If

The worst of it is, you do not think. the foregoing instances do not suggest some subtle, undermining influence at work on the mind, they have been recounted in vain. There is something so pointed, so plausible in the way in which these hints are given, that you are immediately deprived of will. Talk of auto-suggestion and of hypnotism! The hints to house-keepers are as cogent as the former, as fertile in criminal possibilities as the latter. As for me, who am only too inventive in thinking up suggestions of my own, they reinforce my worst weakness, win me where I am already lost. The domestic life is not my profession; it is my play, my avocation, a sheltered pasture land where my mind unharnesses and frisks. In our household we have neither old people to be considered, nor young for whom an example must be set; our old-fashioned cottage is full of opportunities, so, as if there were not freaks enough in our antic house-keeping without help from outside, we become the peculiar prey of those who lead captive silly

women.

As proof that temporary mental aberration is caused by this foul means I cite the case of the matting. I am a person of common sense; "my pulse as yours doth temperately beat time." Would not any sane human being know better than to believe a mendacious article in which an unknown author asserted that a worn matting could be freshened and made beautiful by varnish, varnish in which burnt umber had been stirred in order to give a richness of color? Fired by a vision of a floor artistic beyond the reach of the mere decorator, with subdued brown tints that would bring out the rich colors of the rug, I fell. The toil in volved no one could understand save Tantalus, or a college professor, or any other whose life work is to fill up emptiness.

'Thou must hold water in a witch's sieve And be liege lord of all the elves and fays" to do what that nameless and shameless woman said. Quart after quart of varnish the hungry matting ate; no Spenser dragon ever swallowed half so much of anything; the leech's daughter never cried so loudly for more, and then

I have told of the dream; I lack speech to tell of the result-an orange-colored horror

trable, making a floor as of corn-ears tightly pressed together. It might do for a granary floor; it would make an admirable background for Ceres; it would be suitable in an allegory,-it was impossible in a house. The room had to be carpeted, at great trouble and large expense, and I could not send the bill to the lady that caused the mishap.

Why do I not resist, you say? Alack and well-a-day, I cannot! The only suggestion I ever resisted was that in regard to staining a lace waist brown by dipping it into coffeea base use for a noble beverage. These people play upon something so deep down in my nature that I cannot get at it to discipline it. There is no need of these economies. I earn in another fashion, I was about to say, an honest living, but that is perhaps a strong term to apply to an occupation which means the working of one mind upon others. It is, I know not what, some primitive feminine instinct, a far-off inheritance from the stage of web-weaving spiders, of nest-building birds, a desire to create, to make something of nothing. Pre-human, I think the impulse is, pre-animal, for all I know, the old, old stir of life facing "chaos and old night," to do, to act, to meet the emergency. Through how many generations of contriving mothers does it reach back to Mother Nature herself, with her untiring enthusiasm for making new things out of old?

It comes upon me unawares, when my mind is tired of trying to create out of the abstract, when my fingers long for the tangible. For months, perhaps, I resist, I ignore, thinking the longing dead. Then an idle day, the note of a bird, and I am off, like a leaf driven before the wind. When the fit comes on, I feign sanity, am businesslike in manner, hear all that is said to me, and reply promptly. My mind is remote, however, brooding over the yet-tobe, the old made new. I, who dislike new things, new faces, new clothes, even latterly I fear, new ideas, see a way to keep the old, yet have it forever fresh. With a cunning which does not belong to me I conceal my materials and my intentions, for my family early frowned upon these tendencies; then, as soon as all eyes are turned, I am away. While I work my spirit is free; I have fingertips of unimaginable skill; habitations fit for the gods arise from scattered chips at my feet. I am ashamed to think how much

inspiration I can get out of a small can of white paint. I doubt if Apollo himself had more rapture in tinting the roseate dawn. Worn cloth becomes new; broken wood becomes alive again; the world is fresh and young in these moments of passionate recreation, which last until the task is done, and I see the results. Of these, the less said the better. Waking from inspiration is never pleasant I fancy, whether it is an immortal poem, or an aged waste-basket that is being done over. Tired, ashamed, I fall to earth, I who was but a few minutes ago a winged creature, and patiently pack into our Salvation Army box the remains of the garments I have ripped into bits in my moments of creative fury.

But

Now, this is an arraignment as well as a confession, and there are larger aspects of the matter than the merely personal. If I choose to impoverish myself with economies it is no matter, for I have no heirs. there are doubtless many others, as weak before suggestion as I, women whose follies may have more serious consequences than do my own. Is there no remedy? Women are proverbially without sense of humor, and we shall never know that these things are jokes until they are so labelled. Perpetual victims of a comedy of intrigue, where each trick is as vicious and as unconnected with the others as an episode in a comedy by Ben Jonson, we cry out for protection. As there are forms of hazing which rightly bring their perpetrators within jurisdiction of the courts, so there are forms of household suggestion which should lead to imprisonment and fine. 'Tis ignoble to trade on human weakness; moreover, it is an Iago-like and causeless villainy, done in mere wantonness. What satisfaction can it bring them, who never see the desecrated hearths, the materials they despoil, the homes they deface? Would that I could assign our tormentors to their proper circles in a new Inferno-the malicious tricksters in paints and stains in the innermost circle; the spoilers of good dress stuffs in the next.

At this moment I see my weakness and know how many good golden coins have gone the path of folly, and yet, and yet, the impulse is ever at work in my mind. Tucked in between inquiries as to the influence of Rousseau on Thoreau goes on the old ceaseless questioning: How to repair the Persian saddle-bag myself. I storm the gates of the

impossible in practical matters, and no matter how many times I leave my body by the wall, it always rises and acts again. I am sane at this moment, but, when next spring comes, and the hylas peep, I shall arise and follow my folly. Who knows what? Not I! Perhaps some glib writer will have suggested how to make beautiful shrubbery out of feather dusters, or lasting sunshades out of colored tissue paper. I shall fail, but while I try I shall know the rapture of creation.

O

NE of the best essays of the admirable Emerson is that which begins with a list of the acknowledged great who have done nothing to which their admirers can point as requiring the acknowledgment. "Somewhat resided in these men," concludes the good Ralph Waldo, "which begot an expectation which outran all their performance." So Joubert and Matthew Arnold of the French "authorities." "That weight in the speaker (auctoritas), which the ancients talk of, is to be found in Bossuet more than in any other French author; Pascal, too, has it, and La Bruyere; even Rousseau has something of it, but Of "Authority" Voltaire not a particle." And, in quite a different sphere, take the essay of the late Lord Salisbury on the younger Pitt, one of the essays which filial piety has of late rescued from the limbo of the "irresponsible, indolent reviewers" and enabled us to identify, and of which Carlyle expressed his envious admiration by saying they were "so quietly worded," quietness of wording not being the mark of the political deliverances of the sage of Chelsea himself. It was of these latter deliverances, in fact, that Taine observed that their author “has the superior smile, the resigned condescension of a hero who feels himself a martyr, and he only quits it to shout at the top of his voice, like an ill-taught plebeian." Perhaps the aristocratic "quietness of wording" gave some tincture of the "auctoritas" of the ancients to the noble marquis himself. At any rate, when an American, disappointed of hearing him in the House of Lords, asked an English acquaintance whether Lord Salisbury was "a good speaker," the Englishman's answer was pertinent to our present theme. "No, a bad speaker, but a weighty speaker. It always seems as if he were saying, 'This, me luds, is the kind of statement which, for

the last fifteen or sixteen generations, we in my family have been in the habit of addressing to your ludships' House."" When he comes to account for the younger Pitt's prevalence in British confidence over so many more accomplished men and more eloquent orators, Lord Salisbury does it by requesting you to remark that Pitt had "a better character," or perhaps we should say "more character" than the others.

There are men who contrive to convey this sense of "auctoritas" by the mere weight of their personal presence. There are others, like the Frenchmen just noted, who manage it by their mere manner of putting spoken or written words together, by their "style." When you are listening to or reading these, you feel yourself confronted with an "important" person, in the presence of "a man of light and leading." Burke, by the way, whose happy phrase that is, had himself the fate of conveying the sense more to posterity from the printed page than to his contemporaries by means of the spoken word. It was a grievance to him that, in the settled and complex scene of British politics, like Disraeli in the following century, he could not really make good his footing, but remained "an adventurer." It was his pathetic reflection in his later days, when for a generation he had been the intellectual leader of the House of Commons, "that at his time of life, if he could not do something by some sort of weight of opinion, natural or acquired, it was useless and indecorous to attempt anything by mere struggle-Turpe senex miles." On the other hand, Daniel Webster conveyed his "auctoritas" through both media. Lowell happily remarks of the godlike Daniel's inquiry, in the event of the dissolution of the Whig party, "Where am I to go?" that if he had been only five feet high the instinctive response of his audience would have been: Who cared where he went to. And he even conveyed the sense of a physical "presence" which he did not possess, see ing that the majestic personal impression was made by a weight of only 148 pounds! We have lately had a loss which raises again the question, In what does this strange "authority" consist? By common consent, Charles Eliot Norton was "the best we bred," the flower of American culture, the crown of American character. He con

sorted on terms of equality with the most famous of English-speaking persons in his time, and their attitude to him had more of deference than of condescension. His students were apt to be his disciples. And yet, when one not of his acquaintance comes to examine the "performance" on which this high standing was established and by which this unique influence was propagated, he seeks in vain for the justification of the distinction, and is compelled to Own that "somewhat resided in the man which begot an expectation that outran his performance." Nobody, indeed, who even looked upon the man from afar, or heard him in casual postprandial speech, can have failed to be conscious of a dignified and attractive personality. But it is not in his "bibliography" that one finds the evidence of his eminence. The slight Dantean studies are for specialists. Happy is the student who can get much to his purpose out of the studies in the "Church Building in the Middle Ages," which one of Professor Norton's obituarists described as "his chief original book." Certainly that would not suffice to explain an "important" man, as its author so unquestionably was. And neither would suffice for that purpose the editing, how pious and tactful soever, of three or four sets of "Lives and Letters." The man's importance, as known to those who came into contact with him, transcended all that, was more inherent and intrinsic than all that, and they would deprecate and resent the project of judging him by what he "did.” This feeling is of itself a tribute, the highest of which the case admits. It shows that "specific performance" is not necessary, even "now and here," for the established vindication of "importance." To quote Emerson again, "you cannot hide light." The corollary of the saying seems to be, in such a case as that of Professor Norton, that you need not be too solicitous to “let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works." If you have it, it will shine of itself. And if Charles Eliot Norton should survive only in the praises of his friends, as Falkland has for two centuries defied oblivion in right of a paragraph of Clarendon's, what more congenial survival could there be for a modest and highminded patriot and scholar?

SOME EXAMPLES OF THE ENGLISH SCHOOL AT THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART

T

O one who is observant of such matters, a sense of satisfaction must be felt in noting the order that is being evolved, quietly but intelligently at the Metropolitan Museum.

A conservatory of the results of civilization and high accomplishment in art, it is rapidly becoming a factor of great significance in the midst of our material life-indeed it has become so; and it is only in its infancy. There is a controlling purpose here which is carried out by a corps of competent and enthusiastic lieutenants that speaks highly for the administrative head. It is no mere whimsey to say that while at the Wall Street end of the town men are busy accumulating the transient and material, at the Museum extremity they are transmuting this into the spiritual and enduring-and the portion of

VOL. XLV.-15

material treasure thus expended will give greater and more constant returns than may ever be derived from financial values alone.

In continuing this review of the paintings at the Museum we have remarked an increasing effort to group the pictures by schools, segregating as much as practicable, under existing conditions, the works of a particular country in a room or rooms devoted solely to the art of that nation. This, however, has not been completely achieved in any one case; but it is encouraging to note the disposition on the part of the authorities to attain this end after the years of heterogeneous hanging that have alike confused the visitor and sacrificed the effectiveness of many of the exhibits. A result of this new effort is seen in gallery 20, which is entirely hung with works of the English school; and although there are placed here, at present, many loans and valuable ones, we may speak only of the canvases which are the property

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of the Museum itself, hoping that the future may include most, if not all, of those thus generously permitted to be enjoyed, temporarily. It should be a source of satisfaction also to the owners that they can contribute in this way to the pleasure of the public and the actual usefulness of the institution.

In

There is in English art something that appeals directly to the American, and indeed our early painters were more of England's artistic kin than are those of to-day. landscape and in portraiture we at first followed closely English footsteps, and if our ways since have parted it is perhaps because we are more restless, less conservative by nature, and have become in many ways experimental. These differences are largely racial, and may be remarked in the canvases of the respective schools. There is much in English art that might well be considered by us —a certain robustness of sight and amplitude of treatment-as well in area as in touch.

We rarely find in America to-day portrait groups conceived and carried out with the sweep of observation, vigor of painting, or the dimension of canvas that Sir Joshua has given in the work entitled, "Portraits of Sir Henry Fane and his Guardians, Inigo Jones and Charles Blair." The very conception of this picture conveys the sense of a large and unhurried existence, a secure and leisurely outlook on life, indicated by the place and its surroundings. There are many such conditions in our life of to-day which might be made use of in like manner, if only the painter and the painted would appreciate the fact when considering the production of a portrait.

In breadth of conception, although not so frankly painted, the "English Landscape" by Thomas Gainsborough is an example of generous vision and largeness of aspect. There is here a picturesque sentiment in the management, the disposition of the masses of light and shade so controlled that the absence of solid, corporeal forms in the composition of the foreground is not felt. From a technical standpoint, also, the painting of this picture is of interest-it is apparently a monochrome, presumably gray, glazed in every part, the pigment so laid on that the construction of the land, the texture of the rocks and trees and roadway are given, underneath this glaze, with surprising fidelity of resemblance. This method was much resorted to, and with more or less success, until Constable and Bonington came to the rescue of

landscape with franker means and greater range of truthful observation.

There is a picture here by John Crome, who antedated Gainsborough, that for handling, and a sense of "seeing" seems anticipatory of those fresh and still more modern men. This is "Hautbois Common," wellbalanced, with interesting qualities of paint— a work that would command attention anywhere as a charming instance of the English school of that period.

The portraits by Sir William Beechey might almost be taken as exponents of the effect the personality of a sitter may have on the actual touch and color of the painter. These are respectively, "The Duke of York" and "Portrait of a Lady." The first is turgid both in person and painting; the head characterful and well lighted, and there is a sumptuous swing to the blue-black military cloak, but the red uniform and decorations are heavy in painting and color. "The Portrait of a Lady" is, on the contrary, so delicately lighted and so sweet in color as to be weak in its almost feminine insipidity.

Turning from these to the Sir Henry Raeburn portrait of William Forsyth, Esqre., in another room, one finds himself before a competent, workman-like canvas where the planes of the head are established with an unhesitating cleanness and precision that one misses in the two foregoing pictures. The color, however, lacks fineness, it is too readily done, too facile, too fluent to be distinguished in its perception of the intermediate tones which make so often the charm of flesh, and the background is a foxy brown that has not been seriously sought for its happiest harmony. The white stock is freshly and crisply touched in, while the blue coat and gilt buttons are broadly and dexterously painted. This is a good, but perhaps not remarkably fine example of this master of the painted head.

"The Portrait of Mrs. Fitzherbert" by Romney, is perhaps the better of the two now possessed by the Museum. It is more frankly painted, is better in construction, and is of a tonal charm most captivating— altogether a delightful canvas by this fascinating and uneven painter.

"The Rev. William Pennicott" by Sir Thomas Lawrence, might be a portrait not yet completed, left in that fluid and approximate state all the more interesting because nothing is terminated, nothing arrested.