a longing. He can never wholly satisfy it. Shelley wanted to be no mere writer. He had in him a desire to reform the world. But when he speaks of reform one sees how vague an idea he had of the means. Prometheus, the Titan, who represents in Shelley's poem oppressed humanity, is bound on the mountain. The poem is to tell us of his deliverance. But how is this accomplished? Why, simply when a certain fated hour comes, foreordained, but by nobody in particular, up comes Demogorgon, the spirit of eternity, stalks before the throne of Jupiter, the tyrant, and orders him him out into the abyss; and thereupon Prometheus is unchained, and the earth is happy. Why did not all this happen before? Apparently because Demogorgon did not sooner leave the under-world. What a motive is this for an allegoric account of the deliverance of humanity! Mere accident rules everything, and yet apparently there is a coming triumph to work for. The poet of lofty emotions is but an eager child when he is to advise us to act.

The melancholy side of the literary era that extends from 1815 to 1840 is represented especially by two poets, Byron and Heine. Both treat the same great problem, What is this life, and what in it is of most worth? Both recognize the need there is for something more than mere existence. Both know the value of emotion, and both would wish to lead men to an understanding of this value, if only they thought that men could be lead. Despairing themselves of ever attaining an ideal peace of mind, they give themselver over to melancholy. Despairing of raising men even to their own level, they become scornful, and spend far too much time in merely negative criticism. The contrast between them is not a little instructive. Byron is too often viewed by superficial readers merely in the light of his early sentimental poems. Those, for our present purpose, may be disregarded. It is the Byron of Manfred and Cain that I now have in mind. As for Heine, Matthew Arnold long since said the highest in praise of his ethical significance that we may dare to say. Surely both men have great defects. They are one-sided, and often insincere. But they are children of the ideal. Byron has, I think, the greater force of character, but the gift of seeing well what is beautiful and pathetic in life fell to the lot of Heine. The one is great in spirit, the other in experience. Byron is, by nature, combative, a hater of wrong, one often searching for the highest truth; but his experience is petty and heart-sickening, his real world is miserably unworthy of his ideal world, and he seems driven on into the darkness like his

faculty of vision. The perfect delight in a moment of emotion is given to him as it has seldom been given to any man since the unknown makers of the popular ballads. Hence, his frequent use of ballad forms and incidents. Surely, Byron could never have given us that picture of Edith of the Swan's Neck searching for the dead King Harold on the field of Hastings, which Heine has painted in one of the ballads of the Romancero. But, on the other hand, Heine lacks the force to put into active life the meaning and beauty that he can so well appreciate. He sees in dreams, but he cannot create in the world the ideal of perfection. So he is bitter and despairing. He takes a cruel delight in pointing out the shams of the actual world. Naturally romantic, he attacks romantic tendencies ever afresh with hate and scorn. brief, to live the higher life, and to teach others to live it also, one would have to be heroic in action, like Byron, and gifted with the power to see, as Heine saw, what is precious, and, in all its simplicity, noble, about human experience. The union of Byron and Heine would have been a new, and, I think, a higher, sort of Goethe.

In

Since these have passed away we have had our Emerson, our Carlyle, our Tennyson. Upon these men we cannot dwell now. I pass to the result of the whole long struggle. Humanity was seeking, in these its chosen representative men, to attain to a fuller emotional life. A conflict resulted with the petty and ignoble in human nature, and with the dead resistance of material forces. Men grew old and died in this conflict, did wonderful things, and-did not conquer. And now, at last, Europe gave up the whole effort, and fell to thinking about physical science and about great national movements. The men of the last age are gone, or are fast going, and we are left face to face with a dangerous practical materialism. The time is one of unrest, but not of great moral leaders. Action is called for, and, vigorous as we are, spiritual activity is not one of the specialties of the modern world.

So much, then, for the reasons why what I have for brevity's sake called Transcendentalism lost its hold on the life of the century. These reasons were briefly these: First, the ideal sought by the men of the age of which we have spoken was too selfish, not broad and human enough. Goethe might save himself, but he could not teach us the road. Secondly, men did not strive long and earnestly enough. Surely, if the problems of human conduct are to be solved, if life is to be made full of emotion, strong, heroic, and yet not cold, we must all unite, men, women, and children, in the com

mon cause of living ourselves as best we can, and of helping others, by spoken and by written word, to do the same. We lack perseverance and leaders. Thirdly, the splendid successes of certain modern investigations have led away men's minds from the study of the conduct of life to a study of the evolution of life. I respect the latter study, but I do not believe it fills the place of the former. I wish there were time in our hurried modern life for both. I know there must be found time, and that right quickly, for the study of the old problems of the Faust of Goethe.

With this conclusion, the present study arrives at the goal set at the beginning. How we are to renew these old discussions, what solution of them we are to hope for, whether we shall ever finally solve them, what the true ideal of life is of all such matters I would not presume to write further at this present. But let us not forget that if our Evolution text-books contain much of solid-yes, of inspiring—truth, they do not contain all the knowledge that is essential to a perfect life or to the needs of hu

| manity. A philosophy made possible by the deliberate neglect of that thought-movement, whose literary expression was the poetry of our century, cannot itself be broad enough and deep enough finally to do away with the needs embodied in that thought-movement. Let one, knowing this fact, be therefore earnest in the search for whatever may make human life more truly worth living. Let him read again, if he has read before, or begin to read, if he has never read, our Emerson, our Carlyle, our Tennyson, or the men of years ago, who so aroused the ardent souls of the best among our fathers. Let him study Goethe, Schiller, Heine, Wordsworth, anything and everything that can arouse in him a sense of our true spiritual needs. And having read, let him work in the search after the ideal-work not for praise, but for the good of his time.

And then, perhaps, some day a new and a mightier Transcendental Movement may begin -a great river, that shall not run to waste and be lost in the deserts of sentimental melancholy. JOSIAH ROYCE.

CHAPTER X.

The plan adopted by Mrs. Howard with reference to the newspapers had due weight. It is impossible to refrain from remarking in this connection that, ordinarily, the power of a reporter is greatly underrated. He is looked upon as a machine, for which his salary-generally very small-is the fuel for raising steam, and the policy of his newspaper the length of his stroke. As the quantity of fuel is generally quite small, there is never a dangerous head of steam, thus dispensing with the necessity for a safety-valve. The machine runs steadily on for years and years, and it is not long that a vestige of the original varnish, and polish, and finishing blue remains. It runs on and on, until the parts are worn, and the joints are loose, and the flues are choked with cinders and ashes. When it is worn out at last, it becomes a politician.

But the reporter, although his policy is controlled-or who, rather, has no policy of his own is nevertheless a quiet and dangerous power. Sometimes he is human-more the pity. In fact, if the fraud must be exposed, he is generally human. Perhaps his peculiar train

His

ing renders him comparatively free from prejudices, for his judgment must always be open, while his heart must always be closed. He is paid for his brain, and not for his sentiment. As he is human-a disgraceful admission-he is capable of feeling, which enters unconsciously and conscientiously into all his work. His policy having been outlined for him, dependence is, to a certain extent, placed in him. judgment is supposed by his employer to be his guide, and confidence is reposed in his judgment; and it is never knowingly betrayed. Though he may have sentiments of his own that clash with the work in hand, he tears them to shreds with perfect cheerfulness. He takes a grim delight in trampling on them, and showing to others how unnecessary and how wrong they are. A man insults him, and yet he lauds that man a hero. But the insult goes down into his heart, and rankles there, to crop out when least expected. He is a nomadic insect --if such an expression be allowable-and what he has no opportunity of writing for this paper, he may for the next that employs him. The reporter is a whole encyclopædia of kindnesses to be remembered and wrongs to be redressed. There is no other man in society who is so

His mind is an arsenal of facts, and his heart a magazine of memories. He has a thousand ways of doing a thing, and he soon learns them intuitively. This chapter is entirely too short to give an adequate exposition of his tricks. He is not feared as much as he might be, or he would always, even for policy, be treated with consideration. He is very much like a camel.

Mrs. Howard grasped this idea at once, as many women in the world have done. She did not avoid interviews; but while granting them, and withholding all information, she threw herself into her natural surrounding circumstances, and raised up an impassable barrier of her woman's rights-rights that men do not have to the same extent, and that are sacred and inviolable. In the whole category of human opinions, creeds, beliefs, and sentiments, there is one thing sacred with a reporter—a woman's wish. In the entire array of things animate and inanimate, things created, things destroyed, things beautiful, things repulsive, there is one always sacred with the reporter-a woman. But she must be a woman, and nothing else, in order to lay claim to this great privilege. She must not be a man, nor a devil, nor a simpleton, nor a child, nor an animal; but a woman. may, if she can, practice cunning and dissembling deeper than the cool and close scrutiny of a sharp-witted man-a man who believes few things, and places not always implicit confidence in the evidence of his own senses. But it is dangerous; for the man who listens, silent, and does not question nor contradict, may expose the ruse in the morning, and make her wish she had never been born.

She

Thus it had come about that Mrs. Howard was not again branded as an accessory to the murder. She was guarding her son's life, and not the honor of her family. Under the influence of newspaper reports, and the better feeling that followed the riot, her efforts were appreciated, and her mother's heart respected.

The remarkable manner in which she had rescued him from the mob, outwitting it and Casserly, had reached the ears of the public. Great excitement had followed this disclosure. The Crane had disappeared with Howard, and the butcher's cart was found that evening on the road to Monterey. Doubtless the two men had struck across the country to the Santa Cruz Mountains, and lost themselves in the wilds of that country.

The great mistake that Casserly made was that he kept separate the three persons who alone could have had any direct knowledge of the tragedy. This was a natural error, and one

the majority of cases it is the better plan, as it prevents a coincidence of manufactured testimony; but it also frequently happens that there is a misunderstanding, and consequently a desire to shield by saying nothing.

The funeral of the dead girl had taken place before Casserly tracked Emily Randolph to Santa Cruz. It was a strange affair. Kind hands had placed the body tenderly in a coffin, which was covered with flowers the rarest and sweetest. Mrs. Howard, from her cell in the third floor of the jail, had directed all the preparations. As soon as it became known that she was a member of the Presbyterian Church, ladies of that society proffered their services. There was little to be done, yet much was done. At the request of Mrs. Howard, the minister of the church readily concurring, the coffin was taken into the church building, and the funeral exercises held there. Such a crowd of people had never before thronged a church in San José.

After the coffin had been placed at the foot of the altar, Mrs. Howard entered, walking between Casserly and Judge Simon-for she was a prisoner. She was dressed in plain black, with no profusion of mourning apparel. It was quite firmly that she walked up the aisle, with her veil raised, that all might see her face. Every eye was turned upon her. Many hearts went out to her. This, then, was the woman of such daring and cunning. This woman, with soft step, with calm face, with eyes full of womanly tenderness, with grace and beauty of form and face, was she who held the secret of the crime, and who braved death to give her recreant son his liberty; they could hardly believe it.

A front pew had been reserved for them, and in it the three seated themselves. But in all that vast assemblage there was not a single hand extended toward her; not a single word uttered of condolence or sympathy. She felt a great distance from them. They saw between them and her a wide river of blood. There was blood upon her name, and mayhap upon her hands. The two bright hectic spots upon her usually pale cheeks were smeared thereon with blood. She was surrounded with an atmosphere teeming with the odor of blood. If she had not herself committed the deed, she had looked upon it; had seen death enter a young breast, boring a ghastly hole, and letting the blood flow; carried that crime in her heart, the red blood of it mingling with that which coursed through her veins. Among all the people in that house, there could not have been a lack of that sympathy that would lead to an avowal of it under more favorable conditions.