that he had ordered the soldiers under arms for the sake of exercise and discipline. With much delay and many signs of distrust, the chiefs at length sat down on the mats prepared for them; and, after the customary pause, Pontiac rose to speak. Holding in his hand the wampum belt which was to have given the fatal signal, he addressed the commandant, professing strong attachment to the English, 10 and declaring, in Indian phrase, that he had come to smoke the pipe of peace, and brighten the chain of friendship. The officers watched him keenly as he uttered these hollow words, fearing lest, though 15 conscious that his designs were suspected, he might still attempt to accomplish them. And once, it is said, he raised the wampum belt as if about to give the signal of attack. But at that instant Gladwyn signed 20 slightly with his hand. The sudden clash of arms sounded from the passage without, and a drum rolling the charge filled the council-room with its stunning din. At this, Pontiac stood like one con- 25 founded. Some writers will have it, that Gladwyn, rising from his seat, drew the chief's blanket aside, exposed the hidden gun, and sternly rebuked him for his treachery. But the commandant wished only to prevent the consummation of the plot, without bringing on an open rupture. His own letters affirm that he and his officers remained seated as before. Pontiac, seeing his unruffled brow and his calm eye fixed steadfastly upon him, knew not what to think, and soon sat down in amazement and perplexity. Another pause ensued, and Gladwyn commenced a brief reply. He assured the chiefs that friendship and protection should be extended towards them as long as they continued to deserve it, but threatened ample vengeance for the first act of aggression. The council then broke up; but, before leaving the room, Pontiac told the officers that he would return in a few days, with his squaws and children, for he wished that they should all shake hands with their fathers the English. To this new piece of treachery Gladwyn deigned no reply. The gates of the fort, which had been closed during the conference, were again flung open, and the baffled savages were suffered to depart, rejoiced, no doubt, ta breathe once more the free air of the open fields. (1851) GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS (1824-1892) With Curtis we have, as in the case of Bryant, a New Englander transplanted to New York. He was born in Providence, R. I., and lived there until he was fifteen. Moving then with his parents to New York City, he served for a time as a clerk in a mercantile establishment, entered at the age of eighteen the Brook Farm Community in the capacity of a pupil, experienced every part of the famous experiment, and after its failure lingered about Concord for a time to be near Emerson, and then in 1846 went abroad to be gone four years. Returning in 1850, he published Nile Notes of a Howadji, 1851, The Howadji in Syria, 1852, and settled into what was to be his life-work. He was connected editorially first with The Tribune, then with Putnam's Magazine, and finally with the Harper's publications. In 1854 he took charge of 'The Easy Chair' Department which had been started four years earlier by D. G. Mitchell in Har per's Magazine, and during the next forty years made it a running commentary on American manners and American thought and life. After his death the department was suspended for eight years, but in 1900 was reestablished by William Dean Howells. Curtis wrote much and in many varieties. His Thackeray-like sketches, the Potiphar Papers, 1853, and Prue and I, 1856, are still readable, but the literary product that will preserve his name the longest is to be found in those easy, gossipy, delightful papers, the best of which have been republished in three series as Essays from the Easy Chair. In his later years Curtis became widely known as a finished orator and was greatly in demand. He became, too, a force in the political life of the times. His editorship of Harper's Weekly was distinctive and influential. Always was he in the forefront of all reforms and always was he a molder of public opinion in the direction of the highest ideals. DICKENS READING [1867]1 When, hereafter, some chance traveler picks up this odd number of an old magazine and opens to this very page, let him 5 know that the evening of Dickens's first reading in New York was bright with moonlight veiled in a soft gray snowcloud. The crowd at the entrance was not large. The speculators in tickets 10 were not troublesome, because all the tickets had been long sold. The police, as usual, were polite and efficient; and going up the steep staircase, and passing through the single door, we were all 15 quietly and pleasantly seated by eight o'clock. The floor of Steinway Hall is level, so that the audience is lost to itself; but it was easy for all of us to perceive, by scanning our neighbors, that 20 we were a very fine body of people. At least everybody who was present said so. We all remarked that the intelligence and distinction of the city were present, and that it must be extremely gratifying to 25 1 The selections from George William Curtis in this collection are published by special arrangement with Harper & Brothers, owners of the copyright. Mr. Dickens to be welcomed by the most intellectual and appreciative audience that could be assembled in New York. The details of the arrangement upon the platform, the screen behind, the hidden lights above and below, and the stiff little table with the water-bottle, are familiar. But as we all sat looking at them, and at the variously splendid toilets that rustled in, and fluttered, and finally settled, it was not possible to escape the great thought that in a few moments we should see at that queer, stiff table the creator of Sam Weller, and Oliver Twist, and Micawber, and Dick Swiveller, and the rest of the endless, marvelous company the greatest story-teller since Scott, one of the most famous names in literature since Fielding. When he was here before Carlyle growled in Past and Present about Schnuspel, the distinguished novelist,' and there were some who laughed. But the laugh was passed by. Look! There is a man, who looks like somebody's own man,' who scuffles across the stage and turns up a burner or two; and he is scarcely, out of the way when there he comes, rapidly, in full evening dress, with a heavy watch-chain, and a nosegay in his button-hole, the world's own man. when a wet sponge is passed over an old picture. Scrooge, and Tiny Tim, and Sam Weller and his wonderful father, and Sergeant Buzfuz, and Justice Stare5 leigh have an intenser reality and vitality than before. As the reading advances the spell becomes more entrancing. The mind and heart answer instantly to every tone and look of the reader. In a passionate outburst, as in Bob Cratchit's wail for his lost little boy, or in Scrooge's prayer to be allowed to repent, the whole scene lives and throbs before you. And when, in the great trial of Bardell against Pickwick, the thick, fat voice of the elder Weller wheezes from the gallery, 'Put id down with a wee, me Lerd, put id down with a wee,' you turn to look for the gallery and behold the benevolent 20 parent. His reception was sober. The whole audience clapped its gloved hands. Not a heel, not a cane, mingled with the sound, not a solitary voice. It was a very muffled cordiality, an enthusiasm in kid gloves. The Easy Chair, for one, longed to rise and shout. Heaven has 10 given us voices, brethren, with which to welcome and salute our friends, and if ever a long, long cheer should have rung from the heart, it was when the man who has done so much for all of us stood be- 15 fore us. But it was useless. The steady clapping was prolonged, and Dickens stood calmly, bowing easily once or twice, and waiting with the air of one ready to begin business. The instant there was silence he did begin: 'Ladies and gentlemen, I am to have the honor of reading to you this evening the trial-scene from Pickwick, and a Christmas Carol in a prelude and 25 three scenes. Scene first, Marley's Ghost. Marley was dead, to begin with.' These words, or words very similar, were spoken in a husky voice, not remarkable in any way, and with the English cadence 30 in articulation, a rising inflection at the end of every few words. They were spoken with perfect simplicity, and the introductory description was read with good sense, and conveyed a fine relish 35 upon the reader's part of the things described. There was nothing formal, no effort of any kind. The left hand held the book, the right hand moved continually, slightly indicating the action de- 40 scribed, as of putting on a muffler, or whatever it might be. But the moment Scrooge spoke the drama began. Every character was individualized by the voice and by a slight change of ex- 45 pression. But the reader stood perfectly still, and the instant transition of the voice from the dramatic to the descriptive tone was unfailing and extraordinary. This was perfection of art. Nor was the 50 evenness of the variety less striking. Every character was indicated with the same felicity. Of course the previous image in the hearer's mind must be considered in estimating the effect. The 55 reader does not create the character, the writer has done that; and now he refreshes it into unwonted vividness, as Through all there is a striking sense of reserved power, and of absolute mastery of the art. There is no straining for points, no exaggeration, no extravagance, but an instinctive and adequate outlay of means for every effect, and a complete preservation of personal dignity throughout. The enjoyment is sincere. and unique; and when the young gentleman before us remarks to the flossy young woman at his side that any clever actor can do the thing as well,' we congratulate him inwardly upon his experience of the theater. Perhaps, also, the flossy young woman is of opinion that any clever author can write as well as this reader. There is a serious drawback to this first evening's enjoyment, however, and that is that fully a third of those present hear very imperfectly. Nothing can surpass the air of mingled indignation, chagrin, and disappointment with which at severe lady just behind declares that she did not hear a word, and adds, caustically, that the spectacle alone is hardly worth the money. Not worth the money? Dear Madam, the Easy Chair would willingly pay more than the price of admission merely to see him. And just as he is thinking so another friend leans forward and says, in a decided tone of utter disappointment, Just let me take your glass, will you? I can't hear a word, but I should like to see how the man looks.' As the Easy Chair passes out of the door he encounters Mr. and Mrs. Sealskin, sailing smoothly and silently out. 'How delightful!' exclaims the inno cent and unwary Chair. 'Did n't hear But let them feel as they may, those 30 The interest was unabated to the end, and under the personal spell of the enchanter that old ill-feeling towards the author of American Notes and the cre- 50 ator of Chuzzlewit melted away. And why not? Do we not all know our Yankee brother of whom Dickens told us, who has a huge note of interrogation in each eye, and can we blame the Eng- 55 lishman for using his own eyes? Is not that silent traveler whom he saw still to be seen in every train sucking the great ivory head of his cane and taking it out occasionally and looking at it to see how it is getting on? If we had been a little angry with Lemuel Gulliver 5 or Robinson Crusoe, could our anger have survived hearing one of them tel: his story of Liliput, or the other the tale of the solitary island? After his little winter tour Dickens returned to New York to take leave of the American public. On the Saturday evening before the final reading the newspaper fraternity gave him a dinner at Delmonico's, which was then at the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fourteenth Street, formerly the hospitable house of Moses H. Grinnell. At this dinner Mr. Greeley presided, and that the bland and eccentric teetotaler, who was not supposed to be versed in what Carlyle called the Tea-table proprieties,' should take the chair at a dinner to so roistering a blade within discreet limits -- and so skilled an artist of all kinds of beverages as Dickens, was a stroke of extravaganza in his own way. The dinner was in every way memorable and delightful, but the enjoyment was sobered by the illness of the guest from one of the attacks which, as was known soon afterwards, foretold the speedy end. It was, indeed, doubtful if he could appear, but after an hour he came limping slowly into the room on the arm of Mr. Greeley. In his speech, with great delicacy and feeling, Dickens alluded to some possible misunderstanding, now forever vanished, between him and his hosts, and declared his purpose of publicly recognizing that fact in future editions of his works. His words were greeted with great enthusiasm, and on the following Monday evening he read, at Steinway Hall, for the last time in this country, and sailed on Wednesday. He was still very lame, but he read with unusual vigor, and with deep feeling. As he ended, and slowly limped away, the applause was prodigious, and the whole audience rose and stood waiting. Reaching the steps of the platform he paused, and turned towards the hall; then, after a moment, he came slowly and painfully back again, and with a pale face and evidently profoundly moved, he gazed at the vast audience. The hall was hushed, and in a voice firm, but full of pathos, he spoke a few words of farewell. 'I shall never recall you,' he said, gree that the Easy Chair feared to hear the appalling "sh! 'sh!' of the disturbed neighbors; it is a grossly immoral spectacle, and the subtler and more 5 fascinating the genius of Mr. Jefferson in the representation, the more deadly is the effect.' as a mere public audience, but rather as a host of personal friends, and ever with the greatest gratitude, tenderness, and consideration. God bless you, and God bless the land in which I leave you!' The great audience waited respectfully, wistfully watching him as he slowly withdrew. The faithful Dolby, his friend and manager, helped him down the steps. For a moment he turned and looked at 10 The house had been darkened, and as the the crowded hall. It was full of hearts responding to his own. There was a common consciousness that it was a last parting, and his fervid benediction was silently reciprocated. closed behind him. The drop had just fallen, and the scene on the mountains was about to open. clear, quiet, unforced tone of Rip, yielding, not remonstrating, to the doom that we all knew and he did not, fell upon the hushed audience, the eyes of men and Then the door 15 women were full of tears; while the orchestra murmured, mezzo voce, during the storm within and without the house, the tenderly pathetic melody of the 'Lorelei: ' Harper's Magazine, February, 1868. See,' she said, 'the earnest, tearful interest with which these boys and girls 30 near us hang upon the story. The charm to them of the scene and of the acting is indescribable. Do you suppose they can escape the effect? All their sympathy is kindled for the good-natured and 35 good-for-nothing reprobate, and when Gretchen turns him out into the night and the storm, they cannot help feeling that it is she, not he, who has ruined the home, and that the drunken vaga- 40 bond, who has just made his endearments the cover of deception, is really the victim of a virago. And when he returns, old and decrepit, and, we might hope, purged of that fatal appetite which 45 has worked all the woe, it is his old victim, the woman whose youth his evil habits ruined, and who, in consequence of those habits was driven into the power of the tormentor, Derrick von Beekman, who hands him "the cup that shall be death in tasting," as if it were she, and not he, who had been properly chastened and converted from the fatal error of supposing that drunkenness is not a good 55 thing. 'No, no,' said Portia, indignantly and eloquently, raising her voice to that de 'I know not what it presages, That will not from my thought.' This It was not easy to find in the emotion of that moment a response to Portia's accusation of gross immorality. There was but a poetic figure in the mind-the sweet-natured, weak-willed, simple-hearted vagabond of the village and the mountain touching the heart with pity, and, in the drunken scene, with sorrow. figure excludes all the rest. Its symmetry and charm are the triumph of the play as acted. Now the immorality can not lie in the kindly feeling for the tippling vagabond, for that is natural and universal. Indeed, the same kind of weakness that leads to a habit of tippling belongs often to the most charming and attractive natures, and the representation of the fact upon the stage is not in itself immoral. The immorality must be found, if anywhere, as Portia insisted, in the charm with which vice is invested. But is it so invested in this play? It used to be urged against Bulwer's early novels that they made scoundrels fascinating, and that boys after reading them would prefer rascals to honest men. If that had been the fact, the novels would have been justly open to that censure. But, tried by this standard, Rip Van Winkle, as Mr. Jefferson plays it, is far from an immoral play. The picture as he paints it is moral in the same sense that nature is moral. No man, shiftless, |