ality than already exists. It would tend to develop new types within the range of the female sex. It would not make women like men, but it would shape new kinds of women. The mere fact of being political peers with men, no longer minors in a condition of legal subordination, would open to them a new view, and make a woman from her infancy regard the world with different eyes. It would develop a new type of women. No such chance has come to the world for nearly two thousand years. Christianity gradually shaped a new type of woman, and that was one of its most important effects. To produce a new type, some far-reaching innovation is necessary, and there is no sign of a movement which seems in any way capable of producing it except the insurrection of women. But when women's suffrage comes to be granted, as it assuredly will, it will be granted for some utterly trivial reason. Perhaps, however, it has been worth while suggesting that the question may have another aspect besides those which are usually regarded.

WE

THE NEW MOVEMENT IN HUMANITY.
WILLIAM JEWETT TUCKER.

Harvard Graduates' Magazine, Boston, October.

E are now in the midst of one of those greater movements of humanity which I can best characterize by saying that it is a movement from liberty to unity. It is the result largely, I believe, of the intellectual advance of the last generation bringing in new principles and methods, and another ruling idea.

Virtually this movement from liberty to unity has already brought us into the presence of a new humanity. The effect of such an inward movement is like that of the old migration of races. Change of thought produces new characteristics in a race, like change of place. That which makes a new humanity is another conception of it, great enough to change its aspect, and to modify, in some respects at least, its condition. Humanity is, at any given time, what the ruling conception of it is. Not that the fact ever corresponds exactly to the idea, but that the fact is always other than it would be if the idea had not come, or had come in a different form. The monotony of human existence, the living and dying of the generations, is thus broken at long intervals by the incoming of ideas directed toward, and laying hold of the developed mind of the race, reopening, it may be, the question of origin and destiny, and changing the measurements and valuations of human life. I speak of the thought which lays immediate hold of the mind of the race, affecting the estimate of itself; for the first direction of intellectual movements is quite as often away from as toward humanity. Other objects control the imagination or conscience: something pertaining to God or to the outer uni

verse.

The return of the intellectual life to humanity as the object of its thought, after its searchings after God, or its wanderings in the outer universe, is always hailed with an enthusiasm which cannot be misunderstood. The absence of the intellect at any time on other business, leaving human sentiments to the sense of obligation, or to the play of the sympathies, creates a veritable homesickness in many minds. Here and there a solitary thinker seems to find supreme repose and content, at the furthest remove from all that is human, freedom from its limitation, relief from its transitoriness; but the mood of most thinkers finds expression in the idea that "the firelight on the hearthstone at home is more attractive than the brightest star in the far-off heavens."

Now there is a return to-day of the intellectual life to humanity, as one of the chief objects of its interest; and not only this, but in its return it has brought with it a new working conception of humanity. The growing side of the social bond is not sentiment, hardly sympathy, but intellectual concern. It could not well have been otherwise. Our inheritance

from the immediate past is not passion, but method, mental processes, the habit of critical and speculative thought. There have been epochs of passion which have made history, but it cannot be said that the epoch from which we are emerging has been in any large sense an epoch of passion. It has included great wars, but not wars animated by the depths of that passion which raged in the French Revolution, or which exulted in the American and English Revolutions. These burned into their age, and illumined it with the flame of liberty. No! our direct inheritance is of a different sort.

The great business of our immediate predecessors, that which will mark their time in history, was not to arouse sentiment or passion to high uses, but rather to stimulate investigation, to increase knowledge, to invent hypotheses, to get at the method of the universe. What age ever invaded to a like extent the known realms of nature, or challenged with a like audacity the mystery of existence? By the logic of events, therefore, we are committed to the intellectual rather than to the emotional, or even to the purely sympathetic method of accomplishing the tasks which have fallen to us. Our predecessors have been trying to think out the problem of the physical world; they have left to us the endeavor to think out the problems of the human world. The stream of the intellectual life along which we are borne has broken-part flowing through worn channels into the physical world, part making new channels through which it may enter into all the regions of the human world.

And a fact which I wish to emphasize is this: that the great constructive force which we are taking over from the results of physical science, and which we are trying to apply to the current problems of humanity, is the sense of the organic, which, as we transfer it to things human, becomes the consciousness of a vital unity. Man has found a new place for himself in the physical world, with new partnerships, alliances, affinities. By the same method, and under the same impulse, he is now beginning to discover and realize new relationships to himself, each man to every other man, the individual to the whole. It is this sense of the organic, the inheritance of the last result of thought, and now permeating all our thinking, which is giving us the new conception of humanity, which is virtually giving us a new humanity. It marks the movement from liberty to unity.

SPANIARDS SEEN THROUGH ITALIAN

SPECTACLES.

PAOLO MANTEGAZZA.

Nuova Antologia, Rome, October.

OME may think it audacious for a writer to presume to

SOME

speak of the character of a people whom he knows only by running about their country in railways, and lodging in inns in which are collected people of every Nation. If this were all the means I have had of knowing anything about the Spanish people, I would freely admit that to attempt to pass judgment on them would be an act of fatuity on my part. My journey in Spain, however, was but the last complement of a long series of observations and studies made in Spanish colonies of America and Africa. I have lived long years in the Argentine Republic, in Paraguay, and in the vicinity of Peru. I have lived for months in the Canary Islands. I have shared my life for thirty-four years with an angelic lady who has the four quarterings in her coat-of-arms requisite for Castilian nobility. I have my sons, whose ethnic formula stands thus:

at home, and I went there to see whether the fathers were better than the sons, in order to ascertain, with the slowness of comparative psychology, how much Castilian blood flows in the veins of the citizens of Buenos Ayres and Paraguay. Having thus had exceptional opportunities of observing well and seeing justly, I may hope, at least, to be thought not likely to do injustice intentionally to the people of Old Spain.

When I visit a country for the first time, I go immediately to the principal churches and markets, in which I am able to get a bird's-eye view of the two poles of human life; of the ideal world and the real world; of the temple in which they pray and the kitchen in which they eat. I have seen nearly all the churches of Spain. In none of them have I happened to be at so opportune a moment as in the Cathedral of Barcelona. There I felt all the mysticism, all the eloquence of cold silence, all the impenetrable and obscure mysteries of the religious sentiment of the Spanish people. Its vastness, its silence, its deep shadows lit up by rays falling through immense polychrome windows, columns that seemed lost in the roof without beginning and without end, make a profound impression on the imagination. I comprehended how Spain came to produce á Santa Teresa, how the Inquisition came to inundate the country with blood, how Pizarro and Cortez with cruel fanaticism made the Cross of Christ an instrument of butchery and not of redemption.

Yes, Spain is mystical rather than religious, ascetical rather than believing. In England the feeling for the Divine is deep and tenacious, and has great influence over its customs, while in Spain religion is a mystery which its people do not discuss but feel.

As to the markets of Spain, there is no better type of them than that of Seville. All the venders, male and female, appear to be fortunate people, who stand by their stalls to amuse themselves, and not because there is any need of their doing so. There is an air of festivity about them, their jokes and their Jibes, which give you the idea that the money they receive for their wares is but a secondary consideration.

Nevertheless, when we speak of Spaniards in general, we include in one name three distinct types of people, who differ greatly from each other; I say three, because these are all with which I am acquainted, but there are other sub-types in the Iberian peninsula, not to speak of the Basques, who are a separate race, in regard to which ethnologists and anthropologists have not yet said the last word.

Although the Catalan is a Spaniard, because he lives in Spain, yet he has other blood in his veins, another speech on his lips; a psychological character altogether distinct from the Castilian and the Andalusian. These two form the great mass of the Spaniards, although each of them is a distinct type and sympathizes little with the other.

The Spanish pride (whether Andalusian or Castilian) has an altogether special character, and is easily distinguished in its exterior manifestations from English pride or French vanity. I do not speak of the Italians, because for centuries their national defect has been modesty. The Spaniard is not vain, not boasting, does not willingly insult a stranger; he is simply proud, but very, very proud. His pride is mute, is negative, is latent; but it is very great. This Spanish pride is both a virtue and a vice. A virtue, because it keeps his backbone straight, since it renders him incapable of doing many base things; but it keeps him poor by preventing him from performing lucrative labor. If it were possible to compile statistics of the lies and half-lies, which are told in the world every day and every hour of the day, I believe that the palm for sincerity would go to the Spaniards. This is due, not only to congenital repugnance to telling lies, but to pride. A lie means that you are afraid of the truth. By a lie you lose your own esteem, and do a dishonorable act. All such things a Spaniard abhors.

The Spaniards are certainly very lazy, and the eternal cigarette they keep in their mouth occupies a great part of their

time. They all smoke, and always. The coachman who drives you about smokes, and the porter who carries your bundle, the conductor of the railway, the priest in the sacristy. A barber of Cordova smoked while he was shaving me. In Spain they smoke much, but they smoke badly, unless they are rich enough to buy the delicious puros—that is, the cigars of Havana and Manilla. As for the cigarettes they use, they are infinite in their variety, but all alike in having an infernal smell, hardly endurable by those who have been accustomed to good tobacco. The patience with which the Spaniards tolerate this abominable tobacco is but a type of the patience with which they endure a bad government, general and municipal, and a thousand things which would cause a revolution in England or the United States.

To sum up in a few words the character of a Spaniard, I would say that he is a man who is mystical, eloquent, lazy, frank, proud, enamored of his own country, gallant, chivalric, patient, and somewhat cruel.

THE NORWEGIAN MODIFICATION OF THE GOTHEN-
BURG SYSTEM.
JOHN GRAHAM BROOKS.

Forum, New York, December.

[Mr. Brooks's article, as published in the Forum, is entitled "Brandy and Socialism," and is a careful review of the results of the Swedish and Norwegian experiments to regulate the liquor-traffic that grew out of the original undertaking in the Swedish city of Gothenburg. The readers or THE LITERARY DIGEST are familiar with the chief aspects of the Gothenburg plan. As established in Gothenburg and copied in other Swedish communities, its distinctive purpose is to extinguish private ownership and control of the traffic in spirits-to transfer that traffic, and the resulting profits, to the municipality. Under the Gothenburg plan, however, the retail traffic in beer is left almost wholly in the hands of private individuals.

The Norwegian modifications have not received so much attention. Their distinguishing feature, the application of the revenue to the encouragement of benevolent, educational, and similar enterprises, instead of the diminution of taxes, is regarded as justifying the claim that the Norwegian policy is less cbjectionable to temperance people than the original Gothenburg system, because it does not involve to so great an extent dependence upon the whiskey business as a fiscal factor.

Mr. Brooks, besides presenting the chief facts of the Norwegian method, gives some very interesting particulars of the consequences of discriminating in favor of the beer-trade.]

́O fair judgment of this whole matter [the Swedish Gothen

nesses.

ingly with certain limitations, dangers, and positive weakThe master-stroke lies in depriving the individual of profit; but the temptation to have much liquor sold is not therefore removed. We have only substituted a group selfishness for an individual one. It is still for the direct advantage of the taxpayers in the community to have the proceeds from liquor-sales as large as possible in order that taxes may be lower. I heard a rich Swede discourse at a sumptuous dinner over his bottle of champagne upon these "proofs of success.' "We raise our taxes without any difficulty," he said. It needs no illustration to show what a subtle and all-pervading force of temptation is here brought to bear upon the average citizen.. That the danger is real, not in theory alone, but in fact, no one will deny who has studied the situation. Is the selfish advantage of a collective body less dangerous than that of single individuals who compose the body?

"

The developments of this system in Norway best show what may be done both to meet new exigencies and overcome old defects. The Norwegians resolved to make the taxpayers' interest in the liquor-revenue as slight and indirect as possible. Instead of turning all the profits into the town treasury, they were used as far as possible to support and establish social improvements depending chiefly on voluntary support.

Norway, not with perfect, but evidently with large measure of success, is trying some of the most interesting of social experiments. Among the objects for which the liquor-revenues are spent we find aid for every new type of charity that could

not get town-help. A park is enlarged, baths are improved, total-abstinence societies assisted in their agitation, reformatories of educational character for the young have been constructed, even dwellings for workingmen have been built and sold to them, libraries have been started, children sent to the country for summer holidays, and primary students to technical schools. These are but a few of the objects helped by these funds. An English visitor has reported to the Times his satisfaction in finding how much artistic interests of the higher trade instruction are furthered by these means. He finds at the Copenhagen Exhibition skilled workmen who each undertook within six months after his return to write an essay describing certain improvements in his own trade as seen at the exhibition-such essays to be printed and circulated at the cost of the company. The grants to these objects are separately voted at the annual meeting of the shareholders, and so many people are anxious to help in this good work that the shares are over 100 per cent. premium," etc. Would anyone claim that these uses of profits from the liquor-traffic are not immeasurably more advantageous to society than the uses to which private profits are put by our dealers and rings?

Since 1871, fifty-one societies have been formed for the entire control of spirit-licenses. In five towns, by the action of Local Option, no license whatever has been granted, so that no

Chief of Prisons in Stockholm, shows that the dangerous increase of beer-drinking in Sweden is producing results in drunkenness of so serious a character as to imperil the entire temperance work. While punishments for drunkenness from spirits have steadily decreased in Stockholm and Gothenberg, drunkenness traced directly to beer-shops has grown “in erschreckendem Grade" (" at a frightful rate")—from 442 cases in Gothenburg in 1882 to 753 cases in 1889. Dr. Wieselgren considers the individual vender and the profits made by private distribution as the chief cause of this great extension of beerdrinking. He adds: “Nothing is clearer than that the wall which the Gothenburg system has set up against intoxication is in a good way to be broken down, not by spirits, but by beer."

III.

show the progress in the diminution of the home-consumption of ardent spirits, which has taken place in Norway in the period the societies have been established and operating up to Dec. 31, 1887, the latest statistical date at present available: Total Home-Consumption of Ardent Spirits. -12,300,000 litres. 5,200,000

Year. 1876. 1888.

The Gothenburg system rests on the assumption that for the future, over which we have any influence, the majority of people will have spirits in some form. It assumes that so long as this is the case, all Prohibition laws of absolute character will be defeated. It does not, therefore, try to stop the sale of spirits. Its only aim is the strictly practical one of so checking and regulating sales as to reduce to the utmost the social misery caused by intemperance. Thus beer, not being considered such cause, was not included under the term brandy," to which this legislation applies. It has been everywhere asserted that the heavier liquors would be driven out by a larger use of light wines and beers. Unless Bavaria may be a possible exception, none of the more northerly countries seem to furnish any evidence whatever of this ethic of the brewer and the wine-grower. Sweden and Norway present in this respect a curious spectacle which furnishes argument for both parties. Since the companies prevent all private persons from making money from the sale of spirits, the increase in the use of beer has grown widely and steadily. Is it in part because less spirits are used, or chiefly because innumerable people have a chance to make money from the sales, and thus spread the use of it? Whatever conclusion is drawn, an account of the enterprising ways through which the private venders bring their products to every home, shows conclusively that individual profit-making is a powerful factor in spreading the use of beer. This has brought to the front a new problem. Why should not beer also be included by the company, in order to turn these growing profits to public objects? Why should not the same relative improvement follow here as in the case of spirits? An idea may be gained of the extension of the beer traffic from the most recent Norwegian statistics:

defendant's brief.

IV. From official records and from tradition alike, we must infer that Shakespeare was low-bred and vulgar, utterly devoid of intellectual ideals.

Here is a sumary of the known facts in Shakespeare's life: 1564, April 26. Baptized at Stratford-on-Avon.

1582, Nov. 28. Licensed to marry Anne Hathaway.

1583, May 26. His daughter Susanna, baptized.

1585, Feb. 2. Hamnet and Judith, twins, baptized. In London. Satirized by Greene.

1592.

1593.

I594.

Dedicates the poem, Venus and Adonis, to the Earl of
Southampton.

Dedicates the poem, Rape of Lucrece, to the same. 1596, Aug. 11. His son, Hamnet, buried at Stratford. 1597. Purchases New Place in Stratford. 1598, Feb. 4. Returned on the rolls of the town as the holder (during a famine) of 10 quarters of corn.

1616, Feb. 10. His daughter, Judith, marries John Quiney.
March 25. Makes his will.
April 23. Dies.

The foregoing is a mere skeleton, but it is all that has survived the decay of three centuries. The Shakespeare of the biographers is not our Shakespeare. We prefer his dry bones to their tissues of conjecture and scandal, Aubrey and Dovenant, et id omne genus, we dismiss as beneath contempt.

Among the facts we find but two out of harmony with our conception of Shakespeare's character:

1. His withdrawal from London and consequent abandonment of intellectual pursuits, in middle-life.

The exact date of his retirement is unknown. It is evident that, wherever he was, he continued literary work, for the press did not exhaust his manuscripts of this period till seven years after his death.

2. His frequent litigation in the collection of debts.

We have no knowledge of the circumstances. There is no reason to suppose there was any injustice on Shakespeare's part in these litigations. Certainly he will not suffer on this account by comparison with Bacon, who, living beyond his means, was unjust to others, and (as the sequel gave terrible proof) unjust to himself.

V. The plays exhibit, on the part of the author, an intimate and thorough knowledge of classical literature, such as Shakespeare, uneducated, could not have possessed.

It is a gratuitous assumption that Shakespeare was uneducated. Education is a training of the mental faculties. It has nothing to do, except as a means to an end, with the acquisition of knowledge. Indeed, the less it concerns itself, while in process, with the acquisition of knowledge per se, the better. The pressure of what is claimed to be acquired knowledge in a university tends to unfit a young man for any original work. Bacon saw the danger, and abandoned Cambridge at sixteen, an act that made it possible for him to write the Novum Organum. Had Shakespeare been a senior wrangler, the world would to-day be without a “Hamlet."

We may be sure that, previously to his arrival in London, the poet had learned in the fields and woods, and in intercourse with his fellow-beings, all that was necessary for vigorous and sustained exercise of his intellectual faculties. He came as a child of Nature, with heart and brain charged to the full with richest impulses, for he had been dwelling in

the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the heart of man.

Is it incredible or even extraordinary that to such a one, in the early maturity of his wonderful powers, and fresh from the study of that great Book, the living pages of which are outspread before us all, the conquest of a few foreign languages and of the literature contained in them, should have been an easy and congenial task?

Here, then, is our Shakespeare, a man born, where nearly all the benefactors of the race have been born, in a cottage; descended from a line of husbandmen to whom the soil they tilled gave a silent strength; educated in a school where the mind unfolds as naturally as a flower; brought into contact with the world's literature at a time of life when curiosity and ambition have their keenest edge; a man beloved for the gentleness of his spirit, and revered for his genius. Surely, in the presence of such a chatacter, we are impressed with a new sense of the dignity of our common nature, and feel a fresh consecration for the duties that lie before us

HUNGARIAN GIPSIES, AND THEIR MUSIC. S. J. ADAIR FITZGERALD. Belgravia, London, November. TWITHSTANDING that the wandering tribes of people known in England as gipsies have no authentic records or quite reliable traditions of their own, there is little or no doubt now, that they were primordially natives of India.

NOTWITH

For centuries they have wandered as outcasts and aliens ; they have no recognized State, no laws, no civilization. As regards religion, they cherish the traditions of the fire-worshipers, but in Hungary they are nominally Christians of various denominations. The gipsies are at home only in the open air, and their country is the whole, wild, wide world.

In most countries the gipsies are tolerated, only because they cannot very well be got rid of, but in Hungary, if not actually welcomed with open arms, they have after long settlement,

become a recognized, and indeed a very important element of the community. It was the great musician, Franz Liszt, who first brought the gipsies of his native country, with their marvelous musical natures, to the notice of the public, and it was, as he acknowledged himself, their music which had such a marked influence upon the style that he adopted, and tended to develop that genius that made him famous. In return he wrote a history of his favorite people, and set many hundreds of songs depicting their life and legends, as written by the poets, including that magnificent picture of them by Lenan Die drei Zigeuner.

During quite recent years the Archduke Joseph, Commander of the Hungarian Honved Army, who has made the language, traditions, and habits of the gipsies his special study, has, as it were, taken the Hungarian gipsies under his wing, and albeit the literature concerning them is enormous, he has been enabled to throw much fresh light on the subject, and correct many prevalent errors. There are about eighty thousand gipsies in Hungary and some two hundred thousand in the adjoining Roumania.

The marriage-ceremony is in accordance with traditions. The bridal couple are married in church, but the civil marriage must precede to render it valid. The bride and bridegroom with their parents present themselves before the chief of the community, who delivers an oration of traditional custom, setting forth the duties and requirements of the married state; an earthen vessel is then broken, a great libation takes place, and the festival is over. Then the young people-the bridegroom being generally about fifteen, and the bride twelve-are considered married.

The chief has full power to annul any marriage, irrespective of Church-rites or civil action at law. He also punishes offenders against morality, and adulterers are beaten with a heavy stick. The family life is simple, and, generally speaking, happy. The father is absolute master of the house, and when several families live together they elect a magistrate with full powers.

And now let us turn to the music and musicians of Rommany Land.

The gipsies hold that it is in the open air only that music should be played, and so, in the open air they play, drawing from Nature's ever-youthful magic that elixir of life, that fiery dew, that seems to go whirling through the listener like a sweet poison as they send forth their bewitching melodies, The music of the gipsies is peculiar, but has something in common with the present music of Eastern countries. The leaning towards extreme divisions of the notes and scarcely perceptible shades, recalls the inharmonic scales of India and Arabia which have thirds and fourths of tones, whereas the Greeks established the diatonic scale, with the natural order of tones and half-tones, which has become the foundation of the whole of Western European composition and construction. Their scale is itself essentially different from ours. Gipsy music shows this characteristic wherever it is heard, and even when influenced by European music the essential character of gipsy music and mode of execution remain the same. Gipsy music forms an integral part of Hungarian national existence, and is never absent from any fête or celebration. Naturally the gipsies have given a new impulse to Hungarian music, at the same time the Hungarian melodies form a rich and easily convertible property for gipsy improvisations. These latter, however, always remain the right of the gipsies: they make them their own by their own original treatment.

As far back as the thirteenth century the gipsies were numerous in Hungary. About 1550 there was a virtuoso of the first rank called Karmann, who obtained great reputation and wealth by his playing on the violin. The eighteenth century, however, was the great era of their most stupendous successes in the art, and they received applause and distinction hardly inferior to that showered later upon the master Paganini. To

name the foremost, Michel Baran, called the " · Hungarian Orpheus," was victor in a contest of the twelve best violinists in the world. In 1772 Csinka Panna was the chief virtuoso. In spite of a slight deformity she had a very pleasing presence, and was distinguished by good manners, delicacy, and probity.

"

Their ignorance of notes has regrettably deprived us of these compositions which aroused such enthusiasm in the past. It was John Biharry, the most popular of all gipsy musicians, of whom Liszt said when Biharry was at the height of his fame (1822): I can yet recall the absolute magic about him and the melancholy carelessness which contrasted acutely with the apparent gaiety of his temperament." Biharry's band celebrated the triumphs of the Congress of. Vienna, and it was thus that gipsy music became introduced into the salons, and that, by degrees, the whole of Europe became familiar with its strange, eastern reproductions of rhythm and melody. He possessed in a high degree the gipsies' peculiar gift of quick appropriation and rearrangement of apparently strange and incompatible elements. A single hearing was sufficient to enable him to repeat a motif in his own inimitable manner, and therefore he quickly adopted Western music in his compositions. People danced in Pesth to the sound of his certainly mad minuets, waltzes, and quadrilles. But he wrote nothing down, so that all his works, too, are lost to the world.

Since Biharry, gipsy music has fallen very rapidly. It is essentially improvisation-a mysterious flower of nature's growth, which withered in the fierce glare of the light of civilization.

This word Muthgeberin arose among the German Knights of Prussia and Livonia at the time of the decline of the noble orders. The knights of those days called their chosen ones Muthgeberin, "giver of courage," giver of life." The word got in bad repute when the Lutheran ministers set themselves against knightly practices, which were forbidden by the rubrics of the Church. But a Muthgeberin remained then, as she is now, to Keller, as bright as a Spring morning.

But how is it possible that a man could produce such types in this century? Such whole-souled sensuousness, so much pure naturalism, such a Judith, a Meretlein, a Julia, etc.? Gottfried Keller stands alone, indeed! Remember the classicals." Schiller and his train of sentimental, pathetic dramatists down to our day veiled their female characters. Remove the veil and we see only a man disguised as a woman, somewhat like Lessing's dramatic female personæ, who are simply dialecticians in stays and black skirts. The poets of the last century, and those of the beginning of this, could not create a female character for the stage; they only placed their own character on the boards and rigged it up in female garments. It is so in the case with Kleist, too. The "Maid of Orleans" is a masculine hero, only a feminine edition of a male nature, masculinity degenerated, or a man dualistically set outside himself and placed in opposition to his own Kleinmuth. Though the times progressed, the woman of German poetry remained a superlative and exalted being, or, at any rate, that being from whom sprang the initiative in all erotic affairs. Think, for instance, of the imaginations of Gutzkow, Spielhagen, and Paul Heyse. The women were the Gracis descendia, intuitive intelligences, always indescribable, inexplainable, exalted, "the supreme women." Later this "exalted" nonsense became the favorite description of all the women of cheap novels. In Keller there is nothing of all this, not even a trace. He is free from all woman-worship, and his mind is not turned by sentimental

unreasonableness. In that respect he is outside and beyond this century. How is it that he is so different? How is it that the high-sounding words and phrases are not to be found with him? Why is there none of the bombast of the Sturm und Drang period in him? There is but one answer: He is, as far as I know, the only German author who has escaped the Rousseau contagion. What an honor that is to the man! How manly he must have been!

It was Rousseau who introduced the idea of woman's superiority, woman's creative genius and directing animus, or rather, her literary masculinity. It was he who demanded, that man should bow the knee to her. We learn from his "Confessions," that he had both physiological and psychological reasons for his demand. He brought the new, the non-French, the sentimental into literature. It was really the plebeians' thoughts. He was himself a "small man and a plebeian; but the " small" and the plebeians succeeded by the Revolution. Rosseau was not manly. He did not stand as a true man to woman; he stepped down from his natural position to something unnatural. He made himself a slave. He placed woman above man and raised the erotic to a sublime height. Thus came the "grand" woman into literature.

"

The awakening German literature took its inspiration from Rousseau. The literature of the L'ancien régime, which dominated Lessing's and Goethe's first products, was frivolous and sensuous, but not sentimentally distorted. Rousseau was the father of the sentimentally distorted. People went mad over Rousseau, they thought, wrote, and made revolutions à la Rousseau. Long after Germany had ceased to read his productions, his influence still held sway. There is something physiological in this. Ideas take root in the mind only, but impulses enter both mind and body. Like sound or light-waves they vibrate in almost indefinite lengths. When they are no more visible, they still vibrate and when their vibrations can no more be measured, they still exert their influence, for they have set other bodies in motion, which now again influence others and thus the waves go on almost indefinitely. Rousseau's ideas were small, only large enough for "small" people, but the impulses, which went out from him and the "small" people were enormous, for they acted physiologically. Gottfried Keller never came under the Rousseau spell. No idealization, no sentimentality, no distortions rule him. His female characters are true

to nature.

A

ART IN ITS RELATION TO INDUSTRY.
L. ALMA-TADEMA, R.A.

Magazine of Art, New York, December.

RT and Industry are in reality inseperable. One of the first things men attempted was the making of tools and weapons. Surely it was Art that discovered the most suitable shapes. The early stone implements show us to what degree even then, in the search for beauty and usefulness, the two were combined. Then came the making of receptacles and utensils. In all these things form was developed by means of Art and Industry. In the vessels, perhaps more than anything else, it is impossible to say where Art stops and Industry begins, and vice versa. The pots had to be handled, and so handles were added; and, then, marks were put upon them to distinguish the use made of the different pots and the different contents, which ultimately led to the most elaborate decorations. Then came the tent, the house-the beginning of architecture in all its branches, and consequently also, of the industry that goes with it-such as the making of nails, tools, and so forth. Out of construction sprang architectural forms, and it is most interesting to trace the constructive origin in architectural details.

Architecture developed and became more beautiful through refinement in the study of line and proportion, and reached in a way its highest point in the Parthenon at Athens. So Art has been directing Industry, and forming for itself