Bull would thrust forward his jaw as who should say, "Pooh, pooh. Don't talk to me about vanishing!"

Not long since there appeared a series of articles showing forth the commercial conquest of Europe by America. I did not read the articles; the illustrations made me sufficiently sick at heart. They represented glaring American dollar signs hung out all over the landscape from Labrador to the boot-toe of Italy, from Portugal to Siberia! Matter of apprehension, indeed, to the wanderer held at home!

You travelers who are setting out ahead of me, who are even now shouldering scrip and taking up staff for the pilgrimage, carry my message over the seas, - tell Europe to wait for me, pray Europe to sit down hard and hold on to itself with both hands to keep from vanishing, for I am surely coming, — I, the great American wage-earner tramp, tramp!

A PHASE of the rural life of New EngNew England, often touched upon by

land Visionaries.

local writers, surely needs further elucidation. No attempt to define the cause or even the nature of a wellknown feature of this part of our country seems adequate. There are not many villages or settlements in New England where there is not at least one person afflicted - if choose to use that you word with a sort of mild monomania, an unshaken belief in something which does not exist, either a remembering of what has never happened, or a hoping for what cannot come. One can hardly call this insanity, madness, for upon all other points the mind is clear and healthy. Some have styled these hallucinations dreams. But we wake from dreams, and I have never known a case of the kind referred to cured, or one of these illusions or delusions dispelled. I would not bring such a trite subject to these pages had I not met lately with two or three illustrations which seem to me somewhat significant.

For several years I have met at intervals in one of our northern hill villages a pleasant little country woman. Her neat, white cottage and gay little garden are well known to many summer boarders. She is a tiny creature, with twinkling black eyes and intelligent face, and I have always enjoyed my chats with her about her posies, her dog and cat, and her neighbors. For years I never saw in her the faintest sign of an unbalanced mind, nor did any of the country folk about seem to regard her as anything but sane and sensible. But one day when she came to bring me a bunch of "posypeas a name given to distinguish the decorative sweet peas of the borders from the homelier blossoms of the kitchen garden - she told me a story. I knew that she had lost two children under painful circumstances many years before, but had forgotten that she had a son still living. Some word of mine showed that I thought her childless, and she exclaimed, "Why, don't you know I've got a boy livin' way out West?" Her whole face shone as she went on speaking of that boy. In her story he was the best, the most devoted of sons, steady, industrious, prosperous, and, moreover, very religious. He was married, and had two children, little girls. These she had never seen, but they loved her dearly, and always sent her messages of affection in their father's weekly letters. "I wish I'd got their picturs here," she said wistfully. "I'd 'a' fetched 'em along if I'd thought; so pretty and cunnin' they be in their little white frocks, with their hair all slicked and curled. John says in his last letter Here, I'll read it to you." She put her hand to the bosom of her dress as if to draw forth the cherished paper, but withdrew it, saying, "No, I left it to home. But I can say it off every word." And she repeated slowly, as if from memory, “Mary Ann and 'Lizy'. that one 's named for me 'send their love to dear grandma. They keep a-talkin' about you, and every

She gave me many

single night when they say their prayers
they put in "God bless grandma and take
care of her." " "
The old woman's voice
broke, and the tears rolled down her face
as she quoted this.
homely details, till I seemed to know all
about this loving son and his filial piety.
It was a pathetic tale, but as she used
the broadest dialect of the region, and in-
troduced odd idioms of her own, I
many
often "smiled as well as sighed." When
she spoke earnestly of her daughter-in-
law, "John's wife, Libby Jane, the best
woman that ever breathed the breath o'
life," I was touched, and thought of
Jean Ingelow's lines, -

"A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my son's wife, Elizabeth."

But when she added that Libby Jane was a real Christian though she did weigh nigh on to two hunderd pounds, I smiled inwardly.

She went away, promising to bring the pictures and letters soon.

Now for my sequel: The poor woman's story was true only in one particular, she had a son living. But he was a scamp. He left her years before, and had never sent her a word since he went away. She heard of him from time to time, of his ill repute as a drunken, worthless vagabond. He had married, but had abandoned his wife after a few months. These were the hard foundation facts upon which was reared the airy, beautiful castle shown me that day.

Now, nobody can make me believe that this little woman was deliberately lying. That she thoroughly believed, at the time, all she told me, I cannot doubt. You would not doubt had you seen and heard her. The neighbors whom I questioned all gave her credit for being honest and truthful, and all pronounced her sane. "But," as one of them said in explanation," she's had a sight of trouble, and no child to be a mite of comfort, so she's just got to believing this about her son being good and all that, and we never let on it is n't so." Well, Well,

I hope no sincere but mistaken stickler for truth will ever let on to the poor woman that it is n't so. I have met her again and again since that time, but she has rarely spoken of her son. Once she met me, with a beaming face, saying, as soon as she was within hearing, "I got a letter from John last night, and I'm goin' to fetch it over." She never fetched it. Now, where and how did her story, with its many little details of her son's devotion and that of his family, come to the simple soul? She could not have manufactured all at any one time. It must have been the growth of years, all that the poor creature had heard or seen of filial affection being woven into it, bit by bit. It seems to me it must have begun with a yearning desire which at last became to her the firm substance of the "things hoped for."

I was driving in northern New England a few years ago, and stopped for the night at a small inn. When I went to my room I was at once struck by the odd look of a piece of furniture there. It was a low, benchlike table or tablelike bench, not a foot-stove, nor a shelf, but a little like either or both. Its decoration was the most striking thing about it. This was in gaudy color, a wild, flying, sprawling, bold, free creation. Was it a dragon or an archangel? Was it meant for a winged victory or the spirit of plague, pestilence, and famine? I cannot describe it; I never saw anything so weird as this - Thing - as it tossed its limbs or wings or tentacles about and flung them across that wooden background. I found myself saying over to myself some lines from an old hymn my father used to sing:

"And on the wings of mighty winds
Came flying all abroad."

When the landlady's little daughter came into the room I asked her what the strange object was. She answered glibly, but I could not understand her. The reply seemed one long, unintelligible

66

word. I repeated my inquiry. This embarrassed the bashful child, and rattling off the name again she fled from the room. But this time I made out the syllables of the strange utterance, crazy-man's-vision." And she spoke the strange name as if it was the wellknown designation of any ordinary bit of household furnishing, as one should say, a low-boy, or a settle, or a secretary.

As I passed through the hall on my way downstairs I glanced into two or three bedrooms, and in each I saw an exact counterpart of the article in my own room. Later I found one in the parlor and another in the dining-room. Then I questioned the landlady, an intelligent, sensible woman, and this is what she told me:

These objects were all made by a resident of the village, a man of some means, not obliged to work for a living. For years his one occupation had been the making and decorating these strange, useless things. They were all exactly alike, having upon each the same marvelous, spreading, flying as my informant described it, "sprangling creature. And it was his own name for these which the little girl had given me, crazy-man's-vision. He never sold one,

but gave them all to friends and neighbors. "He don't need money," the good

woman said, "being about the well-todoest man about here." And she added, "There is n't a house in the village, I guess, that has n't got at least one of these crazy-man's - visions." The man himself was said to be sensible and bright, esteemed by his neighbors, and often consulted by them in matters of business and village affairs. He had never shown the slightest sign of an unsound mind save in this one matter. But my landlady and one or two neighbors with whom I talked all spoke of his strange absorption in this occupation, and his intense admiration of the completed work. "I've seen him sit and look at one of those outlandish figures," said one old man, "by the hour, and I've heard him say that folks did n't know how splendid that picture was, but they would some day."

I.

He

THE historian of the future, reviewing an epoch preeminent in so many respects, will find the nineteenth century not, at least, far behind its predecessors in the odd character of its cults. will be, moreover, surprised to learn that one of the most bizarre of these, though compelled by nature to make its way without the assistance of logic, actually grew slowly but surely—until it had, in a few years' time, attained a size to be accounted for, if not an influence to be reckoned with; and that this eminently illogical proceeding took place without the appearance of anything that could be called a serious answer to the challenges made, even from the profession most directly attacked. For the criticisms of Christian Science, though numerous and in many cases just, have been, I think, far from satisfactory. And for this reason: that they have attacked superficial defects without due regard to underlying principles. Probably no characteristic of the Christian Science Bible, for example, is so obvious as its inconsistencies; certainly no book, making any claim to scientific consideration, so abounds in manifest contradictions. And yet we have not disposed of the question when we have pointed these out. Mrs. Eddy offers us a theory of knowledge and of evil; and her inconsistencies in elaboration affect the truth of neither the one nor the other. Jibes, too, make a somewhat poor substitute

Nor does the charge of fanaticism do away with all need of debate; for Truth has, in more than one instance, been done high service by this enthusiasm run riot. Jeopardizing accuracy in an epigram, we may say that history hibernates between honest fanatics. But for them, indeed, the world's thankless chores would fare but ill. Without under-estimating the value of a conservative position in both the theoretical and the practical concerns of life, or for a moment suggesting that any other position could, in the long run, surpass it in the majestic front it offers to fickleness of thought and action, it is important to remember that the people of one idea — the "dare-todo-right" men of the juvenile books have done, unattractive as their lack of mental equilibrium may be, some big things in the world. The really intellectual men of an age are, for the most part, conservative men; and often they are conservative to the extreme of prejudice. Anything iconoclastic risks being for them, ipso facto, beyond the pale of legitimate belief. Yet we must not forget how often in history the thoughtful and conservative men of a century have accepted and taught ideas which the conservative and thoughtful men of preceding years had dallied with only to scoff at them. Any striking work must expect striking opposition. Indeed, those

who wish to be effective in the world have, among the first and most discouraging obstacles they meet, the wooden men who hover on the safe edge of every conflict, their arms laden with wet blankets, finding the delight of their life in smothering enthusiasms. A long history has taught us that to condemn as a fanatic may be to canonize, provided, always, the enthusiast qualify for sainthood by his absolute sincerity.

Nor, again, is it any sure sign of falsity that Christian Science has been an intellectual failure. Mrs. Eddy has, to be sure, failed to make a strong brief for a confessedly weak case. She has elaborated a system which will be most readily accepted by those who are usually found at the other end of tangents. Yet truth may live in spite, not because, of its intellectual support. Indeed, many of the thought-movements which subsequent history has stamped as genuine advances of the truth have had at the outset to contend with the culture and refinement of their day, and to find their champions in the crude, the unlettered, sometimes even the coarse stratum of society. Luther, with his monk's training and one deep conviction, gave a new direction to history; while Erasmus, the aristocrat of scholars, refusing to soil his mind with theological squabbles, busied his more brilliant talents with the fine subtleties of thought, leaving the dark age to get its light as best it could. The humility of intellect and the insolence of intellect are phrases with a meaning in history. An emphasis of the moral reason and a relative neglect of the pure reason are no sure signs of weakness; and the logician has sometimes to follow the visionary.

In a word, then, it is the duty of the critic of Christian Science to detect some weakness in its basal principles. That duty neglected, he has accomplished nothing final, though he attack its obvious inconsistencies with never so logical an accuracy, or its fanaticism with never so

keen a humor, or its intellectual weakness with never so fine a scorn.

To gain anything like a clear idea of just what Mrs. Eddy intends the teaching of Christian Science to be is a most difficult matter; for it is never easy to analyze into a systematic grouping of principles, a maze of disconnected and contradictory statements. Mrs. Eddy's book is absolutely inorganic, what Lamb would call ẞißiov äßißλiov: a sequence of sentences characterized by chronic nou-sequaciousness. It knows nothing of outline, and is innocent of development. Yet certain points are made clear, even if not consistently adhered to. To begin negatively, — and this is an all-important point, because misunderstanding of the facts has resulted in the popular misconception to the contrary, Christian Science is not fundamentally a system of therapeutics, any more than it is fundamentally a system of salvation. Sin and Sickness are, by its dictum, in the same category; and the transference of emphasis from Evil in general to Sickness in particular, is an incident in the history, rather than an essential in the theory, of Christian Sci

ence.

The transition from philosophy to therapeutics is, of course, simple enough if you start with a certain kind of philosophy. Here is Mrs. Eddy's logic: Instances of the deceitful testimony of the sense-organs are common; therefore we can never trust what they tell us of the world without. But their testimony of that world being that it is existent, and that testimony being always false, the external world does not exist. Therefore, matter in general does not exist, and the conditions of matter must be illusions. Disease is a condition of matter, and is, therefore, an illusion; and the cure for it is the removal of the illusion. Therapeutics, evidently, is only secondary; and an attack in that direction, to be effective, must be aimed back at the philosophy. For Christian Sci