Part 1

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McCLURE'S MAGAZINE

VOL. I SEPTEMBER, 1893 No. 4

Copyright, 1893, by S. S. MCCLURE, Limited. All rights reserved.

Table of Contents

PAGE Edward E. Hale. The Man with a Country. By Herbert D. Ward. 291 How Cassie Saved the Spoons. By Annie Howells Frechette. 301 Surrender. By Gertrude Hall. 308 "Human Documents." 309 Dreams Go By Contraries. By George H. Jessop. 318 The Tables Turned. By William Wordsworth. 326 Pasteur at Home. By Ida M. Tarbell. 327 Hugh Bronte'S Courtship. By Doctor William Wright. 341 The Legend of the Elephant and the Lion. By Henry M. Stanley. 351 Song. By Thomas Carew. 355 The Life and Experiences of an Engineer of a Limited Express. By Cleveland Moffett. 356 Among the Gorillas. By R. L. Garner. 364

Illustrations

PAGE Residence of Edward Everett Hale. 292 Sitting-Room. 294 Highland Street, With the Hale Place on the Right. 295 Doctor Hale in His Study. 296 The Library. 298 The Dining-Room. 299 E. E. Hale in 1847. From a Painting By Richard Hinsdale. 300 Emperor William of Germany. 310 Eugene Field. 314 Colonel Albert A. Pope. 316 The Statue of Jupille. 327 The Pasteur Institute. 328 The Lodge. 329 M. Pasteur in His Salon. 330 The House at Dole. 331 M. Pasteur at Thirty. 332 At the Jubilee of M. Pasteur. 333 Portraits of M. Pasteur. 334 A Group of Patients. 336 The Library. 337 M. Roux. 337 Dosing the Virus. 338 Dr. Metchnikoff in His Laboratory. 339 Filling the Syringes. 339 The Rabbits' Quarters. 340 "The Flyer" Leaving the Grand Central Station, New York City. 357

EDWARD E. HALE.

THE MAN WITH A COUNTRY.

BY HERBERT D. WARD.

When General Ward drove the British out of Roxbury in the reign of George the Third, the valuation of the town was about sixty thousand dollars. I do not know at what high figure the historic city that guards the ashes of John Eliot is held now, but I do know that, in this age of rapacious corporations and untrustworthy trusts, genius outranks gold, and that Roxbury receives no small increment of her value from the fact that Edward E. Hale is one of her most distinguished citizens. To one fond of perceiving the innate or accidental fitness of things, it is, perhaps, more than a coincidence that Doctor Hale lives on Highland Street, and that his house reminds one, with its massive front and Ionic columns, of a Greek temple.

This large house was built, about sixty years ago, by Mr. Bradford, for his brother-in-law, Reverend Mr. Kent, and was used for a young ladies' boarding-school. Even now, on some of the upper panes, girls' names and girlish sentiments are to be read. When Doctor Hale took the house, some twenty years ago, he introduced a carpenter to make what are called "modern improvements."

"Mr. Hale," said the carpenter, after a thorough inspection, "you are fortunate in your bargain. _This house was built on honor._" Mr. Hale has had a great mind to make this reply the motto over his doorway.

When Doctor Hale once described his house to an eminent editor of one of our leading magazines, he said: "You cannot mistake it; it is a Greek temple just above Eliot Square."

The editor, with the gentle blush that frisky memory will bring to the cheeks of the staidest, quickly answered: "Yes, I have often worshipped there."

This is not a biographical paper. The readers of the "Atlantic" will remember Doctor Hale's description of his father, the first of New England's great railroad pioneers. Every one knows that our Mr. Hale was named after his uncle, the great Edward Everett; but perhaps it is not so generally known that Mrs. Hale is the granddaughter of Lyman Beecher, and the niece of Mrs. Stowe. What may not be expected of Doctor Hale's boys, with Beecher, Hale, and Everett blood in their veins? There is no better selection, and the problem is an interesting one.

But, to many of us, the most interesting of Doctor Hale's connections is his distant relation, Helen Kellar. The first time that wonderful, blind, deaf-mute child, then not eight years old, came to his home, there happened to be an Egyptian statuette of the god Terminus outside the piazza steps. The child touched it, and, with her marvellous discernment, starting back, said in her own way: "Oh, the ugly old man!"

Helen was then taken to the beautiful alto-relievo of Bernini, representing the infants Christ and John playing together. It is a little thing, and slowly the child ran her eye-fingers over the chubby babes. Suddenly her sightless face lighted with the rarest smile. Her soul had understood the significance of the holy group by an intuition that science cannot gauge, and she bent over and kissed the sacred children.

After all, every home exhibits a clinging pananthropoism, if one may be permitted to coin the word. Books and pictures and statuary are the man, just as much as his style. They are his most subtile expression. They are his unlying interpreters. As you walk into Doctor Hale's parlor, resting upon the floor, there confronts you a realistic colored photograph of the compelling Matterhorn. That picture, with its glacier, its precipices, and its summit, conquered only by cooeperative achievement, is a fit emblem of a family climbing from height to height.

We left the table, and Lyman Beecher's splendid portrait, that formed a strong background for Doctor Hale's impressive head, and stopped for a moment in the boys' study, opposite the parlor. There is the portrait of Edward Everett, by Stuart Newton: of Alexander Everett, by Alexander, and of Mrs. Hale, by Ransom, and a striking picture of the doctor himself. How many of these sedate portraits have been shocked by shuttlecock and bumped by football at the hands of Doctor Hale's rollicking boys, only one of whom, Robert, of rising literary reputation, is left with his father in the home!

Across the narrow back hall one takes a quick glimpse of the four phases of the moon on the stairway, then of hundreds of volumes lining the walls, billows of books, breaking upon one everywhere--five thousand of them.

"That is Thomas Arnold's portrait--father of Matthew," said Doctor Hale, pointing from his sofa, and then settling back into reminiscences:--"Longfellow over there, and Dean Stanley. I liked Stanley, and I think Stanley liked me. We were on very cordial terms. He sat at the desk where you are, and I gave him Gladstone's article on America, published that fall. There was a carriage at the door. I was to show him some historical places. It was October, and cold. I told the boys to bring some rugs. They came to the carriage with a lot of Arab shawls. Stanley had just come from the desert, and with marvellous dexterity he wound a shawl about him so that he looked like an Arab sheik. I got a little frightened at the oriental look of it, and said: 'Oh, we shall be in all the newspapers.' With reluctance he consented to throw a cape over his shoulders instead. But I always regretted that I did not allow him to go through the streets as an Arab dean. When I bade him good-by that night, he said, with his wonted thoughtfulness, 'Let me pay for this carriage; you would never have had it if it hadn't been for me.'

"'No,' said I, 'when I go to Westminster you shall pay for me. When you are in Boston, I shall pay for you.'

"When we got out of the carriage the hackman took off his hat and said: 'If the carriage were mine, you shouldn't pay a cent. Doctor Stanley is a good and great man, and I am proud to have carried him.' That's pretty good for a Boston hackman."

As my eyes roamed over the mass of portfolios stacked in an orderly manner in the case at the foot of his lounge, my imagination conjured many an interview that Mr. Hale must have had with immortals, contemporaries, and friends of the man before me.

And what invaluable letters must those portfolios contain! Doctor Hale evidently caught my curiosity and my glance.

"You would like to see some autographs?" he generously asked.

"Yes, indeed, but I am afraid there is not time now. Tell me about some of your most interesting ones."

Then it proved that Doctor Hale had advantages in the line of presidential autographs, because of his eminent and political ancestry. His collection in this respect is complete, and in this way, he says, he began it.

"I was sitting one evening tearing up old papers, after my father's death, and among them noticed a letter on the character of Washington. Not considering it worth keeping, I took it to tear it up, when out dropped a yellow paper, ancient and faded. It proved to be a letter of George Washington himself, which had been enclosed in the other letter by my father, evidently to illustrate a point in character which the writer had raised. Then and there I resolved to make a collection of presidential autographs. I don't dare to tell you how many family commissions I hold in my portfolio. To me the collection is almost the history of my family. I have been tempted to publish a couple of volumes of national history of the nineteenth century, to be taken bodily from my own portfolio of autographs. It might be rather interesting."

"Changing the subject, when did you first meet Emerson?"

"Let me see, I first heard Emerson when I was eleven years old. He was delivering his lecture on Mohammed. I first spoke to him in Harvard College chapel, when a mutual acquaintance had just taken the highest honors. Emerson said of him, with his keenest look:

"'I didn't know he was so fine a fellow. Now, if some misfortune could only happen to him; if he could be turned out of college, or could be unpopular in his class, or his father could fail in business, all would be well with him.'

"This seemed at the time cynical, but when I read of the hardships of Emerson's early life, and heard of the unhappy end of the man of college honors, I understood it and was astounded at his penetration.

"I have a letter of Emerson's (and you can take a copy of it if you like) which cleared up an anecdote that was told of him at the time. It was said that on one of his ocean trips he committed 'Alaric' or some other long poem to memory, in order to while away a few otherwise unprofitable days. It proved to be 'Lycidas,' and I never heard of any one else who has committed 'Lycidas' to memory on an ocean trip for pastime. Who else but Emerson would have thought of it?"

CONCORD, _January 26_.

MY DEAR HALE:--I know by much experience of my own what it is to have Everett on the brain, and you, who have it in the blood, may easily believe that it could only be "Alaric" that I was crooning at sea. But it was not that, but Milton's "Lycidas," which I told of in a lecture on Memory, to which I must think you refer; though nothing of it was ever printed or reported that I know, and it must have been read (_i.e._, the lecture) when you were very young. I ought to be proud that the anecdote could reach you, but the mystery of the memory interested me much.

I wrote you yesterday about Stirling's pamphlet, which I hope will come speedily to you. I do not recall the title, but it was, perhaps, "Remarks on Mr. Huxley's Protoplasm."

Yours, R. W. EMERSON.

"Here's another story of Emerson," continued my host, with a twinkle, "that reminds me of the story of the man who said he couldn't make a speech like Henry Clay, but he had once held the statesman's hat when Clay was speaking. When Mr. Emerson delivered his second Phi Beta address, the desk had been removed from the pulpit of the church, so that he had at the beginning to kneel uncomfortably to read his manuscript. I went back in the vestry and found the desk, and, in the first pause in Emerson's address, placed it before him. The audience of course applauded. When the oration was over, Lowell, who presided, congratulated Mr. Emerson on his success, and Emerson's first words were, 'Where's that saint, Edward Hale?'"

"Have you any special reminiscence of Hawthorne?"

"Hardly any at all. Personally, Hawthorne was very reticent in society. My own recollections of him, when I first saw him, were that he hardly spoke a word to anybody. This little scrap of Hawthorne's, which you may use, if you care to, was sent to the 'Boston Miscellany,' a magazine that my brother edited, and to which all Young America at that time contributed. Lowell published his first stories and articles in the 'Miscellany,' after those in 'Harvardiana.'

"But with Lowell my relations were singularly intimate. He was also intimate with my brother Nathan. Our room in college was convenient for him, as his was at a distance from recitations. He was a class in advance of me. Those were the days when we borrowed Emerson's volume of Tennyson's first poems, and copied the poems in our scrap-books. Lowell was deep in the old dramatists then, and read papers on them in the Alpha Delta, which was the literary club to which we both belonged. The intimacy which was then begun lasted through our lives. He edited 'The Atlantic' when I published my first stories there.

"By the way, it is reported that Ruskin will be made poet laureate! My candidate, however, is Jean Ingelow. The Queen ought to have named a woman. Talking on the subject, I have seen with these eyes the original correspondence with which Prince Albert offered the laureateship to Samuel Rogers. Rogers was greatly pleased, but after consideration declined, because he was so old. The Prince then wrote to Rogers to ask him to name the laureate. Rogers named Tennyson. Then came a letter from the prime minister, in which he said: 'We are not acquainted with the works of this gentleman, and will you be good enough to let me know whether he has ever written anything which would make it improper for a woman to name him for this post?'"

Mr. Hale stopped and laughed heartily. "Just think of that!" he added, with glee.

After some skirmishing about the bush--for the office of "interlocutor" is not very familiar to me--I asked Doctor Hale:

"What do you consider the best thing you ever did?" He did not seem annoyed or perplexed by the question. He thrust his arms behind his head, extended himself the full length of the lounge, and regarded me with his deep-set eyes. Doctor Hale's face wrinkles in a curious way around his eyes. These are the features of his face. They are fine, deep, sad, careless of human opinion--except it has to be conciliated for a high purpose--and alert as a boy's, ready for a truth or for a friend. I believe that a divine physiognomist would read Doctor Hale's career in his gray eyes and their high ramparts. "Why, the young man's head has an entirely different shape," said the elder Darwin of his son Charles, on the young man's return from his voyage in the "Beagle." It struck me oddly that in a like manner Doctor Hale's eyes had been a mirror of his life.

"I think," began Doctor Hale thoughtfully, "that 'In His Name,' as a bit of literary work, is to be regarded as the best book I ever wrote. The story of 'The Man Without a Country' has circulated in much larger numbers. It was forged in the fire, and I think its great popularity is due to the subject."

"And what is your best literary work at present?"

After some hesitation Doctor Hale answered:

"I think my sermons are the best."

This serious answer caused no little astonishment; for one naturally thinks of Doctor Hale as an author rather than as a hard-working minister.

"I attach a great deal of importance to the weekly printing and circulating of sermons," he continued. "It is more than fifteen years since I began printing them for our people. It keeps a man at his best work. It does away with slipshod carelessness. I should advise every minister to print his sermons. The fact of it is," he continued, with increasing vivacity, "five-sixths of my work in this office is parish work. I am a person who has never lost sight of my profession. People complain that my books always carry a moral. I wouldn't write if they didn't."

"How did you come to write--as an author, I mean?"

"Until 1861 I was only known in Boston as an energetic minister of an active church. I didn't want anything else. I believe now, as then, that if anything is going to be done, it is to be done through that agency. Then the war came along. I was in the Massachusetts Rifle Corps, and," he said this with a pardonable twinkle of pride, "I have drilled a major-general. Then I was on the Sanitary Commission. To save the country--that brought me into public life, and I have never got back into simple parish life again. Then came 'The Man Without a Country.' In 1871 'Ten Times One is Ten' was published. From that book came a peculiarity of my life. It brought me into close contact with all parts of the world. From it sprang the 'Lend a Hand' and the 'King's Daughters,' and a dozen such working societies, and indirectly the Epworth League and the Christian Endeavor. They copied the idea, with many of my mottoes."

The speaker stopped while the writer pondered how many a girl, from East to West and North to South, carried upon her throat a plain silver cross tied with a purple ribbon, her proudest ornament. It is an inspiring picture and comes quickly to call. To make an era in Christian self-surrender, to girdle the world with unselfish crosses, to hammer high purposes into young souls, that is a better life than to have written the best novel of the decade.

"Yes," said Doctor Hale, with the authority of his threescore years and eleven, "the parish is at the basis of my life, and takes five-sixths of my time. All this would have been impossible without it."

In these days, when some of our eminent critics consider a moral purpose detrimental to the literary value of a story, it is refreshing to learn from the mouth of one of our most popular authors that his success is due entirely to the inspiration of a Christian ideal. It takes the modern school of critics to pat the Lord Jesus Christ upon the back. Charles Kingsley and Doctor Hale will not be snuffed out by them because they have chosen to Christianize their literary work.

Edward E. Hale regards the ministry as the most practical business in the world. The theory that the minister spends his mornings reading Hebrew, and his afternoons praying with dying old women, is exploded in his career. He knocks about in the most active of city life. It came out that the day before I called he went up to the State House to argue in favor of an honest bill of some kind. He then signed the lease of the "Noonday Rest," a club where working girls are to get good food. He made himself responsible for fifteen hundred dollars a year because the poor girls had to be cared for, and he "knew it would come back to him all right." Then the duties of Vice-President of the Industrial Aid called for his attention. "I am the man of business," he said, with flashing eyes. Of such are the charities of his life.

Even while the writer was sitting in the chair that Dean Stanley occupied, and revolving the problem whether Doctor Hale summoned from some other planet the time in which to write his sermons, we were interrupted by a messenger from the Society for Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, who came for about fifty pounds of stories which Doctor Hale had read in order to determine the four winners of prizes.

"I was a little taken in," he said, with a boyish laugh, after the messenger, stunned dumb by that kindly reception of Doctor Hale's (which is denied to no one), had departed staggering; "I thought they were to be short stories, and they turned out to be sixty-thousand-word books."

Doctor Hale's study, which he calls his office, was once used as the school-room for day scholars, and had a piazza, on one side of it. This Mr. Hale has boarded up and uses the space--three feet wide--for his thousands of pamphlets. I stepped in there while the messenger from the society with the long name was occupying our host's attention, and, for all the world, it seemed like a touch from Dickens or a section from the Athenaeum. That pamphlet alcove, narrow, musty, yet busy, a composite of the stage-coach days and our electric era, gave me a graver suspicion of Doctor Hale's cosmopolitan interests than any word he had uttered or anything I had hitherto seen in the temple.

When I came back Doctor Hale was again stretched upon the lounge. He began almost fiercely upon his favorite topic, and I can do no better than to give his own words:

"I have written twenty-five books, but I'm not an author; I'm a parish minister. I don't care a snap for the difference between Balzac and Daudet. That isn't important in life. I do care about the difference between the classes of men who migrate to this country of mine."

Here I interrupted him:

"Is it better to do twenty things than one?"

"Not best for every one; but for a man who writes forty sermons a year, it is better not to get into one rut. To write those sermons well he must come into touch with forty things or forty men. As a man of letters, I say the same thing. An author must be an all-around man and take a many-sided view of life. My friends think it harms me. I say it does not."

Although I was burning to ask a vital and perhaps an impertinent question--for as he was so kind to me I wished not to be intrusive--I waited while he chatted about his connection with Harvard.

It is one of Doctor Hale's happiest memories that he was an overseer of Harvard University when the modern plan was introduced of having more than one person to take charge of the chapel services. The new custom was initiated by appointing the clerical members of the overseers and faculty to take the chapel in turn. Doctor Hale thinks there were nine of them. So he took a ninth part. That system in turn gave way to the present system, by which five or six men are appointed annually. Each in turn is given a room in college, so as to enter into intimate pastoral relationship with the boys. This system has proved wonderfully successful. In the inauguration of each of its phases Doctor Hale was senior in the board, and heavily influential in the working of the experiment. It is not to be wondered at, that of the experiences of his long life he values making the acquaintance of a "couple of thousand of as fine young men as the day can produce."