The Last Leaf / Observations, during Seventy-Five Years, of Men and Events in America and Europe

by James Kendall Hosmer

AT HAPHAZARD

In 1887, in pleasant June weather I left St. Louis with my family on the capacious river-packet Saint Paul, for a trip up-stream to the city for which the boat was named. The flood was at the full as we ploughed on, stopping at landings on either side, the reaches between presenting long perspectives of summer beauty. We paused in due course at a little Iowa town, and among the passengers who took the boat here were two men who excited our attention at the landing. One was a tall handsome fellow in early manhood, well-dressed and mannered, completely blind. The other was his companion, a rather dishevelled figure with neglected beard and hair setting off a face that looked out somewhat helplessly into a world strange to it, an attire of loose white wool, plainly made by some tailor who knew nothing of recent fashion-plates. A close-fitting cap of the same material surmounted his head. The attire was whole and neat, but the air of the man was slouchy and bespoke one who must have lately come from the outskirts into the life of America. The young blindman at once aroused earnest sympathy. Of the other some one remarked, "Plainly a globe-trotting Englishman, who has lost his Baedeker and by chance got in here."

Presently the boat was on its way, and as I sat facing the changing scene, I heard a shuffling, hesitating step behind, and a drawling somewhat uncertain voice asked me about the country. I replied that it was my first trip and I was ignorant. Turning full upon the querist, no other than the globe-trotter, I said: "You are an Englishman I see. I was in England last year. I have spent some time in London, and I know other parts of your country." A conversation followed which soon became to me interesting. My companion had education and intelligence, and before the afternoon ended we were agreeably in touch. He handed me his card on which was engraved the name, "Mr. William Grey." I told him I was a Harvard man, a professor in Washington University, St. Louis. He was of Exeter College, Oxford, and for some years had been a professor in Codrington College, Barbadoes, in the West Indies, whence he had lately come. To my natural surprise that he should be so far astray, he said he had been visiting a fellow Exeter man, a clergyman of the English Church, who was the rector of an Iowa parish. It further developed that his young blind companion belonged to a family in the parish, and that Mr. Grey had good-heartedly assumed the care of him during an outing on the river.

A trip from St. Louis to St. Paul by river is longer now than a trip across the Atlantic. I was nearly a week in my new companionship, and acquaintance grew and deepened fast. The young blindman, whose manners were agreeable, became a general favourite, and Mr. Grey and I found we had much in common. I mentioned to him that my errand in England the year before had been to find material for a life of Young Sir Henry Vane, the statesman and martyr of the English Commonwealth, and in his young days a governor of the province of Massachusetts Bay. This touched in him a responsive chord. He was familiar with the period and the character. He was a friend of Shorthouse whose novel, John Inglesant was a widely-read book of those days. He had helped Shorthouse in his researches for the book, and knew well the story of Charles I., and his friends and foes. He was himself a staunch Churchman, but mentioned with some pleasure that his name appeared among the Non-conformists. A sturdy noble of those days was Lord Grey of Groby, who opposed the King to the last, standing at the right hand of the redoubtable Colonel Pride at the famous "Pride's Purge," pointing out to him the Presbyterians whom the Ironside was to turn out of Parliament, in the thick of the crisis. To my inquiry as to whether Lord Grey of Groby was an ancestor, he was reticent, merely saying that the name was the same. I had begun to surmise that my new friend was allied with the Greys who in so many periods of English history have borne a famous part. Some years before, while sojourning in a little town on the Ohio River, a stroll carried me to a coal-mine in the neighbourhood. As I peered down two hundred feet into the dark shaft, a bluff, peremptory voice called to me to look out for my head. I drew back in time to escape the cage as it descended with a group of miners from a higher plane to the lower deeps. I thanked my bluff friend, who had saved my head from a bump. A pleasant acquaintance followed which led to his taking me down into the mine, a thrilling experience. He was an adventurous Englishman who had put money into a far-away enterprise, and come with his wife and children to take care of it. His wife was a lady well-born, a sister of Sir George Grey, twice governor of New Zealand, and at the time High Commissioner and governor of Cape Colony, one of the most interesting of the great English nation-makers of the South Seas. I came to know the lady, and naturally followed the career of her brother, who earned a noble reputation. Later I corresponded with him, and received from him his portrait and books. Referring to Sir George Grey in my talk with Mr. William Grey, I found that he knew him well and not long before, in a voyage of which he had made many into many seas, had visited New Zealand, and been a guest of Sir George Grey at his island-home in the harbour of Auckland. Was he related to Sir George? was my natural query. Again there was reticence. The name was the same, but the Greys were numerous.

The journey wore on. The resource of the steamer's company was to sit on the upper deck, watch the swollen river with its waifs of uprooted trees and the banks green with the summer, chatting ourselves into intimacy. The young blindman made good and very good, and his guardian, while keeping a lookout on his charge from under his well-worn traveller's cap, which I now knew had sheltered its owner in tropic hurricanes and icy Arctic blasts, discussed with me matters various and widely related. Nearing our journey's end, we sat in the moonlight, the Mississippi opening placidly before us between hazy hills. We had grown to be chums, and next morning we were to part. It was a time for confidences. "Well," said Mr. Grey, "I am going to get a good look at America, then I mean to return home and go into Parliament." I suggested there might be difficulties about that. English elections were uncertain, and how could he be at all sure that any constituency would want him. "Ah," said he, this time no longer reticent. "I am going into the House of Lords." "Indeed," said I in surprise, "and who are you really, Mr. William Grey?" At last he was outspoken. He was heir to the earldom of Stamford, his uncle the present earl, a man past eighty, childless, and in infirm health, must soon lay down the title. He was preparing himself for the responsibilities of the high position and believed it well to make a study of America. His father, a younger son, had been a clergyman in Canada, and he, though with an Oxford training, knew the world outside of England better than the old home. His direct ancestor was Lord Grey of Groby, whose father, an earl of Stamford, had been a Parliamentary commander in the years of the Civil War, and in the century before that, a flower of the house had been the Lady Jane Grey, who had perished in her youth on the scaffold, a possible heir to the English crown. So this outré personage, good-heartedly helping the blindman to an outing, and in a shy apologetic way getting into touch with an environment strange to him, was a high-born nobleman fitting himself for his dignities.

I had before invited Mr. Grey to visit me in St. Louis, for his seeming helplessness appealed to me from the first. He had met some hard rebuffs in his American contacts. I thought I might aid him in making his way. Returning in the autumn to my home, I heard from Mr. Grey that he was coming to be my guest, and in due time he arrived. I missed him at the station, but he presently appeared at our door in an express-waggon, sitting on the seat with the driver, in the midst of his belongings. He spent a week with us in the first American home he had known, and we found him an amiable and unobtrusive gentleman. He was a vigorous walker and explored the city well. His listless, seemingly inattentive eyes somehow scanned everything, and he judged well what he witnessed. He was an accomplished scholar and had a quiet humour. A little daughter half-playfully and half-wilfully, announced her intention to follow her own pleasure in a certain case. "Milicent is a Hedonist," said the guest, and the Oxford scholar brought Aristippus and Epicurus into odd conjunction with a Mississippi Valley breakfast-table. He laid aside his white woollen suit, but his attire remained unconventional, not to say outré. Even the wrinkled dress-suit in which he appeared at dinner, I think was the achievement of a tailor in the island of Barbadoes. His opera-hat was a wonder. He was, or was soon to be, a belted earl, but his belt only appeared on his pajamas, raiment of which I heard then for the first time. It had early appeared in our intercourse that the main interest of Mr. Grey lay in humane and religious work. He also was a devoted member of the Church of England. On Sunday morning we started early for the leading Episcopal Church but on the way he inquired as to the place of worship of the negro congregation of that faith. I confessed my ignorance of it, but he had in some way ascertained it, and I presently found myself following his lead down a rather squalid street where at last we came to the humble temple. Instead of hearing the bishop, a famous and eloquent man, he preferred to sit on a bare bench in the obscure little meeting-house, where he fraternised cordially with the dusky company we found there. He was more interested in our charities than in our politics and business, and in his quiet way during the week learned the story well. I introduced him to Southern friends who gave him letters to persons in the South. Provided with these he bade us good-bye at last, and went far and wide through what had been the Confederacy. He visited Jefferson Davis and many soldiers and politicians of note, getting at first-hand their point of view. I also gave him letters to some eminent men in the East, which he presented, meeting with a good reception. He made a wide and shrewd study of the United States, and I am glad to think I helped him. When I met him he was unfriended and without credentials, and his singularities were exposing him to some inconvenient jostling in our rough world. I opened some doors to him through which he pushed his way into much that was best worth seeing in American life. An old friend, a radical man of letters, wrote me afterwards that he enjoyed Mr. Grey, and he thought Mr. Grey enjoyed him although he believed that if he had been a pauper, a criminal, or even a bishop, Mr. Grey would have enjoyed him much more.

He returned to England and did not forget me, writing from time to time how his affairs progressed. Soon he entered into his own, the earldom of Stamford, finding about the same time his countess in an English vicarage. In the House of Lords he was not prominent, though the papers occasionally mentioned brief addresses by him. His main interest continued to be charitable work. He was a lay-preacher, and worked much in the east end of London, throwing the weight of his culture and high position into alleviating ignorance and poverty. He sent me interesting literature relating to the efforts of well-placed men and women to carry into slums and hovels sweetness and light. In due time a daughter was born to him, whom he named Jane Grey; and later a son, Lord Grey of Groby. I saw once in the London Graphic, or perhaps in the Illustrated News, charming pictures of these children with their interesting historic names. Though rigidly a Churchman he was not narrow. Lord Stamford sent me a handsome picture of himself, to which is affixed his signature as an earl and an elaborate seal. In an accompanying note he wrote that the seal was a careful facsimile of the one which an ancestor of his had affixed to the death-warrant of Charles I. He seemed to take pride in the fact that his forbear had borne a part in the ancient Non-conformist strivings. He came to America more than once afterward, as a delegate to charitable and peace Congresses. My dear friend Robert Treat Paine, President of the Peace Society and eminent philanthropist of Boston, knew him well and esteemed him highly—and he was the fellow of workers like him.

It is a picturesque moment in my life that I in this way came into association with a nobleman of the bluest blood. To outward appearance as I stumbled upon him so unexpectedly, he seemed effete. His odd shuffle and limp whiskers were dundrearily suggestive of a personality a bit mildewed. But I felt that what ineptitude there was, was only superficial; good, strong manhood lay underneath. His death took place some years since.

Burke's Peerage states that the family was ennobled by Richard Coeur de Lion, and has maintained itself in a high place for eight centuries. Privilege is a bough of the social tree from which we expect mere dead sea-fruit rather than a wholesome yield, but now and then the product holds something better than ashes. As we trace this stock through the ages, apples of Sodom, no doubt, will be found in abundance, but now and then it flowers into heroic manhood and lovely womanhood. My chance comrade of the St. Paul was a refined, high-purposed man, certainly a product of the worthier kind, and I am glad to count among my friends, William Grey, Ninth Earl of Stamford.

* * * * *

As a student of German, anxious to gain fluency of expression, and to train my ear to catch readily the popular idioms, I found that I must fill out my writing and reading by contact with men. After roving the streets of German cities, I packed a knapsack and set out upon the country-roads. I was, as the Germans say, gut zu Fuss, a stout walker, and I learned to employ for my longer expeditions the Bummel-Zug, an institution I commend highly to all in my situation. The Bummel-Zug is simply a "way" freight-train, to which in my time was attached a car for third-class passengers. It stopped at every village, and the fare was very low. It was convenient, therefore, for those too poor to be in a hurry, and for travellers like me whose purpose could be better served by loitering than by haste. The train proceeded leisurely, giving ample time for deliberate survey of the land, and the frequent pauses of indefinite length afforded opportunity for walks through the streets of remote hamlets and even into the country about, where the peasants with true Teuton Gemüthlichkeit always welcomed a man who came from America.

Thus on my legs and by Bummel-Zug I wandered far, arriving one pleasant day at the ancient city of Salzburg, close to the Bavarian Alps. I was anxious to see something of the Tyrol, and had been told that the Königs-See offered the finest and most characteristic scenery of that region. Salzburg was a suitable point of departure. The sky darkened and it began to rain heavily. Berchtesgaden, in the mountains, the nearest village to the Königs-See, was only to be reached by Eilwagen, a modification of the diligence, which forty years ago still held its place on the Alpine roads. I stood at the door of the inn, observing the company who were to be my fellow-passengers. There were two or three from the outside world, like myself, a few mountaineers with suggestions of the Tyrol in their garb, and one figure in a high degree picturesque, a Franciscan friar in guise as mediaeval as possible. His coarse, brown robe wrapped him from head to foot. A knotted cord bound his waist, the ends depending toward the pavement and swinging with his rosary. His feet were shod with sandals, and his head was bare, though an ample cowl was at hand to shelter it. His head needed no tonsure for age had made him nearly bald. His shaven face was kind and strong and he was in genial touch with the by-standers, to whom no doubt such a figure was not novel. Incongruously enough, the friar held over his head in the pouring rain a modern umbrella, his only concession to the storm and to modernity. Presently we climbed in for the journey, and I was a trifle taken aback when the monk by chance followed me directly, and as we settled into our seats was my close vis-à-vis. As we bumped along the rough road our legs became dove-tailed together, I as well as he wrapped in the coarse folds of his monkish robe, the rosary as convenient to my hand as to his, and as the vehicle swayed our heads dodged each other as we rocked back and forth. Thrown thus, as it were into the embrace of the past, I made the most of it and got as far as might be into the mediaeval. I found my friar charmingly companionable. His Bavarian patois was not easy to follow, nor could he catch readily the speech I had been learning in the schools. But we made shift and had much talk as we drove through the storm into the highlands. He was a brother in the monastery at Salzburg, but being out of health, was making his way to a hospice of his order above the valley. He had heard of America, and knew there were houses of his order in that strange land. He was doubtful of its location, and possibly an American was a creature with whom he had never till then been in touch. Under the scrutiny of his mild eyes I was being studied as a queer outlandish specimen, as he certainly was to me. We parted at last as good friends, his head now enveloped in the cowl, his sandals pattering off in the dusk toward the little cell that awaited him in the hospice, while I sought a place by the fire in the inn of Berchtesgaden. I learned afterward that he was well known and much venerated in Salzburg.

I came into the mountain-nook oddly companioned, and my exit thence was equally so, though greatly in contrast. For a day or two I was storm-bound, and felt the depression natural in a remote solitude, wrapped in by rain and fog, with no society but an unintelligible mountaineer or two. At last it cleared and the revulsion was inspiring. I found myself in a little green vale hemmed in by magnificent heights whose rocky summits were covered with freshly-fallen snow. Close at hand rose the Watzmann, a soaring pyramid whose summit was cleft into two sharp peaks inclined into some semblance of a bishop's mitre. My recent association with the monk had made vivid the thought of the old church, and it seemed fitting that there should be lifted high in air such a symbol of the domination under which the region lay. But my Protestant eyes regarded it cheerfully, glad to have within range an object so picturesque. I forthwith strapped on my knapsack, buckled my belt, and strode out for the Königs-See, which lay not far beyond. I walked briskly for a mile or two, stimulated by the abounding oxygen of the highland air, but presently found myself where the road forked and there was nothing to indicate which was my right path. The solitude seemed complete, but as I stood hesitating, I was relieved by the appearance of a pedestrian who emerged from a by-way. As I framed an inquiry I was deterred by a certain augustness in the stranger. I had rarely seen a man of finer bearing. His stature was commanding, his figure, even in the rough, loose walking-dress he wore, was full of symmetry. His elastic step showed vigour, and his face under his broad-brimmed Tyrolese hat had much manly beauty. Was he perhaps a prince in disguise? His friendly salutation, given in deep masculine tones with a good-natured smile, put me at ease as I told him my strait. He said in good German, which I was glad once more to hear after my experience of the mountain patois, that he was on the way to the Königs-See, that he knew the road, and we would walk on together. I accommodated myself to his stride and we settled into a pace which carried us rapidly toward our goal, meanwhile talking cheerfully. I had found it usually a good passport to say I was an American and I withheld nothing as to my antecedents and my present errand in Germany. He was more reticent. He lived in Prussia and was at the moment taking an outing. His affability did not go the length of revealing his true character. If he were a high personage incognito, I was not to know it.

We reached at last the shore of the Königs-See, a blue, deep lake at a high elevation, encircled by lofty peaks, splintered, storm-beaten, and capped by snow which never melts, far above the range of grass and trees. A group of women on the beach had ready two or three broad and rudely-built boats, and noisily clamoured for our patronage. We chose what seemed the best, and the women rowers with stout arms soon propelled us far from shore into the midst of the Alpine sublimity. A silence fell, broken only by the oar-beats. Then, where the precipices rose highest we paused. Suddenly a gun was fired. It broke upon the silence startlingly loud, and after an interval the report reverberated in a series of crashes from height after height, dying down into a dull murmur from the steep most distant. I was awed by the sight and the sound, and awed too, by my companion. He had thrown off his hat and knapsack and stood with his fine stature at the bow. His classic face was turned upward to the peaks, and with a look as if he felt their power. He waved his arms toward them as if in a salutation to things sentient. The man seemed to befit the environment, majestic though it was.

We returned sooner than we desired from our excursion on the water, the boat-women being over eager for new passengers. My companion resumed his knapsack and it was time to part. To his question as to my plan I replied that I was there simply for the scenery, that I purposed to make my way back to Salzburg on foot by the paths that promised most, and should be guided by whatever I might learn. He said that he, too, was bound for Salzburg, walking for pleasure; and when I thereupon suggested that we might go on together, he readily fell in, and we trudged forward. Comradeship grew strong as the day passed, then a night in an unfrequented inn, then another day. We discussed things near and far, ancient and recent, I talking most but he was always genial and quietly responsive, and my confidence was invited. I told him of the little fresh-water college in the West with which I was associated, my functions being partly pedagogic and partly pastoral, of the embarrassments of co-education as we found them, the difficulty in the uplift of too frivolous youth to a high moral and spiritual plane, the embarrassment in curbing characters too reckless into decorum and propriety. He listened sympathetically, with no discoverable cynicism in the rather grave smile he usually wore. As to whom he might be, he remained constantly reticent, though my curiosity increased as the hours flew. We passed not far from two or three mountain resorts, where tourists were gathered. Near such my companion showed some nervousness. There might be people there who knew him, and it suited him for the time to remain by himself. This I took as some small confirmation of my suspicion that he was a great personage. Physically certainly he was superbly endowed. The roads were rough and often steep, and I found the tramp fatiguing; but when I asked if he, too, were not tired, he laughed at the idea, tossing his burden or taking an extra climb as fresh as at the start. At night our cots were in the same room. As he stripped off his shirt and stood with head pillared upon a most stately neck, and massive, well-moulded chest and shoulders, he was statuesque indeed.

At last Salzburg came in sight. Though we had become quite intimate I had made no progress in penetrating to my comrade's true character. I had laid many an innocent little trap to induce him to speak more openly, but no slip on his part ever betrayed him. We entered the city and sat down together at a table in a public garden, near the castle of the old Bishops of Salzburg, ordering for each a glass of light wine, the parting-cup. Already, since our entrance into the city things had occurred which partly confirmed the theory I had formed as to the distinction of my comrade, and also aroused in my mind doubts not quite comfortable. He was an object of interest in the well-dressed crowd. That he was a conspicuously handsome man in a measure explained that, but there were signs, too, that some recognised him as a person well-known. When we were seated in the garden actual acquaintances began to appear, agile athletic young men, who were deferential but familiar. There were ladies, too, modest enough, but certainly unconventional, nimble free-footed beings, with feathers and ribbons streaming airily as they flitted. These, like the men, were deferential to my comrade, yet familiar. There seemed to be a renewing of some old tie that all were glad to reconnect. The young men were actively demonstrative, the ladies wove in and out smilingly, and my comrade in the midst beamed and grew voluble. Was it an environment into which a quiet American college functionary could properly fit? No due bounds were transgressed, but the atmosphere was certainly very Bohemian. My prince incognito, was he perhaps the Prince of Pilsen? While this happy mingling was going forward I sat somewhat aloof, disconcerted that my cloud-capped towers and gorgeous palaces were thus crumbling into comic opera. But now my comrade approached me, aglow with social excitement, and, with a franker look in his eyes than he had before shown, addressed me: "Mein lieber Herr Professor, we have had a good ramble together and talked about many things. You have been confidential with me, and hoped that I would be with you. I have preferred to hold back, but now as we part I ought to tell you who I am. I am the prémier danseur in the ballet of the Royal Opera House in Berlin. Worn with the heavy work in Fantasca, which we produced elaborately and which ran long, I came down here when the season closed, for change and rest, and so fell in with you. These young Herren and Damen are the coryphés and figurantes, who in Berlin or in other cities have taken part with me in productions. Good people they are and unsurpassed as a corps de ballet." We touched glasses, shook hands, and I went my way leaving Comus with his rout, guileless, I hope, as Milton's innocent "Lady," but such scales never fell from her starry eyes as fell from mine. I knew well about Fantasca. During my last weeks in Berlin it had been much talked about, a splendid theatrical spectacle put on with consummate art, and lavish expenditure. I had not seen it. Heredity from eight Puritan generations reinforced by impecuniosity had kept me from that. But I had heard of the wonderful visions of beauty and grace. My handsome comrade of the Bavarian Alps had been at the centre of it all, the god Apollo, or whatever glittering divinity or genius it was that swayed the enchantments and led in the rhythmic circlings. Good cause indeed I had had to admire his physical beauty. He had been picked out for that no doubt among thousands, then painfully trained for years until in figure and frame he was a model.

The gay pleasure garden in which we had parted lay close to a gloomy monastic structure, centuries old, that from a height dominated the little town. The garden and the structure were symbols of what was most salient in that country—the ancient church braced against progress, with its power broken in no way, and on the other hand of a life interpenetrated with things graceful and refined, with art, music, and poetry, but seamed, too, with frivolity and what makes for the pleasures of sense. My two friends also were in their way types,—the cowled Franciscan, aloof in a mediaeval seclusion though he breathed nineteenth-century air, and the dancer whom I encountered in the vale, above which the Watzmann upholds forever its solemn mitre. But they were good fellows both, my comrade in and my comrade out. The monk's heart was not too shrivelled to flow with human kindness, and the dancer had not unlearned in the glare of the foot-lights the graces of a gentleman.

I profess to be a man of peace. Through training, environment, and calling I ought to be so, and yet there is a fibre in any make-up which has always throbbed strangely to the drum. Is it perhaps a streak of heredity? In almost every noteworthy war since the foundation of the country, men of my line have borne a part. I count ancestors who stood among the minute-men at Concord bridge. Another was in the redoubt at Bunker Hill. In the earlier time two great-great-grandfathers went out against Montcalm and were good soldiers in the Old French War. Still earlier a progenitor, whose name I bear, faced the Indian peril in King Philip's War, and was among the slain in the gloomy Sudbury fight Perhaps it is a trace from these ancient forbears still lingering in my blood that will respond when the trumpets blow, however I strive to repress it, and it has given me qualms.

I was not easy in mind when I stood on the tower of St. Stephen's Church, in Vienna more than forty years ago, to find that what I sought most eagerly in the superb landscape was not the steep Kahlenberg, not the plumy woods of Schönbrunn, not the Danube pouring grandly eastward, nor the picturesque city at my feet; but the little hamlets just outside the suburbs, and the wide-stretching grain-field close by, turning yellow under the July sun, where Napoleon fought the battles of Aspern and Wagram. Nor was I quite easy when I set out to climb the St. Gotthard Pass, to find that although the valley below Airolo was so green with fertile pasture, and from the glaciers above me the heavens were pricked so boldly by the splintered peaks, I was thinking most where it was precisely that old Suwarrow dug the grave and threatened to bury himself, when his army refused to follow him; then how he must have looked when he had subdued them, riding forward in his sheepskin, or whatever rude Russian dress he wore, this uncouth hero who needed no scratching to be proved Tartar, while his loving host pressed after him into every death-yielding terror that man or nature could throw across his path.

That I had good reason for my uneasiness, on second thoughts, I do not believe. Nor do I believe it is just for you, high-toned friend, to censure me as somewhat low and brutal, when I confess that of all one can see in Europe, nothing thrilled me quite so much as the great historic battle-fields. Nothing deserves so to interest man as man himself; and what spots, after all, are so closely and nobly connected with man as the spots where he has fought? That we are what we are, indeed that we are at all,—that any race is what it is or is at all,—was settled on certain great fields of decision to which we as well as every race can point back. And then nothing absorbs us like a spectacle of pain and pathos! Tragedy enchants, while it shocks. The field of battle is tragedy the most shocking; is it doing indignity to our puzzling nature to say it is tragedy most absorbing? And there is another side. Once at midnight, in the light of our bivouac-fire, our captain told us in low tones that next day we were to go into battle. He was a rude fellow, but the word or two he spoke to us was about duty. And I well remember what the men said, as we looked by the fire-light to see if the rifles were in order. They would go into fire because duty said, "Save the country!" and when, soon after, the steeply-sloping angle of the enemy's works came into view, ominously red in the morning light, and crowned with smoke and fire, while the air hummed about our ears as if swarming with angry bees, and this one and that one fell, there was scarcely one who, as he pulled his cap close down and pushed ahead in the skirmish-line, was not thinking of duty. They were boys from farm and factory, not greatly better, to say the most, than their fellows anywhere; and we may be sure that thought of duty has always much to do with the going forward of weaponed men amongst the weapons. Men do fight, no doubt, from mere recklessness, from hope of plunder or glory; and sometimes they have been scourged to it. But more often, where one in four or five is likely to fall, the nobler motive is uppermost with men and felt with burning earnestness too, which only the breath of the near-at-hand death can fan up. No! there is reason enough why battle-fields should be, as they are, places of pilgrimage. The remoteness of the struggle hardly diminishes the interest with which we visit the scene; Marathon is as sacred as if the Greeks conquered there last year. Nor, on the other hand, do we need poetic haze from a century or two of intervening time: Gettysburg was a consecrated spot to all the world before its dead were buried. There need be no charm of nature; there are tracts of mere sand in dreary Brandenburg, where old Frederick, with Prussia in his hand, supple and tough as if plaited into a nation out of whip-cord, scourged the world; and these tracts are precious. On the other hand, the grandest natural features seem almost dwarfed and paltry beside this overmastering interest. On the top of the Grimsel Pass there is a melancholy, lonely lake which touches the spirit as much as the Rhone glacier close by, or the soaring Finster-Aarhorn, the Todten See (Sea of the Dead), beneath whose waters are buried soldiers who fell in battle there on the Alpine crags. Had I defined all this, I need not have felt uneasy on St. Stephen's spire or the St. Gotthard. We are not necessarily brutal if our feet turn with especial willingness toward battle-fields. There man is most in earnest; his sense of duty perhaps at its best; the sacrifice greatest, for it is life. Theirs are the most momentous decisions for weal or woe; theirs the tragedy beyond all other tremendous and solemn. It is right that the sacrifice they have witnessed should possess an alchemy to make their acres golden.

The humane, and I hope I may be counted among the number, have long wished that some milder arbitrament than that of arms might intervene to settle the disagreements of men. No such arbitrament has as yet come into being. We settle our disputes in this way, and history must record the struggles, however reluctantly. As an historical writer, it has been my function to deal with times of conflict in various periods and lands. When I was seventy years old I began writing a history of our Civil War. To have at hand the literature of the period I went to Washington, where the most kind officials of the Library of Congress assigned to me a roomy alcove in the north curtain with a desk and ample surrounding shelves. These were filled for me by expert hands with whatever I might require for my task, and a screen shut off my corner from the corridor through which at times perambulated Roosevelt, and other secluded delvers, intent on early Gaelic literature and what not. Here I spent the most of two years, finding it an ideal spot, but my task required more than an examination, under the quiet light of my great window, of books and documents. The fields themselves must also be surveyed, so I travelled far until I had visited the scene of nearly every important conflict and traced the lines of march in the great campaigns. I was already a haunter of old battle-fields, that thread of heredity, from a line of forbears very martial in their humble way, asserting itself in whatever lands I wandered. I had been at Hastings, and had traced the Ironsides to Marston Moor and Naseby. I had stood by the Schweden-Stein at Lützen, and tramped the sod of Leipsic and Waterloo. It was for me now to see our own fields of decision, fields ennobled by a courage as great and a purpose as high as soldiers have ever shown.

To mark Waterloo the Belgians reared a mound of huge dimensions, scraping the terrain far and near to obtain the earth. Wellington is said to have remarked that the features of the ground had been so far obliterated by this that he could not recognise his own positions. One wonders whether the future may not blame our generation for transformations almost as disguising. Gettysburg, Chickamauga, Vicksburg, and Shiloh are now elaborate parks. No mounds have been reared, but the old roads are smooth boulevards, trim lawns are on the ragged heights, the landscape-gardener has barbered the grim rough face of the country-side into something very handsome no doubt, but the imagination must be set to work to call back the arena as it was on the battle-day. From various points of vantage memorials make appeal, statues, obelisks, Greek temples, and porches, bewildering in their number, and now and then making doubtful claims. "This general," some scrutiniser will tell you, "never held the line ascribed to him and that pompous pile falsely does honour to troops who really wavered in the crisis." I know I run counter to prevailing sentiment in saying that I prefer a field unchanged, not with features blurred by an overlaying of ornamental and commemorative accretions. A few markers of the simplest, and a plain tablet now and then where a hero fell or valour was unusually conspicuous, should suffice, for a field is more impressive that lies for the most part in its original rudeness and solitude. At Antietam I found little obtrusive. Sherman's fields on the way to and about Atlanta have not been marred; nor at Franklin and Nashville are the plains parked and obelisked out of recognition. At Bull Run I climbed with a veteran of the signal-service into the top of a high tree, an old war-time station, on the hill near the Henry House. The precarious platform remained. From such an eyrie in the same grove, perhaps from this same tree, a Southern friend of mine, on the battle-day, caught sight more than two leagues away of the glint of sunlight on cannon and bayonets toward Sudley Springs, and sent timely notice to Beauregard that a Federal column was turning his left. Under my eye the landscape was unchanged, with no smoothings or intrusions to embarrass the imagination in making the scene real. But it was in the Wilderness that I felt especially grateful that the wild thickets for the most part had been let alone. I found at Fredericksburg an old Confederate, one of Mahone's command, and hiring an excellent roadster, we drove on a perfect autumn day first to Spottsylvania Court House, then across country to the Brock road, then home by the Wilderness church and Chancellorsville. On the area we traversed were fought four of our most memorable battles, an area now scarcely less tangled and lonely than when the Federals poured across the Rappahannock into its thickets by the thousand, and were so memorably met. My veteran knew the pikes and the by-paths, and we fraternised with the warmth usual among foemen who at last have become friends. He knew the story well of every wood-path and cross-roads. Certainly I was glad that the rugged acres had undergone no "improvement," and that the eye fell so nearly on what the old-time soldiers saw. It so happened it was election-day. There were polling-places at the court-houses of Fredericksburg and Spottsylvania, at Todd's Tavern, and the Chancellor house, names bearing solemn associations. The neighbourhoods had come out to vote, and introduced by my comrade, I had some interesting encounters. It was a good climax, when toward the end, near the Chancellor House, we met in the road a patriarchal figure, whitebearded and sturdy, on his way home from the polls. It was old Talley, whose log-house, in 1862, was the point from which Stonewall Jackson began his sudden rush upon Hooker's right. Talley, then a young farmer, had walked at the General's stirrup pointing out the way. He had interesting things to tell of Stonewall Jackson at that moment when his career culminated. "What did he seem like?" I queried. "He was as cool and business-like as an old farmer looking after his fences." On an old battle-field which had been illustrated by an achievement of the Stonewall division especially brilliant, I chanced to meet a grey veteran who had taken part in it, a North Carolinian who had come back to review the scene. We fraternised, of course. "What did Stonewall Jackson look like?" I said. Stepping close to me, the "Tarheel" extended his two gnarled forefingers, and pressed between the tips my cheek-bones on either side. "He had the broadest face across here I ever saw," he said. Such a physiognomical trait is perhaps indicative of power of brain and will, but I do not recall it among the usual descriptions of Jackson.

Naturally, after surveying much Virginia country once war-swept, as I came to the head of the Shenandoah Valley, I could not miss a visit to Lexington, where repose in honoured graves two such protagonists as Lee and Stonewall Jackson. It is a beautiful town among low mountains green to the summit, and in the streets not a few lovely homes of the Virginia colonial type, draped with ivy and wisteria. There stand the buildings of Washington and Lee University, in the chapel of which lies buried Robert E. Lee, and a short mile beyond is the Virginia Military Institute, from which Stonewall Jackson went forth to his fame. The memorial at Jackson's grave is appropriate, a figure in bronze, rugged as he was in face and attire, the image of him as he fought and fell. Different, but more impressive is the memorial of Lee. You enter through the chapel where the students gather daily, then passing the chancel, stand in a mausoleum, where nobly conceived in marble the soldier lies as if asleep. He bears his symbols as champion in chief of the "Lost Cause," but the light on his face is not that of battle. It is serene, benignant, at peace. I was deeply moved as I stood before it, but soon after I was to experience a deeper thrill. The afternoon was waning when I walked on to the Military Institute. Stonewall Jackson had been for ten years a teacher there. The turf of the parade I was crossing had perhaps felt no footfall more often than his. Two or three hundred pupils, the flower of Virginia youth, were assembled in battalion, and I witnessed from a favourable point their almost perfect drill. As the sun was about to set, they formed in a far-extending line, with each piece at present. They were saluting the flag, which now began slowly to descend from, its staff. Lo, it was the flag of the Union. The band played, I thought, with unusual sweetness, the Star-Spangled Banner, and to the music those picked youths of the South, sons and grandsons of the upholders of the right to sever, did all possible honour, on the sod which Stonewall Jackson trod, hard by the grave of Lee, to the symbol of a country united, states now and hereafter in a brotherhood not to be broken! It was a scene to evoke tears of deep emotion, for never before or since has it come home to me so powerfully that the Union had been preserved.

Closing as I do now my record of memories, I feel that the most momentous of the crises through which it has been my lot to pass is that attending the maintenance of the Federal bond in the United States. Assemblies of veterans of the Confederacy and those who address them scout the idea that they fought to preserve negro bondage. A late historian of our Civil War, Professor Paxon, of Wisconsin, holds it to be "reasonably certain" that in another generation slavery would have disappeared of itself, a contention surely open to dispute. Here I neither dispute nor approve, but only say, if the claim can be made good, what a vindication would it constitute of men, who looked for the quiet dying out of an inveterate evil, deprecating passionate attack upon a thing moribund? And what an indictment of the John Browns, whose impatient consciences pressed for instant abolition careless of whatever cataclysm it might involve! Certainly the two prime champions whose graves I saw at Lexington did not fight to sustain slavery. Their principle was that a State could not be coerced,—and that therefore sovereignty lay in the scattered constituents and not at the centre. The arbitrament of the sword was sharp and swift, and happily for the world it went against them. I well recall the map of Germany I studied when a boy, a page blotched and seamed with bewildering spots of colour. The effort was to portray the position of some three hundred independent political units, duchies, principalities, bishoprics, free cities, and what not, among electorates and kingdoms of a larger sort, but still minute. It seemed like a pathological chart presenting a face broken out with an unseemly tetter. The land indeed, in those days, was afflicted by a sad political disease. The Germans call it "Particularismus" or "Vielstaaterei," the breaking up of a nationality into a mass of fragments. Some on the map were scarcely larger than pinheads, and in actual area hardly exceeded a fair-sized farm. In that time Heine laughed at one of them after this fashion, while describing a journey over it in bad weather:

"Of Bückeburg's principality
Full half on my boots I carried.
Such muddy roads I've never beheld
Since here in the world I've tarried."

The consequences of this disintegration were disastrous to the dignity of Germany and the character of her people. She had no place among the real powers of the world politically, and her masses, lacking the stimulus of a noble national atmosphere, were dwarfed and shrivelled into narrow and timid provincialism, split as they were into their little segregations. Patriotism languished in dot-like States oppressively administered, without associations to awaken pride, or generous interests to evoke devotion. Spirits like Leasing and Goethe, all but derided patriotism. It scarcely held a place among the proper virtues. The small units were forever unsympathetic and inharmonious, jealous over a petty "balance of power" and always liable to war. The disease which the face of the map suggested to the boy's imagination was indeed a real one, inveterate, deep-seated, and prostrating to all that is best in human nature. For a few years, before the adoption of the Constitution, America seemed likely to fall a prey to it, each of the thirteen States standing aloof on its own little dignity in a bond scarcely more than nominal, of the weakest and coolest. In 1787 came the beneficent change. The thirteen and those that followed the thirteen were made one, and it was the beginning of a grand unifying in many lands. Following an instinct at first only faintly manifest but which soon gathered strength, disintegrated Germany became one. Italy, too, became one, and in our old home the "Little Englanders," once a noteworthy company, succumbed to a conquering sentiment that England should become a "great world-Venice," and the seas no longer barriers, but the highways, through which the parent-state and her brood of dominions, though flung far into many zones, should yet go easily to and fro, not separate nations, nor yet a company bound together by a mere rope of sand, but one. Great nations replaced little states.

Had the South prevailed in the Civil War, there would have been a distinct and calamitous set-back in the world movement. It would have been a reaction toward particularism, and how far might it not have gone? Into what granulations might not our society have crumbled? The South's principle once recognised, there could have been no valid or lasting tie between States. Counties even might have assumed to nullify, and towns to stand apart sufficient unto themselves. When the thing was doubtful with us, the North by no means escaped the infection. The New York City of Fernando Wood contemplated isolation not only from the Union but from the State of which it was a part. Had the spirit then so rife really prevailed, the map of America to-day might have been no less blotched with the morbid tetter of particularism than that of the Germany of sixty years ago. Centralisation may no doubt go too far, but in the other extreme may lie the gravest danger, and rushing thitherward the South was blind to the risk. I stood with all reverence by the graves of the two great men at Lexington. Perhaps no Americans have been in their way more able, forceful, and really high-purposed. But they were misguided, and their perverted swords all but brought to pass for us and the future the profoundest calamity. I am proud to have been in the generation that fought them down, believing that upholding the country was doing a service to the world. I think of that lofty sentence inscribed upon the memorial of Goldwin Smith at Ithaca, "Above all nations is Humanity." Patriotism is not the highest of virtues. It is indeed a vice if it limits the sympathies to a part. Love for the whole is the sovereign virtue, and the patriotism is unworthy which is not subordinate to this, recognising that its only fitting work is to lead up to a love which embraces all.

And now I toss the "Last Leaf" on my probably over-large accumulation of printed pages. What I have set down is in no way an autobiography. It is simply the presentment of the panorama of nearly fourscore momentous years as unrolled before one pair of eyes. Whether the eyes have served their owner well or ill the gentle reader will judge. I hope I have not obtruded myself unduly, and that I may be pardoned as I close, if I am for a moment personal. My eyes have given me notice that they have done work enough and I do not blame them for insisting upon rest. As to organs in general I have scarcely known that I had any. They have maintained such peace among themselves, and been so quiet and deferential as they have performed their functions that I have taken no note of them, having rarely experienced serious illness. Had Aesop possessed my anatomy, he would have had small data for inditing his fable as to the discord between the "Members" and their commissariat, and the long generations might have lacked that famous incentive to harmony and co-operation. I venture to say this in explanation of my stubborn optimism, which is due much less to any tranquil philosophy I may have imbibed than to my inveterate eupepsia. My optimism has not decreased as I have grown old, and I record here as the last word, my faith that the world grows better. I recall with vividness nineteen Presidential campaigns, and believe that in no one has the outlook been so hopeful as now. Never have the leaders at the fore in all parties been more able and high-minded. I have purposed in this book to speak of the dead and not the living. Were it in place for me to speak of men who are still strivers, I could give good reason, derived from personal touch, for the faith I put in men whose names now resound. However the nation moves, strong and good hands will receive it, and it will survive and make its way. Agitation, the meeting of crises, the anxious application of expedients to threatening dangers,—these we are in the midst of, we always have been and always shall be. Turmoil is a condition of life, beneficently so, for through turmoil comes the education that leads man on and up. We encounter shocks that will seem seismic. But it will only be the settling of society to firmer bases of justice. In our confusions England is our fellow, but a better world is shaping there, though in the earthquake crash of old strata so much seems to totter. And farther east in France, Germany, and Russia are better things, and signs of still better. Levant and Orient rock with violence, but they are rocking to happier and humaner order. What greater miracle than the coming to the front among nations of Japan! Will her people perhaps distance their western teachers and models. Shall we reverse the poet's line to read "Better fifty years of China than a cycle of the West?" Society proceeds toward betterment, and not catastrophe, as individuals may proceed on stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things. The troubles of the child, the broken toy, the slight from a friend, the failure of an expected holiday, are mole-hills to be sure, but in his circumscribed horizon they take an Alpine magnitude. His strength for climbing is in the gristle, nor has he philosophy to console him when blocked by the inevitable. When the child becomes a man his troubles are larger, but to surmount them he has an increment of spiritual vigour, which should swell with passing years. He lives in vain who fails to learn to bear and forbear serenely. For human society, and for the individuals that compose it, the happy time lies not behind but before, and I invite the gentle reader to accept with me the wise and kind thought of Rabbi Ben Ezra, now growing trite on the lips of men because we feel it to be true:

"Grow old along with me.
The best is yet to be,—
The last of life for which the first was made.
Our times are in His hand
Who saith a whole is planned.
Youth shows but half. Trust God; see all;
Nor be afraid."