Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 26, September, 1880

Miss Elizabeth J. Gardner of New Hampshire has two excellent pictures in the Salon—Priscilla the Puritan and The Water's Edge. They are both well hung, as indeed are most of our American artists' contributions to this exhibition. Out of the 111 pictures in oils sent in by the Americans, I can recall 46 which are hung "on the line," and there may be even more. This is certainly treating our countrymen very fairly. Miss Gardner's Au Bord de l'Eau represents two young girls standing at the edge of a pond, the one reaching down to pluck a water-lily, and the other supporting her by clasping her waist. There is great purity in the tones of this picture, and, though lacking somewhat in action, the coloring and drawing are both admirable.

The most notable piece of statuary in the Salon, the work of an American, is Saint-Gaudens's statue of Admiral Farragut. Mr. Saint-Gaudens, who is a native of New York, received about two years ago from one hundred gentlemen of that city, who had subscribed the necessary funds, a commission to make a statue of the great sailor. It is to be placed in Madison Square, New York. The pedestal is to be of granite, having at its base a large seat, on the back of which will be an inscription mentioning the important events in the life of the hero. The statue, of bronze, represents Farragut in a standing posture, a little larger than life-size. It is now being cast, and will be ready to be placed in position within two months. Mr. Saint-Gaudens is now at work on a statue of Richard Robert Randall, the founder of the Sailors' Snug Harbor on Staten Island, in front of which institution this statue is to be placed. This sculptor has also nearly completed his cast of the figures intended to ornament the mausoleum of Ex-Senator E.D. Morgan (of New York), about to be erected at Hartford, Connecticut. Mr. Saint-Gaudens intends removing his atelier from Paris to New York in June, and will hereafter be permanently located in that city, where he will be an important addition to the art-movement in our own country.

The catalogue numbers, names and birthplaces of the Americans who exhibit this year are here given:

OIL PAINTINGS

103. Audra, Rosémond Casimir, New Orleans, La. 127. Bacon, Henry, Boston, Mass. 139. Baird, William, Chicago. 142, 143. Baker, Miss Ellen K., Buffalo. 193. Bayard, Miss Kate, New York. 220, 221. Beckwith, Arthur, New York. 329. Bierstadt, Albert, New York. 344. Bispham, Henry C., Philadelphia, Pa. 355, 356. Blackman, Walter, Chicago. 362. Blashfield, Edwin H., New York. 380. Boggs, Frank Myers, New York. 490, 491. Bridgman, Frederic D., Alabama. 519, 520. Brown, Walter Francis, Rhode Island. 742. Cheret-Lauchaume de Gavarmy, J.L., New Orleans. 823, 824. Coffin, Wm. Anderson, Allegheny City. 841. Collins, Alfred Q., Boston, Mass. 844. Comans, Mrs. Charlotte B., New York. 855. Conant, Miss Cornelia, New York. 866. Copeland, Alfred Bryant, Boston. 890. Correja, Henry, New York. 893, 894. Corson, Miss Helen, Philadelphia. 933, 934. Cox, Kenyon, Warren, O. 965, 966. Daniel, George, New York. 1009. Davis, John Steeple, New York. 1089. Delport, J.S., New York. 1132, 1133. Deschamps, Mme. Camille, New York. 2096. DeLancey, William, New York. 1155. Dessommes, Edmond, New Orleans. 1161. Desvarreux-Larpenteur, Jas., St. Paul, Minn. 1199. Dillon, Henry, San Francisco, Cal. 1234, 1235. Dubois, Charles Edward, New York. 1381. Faller, Miss Emily, New York. 1426. Flagg, Charles Noël, Brooklyn, N.Y. 1537, 1538. Gardner, Miss Elizabeth J., New Hampshire. 1559. Gault, Alfred de, New Orleans, La. 1569, 1570. Gay, Walter, Boston. 1614. Gilman, Ben Ferris, Salem, Mass. 1693, 1694. Gregory, J. Eliot, New York. 1796. Harrison, Thomas Alexander, Philadelphia. 1799, 1800. Healy, George P.A., Boston. 1801, 1802. Heaton, Augustus G., Philadelphia. 1835, 1836. Herpin-Masseras, Madame Marguerite, Boston, Mass. 1851, 1852. Hilliard, William H., Boston. 1853. Hinckley, Robert, Boston. 1859. Hlasko, Miss Annie, Philadelphia. 387. Jones, Bolton, Baltimore, Md. 2011. Knight, Daniel Ridgeway, Philadelphia. 2337. Lippincott, William H., Philadelphia. 2364. Loomis, Chester, Syracuse, N.Y. 2513. Mason, Louis Gage, Boston. 2556, 2557. May, Edward Harrison, New York. 2666. Mitchell, John Ames, New York. 2730. Morgan, Charles W., Philadelphia. 2738. Mortimer, Stanley, New York. 2739, 2740. Mosler, Henry, Cincinnati, O. 2741. Moss, Charles E., Charloe, Kansas(?). 2742, 2743. Moss, Frank, Philadelphia. 2760. Mowbray, Henry S., Alexandria, Egypt (of American parentage). 2780. Neal, David, Lowell, Mass. 2789. Nicholls, Burr H., Buffalo, N.Y. 2823. Obermiller, Miss Louisa, Toledo, O. 2878, 2879. Parker, Stephen Hills, New York. 2895. Pattison, James William, Boston. (Mr. Pattison exhibits also an aquarelle.) 2944. Perkins, Miss Fanny A., New York. 3014, 3015. Picknell, W.L., Boston, Mass. 3147, 3148. Ramsey, Milne, Philadelphia. 3177. Reilly, John Louis, New York. 3284. Robinson, Theodore, Irasburg. 3428, 3429. Sargent, John S., Philadelphia. 3525. Shonborn, Lewis, Nemora. 3578. Stone, Miss Marie L., New York. 3579. Strain, Daniel, Cincinnati, O. 3584. Swift, Clement. 3606. Teka, Madame E., Boston, Mass. 3695. Tuckerman, Ernest, New York. 3697. Tuttle, C.F., Ohio. 5850. Vogel, Miss Christine, New Orleans. 3879. Walker, Henry, Boston. 3891, 3892. Weeks, Edwin Lord, Boston. 3900, 3901. Welch, Thaddeus, Laporte, Ind. 3908, 3909. Williams, Frederic D., Boston. 3921. Woodward, Wilbur W., Indiana. 3923. Wright, Marian Loïs.

DESIGNS, AQUARELLES, PORCELAINS, ETC

4101. Berend, Edward, New York. 4182, 4183. Boker, Miss Orleana V., New York. 4187, 4188. Boni, Mrs. Marie Louise. 4370. Chauncey, Mrs. Lucy, New York. 4399, 4400. Clark, George, New York. 4462. Crocker, Miss Sallie S., Portland, Me. 4474, 4475. Dana, Charles E., Wilkes-Barre, Pa. 4578. Dixey, Mrs. Ellen S., Boston. 4586. Donohoe, Eliza, Buffalo, N.Y. 4686. Faquani, Miss Nina, New York. 4688. Faller, Miss Emily, New York. 4855. Goodridge, Miss S.M. 4867. Greatorex, Miss Eleanor E., New York. 4868, 4869. Greatorex, Miss Kathleen, New York. 4927. Hardie, Robert G. 4953. Heuston, Miss Emma L., Sacramento, Cal. 5384. Merrill, Mrs. Emma F.R., New York. 5396. Mezzara, Mrs. Rosine, New York. 5562. Pering, Miss Cornelia. 5914. Tompkins, Miss Clementina, Washington. 6008, 6009. Volkmar, Charles, Baltimore. 6015. Walker, Miss Sophia A. 6028. Wheeler, Miss Mary, Concord. 6029, 6030. Whidden, W.M., Boston.

SCULPTURE

6081. Bartlett, Paul, New Haven. 6136. Boyle, John, Philadelphia. 6276. Donoghue, John, Chicago. 6312, 6313. Ezekiel, Moses, Richmond. 6371. Gould, Thomas Ridgway, Boston. 6534. Mezzara, Joseph, New York. 6661, 6662. Saint-Gaudens, Augustus, New York —J.J.R.

A PLOT FOR AN HISTORICAL NOVEL

In Hawthorne's American Note-Book, among his memoranda, into which he conscientiously put every scrap and detail which might be useful in his writings, is an allusion to the "Grey Property Case," a lawsuit which held the Pennsylvania courts for more than half a century, and turned upon a curious story which will be new to some readers and may have slipped from the recollection of others. It belongs to the history of Mifflin, Juniata county, first settled by Scotch-Irish colonists in 1749. Two of the four men who claimed some land and built a fort had the name of Grey, and the narrative concerns the younger of these two brothers, John Grey. One morning in August, 1756, he left his wife and children at the fort and set out on an expedition to Carlisle. He was returning when he had an encounter with a bear, and was detained on the mountain-road for several hours. This probably preserved his life, for when he reached the settlement he found that the fort had just been burned by the Indians, and that every person in it had either been killed or taken prisoner. Among the latter were Grey's wife and his child, a beautiful little girl of three years old. Grey was an affectionate husband and father, and he was almost heartbroken by this catastrophe. Fired with longing for revenge, he joined Colonel Armstrong's expedition in September against the Indian settlement at Kittanning on the Ohio, with some hope that his wife and child might be found among the captives whom, it was rumored, the Indians had carried there. Colonel Armstrong's onslaught was successful: he succeeded in burning the village, killed about fifty savages and rescued eleven white prisoners. Grey gained no information, however, about his family, and, sick and exhausted by the disappointment and the fatigues of the campaign, went home to die. He left a will bequeathing one-half of his farm to his wife and one-half to his child if they returned from captivity. In case his child should never be given up or should not survive him, he gave her half of the estate to his sister, who had a claim against him, having lent him money.

The rumor was true that the Indians had first carried Mrs. Grey and her little daughter to Kittanning, but afterward, for greater security, they were given over to the French commander at Fort Duquesne. They were confined there for a time, then carried into Canada. About a year later Mrs. Grey had a chance to escape. She concealed herself among the skins in the sledge of a fur-trader, and was thus able to elude pursuit. She left her child behind her in captivity, and after passing through a variety of adventures returned to Tuscarora Valley, and, finding her husband dead, proved his will and took possession of her half of his property. Grey's sister was disposed to assert her claim to the other portion, but Mrs. Grey always maintained that her little daughter Jane was alive, and would sooner or later, after the French and Indian wars were ended, be released and sent back. In 1764 a treaty was made with the Indians enforcing a general surrender of all their white captives. A number of stolen children were brought to Philadelphia to be identified by their friends and relations, and Mrs. Grey (who in the mean time had married a Mr. Williams) made the journey to this city in the hope of claiming her little daughter Jane. Seven years had passed since Mrs. Williams had seen the child, who might be expected to have grown out of her remembrance. But, even taking this into consideration, there seemed at first to be none of the children who in the least respect answered the description of the lost girl. Mrs. Grey probably longed to find her daughter for affection's sake. But there was besides a powerful motive to induce her, inasmuch as she wished to get possession of the other half of her husband's property, which must otherwise be forfeited to his sister, Mrs. James Grey. One of the captive children, apparently about the same age as the lost Jane, had found no one to recognize her. Mrs. Williams determined to take this girl and substitute her for her own, and put an end to Mrs. James Grey's claim. She did so, and brought up the stranger for her own child. The Grey property thus passed wholly into the possession of Mrs. Williams. The girl grew up rough, awkward and ugly, incapable of refinement and even gross in her morals. She finally married a minister by the name of Gillespie.

Meanwhile, the heirs of Mrs. James Grey had gained some sort of information which led them to suspect that the returned girl was no relation of their uncle John Grey, and in 1789 they brought a lawsuit to recover their mother's half of the property. By this time endless complications had arisen. Mrs. Williams was dead: her half of her first husband's farm had been bequeathed to her second husband's kindred, and was now in part held by them and in part had been bought by half a dozen others. The supposed daughter, Mrs. Gillespie, had died, as had her husband, and their share had passed to his relations. It had become almost impossible for the most astute lawyers to find beginning, middle or end to the claims which were set forth. Plenty of evidence was collected to show that Mrs. Williams had substituted a stranger for her own child, and the decision finally rested on this, and the property was given up to the heirs of Mrs. James Grey. This did not happen, however, until 1834, when few or none of the original litigants remained.

The real little Jane Grey, so it was said, was brought up in a good family who adopted her, and afterward married well and had children, residing near Sir William Johnson's place in Central New York.—L.W.

THE MISERIES OF CAMPING OUT

My dear cousin Laura: So you are thinking about camping out, and want my opinion as to whether the spot we chose for our trout-fishing in June is a suitable place for ladies to go? I should give a decided negative. My brother takes his wife and his sister usually, although he fortunately left them at home last time. I think they must have to "make believe" a good deal to think it fun. I am certain that had they been with us they would have been forced to exercise their largest powers of imagination. We set out in fine weather, but entered the woods in a driving snowstorm, and enjoyed a forty-six-mile drive over a road that has, I must say this for it, not been known to be so bad for years. We came back in a pelting rain. We made our camp in a snowstorm, and the wood was wet and would not burn, and our tent was damp and would not dry. We fished in a boat on the lake, swept by cold winds until we were chilled to the bone and our hands were so stiff we could not hold the rods. My brother had a "chill" the first night in camp. I had indigestion from eating things fried in pork fat from the first meal until I got a civilized repast at Frank's house in New York. I was bounced sore. My nose was peeled by sun and cold. My lips were decorated by three large cold-sores. My hands bled constantly from a combination of chap and sunburn. I made up my mind if I ever got safely out of those woods it would be several years at least before I could be persuaded to enter them again. The scenery is lovely, but one cannot enjoy it. The fishing is good, but it is hard work, and my own opinion is that there is altogether "too much pork for a shilling" in the whole business. Talk about being "ten miles from a lemon"! Try forty-six miles from a lemon over a corduroy road. At first we had cold weather, hence no black flies or mosquitos. When warm weather came on again we had both of them, and our experience was that the snowstorm was preferable. The black flies made the day unendurable, and the mosquitos made the night as well as the day a wasting misery. We had them everywhere—in the hut, in the tent, at the table, on the lake, in the woods. No smudge or lotion discourages them; oil of tar is their delight, camphor they revel in; buzzing, singing, biting continually are their pastime. They are a galling curse—a nuisance which no words can describe. A lady might go through all this if she had perfect health and the endurance under punishment of a prize-fighter. Your party may travel all those weary miles and strike a fortunate week of pleasant weather, but you may, and more likely will, have a week when it will rain dismally straight through without stopping. We found, on looking up the statistics, that in an average season out of every twenty-two days eighteen will always be stormy, lowering and dismal. No, don't camp out unless you can make up your mind beforehand to every kind of discomfort and inconvenience to mar all that is beautiful and all that is pleasing. I speak of course of the localities I have known in my three several attempts. They say it is different in other parts of the region. But when you have plank roads and first-class hotels and all the modern conveniences, I don't call that going into the woods and camping out. The real thing is not very much fun except in the retrospect, when you can thank your stars that you got out alive. For the greater part it is a snare and a delusion. But if you still pine for the forests and streams and the free out-of-door life, I don't wish to discourage you, and you know I never give advice.

Your affectionate cousin, F.G.

UNREFORMED SPELLING

A little note has come to me which gives an entertaining glimpse of the average ability of a class. "John Stubbs × his mark" is obviously "low-watermark," but there are levels between that and high-school possibilities which we cannot often measure. The note is written on fair white paper and had a white envelope. The writer is American, the wife of a fisherman, and about thirty years old, though the handwriting is like that of the old ladies of our grandmothers' time. It is given of course, in the full sense, literatim, and is offered for the encouragement—or the despair—of the Spelling Reform Association. The little touch of pathos makes one read with respect:

                                June the 2.

Dear Madam

Will you pleas to enclose the 100 dollars in an envelope, so that the little boy wont loose it: the little dog was too years old the first of May: and my babey too the 24 of April, they have always ben together and he is verey intelegent indead and you can learn him eneything you would wish to fealing asuared he will receve everey kindness you have the best wishes of Mrs. Hattie –.

Perhaps it is well to add, the "100" means ten. The hero is a black Skye, long-haired, plume-tailed and soft-eyed. What his views were upon removal from the back alley of his youth to a well-appointed though by no means luxurious home he never said, but his investigation was comically thorough, winding up in dumb amaze at the discovery of himself in a long mirror. His experience of feminine humanity being limited to the variety that rolls its sleeves above its elbows and comports itself accordingly, he bitterly resented good clothes, transferred his affections to the housemaids, and only much coaxing and much sugar could win his heart for his new mistress.

"The little boy" had dubbed him "Penny," which hardly suited his silken attire and his little haughty, imperious ways; so, though the children will still call him "Penny-wise" and "Four Farthings," the mistress finds nothing less than "Pendennis" due to his dignity.—C.B.M.

OUR NEW VISITORS

I should like to have Mr. Burroughs or some of our naturalists write one of their pleasant papers and explain the mystery of the wood-thrush's advent in our gardens and upon our lawns. Until a year ago the wood-thrush was not one of the birds which ever raised its note in our pleasure-grounds. We heard them in the woods, and looked at them, when we intruded upon their privacy, with that sort of shyness with which we watch strangers. We knew their "wood-notes wild," and admired their plumage, but they did not inspire the same feeling as their cousin the robin. But a year ago all at once here was the thrush. Nobody could tell when he came, how he came or why he came. It seemed an accident, for there was but one pair: it was as if through innocence or ignorance, instead of building their nests in their old chosen haunts, they had wandered away and lost themselves in the spacious grounds of a gentleman's country-seat. They had no dismay, no doubts, however: they took possession of the lawn with the utmost boldness. They were rarely out of sight, hopping from morning until night about the turf, flying from tree to tree with their impulsive movements, more graceful than the robins. They were never silent, uttering perpetually their mellow flute-like cry and singing their simple but ecstatic melody.

That was last year; and this year, 1880, the thrushes are everywhere in this Connecticut village by the Sound. Their orange-and-tawny backs gleam in the sunshine from morning until night. There are numbers of them. Their manners are very marked. They have quite the air of conquerors. All the other birds yield them precedence, and they positively domineer over the pugnacious little English sparrow, who is content to keep in the background and watch his chance when feeding-time comes.

And of all the curious things about them, what seems most inexplicable is their tameness. They have no mistrust, but eye you with an intelligent, knowing look while bringing their young to feed within half a dozen feet of you. They perch on the croquet-arches in the midst of a noisy game. They sing directly over your head with the utmost spirit and vivacity, hardly ceasing all the forenoon, and again bursting out toward evening and maintaining their song until every other bird's lay is hushed in the twilight. White of Selborne would have delighted in such a freak on the part of these pretty gay strangers, who have left secluded swampy haunts, the deep dells where the blackberries twine and the daisies and clover blossom, for our close-cut lawns and elm- and willow-shaded nooks.—A.T.

LITERATURE OF THE DAY

Alexander Pope. By Leslie Stephen. (English Men-of-Letters Series.) New York: Harper & Brothers.

The interest of this series, which increases rather than diminishes—as one might have feared would be the case—with each succeeding volume, lies very much in the fact that the list of writers, almost as long and varied as that of the subjects, is a representative one. It comprises men who have won distinction in different departments—as novelists, historians, scholars, scientific expounders—but who here meet in the common field of biographical criticism and work together under the same limitations and conditions. Hence their performances give us not so much a measure of their individual powers as of the tone of thought and intellectual depth of the class to which they belong. However diverse their abilities and special fields of observation or research, their general range of knowledge, methods of study and ideas of life are very much the same. They are collectively "men of culture," as the writers of Queen Anne's time were "wits," and it is the qualities associated with that term, rather than any distinct gifts or characteristics, that are here called into play. Mr. Trollope's Thackeray was perhaps an exception—a black spot on the otherwise immaculate whiteness. In a different way the general effect would have been still more seriously impaired if Mr. Ruskin's co-operation had been invited. The outcroppings of a vulgar egotism might indicate a substratum necessary to be taken into account, but it would have been a clear loss of labor to follow the leadings of any eccentric vein. One might wonder at the absence of Mr. Matthew Arnold, the high priest of culture; but we have to remember that Mr. Arnold is solicitous to stand apart, that he holds up ideals which he is careful to inform us are not those of his time, and that he is fastidious in selecting a point of view where he cannot be jostled, with perspectives to which no vision but his own can accommodate itself. His culture may represent that of the future, but certainly does not typify that of the present.

Mr. Leslie Stephen, on the contrary, might very well stand as a type of his class both in its positive and negative qualities. He, more than any of his confrères, is a product of culture. Unlike the greater number of them, he has no special talent, or pet object of enthusiasm, or erratic tendencies. He is a trained critic, and is "nothing if not critical." His coolness is a real coolness, not the effect of any "toning down" for the occasion, as we may suspect to have been the case with Mr. Froude and Mr. Goldwin Smith. His knowledge is accurate, his judgments are sound, his taste is seldom at fault, his style is faultless and colorless, he never attempts what he is unable to do well and without any appearance of strain. Though he may have given more attention to the literature of the eighteenth century than to that of any other period, one feels that he might safely have been entrusted with the preparation of any volume of this series. It was probably from a sense of fitness, not by mere chance, that he was selected to write the initial volume, which pitched the key for those that were to follow, and that so far he is the only writer who has been called upon for a second contribution.

His task in the present instance has been much less easy and simple than that which he before undertook. In the case of Johnson he had only to select and condense from material so copious and authentic as left no question of fact or problem of criticism unsettled. Pope's career, on the other hand, after all the research that has been spent upon it, is full of obscurities; his character, while it invites, seems to evade, analysis; even his rank and exact position in literature cannot be said to be conclusively determined. It is needless to say that Mr. Stephen has been diligent and skilful in examining and summarizing whatever facts relating to his subject have been brought to light by recent or early investigation; that he weighs all the evidence with strict impartiality, and, when it is insufficient, is content to suspend judgment without resorting to conjecture; or that his views both on points of conduct and literary questions, if not marked by any striking originality, show clear and vigorous thinking and are stated in a way that provokes no impatience or captious dissent. The interest of the narrative is well sustained, and the general impression left by it that of a report made by an expert on documents that needed to be thoroughly sifted in order that the issues which had been raised might be succinctly set forth and fully apprehended. Further than this Mr. Stephen does not pretend to go. His report is preliminary, not final. No matter previously left uncertain is here determined. Instead of an added knowledge, we are only made more sensible of our former ignorance. Pope's figure, far from coming more distinctly into view, seems to have receded and grown more vague. Certain traits have perhaps been made more noticeable than before, but those essential elements of character which would define, explain, reconcile, and enable us to conceive the combination as a unit, have eluded observation.