40 pathies. We may say of Chaucer's muse, as Overbury of his milkmaid, 'her breath is her own, which scents all the year long of June like a newmade haycock.' The most hardened 45 roué of literature can scarce confront these simple and winning graces without feeling somewhat of the unworn sentiment of his youth revive in him. Modern imaginative liter50 ature has become so self-conscious, and therefore so melancholy, that Art, which should be the world's sweet inn,' whither we repair for refreshment and repose, has become 65 rather a watering-place, where one's own private touch of the liver-complaint is exasperated by the affluence of other sufferers whose talk is a narrative of morbid symptoms. Poets 60 have forgotten that the first lesson

of literature, no less than of life, is the learning how to burn your own smoke; that the way to be original is to be healthy; that the fresh 65 color, so delightful in all good writing, is won by escaping from the fixed air of self into the brisk atmosphere of universal sentiments; and that to make the common marvellous, 70 as if it were a revelation, is the test of genius. It is good to retreat now and then beyond earshot of the introspective confidences of modern literature, and to lose ourselves in 76 the gracious worldliness of Chaucer. Here was a healthy and hearty man, so genuine that he need not ask whether he was genuine or no, so sincere as quite to forget his own 80 sincerity, so truly pious that he could be happy in the best world that God chose to make, so humane that he loved even the foibles of his kind. Here was a truly epic poet, without 85 knowing it, who did not waste time in considering whether his age were good or bad, but quietly taking it for granted as the best that ever

was or ever could be for him, has left us such a picture of contempor- 90 life as no man ever painted.

ary

'A perpetual fountain of good-sense,' Dryden calls him; yes, and of goodhumor, too, and wholesome thought. He was one of those rare authors 95 whom, if we had met him under a porch in a shower, we should have preferred to the rain. He could be happy with a crust and spring-water, and could see the shadow of his 100 benign face in a flagon of Gascon wine without fancying Death sitting opposite to cry Supernaculum! when he had drained it. He could look to God without abjectness, and on 105 man without contempt. The pupil of manifold experience scholar, courtier, soldier, ambassador, who had known poverty as a housemate and been the companion of princes 110

his was one of those happy temperaments that could equally enjoy both halves of culture, the world of books and the world of men.

'Unto this day it doth mine hertë boote, 115 That I have had my world as in my time!'

The portrait of Chaucer, which we owe to the loving regret of his disciple Occleve, confirms the judgment of him which we make from his works. 120 It is, I think, more engaging than that of any other poet. The downcast eyes, half sly, half meditative, the sensuous mouth, the broad brow, drooping with weight of thought, and 125 yet with an inexpugnable youth shining out of it as from the morning forehead of a boy, are all noticeable, and not less so their harmony of placid tenderness. We are struck, 130 too, with the smoothness of the face, as of one who thought easily, whose phrase flowed naturally, and who had never puckered his brow over an unmanageable verse.

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and Over the Tea-Cups (1890), all of which contain brilliant table-talk 'over every topic, fancy, feeling, and fact', and are full of humour and sparkling turns of phrase. His three novels, Elsie Venner (1861), The Guardian Angel (1867), and A Mortal Antipathy (1885), are all pictures of New England village life, and all illustrate the influence of heredity. His poetical work is strongly influenced by eighteenth century ideals and largely made up of occasional verse; but it includes at least two masterpieces: The Last Leaf (1836) and The Chambered Nautilus (1858).

Oh, indeed, no! I am not ashamed to make you laugh, occasionally. I think I could read you something I have in my desk which would 5 probably make you smile. Perhaps I will read it one of these days, if you are patient with me when I am sentimental and reflective; not just now. The ludicrous has its place in 10 the universe; it is not a human invention, but one of the Divine ideas, illustrated in the practical jokes of kittens and monkeys long before Aristophanes or Shakspere. How 15 curious it is that we always consider solemnity and the absence of all gay surprises and encounter of wits as essential to the idea of the future life of those whom we thus deprive 20 of half their faculties and then call blessed! There are not a few who, even in this life, seem to be preparing themselves for that smileless eternity to which they look forward, 25 by banishing all gayety from their hearts and all joyousness from their countenances. I meet one such in the street not unfrequently, a person of intelligence and education, but 30 who gives me (and all that he passes)

such a rayless and chilling look of recognition, - something as if he were one of Heaven's assessors, come down to 'doom' every acquaintance he met, that I have sometimes 35 begun to sneeze begun to sneeze on the spot, and gone home with a violent cold, dating from that instant. I don't doubt he would cut his kitten's tail off, if he caught her playing with it. Please 40 tell me, who taught her to play with it?

No, no! - give me a chance to talk to you, my fellow-boarders, and you need not be afraid that I shall 45 have any scruples about entertaining you, if I can do it, as well as giving you some of my serious thoughts, and perhaps my sadder fancies. I know nothing in English or any 50 other literature more admirable than that sentiment of Sir Thomas Browne: 'EVERY MAN TRULY LIVES, SO LONG AS HE ACTS HIS NATURE, OR SOME WAY MAKES GOOD THE FACULTIES OF HIMSELF.'

I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving. To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind 6

55

and sometimes against it, but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor. There is one very sad thing in old friendships, to every mind 65 which is really moving onward. It is this: that one cannot help using his early friends as the seaman uses the log, to mark his progress. Every now and then we throw an old 70 school-mate over the stern with a string of thought tied to him, and look, I am afraid with a kind of luxurious and sanctimonious compassion, to see the rate at which 76 the string reels off, while he lies there bobbing up and down, poor fellow! and we are dashing along with the white foam and bright sparkle at our bows; the ruffled 80 bosom of prosperity and progress, with a sprig of diamonds stuck in it! But this is only the sentimental side of the matter; for grow we must, if we outgrow all that we love.

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Don't misunderstand that metaphor of heaving the log, I beg you. It is merely a smart way of saying that we cannot avoid measuring our rate of movement by those with 90 whom we have long been in the habit of comparing ourselves; and when they once become stationary, we can get our reckoning from them with painful accuracy. We see just 96 what we were when they were our peers, and can strike the balance between that and whatever we may feel ourselves to be now. No doubt we may sometimes be mistaken. If 100 we change our last simile to that very old and familiar one of a fleet leaving the harbor and sailing in company for some distant region, we can get what we want out of it. 105 There is one of our companions;

her streamers were torn into rags before she had got into the open sea, then by and by her sails blew out of the ropes one after another,

the waves swept her deck, and as 110 night came on we left her a seeming wreck, as we flew under our pyramid of canvas. But lo! at dawn she is still in sight, it may be in advance of us. Some deep ocean- 115 current has been moving her on, strong but silent, yes, stronger than these noisy winds that puff our sails until they are swollen as the cheeks of jubilant cherubim. And 120 when at last the black steam-tug with the skeleton arms, which comes out of the mist sooner or later and takes us all in tow, grapples her and goes off panting and groaning 125 with her, it is to that harbor where all wrecks are refitted and where, alas! we, towering in our pride, may

never come.

So you will not think I mean to 130 speak lightly of old friendships, because we cannot help instituting comparisons between our present and former selves by the aid of those who were what we were, but are not 185 what we are. Nothing strikes one more, in the race of life, than to see how many give out in the first half of the course. 'Commencement day' always reminds me of the start 140 for the 'Derby,' when the beautiful highbred three-year-olds of the season are brought up for trial. That day is the start, and life is the race. Here we are at Cambridge, and a 145 class is just 'graduating.' Poor Harry! he was to have been there too, but he has paid forfeit; step out here into the grass back of the church; ah! there it is:

'HUNC LAPIDEM POSUERUNT
SOCII MERENTES."

150

But this is the start, and here they are, coats bright as silk, and manes as smooth as eau lustrale 155 can make them. Some of the best of the colts are pranced round, a

few minutes each, to show their paces. What is that old gentleman 160 crying about? and the old lady by him, and the three girls, what are they all covering their eyes for? Oh, that is their colt which has just been trotted up on the stage. Do 165 they really think those little thin legs can do anything in such a slashing sweepstakes as is coming off in these next forty years? Oh, this terrible gift of second-sight that 170 comes to some of us when we begin to look through the silvered rings of the arcus senilis!

Ten years gone. First turn in the race. A few broken down; two 175 or three bolted. Several show in advance of the ruck. Cassock, a black colt, seems to be ahead of the rest; those black colts commonly get the start, I have noticed, of the 180 others, in the first quarter. Meteor has pulled up.

Twenty years. Second corner turned. Cassock has dropped from the front, and Judex, an iron-gray, 185 has the lead. But look! how they have thinned out! Down flat, five, six, - how many? They lie still enough! they will not get up again in this race, be very sure! 190 And the rest of them, what a 'tailing off! Anybody can see who is going to win, - perhaps.

Thirty years. Third corner turned. Dives, bright sorrel, ridden by the 195 fellow in a yellow jacket, begins to make play fast; is getting to be the favorite with many. But who is that other one that has been lengthening his stride from the first, and now 200 shows close up to the front? Don't you remember the quiet brown colt Asteroid, with the star in his forehead? That is he; he is one of the sort that lasts; look out for him! 205 The black 'colt,' as we used to call him, is in the background, taking it

easily in a gentle trot.

There is one they used to call the Filly, on account of a certain feminine air he had; well up, you see; the Filly is 210 not to be despised, my boy!

Forty years. More dropping off, but places much as before.

Fifty years. Race over. All that are on the course are coming in at 215 a walk; no more running. Who is ahead? Ahead? What! and the winning-post a slab of white or gray stone standing out from that turf where there is no more jockeying or 220 straining for victory! Well, the world marks their places in its bettingbook; but be sure that these matter very little, if they have run as well as they knew how!

225

Did I not say to you a little while ago that the universe swam in an ocean of similitudes and analogies? I will not quote Cowley, or Burns, or Wordsworth, just now, to show 230 you what thoughts were suggested to them by the simplest natural objects, such as a flower or a leaf; but I will read you a few lines, if you do not object, suggested by look-235 ing at a section of one of those chambered shells to which is given the name of Pearly Nautilus. We need not trouble ourselves about the distinction between this and the Paper 240 Nautilus, the Argonauta of the ancients. The name applied to both shows that each has long been compared to a ship, as you may see more fully in Webster's Dictionary, 245 or the Encyclopædia', to which he refers. If you will look into Roget's Bridgewater Treatise, you will find a figure of one of these shells and a section of it. The last will show 250 you the series of enlarging compartments successively dwelt in by the animal that inhabits the shell, which is built in a widening spiral. Can you find no lesson in this?

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Built up its idle door,

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RANCIS BRET HARTE (1839-1902),

FRA

the son of a poor schoolmaster, was born at Albany, N. Y., but, in 1854, went to California, where he successively figured as teacher, miner, compositor, and newspaper editor. After serving in the Northern Californian Indian War (1862-63) as a Major in the Volunteers, he held several governmental offices. In 1870-71 he was Professor of Modern Literature in the University of California, and afterwards acted as U.S. Consul at Crefeld (1878—80) and at Glasgow (1880-85). From 1885 on he resided in London, where he died in his sixty-third year.

Bret Harte made a brilliant reputation by his stories and verse, which graphically depict the rough mining life in the Californian Sierras, and are remarkable for a marvellous vividness of description, tender pathos, and genial humour, and for a deep insight into human nature. Of his numerous prose-works may be mentioned the short stories The Luck of Roaring Camp (1868), The Outcasts of Poker Flat (1869), Miggles, Tennessee's Partner (1870), Mliss (1872), the novels Gabriel Conroy (1876), Two Men of Sandy Bar (1876), Maruja (1885), and the two series of Condensed Novels (1867 & 1902), in which he pun