enough? and would it be possible to get him to take it?"

Her color was positively heightening, and her breath becoming checked by the boldness of these thoughts, when suddenly there was a rushing and rustling of silken skirts, and Lucy Money, disengaging herself from a man's arm, swooped upon her.

"You darlingest, dear Nola, where have you been all the night? I have been hunting for you everywhere! Oh—Mr. Blanchet! I haven't seen you before either. Have you two been wandering about together all the evening?"

Looking up, Minola saw that it was Mr. Victor Heron who had been with Lucy Money, and that he was now waiting with a smile of genial friendliness to be recognized by Miss Grey. It must be owned that Minola felt a little embarrassed, and would rather—though she could not possibly tell why—not have been found deep in confidential talk with Herbert Blanchet.

She gave Mr. Heron her hand, and told him—which was now the truth—that she was glad to see him.

"Hadn't we better go and find Mary?" Blanchet said, rising and glancing slightly at Heron. "She will be expecting us."

"No, please don't take Miss Grey away just yet," Victor said, addressing himself straightway, and with eyes of unutterable cordiality and good-fellowship, to the poet. "I haven't spoken a word to her yet; and I have to go away soon."

"I'll go with you to your sister, Mr. Blanchet," said Lucy, taking his arm forthwith. "I haven't seen her all the evening, and I want to talk to her very much."

So Lucy swept away on Mr. Blanchet's arm, looking very fair, and petite, and pretty, as she held a bundle of her draperies in one hand, and glanced back, smiling and nodding, out of sheer good-nature, at Minola.

Victor Heron sat down by Minola, and at once plunged into earnest talk.

TRIED AND TRUE.

Sylvester Baxter.

ABOUT CIGARETTES.

Ten or fifteen years ago we rarely saw cigarettes in this country, their use being confined to the few natives who had acquired the habit during a residence abroad, and to foreigners, French, Italian, and Cuban settlers, who followed the practices of their youth. So slight was the general demand that, excepting in the large cities, cigarettes were rarely found for sale. To-day there are probably few small towns in the thickly settled portions of the country where cigarettes are not readily obtained; while in the large cities the stores vie with each other in giving us varied assortments of leading brands. Indeed, recent statistics state that nearly thirty per cent. of the entire smoking tobacco consumed in the United States is in this form. Cigarettes are now imported from all portions of Europe, but principally from France. Several factories have of late years been started in our own country, but the cigarette par excellence is made in Havana. Nowhere else do we find capital so largely invested, labor so diversified, or such attention to details. There certainly you can take your choice—Honoradez, Havana, Astrea, Cherito, Henriquez, and dozens of others of lesser note.

The tobacco used in the making of the Havana cigarettes is bought from the cigar factors, but only from those who have the most assured reputation. It consists of the leaves left from the making of cigars. The necessity of securing the best grades of tobacco cannot be overestimated. The judgment of the cigarette smoker is formed solely from the sense of taste. He is totally unaffected by sight, which in the cigar enables a clever workman to so roll bad tobacco that we are predisposed in favor of an inferior article. While absolute inferiority is intolerable in either, mediocrity, in Cuba at all events, is much more readily tolerated in the cigar than in the cigarette.

The tobacco for the cigarette is not, as is generally supposed with us, raised on the plantations of the various leading cigar factors. "Bartegas," "Cobania," "Upman," or whatever be the name of our favorite brand, does not depend for its success upon any one plantation. The practice on the part of the leading houses is to send their purchasing agents into the tobacco district as soon as the crop begins to ripen. Sales are then and there arranged, immense sums sometimes being offered in advance, by way of retainer, for a specially likely plantation. The Vuelto Abago district is the favorite one, the planters there holding a position not unlike that occupied by the proprietors of the "Sea Island" plantations in days when "cotton was king." The ability to control the market so as to bring to their own manufactories the choicest tobacco is the main secret of the success of the larger houses, not, as is frequently supposed, any particular superiority in the workmen.

The principal cigarette factory is, as is well known, the factory of M. Susini, "La Honoradez," "Honoradez" signifying in Spanish, honesty, the motto of the house. It consists of a series of irregular buildings, covering an area in space about equal to that occupied by the usual Broadway block. On the upper floor of the principal building we find a lot of tobacco, which has just arrived, and is being prepared for inspection; the first requisite being to remove from it any leaves that are either dead or in any way injured. The tobacco lays loosely scattered over an immense wooden tray, which is kept continually moving, by means of machinery, from one end of a table to the other. Around this table are seated some twelve or fourteen Cuban workmen, all good judges of tobacco. Each one throws aside such leaves as he deems unfit for use, while the slow but yet continual motion given to the tray brings each imperfection successively before the eyes of all. The next step is to free the tobacco from any particles of sand or earth that may adhere to it. This is done by moving the tray by machinery, until it is over a large bin, into which the tobacco is allowed to fall, being subjected in its passage to a powerful current of air induced by means of an immense fan, likewise worked by machinery. One step more, and a very simple one—that of drying—and the tobacco is ready for a change of form. The tobacco is dried by simply exposing it on the roof, for a few hours, to the heat of the sun. For cigarettes it can scarcely be too dry, or for cigars too damp. A Cuban would not think of smoking other than a damp cigar. In the factories one sees the workmen smoking cigars they have just rolled, and no native could understand why one should smoke dry cigars in which so much of the natural flavor has been lost.

Thus far the process has been entirely one of cleansing or of freeing from impurities. The next step is that of cutting the leaves into fine particles in order to adapt the tobacco for cigarettes. The scattered leaves are first collected and subjected to powerful hydraulic pressure, from which they come out looking for all the world like a pile of snuff-colored brick. The moulded tobacco next goes to the cutting machine, falling from thence into a sieve, the meshes of which pass only such pieces as have been reduced to the proper size. The remainder is passed into a hopper, and thence goes for a second cutting. One step more, and the tobacco will be issued to the "rollers." Some half a dozen Chinese enter the room, each carrying with him a small vessel containing an aromatic liquid, with which the loose tobacco is carefully sprinkled. The preparation of this liquid is not known. It is doubtless the desire to keep it secret that leads to the preference of Chinese over native labor.

Before following the tobacco furher, let us look at the remaining portion of the cigarette, the wrapper. The original envelope for the tobacco was doubtless composed of leaves, the followers of Columbus carrying back to Spain accounts of the strange custom existing among the natives of San Salvador, the smoking of tobacco wrapped in the leaves of the palm, which was doubtless the primitive cigarette. In France to this day new straws are much used, but generally paper has become the popular envelope. This paper must be specially manufactured. Most of it comes from Barcelona, where the making of cigarette paper constitutes an important industry. All of that used at the "Honoradez" factory, after inspection, is carefully stamped with the name "Susini." By unrolling any of this brand of cigarettes this mark can be readily seen, and serves as the readiest means of detecting counterfeits. A portion of the paper is sprinkled with various preparations to give to it the flavor of tea, licorice, or such other taste as may suit certain consumers. This explains the variation in the color of the wrapper, which is sometimes straw-color, sometimes brown, but more usually white, the latter color distinguishing the paper which has not been artificially flavored. In the cutting machine the paper is rapidly converted into the proper size for envelopes, while another machine close at hand is turning out little bits of pasteboard for such of the cigarettes as are to be made with a mouthpiece.

Both tobacco and paper are now ready to be given out to the "rollers." Let us go down and watch them as they come pouring in. Both sexes and all ages have representations here. Each one awaits his turn, and then receives, after it has been carefully weighed, his or her allowance of tobacco, some five thousand papers, and a large wooden hoop. The hoop serves as a rude but very accurate gauge, its circumference being of such a size as to properly encompass five thousand cigarettes of such size as will contain the entire amount of tobacco issued. A slight excess of both tobacco and paper, say sufficient to make forty or fifty cigarettes, is usually given, intended for the personal consumption of the employee. When their work is completed and returned to the factory, they receive in exchange therefor a small copper check payable on demand. So common are these checks in Havana that a few years since—possibly it may be so still—they were constantly given to one at the various stores, and were commonly received as current coin.

Physically the cigar and cigarette makers are a sorry lot. The continual odor of tobacco, their constant labor, with bodies bent over tables, calling into play no muscle, no exertion, indeed, whatever, excepting the exercise of their fingers—this cannot fail to have its effect. The cigarette makers are injured, too, by the inhalation of an almost invisible dust arising from the small particles of tobacco. The compensation received appears very small. Four or five cigarettes a minute is accounted good work, and even at this rate two days' steady labor is required to fill a hoop, for which they receive less than two dollars.

The larger number of cigarettes manufactured at Havana are made by machinery which is exceedingly ingenious, and has proved thoroughly successful. The cigarettes made by machinery are not only more tightly wrapped, but also manufactured at a much reduced cost. Each machine is capable of making thirty cigarettes per minute, 1,800 per hour, or 43,200 per day, thus replacing the labor of fourteen men, presuming them to be capable of working ten hours per day. For such persons as prefer making their own cigarettes, pressed packages of tobacco, with little paper books containing the envelopes, are sold. The tobacco is so neatly put up that were it not for the accompanying book, one would almost fancy it to be a package of the most delicate French chocolate. As illustration of the consumption of cigarettes it may be of interest to state that three million cigarettes are made in the Honoradez factory each year, while it is estimated that in their manufacture over six million dollars is annually expended in the city of Havana alone. The Cuban, indeed, is much more of a cigarette than a cigar smoker; the cigarette is his constant companion. Even after dinner the cigarette seems to be preferred. I remember once, at a very charming dinner party, being quite astonished—for it was shortly after my arrival in Havana—to find myself and the host the only cigar smokers. The rest of our number, some six or seven, all Cubans, took to their accustomed cigarette with a unanimity which has always led me to believe that my good host himself felt called upon by his sense of politeness to do violence to his own preference.

In connection with the manufacture of cigarettes, nothing strikes one with more astonishment than the many industries which form accessories to a factory. The printing and lithographic work, a large quantity of which is required for the paper bundles or tasteful pasteboard boxes in which the various packages are put up, is all done by the employees, and even a photograph gallery is at hand for such persons as may desire their own likeness to accompany each package. So cleverly is all this work executed, that until very recently the bank notes and lottery tickets, both of which are largely circulated, were here printed. Rather odd to our American ideas, it must be confessed, is the spectacle of bank notes and lottery tickets being printed side by side—that too in a cigarette factory.

Boxes of tin, of wood, of all shapes and sizes, as well as kegs for exportation to distant points, are made within these same walls, where moulders, machinists, blacksmiths, tinmen, printers, lithographers, engravers, painters, and carpenters, are all furnished with work. Two hundred out of the twenty-five hundred employees are Chinese, and for them is provided a separate dormitory, kitchen, and even bathrooms.

THE HARD TIMES.

WHAT SHALL WE DO WITH OUR CHEAP LABOR?

"Wanted.—

Work for a thousand starving Immigrants!"

Such is our advertisement. Cheap labor! that is the boon our "society" seeks. We wish to "develop our resources"; and as rapidly as possible, for in that lies all blessedness—real "sweetness and light."

Has not this delightful gospel been preached to us from pulpit and forum now full fifty good years, and does any one doubt its divine origin? Yes; I fear there is now and then to be found one of those antiquated infidels who scorns our "cheap cotton" and holds fast to manhood; who sniffs at our great new factory and says, "Give me a man!"

It is some two years ago that one of these benighted men told me—I pity him—he told me he had been into our beautiful Berkshire county to enjoy the delicious air and the delightful mountains. He went to North Adams, which lies so calm and basks so peacefully in the embraces of its sheltering hills. He said that when the noonday bell clanged out, a living torrent of men and women, boys and girls, poured forth from one of the gorgeous temples which have been there raised for the worship of the new god. In that temple were created cheap shoes. He said these men and women, boys and girls, were haggard, old, squalid, dirty; they showed traces—so it seemed to his jaundiced eyes—of drink, hopelessness, lechery, and vileness. He asked who they were. He was told—and they said it with glee—

"That is our cheap labor!"

And where does it come from—from the homes of New England? Oh, no! From Ireland, from Germany, from Portugal, from China, from Canadian-Acadie, that pastoral spot of which poets sing!

"Vileness, filth, baseness!" he said. "My God, has Berkshire come to this!"

It was a very foolish thing to say, and his calling upon his antiquated God was not only foolish, but useless. His God is not the God now.

He took a ride through the winding roads and wooded hills of that delightful land. His driver proposed to take him round by the "Limestone brook" to show him the new factory.

"And what do they make there?"

"Why, didn't you know? They are grinding up the white limestone, and they send away tons and tons on't every day."

"And what is it used for?"

"Used for? It's used for mixin'. They make three grades: the sody grade, and the flour grade, and the sugar grade."

"The deuce they do!"—that was a foolish exclamation. "Do you mean that they use this to mix with flour and sugar?"

The man laughed pityingly. "Of course they do. It makes 'em healthier. Flour and sugar is healthier and goes further with a little of this 'ere limestone dust mixed in—you see. It's cheaper too. This stuff is sold for fifty cents a hundred, and flour, you know, costs six dollars a hundred. Don't you see?"

The benighted infidel did see, and he indulged in some internal ejaculations; but he fled from the simple and sincere hills of Berkshire, and sought a solace in the coarse vulgarity and vice of Boston.

But I am neglecting to say what our society proposes to do; and when I have told you of course we shall expect you to subscribe.

"The Cheap Labor Society" proposes to introduce from Africa and China, in batches of one thousand each, as rapidly as possible, able-bodied men who will work cheap.

"To develop the resources" of the country is the end and aim of all honorable men. In other words, we want cheap men so that we may make cheap shoes, cheap hats, cheap mutton, and—cheap women.

We who are now here—we do not wish to work at all. Work is a curse. The Bible has said so, and every noble-minded man has said so, and the clergy has said so, and we know it is and must be so. But yet there are people existing in the depths of Africa and China who it is believed will work rather than starve; and these we propose to bring as rapidly as our means will permit.

We head our appeal, as you see, "Work wanted for a thousand starving men," because we know that we can get more work out of men who are just on the edge of starvation than from any other, and in that way we shall "develop our resources" most effectively and rapidly.

It is quite true that we already produce more cotton cloth and more boots and shoes than we can possibly sell; but we know—for have we not political economy to teach us?—that when we get them cheap enough, say to one-half their present starvation prices—every man, and every woman, and every child will wear two shirts, and two hats, and two pairs of shoes; and thus we shall have in a superior way that blessedness of which poets write—the making "two blades of grass grow where one grew before." Now, I ask any liberal-minded man if "two pairs of shoes in place of one" is not higher and nobler than two blades of grass? That goes without talking.

If work be indeed the curse of curses, why, let the sons of Ham (Africa) and the sons of Shem (Asia) do it; for it is well known they are accursed, and have been since the days of "good old Noah"; besides which, having colored skins, we know just how to mark the helots; can import them as fast as needed; can put all labor upon them, and can thus keep our own Japhetic skins and hands clean and white.

Deferring to a not wholly extinct public opinion, which is now and then announced by some orator to some small schoolboys, in words like these, Labore est honore, and in the vernacular, "Labor is honorable," I am compelled to deny it clearly and distinctly. Almost all know it, but it may be best to say to those who do not:

If labor is honorable, why does every man refuse to hoe in his garden, to make his fire, to raise his food? Why does every woman refuse to cook her food, to make her clothes, to take care of her children? Why do every father and every mother take special pains to so bring up and educate their children that they can do no sort of hand work? Why is it that high schools, and academies, and colleges are held as the most majestic of blessings, except that they are intended to wholly unfit boys and girls for the necessary work of life?

Why is it that those who do no work are always called "upper classes," and those who do much work are called "the masses," unless it is so? Being so, let us agree to import "the masses" as rapidly as we can.

Permit me to here lay down another corner-stone: As cheapness is a boon, of course cheap labor is a boon; if labor, even at a dollar a day, is a blessing, it follows that labor at half a dollar a day is a greater blessing; and if we can only get it to a quarter of a dollar a day, will not mankind be four times as happy as when it is at a dollar a day? And then, oh blessed time! When we get it down to one cent a day shall we not be standing just in the portals of Paradise?

Let all men take heart, for we approach that time. I learned last summer, in the lovely State of Connecticut, that the Messrs. Sprague were hiring able-bodied men to work eleven hours a day, sometimes in water and mud, at rebuilding their great Baltic dam, for eighty-three cents a day, and that thousands more were ready to rush in. I may recall to mind the dark ages, when ignorance prevailed, and men boasted of a land (if there was one) where

All the men were brave and all the women virtuous.

All of that kind! Then there could have been no cheap labor, and the boon which we now know to be the greatest vouchsafed to man could not be enjoyed. There have been times when strong, honest men and strong, honest (and permit me to say clean) women were thought to be the fruition of a perfect and Christian civilization—when cheap cotton was not thought to be the "one thing needful."

The good King Henri of Navarre is said to have hoped for the day when in France the poorest peasant might have a fowl in his pot.

Besotted king! he did not know that in the good time coming, when we shall bring in our one to ten thousand cheap Chinese per week, the white man will be happy indeed who can get a pound of rice or potatoes in his pot. A fowl in his pot! Foolish king!

"Progress"—what a lovely word!—progress has shown all mankind what a glorious thing cheap labor is and must be. How great and happy are the people who preach and practise it! "Progress"—a beautiful word certainly, if we do really understand it. But I remember me of a man—a brewer—who rather late in life had fallen in love with the word "docile." He thought it a beautiful word. One day his partner returned, having failed to collect a doubtful debt. My friend essayed it, but returned red in the face.

"Well," said his partner, "have you got it?"

"Got it! The fellow won't do a thing. He's as docile as hell!"

Progress! Its meaning once was,

"Intellectual or moral advancement; improvement in knowledge or in virtue."

Now it means cheap cotton and cheap men and women. To the enlightened and prosperous English nation belongs the credit of this radical discovery.

To England too belongs the invention or creation of our new god. She—I am happy to say it—she invented and created the god we now worship. We call him

Trade!

The first, last, and only commandment of our new god is,

"Buy cheap and sell dear."

Whatever nation or man worships this god, and obeys this first and great commandment, is sure of blessedness; for that man or that nation will get more money than other men and other nations, as England has; and will be happy, as she is!

Swiftly and surely the belief and worship of the new god and the new gospel is spreading into all lands. Men fancy they still worship "the Trinity," "Confucius," "Zoroaster," "Mohammed," "Mumbo-jumbo." It is wholly a fancy. Men still say, "I believe in God the Father," etc. They still say, "Do to others as you would have them do to you," is the first and great commandment. But what they do do, and wish to do, and mean to do, is,

"To buy cheap and sell dear."

We need no missionaries to drive this gospel into heathen minds. It has the charming vitalizing power of going itself. The Chinese have received it, and have immediately taken the whole tea business out of the hands of Messrs. Russell & Co. and Jardine, Matheson & Co.; have quite put an extinguisher upon their money-making. Indeed, do we not know that almost every European, Chinese, and Indian merchant has failed, and the heathen Chinee sits in their seats.

How England came to invent this new gospel is known to many, though not to all. Let me briefly sketch the amazing creation:

A century ago the strength and power of England was based upon her yeomanry. They possessed much land; and upon the lovely rolling fields of that lovely country their stone farm-houses and their small farms were the homes and habitations of millions. From this strong and hardy yeomanry were drawn the bowmen and the pike-men who made the armies of the Edwards and the Henrys invincible; from them came the "jolly tars" who seized victory for Drake and Nelson.

Then Liverpool was not, and Manchester was not, and creation did not pay tribute to England's god.

But a century ago Watt, the keen, canny Scotsman, discovered that steam was a giant, and could he but capture him and harness him into his machine, what work might he not do? He did capture him, and he did harness him to his machine; and now he works on, on, up, down, here, there, not ceasing by night and day, by summer and winter; he tires not, he rests not; for ever and for ever he toils on. He saws, he grinds, he spins, he weaves, he ploughs, he thrashes, he drags, he lifts. Such a giant he is!

One man with the steam machine now does the work which once was done by ten, twenty, fifty! He files, he cuts, he sews, he polishes, he brews, he bakes, he washes, he irons. Is all this nothing?

It is vast—it is a revolution! And no man yet sees the end.

Trade now was exaggerated beyond all former measure, and henceforth was to be the god of England and of the world. "Let us produce, let us buy cheap and sell dear, and so we shall be blessed." England had coal deep down in her bowels. Let her send her sons by thousands into the slime and darkness to dig it out. Let her make steam, and cheap cotton, and infinite iron, and let her make all mankind buy of her. "Let us," she cried, "demand free trade! for we can make cheap and sell dear, and none can rival us."

She did demand free trade. She demanded it in India by seizing a kingdom. She demanded it in China at the cannon's mouth. She got it.

She said to all peoples, "You may make corn, and cotton, and wool for us, and we will make everything you want cheaper than you can make it for yourselves, and happy you will be. We will make all the ships, will bring your corn, and cotton, and wool to us, and we will carry all our lovely manufactures to you, to the uttermost ends of the earth—at your cost. We will take toll of you both ways; we will make fair profit on your cotton, and on our manufactures, and that will be just and even, and we shall both be happy."

And so it has gone on for a hundred years, and gold has poured into England's stomach, a flowing stream, until her eyes stick out with fatness; she has even sought Turkish bonds for investment, and has lent much money to the good Khedive of Egypt—which she can't get back!

Let us look at England for a moment, as she is to-day. She has built magnificent temples dedicated to her great god all over England: at Birmingham and Manchester, at Glasgow and Paisley; at Birkenhead and Liverpool, at Preston and Salford, at Leeds and Nottingham—and where not? England has become a great workshop in which the god of trade is ministered to.

Her land? Yes, it is beautiful, but her yeoman have disappeared—all have been drawn into the maw of the manufacturing monster. Forty millions of people now has England, and only some seven per cent. of them raise the food they eat. And how do the rest get their food? It is quite simple: by selling to other nations the things they make, and bringing back the food which other nations make.

It has been the boast of England that she had a larger population to the square mile—389 human bodies—than any other land except one, and more great cities than any other land but the "far Cathay"—if even she be an exception.

That "inspired idiot" Goldsmith once sang in his pretty, sentimental way,

"Bold peasantry," "stalwart yeomen," "hard-handed farmers"—what preposterous phrases these seem now when we have the immense advantages of "cheap labor"!

And we here in America—we too? But of us, anon, anon.

Great factories, great halls, great shops, abound—abound and magnify that English land, so that a glamour has come over mankind, and moon-faced idiots in all lands have cried, "Behold the glory of England. Let us do likewise." Those great cities have glorified themselves and have glorified England, and who has cared to look deeper down into the mire? Have we seen these men and women, childhood and age, reeking in squalor and vile with filth in the purlieus of every temple? Have we looked into the slums of Liverpool and Glasgow, of Edinburgh and Newcastle, to see men and women, childhood and age, in all their divinity—or their damnation? Is all lovely—is it indeed? Is this "progress"? Is it civilization? Is it Christianity? Of course it is, all three.

I have mentioned the word revolution—social revolution. What is it? Is it at hand? It is quite clear that this amazing power of steam and machinery is doing something. It is quite clear that every machine does the work of twenty men, and nineteen of these have got to seek other means of support—they and their wives and their little ones.

It is well known that every man out of work means four mouths bare of food. Who fills them? The rates (taxes) of course, and in London, the last winter I was there, some six years ago, 80,000 paupers and beggars were receiving public aid. "The laws of trade" is to make things right. I think that is the name of the modern redeemer of men. If work is not there and food is not there, man will flow at his own sweet will, like water seeking its level, until he finds his food and his work somewhere. But if man's "sweet will" decides not to flow, but to lie down and make his bed in your pockets, and feed on the contents in the shape of taxes—what is to come then? Why, he must be depleted, or he will deplete you. How to deplete him is a most interesting question? He does not deplete himself, for it is manifest to men that paupers in England and America get children as fast as they can; and the clergy applaud and say, "Be fruitful and multiply." There is no continence among them—none anywhere except in wicked France.

In the "good time coming" in England, the pauper will lie down with the prince, and there will be peace while the pauper devours the prince; or there will be pestilence, which is a sure depleter; or the idle army may be used to deplete the mob. Who can say?

"But there is no danger! Of course not. Why croak?"

What has been will be, under the benign influence of cheap labor and free trade—perhaps! Let me go on with my pleasant tale—do not interrupt—I have the word—by and by you.

At this moment, to-day, this year of our Lord 1877, the merchant princes of London, the manufacturing barons of Manchester are at their wits' ends; for people refuse to buy the products of their mills. Germany will not have them, and France will not, and America chooses to make her own; and even India, ungrateful that she is, has gone to spinning her own cotton. Mills are being closed in England, furnaces are blown out, wages are reduced, and workmen are threatening to strike, or have struck, and are settling down for a comfortable winter upon the rates. All right! England has "developed her resources," and trade is free. Let her sing hosannahs, and cry, "Glory be to our god," for no such beautiful "progress" was ever seen on earth before.

What is to happen to the 300,000 or half million land-owners of England, if outside pig-headed peoples wilfully and maliciously refuse to buy the mill products of England and so to feed the 37,200,000 people of England who have no land upon which to raise their own food? What is to happen if some fine day the 37,200,000 take it into their foolish heads to say:

"We do not like to starve. We are many, you are few. We will take the land and raise our own food, and you can emigrate if you like, or you can stand out in the cold as we have done. We don't like it."

It is not quite easy to shoot those people; and if they choose to stay in England, it is not quite easy to make them emigrate—not even if the "laws of trade" tell them they really ought to go.

And besides, it is so easy for 100,000 paupers to emigrate—to take their wives and their children, their flocks and their herds, their camels and their asses, their beds and their tents, and go forth to seek the promised land—the land flowing with milk and honey. It is so simple, so pleasant, that one is lost in amazement that they do not go—that they wickedly persist in staying where they are paupers, and refuse to obey the law of "supply and demand."

Such conduct is quite unworthy of enlightened Britons who "never will be slaves."

It is too bad—it really is—and political economy ought to be preached at them severely. Why is it too that outside barbarians refuse to buy the divine productions of England? Some think we may do well to take a look at this part of the problem before we go on with our plans for introducing more cheap labor into our own happy land.

A century ago, as has been said, England discovered the wonderful way of applying the steam giant to the creation of manufactured goods, and for three-quarters of the century she has had a practical monopoly; has turned the golden streams of the whole world to enrich herself; has preached free trade; has said, "Buy cheap and sell dear," and has set her god on a high throne. But slowly and haltingly other and stupider nations have caught the tricks of the new Cultus; have caught little steam giants, and have set them to work to turn their mills and grind their grists. Germany and the United States are two of these dull nations who have done a stroke of work in this way. France has really been too stupid to do much at it—has indeed gone back to a tariff after having tasted of the new gospel, and now obstinately refuses to live by it—will pay her debts, and will not enjoy unlimited pauperism.

Germany has, however, done well. She now makes woollens, cottons, linens, irons, steels, penknives, and Bibles quite as cheap as England, and, as some say (one of her own Centennial Commission), "cheaper and nastier." Now her traders are ubiquitous; they go, with the wandering Jew, the fascinating Englishman, the penetrating Yankee, into all heathen lands, carrying everywhere the new gospel of trade, and introducing to youthful minds the civilizing influences of lager beer and free lunches. Aided by the persuasive tones of the patient and soothing Yankee, they are doing wonders in teaching the value of time, by founding establishments for "stand-up drinks" in every lazy and luxurious land, by giving prizes to all who smoke while they work, thus making labor cheerful if not respectable. So patient and indefatigable has Germany been, that at Manchester in England, which may perhaps be termed the Delos of the new faith, I was told some five years ago that she had just taken the contract, had bought from Germany the iron beams and rafters for a new city building, and had put them up under the very noses of the worshippers who burn their sacred fires at Birmingham and Wolverhampton. And so, in the whirligig of time, Trade brings his pleasant revenges.

I was told also—the newspapers said it, and it must be true—that Mr. Mundella, an enterprising M.P., and a devout worshipper of the new god, who is a vast producer at Nottingham of stockings and hosiery of every sort—had found it best—well, absolutely necessary—in order to compete with the new disciples in Germany, to remove a part of his machines and machinery to Germany, and make his stockings there, in order that those ridiculous and cheap Germans should not quite put a stop to his trade. It was whispered about that French-made tools were being bought and brought into England for use there, and it was said openly that American saws, vises, and axes were playing the very deuce; and now, just after the triumphs of the "Centennial," Englishmen are writing home that Yankee silks will also play another very deuce with them if they don't get more and cheaper labor. I see too, by late letters from England, that they propose to cheapen iron by putting cheap Chinese labor into the iron works!

And yet in Germany they cry out that they have a panic, and that trade is dull, and people will persist in failing, and that other people won't buy all they can make; they too are at their wits' ends. There must be something wrong, the "doctrinaires" say, about the gases. Trade is not free enough, or labor is not cheap enough, or they have too much or too little paper money, or they don't try woman suffrage. At any rate the new gospel is right—must be right, because if you obey the laws of trade and buy cheap and sell dear, you are sure to be happy.

And France—it is frightful to think of France. Steeped in stupidity and enveloped in Cimmerean fog, she resists the new gospel. She will not send her missionaries abroad over the world; she will not build great factories and temples; she will not take her whole people from their small farms, where they raise great surpluses of food, to put them into the new temples; she does not even work her land with steam, nor does she hanker for the cheap (and nasty) things which England and Germany are so ready, willing, and anxious to pour into every household; indeed, will not have them at all. Oh, the economic condition of France makes the heart of the enlightened priest of the new gospel weep. France has taken no steps to introduce the cheap labor of Ireland or China, or even of Africa—right at her doors—into her own wretched country, and there is no sign that she will. What feeling but contempt can the sincere doctrinaire entertain for France?

It would be indeed strange—and yet it is not wholly impossible—that England and Germany and the United States, all of whom have for centuries been cursing work, and crying out against work, and doing all manner of things to get rid of work, and educating their best and wisest not to do it—it would be indeed strange if some day they should be crying out, "Give us work, in God's name." Strange, but not wholly impossible.

We come back now to our own country—to the

Land of the free, and the home of the blest.

We are the child of England, and we revere, we love, we emulate her. We adopt her methods, we worship her god. We follow in her footsteps, and emulating her example, we send out missionaries to extend the gospel of trade; we love to buy cheap and sell dear; we love to scheme; we delight in speculation, for that is an intellectual operation. We have been taught for centuries that the mind is divine, the body devilish. We do well, therefore, to despise the devilish body and exalt the godlike soul. We do well to depress and belittle the hand, and to glorify and enlarge the head. We do well to say it, and to make men believe it if we can, that the "pen is mightier than the sword" or the plough. We do well to convert our boys and girls into exaggerated heads, even if they are useless, because we thus exalt them toward gods. We do well to leave out of view all just balance between head and hand because that is common and vulgar. We do well to say that the man who says a good thing is greater than he who does a good thing, for the spiritual is divine, and the earthly is base!

Keeping in view the short time we have possessed this land, we may fairly arrogate to ourselves what England has long claimed for herself, great "progress." We have created more great cities, more luxurious habits, more free whiskey, more useless railroads, more brokers' boards, more wild-cat banks, more swindling mining companies, more political jobs, more precocious boys and more fast girls, more bankrupt men and more nervous women than any country known in history. Following the "example of our illustrious predecessor"—England—we have done one thing of which we are justly proud, and the full account of which, illustrated with pictures, our "Government" (as we facetiously call it) has published in some ten fine volumes. And what is the example we followed? It is this: England, having possessed herself of the vast kingdom of India, found a production there of opium very lucrative to her and very desirable to many of the Chinese, who enjoyed the smoking of the pleasing drug. England greatly desired to sell this drug to China, for it was all in the interest of trade. One fine day some Chinese emperor or mandarin took it into his meddling head to check or forbid the freedom of this trade: and then the virtue, the religious fervor of the devoted Briton was roused. Ninety-three thousand chests of good merchantable opium, worth many taels, was not a dogma to be trifled with, not even by the Emperor of the Flowery Kingdom. What! Should trade be impeded by this yellow Mantchu, this devotee of Confucius, this long-eyed heathen, because he had some sentimental notions about his people's morals or manners? Good heavens! Could trade stand that? By no means. Persuasion must bring him to his senses if he had any. Persuasion was tried, and various iron arguments were used. They battered down Canton, they assaulted and took the cities of Amoy, Chusan, Ningpo, Woosung, Shanghai, Nanking; and thus the English missionaries kept on persuading until at last the heathen Chinee yielded: was persuaded to pay $12,000,000, to open the ports of Canton, Amoy, Foochoo, Ningpo, Shanghai to trade; to welcome all future opium with open arms; to make the good Queen Victoria a present of the port of Hong Kong; and so on and on. Thus, under the persuasion of a fraternal war, "trade, civilization, and Christianity" made themselves safe in the high places of China; since which happiness has bourgeoned there if not in England!

Could our youthful but pious nation do better than follow this illustrious example? Certainly not. Something must be done. If China could thus be persuaded to trade by the English, poor little Japan might be persuaded to trade by the United States. We could but try. We did, and Perry sailed away, with his ships and his cannons, to try. The Japs were benighted, foolish, and weak. They declined, and said, "No, we don't want any of your trade. We make all we want, and don't care either for your religion, your opium, your whiskey, or your stovepipe hats."

"But," said the gallant Perry, "that is a wicked sentiment. The brotherhood of nations is the cornerstone of modern civilization. Trade is divine, and stovepipe hats mark the intellectual races. We are your brothers. God has made of one blood all the nations of the earth. If you will not be our brothers, and trade, we shall be obliged to shoot. Don't want to, but must. One—two—three. Bang!"

Well, the Japs also yielded to these arguments, and thenceforth have been happy. Trade has prevailed. Rice has gone up, and a good many Japs have gone to the ethereal spaces, overcome with hunger. Railways have been built, national debts have been created; the Mikado and Tycoon have fought, the Daimios have quarrelled, white men have been assassinated, beggary has begun, taxes press upon the people; and indeed all the signs which mark the high civilization of trade have appeared. "Progress," we are assured, is now certain, and Japan is "developing her resources." Bliss ensues. All of which is written down and printed in many volumes for all men to read. And "Perry's Expedition" can be read in beautiful volumes which cost you, we'll say, $50 for the books and a million for the glorious expedition.

We make any sacrifices for the new religion, and are willing to waste the filthy lucre of gold to extend a divine idea.

We did it!

We opened their ports!

We extended the blessing of trade!

We have made the Japs into Yankees!

They are learning the benefits of cheap and nasty!

Glory be to the new god!

Massachusetts! Massachusetts has held herself and has been held as the heart and the brain of New England. She has had (so she has believed) the heart to feel a moral principle and the head to accept a great thought. She has had brave-hearted men and clear-eyed women. Once—let us make a brief retrospect—she had "pilgrim fathers." She had what she and the world too thought a religion, which she believed in. She had a people of sound English stock, who in this clear New England air grew to hate squalor, vice, beggary, debt, and damnation. Once, fifty years ago, she had no great cities; her "Hub," Boston, in 1830 had but the poor population of 61,392, nearly all born on her soil, few of them dirty or beggared. Once, fifty years ago, all through Massachusetts were clean, decent, white-housed towns, such as Worcester, and Springfield, and Northampton, and Concord, and Salem, and Newburyport, centres of small but most cultivated and earnest social life.

Then small farms were cultivated by families of New England birth, out of whom came able men and handsome women. Children lived with parents, and did not tyrannize them. Silk gowns were rare, and pianos unknown; "art" and "culture" had not become household words, but butter was made at home, and the mystery of bread was known to ladies. Few then had been to Paris, and few therefore knew how vulgar they were. But "where ignorance is bliss," etc. They got on, and did not know what poor creatures they were.

Every child was expected to learn the three R's at the little red school-house, and to perfect his education by taking hold of material nature with his hands, and learning what it was by mastering it. That was education. The parson knew a little Latin, and he was all. They thought this worked well. Lamentable indeed!

The man expected to marry a capable wife, and to bring up children; he expected to work on his land or in his shop, to dress decently in clothes which his wife had made, securing a reasonable support in this world by his own labor, not by hocus-pocus; he provided for his future salvation by imbibing the five points of Calvin through fifty-four sermons a year, with now and then a Thursday lecture to fill in the cracks. Thus he was sure of his food here and of salvation hereafter—through the merciful providence of God, and not his own righteousness. New England thus produced a breed of people unlike and they fancied not inferior to any that history tells of.

But it would not do. There was no progress—it was a lamentable condition of things. They had not got a population of 211.78 to the square mile, raked together from the four corners of creation, making the State the sixth in density of all in the world, as she now boasts she has, and thus she had totally failed to secure the higher and better civilization.

They had not "developed their resources"; they had not built up splendid great cities; they had little knowledge of the delights of trade. Things could not get on so—that was not "progress." Here was water power running to waste all over Massachusetts; there were keen and able heads who believed they knew how to set these powers to work to grind their grists; it was quite ridiculous that these tumbling streams should not be turning millwheels and spinning cheap cotton. And then too not a railroad ran through Massachusetts—no transportation except in wagons. "Good God!" the pious people naturally exclaimed; "what misery, what a slow set!" Money—money was then loaned at only six per cent.! Things must be changed. They were changed. Mill after mill was built, among them the "Atlantic." Railway after railway was built, among them the "Eastern," and the stock was quickly paid up, and all went merry as a marriage bell. But some people own those stocks now, and do not find themselves happy!

What is the cure for these shrivelled dividends? Clearly, is it not, to bring in cheap labor? Let every man who has nothing and wants much, take shares in

"The Cheap Labor Society."

Seeing what has been done for Massachusetts, it is easy to see what can be done. And what has been done? In fifty years she has built up Lowell, and Lawrence, and Worcester, and Holyoke, and many more great towns. She has increased Boston to a population of 341,919 souls—or bodies—in the year of grace 1875. She has "improved" things so, has made such progress, that Boston now spends yearly $15,114,389.73 (auditor's report 1875-6), which means that out of every man, woman, and child of Boston was taken in 1875, for public expenses, the sum of forty-four dollars! The happiness resulting from this may be partly understood when I relate that this tax is some four hundred per cent. greater than the "effete aristocracies" of Europe have ever got out of their down-trodden serfs, or have even dared to try to get. One other charming effect of this style of self-government (?), as we please to call it, is, that it has driven out of Boston a set of bloated money getters, who fancy it is not pleasant to pay large taxes, so they go to Nahant, and Barnstable, and Concord for a few months, and rid Boston of themselves and—their taxes! Shrewd fellows those Boston Democrats! They know how to govern a city. So they do in New York. So they do in Cambridge.

But let us look at another of the evidences of true progress. Every man votes, you must know, whether he owns any property or not. Now, Mr. Daniel L. Harris has discovered, in his researches at Springfield, that of the voters there, four pay taxes and five do not; that is, four-ninths of the voters pay the taxes and five-ninths who pay none outvote the four who pay all. This is so generous on the part of the four that we ought to try to see what it is the four really are about. Applying the same ratio to Boston, we find that every tax-payer, every man of the four-ninth party, really paid to the yearly expenditures of the city of Boston, in the blessed year 1875-6, the neat little sum of three hundred and ninety-nine dollars, money of this realm.1

And yet the business men of Boston complain that they have made no money for three years, and that they can't make any. How absurd that is, when they can pay such taxes as these! And then think what they do in Boston for the intellect (as it is called). While they stupidly complain that they can't make any money, they spend on their common schools every year—over two millions of good dollars (2,015,380)—and they teach what—what don't they teach? I counted, I think, thirty-six branches as being taught in the Boston schools last year. "Art" and "culture," you know! And in those brutal old times of fifty years ago, they taught only the three R's. Unhappy and despicable! Did they not deserve it?

And then the generosity of these Boston merchants who can't, as they pretend, make anything. Look for a moment at that!

They paid in 1865 for the teaching of each one of those children those thirty-six branches, so necessary to salvation, the sum of $21.16; in 1875 the sum of $35.23. That is, they voluntarily and gladly paid somebody sixty-six per cent. more for their work in 1875 than in 1865, and all the while those merchants pretend they are making no money. Do they expect us to believe that?

If they want to make money, why not at once bring in more cheap labor? The Chinese are ready to come, and the negroes, even if Ireland can spare no more of her enlightened people. And then what a boon this class of people would be to our aspiring statesman. For the sum of two dollars they are entitled to vote, and then any man who feels a desire to be a governor or an M.C. can, by paying this paltry pittance, secure the votes of a grateful constituency. Is it not, therefore, our supreme duty to bring in this class of voters as rapidly as possible? We need population and we need voters. England has a population of 389 to the square mile and we in Massachusetts have only 211! Should we not hide our faces with shame while such an inferiority lasts?

There are people now who are getting up a scare about the wonderful growth of the Holy Catholic Church, claiming that that church demands of all its members (as it does) allegiance first to the Church, and then second to the government where its subjects happen to be. I do not think much of this now that Antonelli is dead; but there may be something in it. I question whether Massachusetts can any longer put forth pretensions to being a Puritan or a Unitarian or religious State of any sort unless it be a Catholic one. Go with me to the U.S. census report of 1870:

The whole population of Massachusetts in 1870 was 1,457,351

Of these were born in foreign lands 353,319

Born of foreign parents in Massachusetts 626,211 979,530

Thus, it seems, the population of Massachusetts is already foreign-born and of foreign parents, over two-thirds. What number of these foreign people are Roman Catholics, any other person can guess as well as I can. But it is quite certain that this blessing, such as it is, has reached us incidentally through our cheap labor; that is, it is a sort of superadded bliss, coming as an unexpected reward of unconscious virtue. In the words of Shakespeare, "We are twice blessed." We have got cheap labor and we have got the Catholic church crowning every hill and blooming in every valley.

At any rate it is quite certain that few if any of this class of the Massachusetts people are either Puritans, Unitarians, or Episcopalians; and some of them I strongly suspect are like the good sailor, neither Catholics nor Protestants, but "captains of the fore-top!" In Massachusetts, as I have said, there was in 1870 of this kind of population sixty-six per cent., and all have votes. In the whole United States there was forty-five per cent. of this sort, all of whom have votes. It is known also that New York, and Boston, and Lowell, and Fall River are intrinsically foreign cities. It is known that the majority of voters in those cities have no property which pays taxes; it is known that this class of voters are now well organized, and can and do vote and do elect such men as will please them—men who "will tickle me if I'll tickle you"—that is the sort of statesman we now welcome with effusion; indeed, we seek no other. We mean to deplete all over-grown fortunes; we mean through the taxes to equalize things and make Saturday afternoons pleasant. I have not at hand, just this moment, the figures to tell what good was done in Boston last year to the class called "the poor." But I have them for Cambridge, a small city almost a part of Boston. In that small select and intellectual city the expenditures in direct aid of "the poor," not counting work which was made for them, was in dollars, $80,000, and that does not count a large sum besides given in private charity. This help was given to some 5,400 persons; stating it simply, in the words of political economy, one person in seven or eight of that cultivated and select community was a pauper. Another feature of this new and peculiar social state is this: that the voters who have no property and pay no taxes do not enjoy the possibility of starving, nor do they look with favor upon advice which tells them to "Go West." Why should they go West? They do not know where to go—indeed, they have no money to go with—nor do they know that there would be any work for them there. They choose to stay where they are, and they will vote for people who will help them to stay; and they have five votes to the tax-payer's four, which significant little fact should not be lost sight of!

In our laudable desire for "progress," in our vital wish "to develop our resources," we have produced many results, some interesting ones, quite unexpected. We have got cheap labor and we have got cheap cotton cloth and cheap boots and shoes, and a good deal of all of them. The smart little city of Lowell was begun by the most capable and enterprising of Boston's "solid men"; it was begun upon a theory that men and women in New England ought to be clean, decent, and virtuous. In its beginning nearly all the operatives were of New England birth, descendants of Puritans who were used to decency, cleanliness, and virtue. Then they lived and lodged in houses belonging to the mills, which were regulated—the men in their own boarding houses, the women in theirs. All were expected to be in their houses by or before a certain hour, say ten o'clock at night.

Then every young lady had a green silk parasol for Sunday's use, and she wrote poetry for the "Lowell Offering," if she felt the divine movement. At that early undeveloped time an English gentleman, one Anthony Trollope, visited the nascent city. He lamented the narrow-mindedness of the projectors, and predicted it would not work; that the little Lowell could never compete with such highly developed cities as Manchester and Preston, where they knew the magic of "cheap labor." In other words, Lowell could not be a great success.

That Arcadian simplicity worked for a while, but inevitably the magic of cheap labor made itself felt—it was potent—it came, it saw, it conquered. And now the best information I have convinces me that the squalor, filth, recklessness, and happiness are nearly or quite equal to what they are in the noble cities of Manchester and Glasgow in England. Should Mr. Trollope revisit those scenes of his youth, he would be as much delighted as any Englishman could permit himself to be with anything outside his "Merrie England" at the delectable advances made there.

He would find labor cheap and cotton cheap—as cheap as they are in his beloved Manchester. He would find, as in his beloved Manchester, that they made more than they could sell; which is the secret of cheapness. He would find that in that small elysium, in the year 1874, they made 135,000,000 yards of cotton cloth, which gospel of cotton they were then spreading abroad over all the earth, sending some of it to his beloved Manchester. He would learn also that there was invested there some $20,000,000 of good money of the realm, a large proportion of which paid no dividends; which also is an excellent method of securing cheapness. He would find all "narrow-minded regulations" quite done away with, and the full liberty of the subject enjoyed by all; that people staid "out nights" according to their own sweet wills; that men slept when they pleased and where they pleased, and with whom they pleased—women too for that matter; and that life was as free and pleasant as his good English heart could wish. He would find that the old-fashioned, narrow-minded New England stock had disappeared—not being cheap enough—and their places were fully supplied with a delightful conglomeration of gentlemen and ladies who had fled from poor Ireland, from the Azores, from Germany, from pastoral Acadie; and here and there he would note the pigtail of the frugal Chinese, the avant courier of a better time coming.