Chapter XXXV (7)

These experiments and the experiences of daily life clearly show the truth of the assertion recently made, that the fact that an action has a purpose does not prove its connection with consciousness. If Evolution be correct, there is no difficulty in explaining the doings of the beheaded frog. It is a law governing nervous function that every time an action is repeated the tendency to repeat the action is increased, until at last habit becomes a governing law, and under certain circumstances actions, at first wilful, become unconscious. The first earth-born batrachian, perhaps, felt during the first hour of his existence some irritant on his leg and scratched it away. The next hour the process was again gone through, and so on until the frog was gathered to his fathers. His children found themselves a little more disposed to scratch than was their progenitor; and at last, so well accustomed did the spinal cord become to move the feet when the irritant touched the leg that the motions were carried out without waiting for the will to command, and the particular reflex movements which astonish the late-born human philosopher became a fixed habit.

In such movements as have been described are to be found the simplest form of _automatism_, the term being used to express the doing of actions which are performed for an end, but in which consciousness plays no part.

Having studied the spinal marrow, the physiologist, leaving this untouched, cuts off the upper brain of the frog, leaving the lower brain in union with the spinal cord, and unharmed. A frog so mutilated, sitting upon a leaf or tuft of grass in a swamp, would be apt to be passed unnoticed as anything extraordinary. He sits perfectly still when approached, but touch him and he leaps off vigorously. If an obstacle be in the way, he does not strike it, but springs above, below or to one side as circumstances may favor. If dropped into the water, he swims as well as ever, and if the water be gradually heated, he soon endeavors to get out. If, as he sits upon a board, the latter be quietly and not too suddenly moved, he does not jump away, but continually shifts his position, so as to maintain the centre of gravity in its proper place and to keep the normal erect posture. Stroke the back of the frog gently and he croaks responsively, as if the titillation called back pleasant memories of caresses received in some lover's tussock-bower. The answer to the stroking is so certain that, as suggested by Goltz, a chorus of brainless frogs might be obtained whose batrachian voices would delight the nerves of old Aristophanes with a triumphal burst of _Brekekekéx! koáx! koáx!_

Many other things will the brained frog do--almost enough to convince a superficial observer that the cerebral hemispheres are a luxurious superfluity to the physical and mental well-being of the average inhabitant of the swamp. But no. A little watching shows that for this seemingly intelligent creature past, present and future are alike blotted out. Let the frog alone and it sits motionless, buried not in the profundity of its thoughts, but in the abyss of its thoughtlessness. In the midst of abundance it starves--not, like Tantalus, because it cannot gratify its desires, but because it has no desires to gratify. It feels no hunger, or if it feels hunger seeks no food. A perfect automaton, it moves when touched, it croaks when stroked, it answers to a multitude of external irritations, but when untouched and left to itself it is as a lifeless clod until the sun dries it up and the winds blow it away.

The fish whose cerebral hemispheres or upper brain has been taken away has, like the frog, all conscious perception blotted out, but, unlike the frog, it is in perpetual motion. Stopping not for food, it rushes through the water, avoiding obstacles, but never ceasing its mad race until muscle-power or nerve-force fails because of excessive use and lack of nourishment.

The cerebral hemispheres can also readily be removed from birds. The pigeon so mutilated presents phenomena similar to those offered by the frog. He remains perfectly quiet, balancing himself readily on his perch, but with drooping eyes and sunken head, motionless so long as undisturbed. Move his perch, and he struggles to maintain equilibrium; fire a pistol near him, and he starts, only to fall back at once into his apathy; approach him in the dark with a bright light, and he gazes at the candle with a fixed stare, and sometimes follows its movements with his head; strike at him from the front, and he will draw back; pinch his toes, and he moves. It is therefore plain that he in a certain sense sees, hears and feels. Yet when perishing with hunger he never pecks at the corn which he sees placed before him, and if left alone dies. If, however, the food be placed in his mouth he swallows it eagerly, and by care can be kept alive for an indefinite period.

Removal of the cerebrum has been repeatedly practised also upon the rabbit and the guinea-pig. The mutilated rabbit sits motionless whilst undisturbed, starves in the midst of plenty, cries out with its peculiar pathetic scream when pinched, draws back when ammonia is put to its nostrils; in a word sees, hears, feels in the same sense as does the pigeon, and, like the pigeon, undisturbed remains passive until death. Tread, however, upon the rabbit's foot, and perhaps with a little scream it darts forward in a furious race. Once started, it, like the brained fish, does not stop until exhausted or until it has dashed its head against some obstruction, for, unlike the mutilated fish, it does not have the power of avoiding obstacles.

Such are the phenomena which in the various species of animals follow the removal of the true brain. Many of the acts are seemingly so purposive, and certainly so complicated, as to suggest that they must be conscious. It has, however, been shown that the fact that an act is apparently purposive and complicated does not prove that it originates in consciousness, and certainly in the brainless animal the past, present and future have been blotted out. There is absolutely no conscious memory, else the needed food would be taken when offered and spontaneous movements would occur. It is hard to conceive of consciousness without memory, and it is certain that no purposive act can be directed by consciousness when memory does not exist in any degree or form. If all memory be lost, though consciousness be preserved, that consciousness would not have the knowledge which should enable an animal to perform a complicated purposive act; nor could it acquire knowledge by experience, because each movement would be forgotten as fast as produced. The phenomena exhibited by the brainless animals must therefore rest upon some other basis than consciousness. The first point to be observed in looking for this basis is that movements never occur so long as there is no external irritation. The frog, the pigeon, the rabbit, all maintain the same absolute repose unless the impulse comes from without. The fish is a seeming, but not a real, exception to this rule. The frog, the pigeon, the rabbit, all are quiet on the land, because their surface is not irritated: the fish in the water rushes forward, because the play of the liquid is all the time irritating the exterior of the body. Throw the frog into the water, and it is seized with the madness of the fish; toss the pigeon in the air, and it dashes forward; set the rabbit once in motion, and its course also is a headlong fury. Placed under parallel conditions, these various animals exhibit parallel phenomena, and remain quiet unless disturbed by surface-irritations. The facts show that for action in the animal whose upper brain has been removed some external irritation must generate the impulse, which travels upward to a nerve-centre, and then brings into activity certain masses of nervous tissue (ganglia), which, thus aroused, send impulses out to the various muscles without the intervention of consciousness. Movements generated in this way are _reflex_ or _automatic_. In brainless[2] animals the reflex actions are not different in their essence, but only in their degree, from those performed in the frog with a cut spine; or, in other words, the acts originating in the lower brain are reflex and similar to those arising in the spinal cord, only more complicated and more apparently purposive.

The complexity of the reflex movements which are produced through the lower brain indicates a corresponding complexity in the apparatus concerned. In accordance with this, we find that whilst only one kind of nerves capable of carrying impulses from the surface to the nerve-centres enters the spinal cord, to the lower brain pass not less than five distinct varieties of afferent nerves, which carry impulses of as many different characters to the centres. Contact is necessary to arouse reflex movements through the spinal cord. The effect of a pistol report upon a brainless animal demonstrates, however, that its nerve of hearing is capable of carrying to the middle brain an impulse which stirs that centre to action. The brainless pigeon follows with its head the lighted candle: its nerve of sight is therefore capable of taking part in the creation of a reflex movement. The same bird will eat largely when appropriate food is placed in its mouth--an indication that the nerve of taste is also active. In a word, to the middle brain the nerves of sight, of hearing, of tasting, of smelling, as well as those of common sensibility, bear impulses which find their appropriate nerve-centres and give origin to complicated reflex movements. Partly in the number and variety of the afferent nerves, and partly in the number and variety of the nerve-centres crowded into the lower brain, lie the causes of the great intricacy of the automatic movements which originate in this region.

Of all the acts performed by the brainless frog, fish, bird or mammal, the most difficult to understand are those connected with standing, jumping, swimming, walking, flying, running, etc.; or, in other words, with equilibration, or the function of maintaining the equilibrium. Why does the brainless frog, the automaton, shift his position as the board upon which he sits is slowly tilted? There are apparently no new contacts of the skin: the motion is so quiet, so gentle, that it would seem as if there was nothing to produce irritation of the surface of the body so as to cause reflex acts. If it be true, as is asserted by some observers, that taking off the skin of the legs of the frog (a procedure which causes no pain, as the frog has no consciousness) prevents his shifting himself to maintain his equilibrium when his resting-place is moved, it is plain that the surface-irritations which cause the reflex alterations of position in the brainless frog originate in the skin of the legs and through the sense of touch. There are, however, certain facts which indicate that the impulses under discussion are not of so simple a character.

Before inquiring into these facts it should be observed that there is no movement which the uninjured frog ever performs to restore his equilibrium that the brained frog does not also make with equal promptness. Lay it on its back, on its head, twist its legs into unnatural positions, fix it as you may, so soon as released this unconscious automaton restores itself to its sitting posture. This being the case, it is plain that all the machinery of equilibration must be present in the mutilated frog, and must therefore be situated in the lower brain and its dependencies; and, further, that when the uninjured frog consciously attempts to maintain the erect position or to alter the gait, it simply calls into action the machinery provided for it in the lower regions of the nervous system. What is true of the frog is also true of the man; and the question naturally arises, What is the character of this machinery which the conscious will employs? This apparatus consists of two parts: first, certain exterior parts which are affected by disturbances of the equilibrium, and which when thus excited send up impulses to the lower brain; beyond, certain nerve-centres which when aroused by impulses derived from the external parts send back in a reflex manner impulses to the various muscles, which by their contraction produce motion or rectify the mistakes of position. Touch has much to do with equilibration: sight also has much to do with it. There is a disease of the spinal cord known as locomotor ataxia which destroys the sense of touch in the legs. A person suffering from this disorder is said to be ataxic. When a completely ataxic man puts his feet upon the pavement he feels nothing. Under these circumstances the man is unable to walk with his eyes shut. Even if the ataxia be not complete and some sense of feeling remain, the gait becomes so uncertain that progression is impossible. The pavement feels nearer or farther off than it is, and the result reminds one of his experiences in going up stairs in the dark and stepping out at the top in the belief that another step exists. Long before sensation is completely paralyzed the power of walking in the dark is entirely lost by the ataxic; for, indeed, the man, who has still as much muscular power as ever in his legs, may be unable to walk under any circumstances or even to stand unaided by a cane. The movements are vigorous, but uncontrollable: the legs fly about in all directions, refusing to obey at all the most strenuous efforts of the will.

The loss of the sense of touch in the skin is not, however, the sole or even chief reason that the ataxic man cannot walk. I once saw a patient who could march very well by night or by day, although the skin of his legs was so dead that a live coal would scarcely awaken it. The sense that is wanting in locomotor ataxia is that form of general sensibility which is known as the _muscular sense_; that is, that sense or feeling which tells the lower brain exactly how much a muscle is contracted, and when to urge it more, when to let it relax. This is evidently a guiding sense, of whose action we are barely conscious, but of whose existence there is no doubt. We do not feel a muscle contract ordinarily, but we do so when attention is directed to a muscle at work. Thus we judge of the weight of a body by the amount of force which our muscles must put forth to lift it. Any one can satisfy himself by a very simple experiment that the judgment of weight is not founded upon pressure on the skin. Lay the hand upon the table, place the heavy body upon it and try to judge of the weight. Again, whenever we endeavor to estimate accurately how heavy a body is, we raise it again and again into the air, evidently that we may feel the muscles contract again and again, and by repeated efforts judge how much of force they put forth.

The phenomena of ataxia are of great importance as corroborating the experimental proofs spoken of a few pages back, which show that walking is automatic and not simply performed by a conscious power of the will. Thus the ataxic may be able to walk with his eyes open, when he cannot even balance himself erect with his eyes shut. If the conscious will really did by a direct effort produce walking, it should be able to control the movements by itself, and the ataxic man should be able to walk although impulses from the exterior of the body no longer reached his lower brain. The man who turns a cog-wheel himself is independent of external power, but the man who directs a clockwork moved by a spring can only push back the stop and release the spring: if the spring be broken he is powerless. The impulses from the exterior are the springs of locomotion, and all the will can do is to withdraw the checks and call the machinery of walking into action. When the external impulses are no longer transmitted to the lower brain walking becomes impossible.

As already shown, general sensibility, including in the term the sense of touch and the muscular sense, is of prime importance in equilibration, but it is unquestionable that the nerves of the other senses carry to the nerve-centre impulses from the external parts of the body which are necessary to the highest development of the function. The partially ataxic man can walk with his eyes open, although he does not feel the floor, because sight replaces touch. The blind man, certainly, cannot balance himself so well as he whose eyes are perfect. We all know that the sight of a yawning abyss or the gazing upon whirling objects is prone to produce giddiness.

Some experiments made by the English physiologist Crum Browne show that there must be guiding impulses which are connected with equilibration besides those already discussed. The observer mentioned found that if a blindfolded man lies on a table with a movable top placed upon a central pivot, he can judge in regard to the movements lateral or vertical, even if they be made so carefully and slowly that the man is perfectly quiescent. The subject under experiment is almost always able to decide correctly not only the direction of the motion, but also the angle through which the motion has extended. It is possible that the guiding impulses under these circumstances originate in all parts of the body. Thus, when we lie with the head downward we are at once sensible of a feeling of fulness or pressure due to the gravitation of the blood and other liquids of the body toward the head. Position undoubtedly affects the gravitation of liquids in all parts of the body: the man whose forces are reduced by a low fever gets a congestion of the back of the lungs if he lies too long upon his back. It may be that this flow of fluids toward any unusually dependent part of the body makes an impression upon the nerves of touch, which pass through all parts of the organism, and that in this way peripheral impulses are generated which reach the lower brain.

On the other hand, the extreme delicacy of perception of movement which some persons evince when laid upon the table-top would seem to require a more delicate apparatus than that just spoken of; and there are many facts which point to a peculiar structure in the inner ear as having connection with equilibration. If in the frog the disk back of the eye be wounded deep enough to affect the nerve of hearing, the creature falls upon one side, entirely deprived of its power of balancing itself. Perfectly similar phenomena are seen not only in the mammals operated upon by the physiologist, but also in human beings, in whom wounds of the nerve of hearing, as well as ruptures of blood-vessels in the inner ear, produce a peculiar vertigo, with staggering and loss of power which have been mistaken for apoplexy. Some years since there was under my professional care a man who had been shot in the face, the bullet passing backward toward the inner ear. In this case there was complete loss of hearing on the injured side, and a peculiar giddiness, with staggering gait similar to that which follows hæmorrhage into the inner ear. The bullet had certainly penetrated into the aural region, and the vertigo was evidently like the deafness due to an injury of the inner ear. In the inner ear of all animals are the so-called _semicircular canals_, which are provided with membranous walls, and are filled with liquid. At the end of each of these canals is an enlargement known as an _ampulla_, upon which is a delicate expansion of nerve-tissue derived from the nerve of hearing. These semicircular canals are so placed that every motion of the head must produce disturbance of the liquid contents of at least one of them, and consequently alterations of pressure on the nervous tissue in the ampulla. The structure and peculiar arrangement of these canals and their contents suggest very naturally that they have some other function than that of aiding in hearing, and that they are in some way connected with equilibration--that they are, as it were, the spirit-levels of the body, and that by the shifting of their contents impulses are constantly sent up to the lower brain to direct it in the maintenance of position. This suggestion is confirmed by the results of experiment: in the pigeon and in some mammals the canals can be readily reached and divided. Such injuries to them are followed by great disturbance of the motor function of the animal, the nature of the disturbance being chiefly dependent on the seat and character of the injury. Repeated somersaults backward or forward, bizarre contortions, spinning around worthy of a whirling dervish, loss of the power of balancing on a moving perch or board, staggering gait,--these and other similar phenomena mark the disturbance of equilibration produced by wounds of the semicircular canals.

The balancing of the body which occurs even in standing, much more that of walking, running or flying, is the result of a very complicated series of movements, numerous muscles antagonizing one another by regulated contraction, so that just the right position may be secured. To preserve the equilibrium innumerable unfelt impulses are continually passing from the eyes, from the semicircular canals, from the various muscles employed, up to the nerve-centres in the lower brain, where they are, as it were, assorted and reflected back as co-ordinated or arranged impulses to all parts of the muscular system, and produce just such contractions as are required for the purposes of equilibration and locomotion. When a child is learning to walk it is simply educating this intricate machinery and developing its latent powers. Very much as the will of man aids a setter in developing the natural instinct to hunt, so does the child's will direct, check and in every way assist the complicated and delicate machinery which presides over locomotion. Perhaps a better comparison is to be found in the drill-sergeant training and educating his squad of men, who at first are utterly unable to obey his will, but who by his reiterated efforts are finally so trained that they move as one piece in strict obedience to his word or go through complicated man[oe]uvres without command. No wonder the child requires so many days of effort to get all its delicate machinery of walking, running, etc. so trained that it works smoothly and without conscious effort of the will. But as the training becomes more complete, the lower brain becomes more and more independent of the conscious will which resides in the upper brain or cerebrum, until at last the automatic action is so perfect that walking without consciousness is possible. Very many of my readers have no doubt in their younger days, when hard pressed with a lesson, walked to school studying as they went, their attention riveted on the book, their feet carrying them along the well-known pathway. Under such circumstances consciousness does not direct progression. Walking in the sleep is only one step beyond this. In the days of Antietam a friend of the writer's, worn out with the forced marching, whilst on guard as a sentinel, erect and soldier-like in posture, slept until the dark lantern of the relief officer appalled him with its sudden flash. Once after a long tramp I myself, laden with a heavy pack, nearing home, trudged in the unconsciousness of sleep along the oft-trodden road. In the cavalry raids around Richmond during our late war it was not very unusual for men and beasts to become so exhausted that both would go to sleep on the homeward night-march when they were straining all their powers to escape. The whole regiment asleep, horses staggering along in loose order, men swaying to and fro in their saddles, when there was a sharp turn in the road it was necessary to post sentinels to waken the passing ranks, which otherwise in the unconsciousness of sleep would have continued right on into bush or brake. Indeed, in one instance that came to my notice a horse with an officer on his back did in this way walk over a precipice some twenty feet high.

With the knowledge which we have acquired the feats of somnambulists are stripped of all mystery. The various accounts of these sleep-walkers vary in regard to the eyes being open or shut, and no doubt the fact also varies, the wanderer sometimes going about with open, sometimes with shut, eyes. In either case the sleeper passes from place to place because the automatic apparatus of locomotion is set in action by a dream, and is perfectly able to perform its function unaided by consciousness. I think it will be found that difficult somnambulistic feats are performed with the eyes open, or, in other words, with every unconscious sense in fullest activity. Most of us have read of, if not witnessed, the perilous walkings of somnambulists over housetops and in difficult places, and wondered that a man in his sleep should be able to pass such narrow ledges with safety. The fact is, that often in these cases the walker escapes _because_ he is asleep. The delicate automatic mechanism presided over by the lower brain when well trained performs its function with marvellous accuracy, while often in times of danger it is baffled by consciousness: fear seizes on its centres and paralyzes their efforts; giddiness whirls it into a fatal slip; conscious will hesitates in its selections and is lost. In the somnambulist all attempt at direction by the will is laid aside, and the clockwork moves along undisturbed, carrying its possessor through deadly peril that sickens him the next day as he looks upon the place over which he has passed and hears the story of his nocturnal wanderings.

Walking is only one of the numerous acts of life, and there are various other automatic actions, commonly mistaken for conscious and wilful, which originate in the lower brain. Enough has, however, been said to illustrate the way in which the lower nervous system works, and some of the more important of these automatic acts not now spoken of will naturally be brought into the foreground in another article, in which it is proposed to discuss automatism in the higher manifestations of passion and thought.

H.C. WOOD, M.D.

[Footnote 2: The term _brainless_ is here applied to animals whose upper brain has been removed.]

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

A SERMON TO LITERARY ASPIRANTS.

I know of no brighter, sprightlier, more sensible and energetic young woman than my fair cousin Sue, who having recently graduated at an eminent female college, is universally regarded by her fair companions as a miracle of learning. Sue has several times filled the poet's corner of the county newspaper of late, and the other day read a poem before her maiden friends which they unanimously pronounced good enough for the ----; whereupon Sue concluded the matter by furbishing up her rhymes and sending them to the editor of that popular magazine. Presently they came back to her enclosed in that ugly bit of printed paper with which every reader who has had any literary aspirations whatever is acquainted, in which the editor "regrets" that owing to the pressure on his columns, etc., he cannot "make the enclosed article available." Sue came to me with the printed paper in her hand, looking more disturbed than I had ever seen her.

"Cousin," said she, "you are a favorite with the editors: can't you teach me how to succeed with the flinty-hearted creatures? I've spent more time at school than you; my teachers assured me that I had literary talent, and ought to improve it; I take the greatest pains with my poems, and yet they always come back to me with only these printed regrets."

I took paper and poem and read both. "Sue," said I at length, "I want one of those long after-dinner talks that we used to have before you went to college; and if I probe a little deep, as I used to, you must remember that it is the 'galled jade' that winces."

Not long before I had been in the den of the managing editor of one of the great metropolitan dailies, and the conversation had turned on the mass of unavailable communications that flooded his office on the arrival of every mail. "What is the proportion of accepted to rejected manuscripts?" I inquired.--"One in a hundred," he replied, and continued: "It is strange what crude ideas people have as to the needs and capacities of a daily journal. For instance, in this pile of 'unavailables' are poems, sketches, love-stories, theological disquisitions, scientific treatises, book-reviews, political squibs, biographies and essays on civil and social reform--not one rising above commonplace, and the majority the veriest trash imaginable; and this is sent to us in the face of the fact, which ought to be apparent to all, that we have a regular corps of trained writers and correspondents."--"And who are the producers of all this matter?" was my next query.--"Well," said he, "an editor who is harassed by them three hundred days in the year soon gets to classify them correctly, I think. There are three great classes. First, the dilettante scribblers, young men and young women of elegant leisure, who think literary distinction 'very nice,' and plunge into authorship for a little pleasant excitement or in the hope of winning fame. There are often glimpses of talent in the productions of this class, and with hard work they might succeed; but they only skim the surface, and the result is that their work doesn't reach even the respectable. The second class are those who without special talent embark in literature, expecting to make a living by it. The third class I pity: it consists of those who have some literary talent and a desire to improve it, but who lack the gift of expression or the constructive faculty, or some other requisite, and are simply incapable of producing anything worth putting in print. It is this class of incompetents that put the greatest strain on an editor's sensibilities, for their articles are almost, but never quite, available. If I could reach these literary aspirants I would whisper in their ears that modern journalism is an organized, elaborated profession, and that every conductor of a better-class journal, whether newspaper or magazine, has a corps of trained writers at command who to literary talent add the experience of years, and whose contributions are generally satisfactory. Yet it by no means follows that first-class articles from outside correspondents are neglected: on the contrary, it is because an occasional nugget is found that readers are employed to examine their miscellaneous correspondence. There now!" he added, laughingly, "I have given you some points for a sermon to the scribbling public, and as you have plenty of leisure you ought really to improve the opportunity."

I told all this to Sue, adding, "I am no sermonizer--not, at least, since my lamentable failure at the obsequies of poor old Tabby--but I feel in the mood for a few plain, honest words on this topic this evening, and only wish I had a larger circle of hearers. I shall not take up any of the points mentioned by my friend the editor, for he has exhausted the subject: he has told you why many fail. I wonder if you have any idea what it costs the successful writers to win, because if you have not I have a friend who is entitled to be placed in this category, and I should like you to know what it cost him to attain his present position. He was eighteen when he discovered an aptitude for literary work by publishing a sketch in the village newspaper, and he was twenty-nine before he succeeded in gaining the slightest public recognition. These eleven years he spent in study, travel, close observation and literary labor, writing home letters to provincial newspapers whose editors published them readily enough, but forgot to send the author either money or thanks; and when he knocked at the door of the paying journals, as he did occasionally during these years, he was dismissed with the same politeness and complacency that you complain of. All this time, remember, he was living the life of a recluse, shunning general society and almost an anchorite as regards the sex: at the same time he was well aware that his friends, who were all engaged in the general scramble for wealth, regarded him pityingly as a man of a chimerical turn of mind, who, despite their efforts, _would_ continue to the end in the profitless pursuit of a phantom. Notwithstanding, he held to his purpose with a tenacity of will worthy of the old Scotch Covenanter from whom he descended. His final success, he has often declared, was owing to a lucky chance. When twenty-nine years of age he wrote a book, and succeeded in finding subscribers enough among those interested in his specialty to publish the work. There was evidence of talent in it which somehow attracted the attention of an editor in Massachusetts, conductor of a high-toned literary journal there, who wrote it up, and was followed shortly after by a New York editor of equal standing: this aided little in selling the book, but it gave him literary standing--a coign of vantage but little appreciated by young writers. Our friend next wrote a sketch half romantic, half historical, and armed with it gained a hearing from the editor who had favorably reviewed his book, and who in turn introduced him to the managing editor of his journal. This gentleman was induced by the author's representations to read the manuscript himself, was pleased with it and inserted it in his columns, together with many others of similar character; and as they were unique both in subject and style they were widely copied and commented upon, and placed the young author in the high-road to success.

"Now, Sue, it is possible that with equal exertion of will, perseverance and endurance you may win equal success; but suppose you do, will it pay? I grant there is no joy greater than that of the literary neophyte when his work first obtains recognition in quarters where recognition is worth something; but this is pretty nearly all there is to be gained in authorship. Ease, position and wealth are to be left behind when one embarks in it in earnest. I question if there can be found a civilized people that takes less interest in literature and literary workers than do Americans. Congress, that intensely practical body, has persistently refused to protect or encourage them, reasoning, evidently, that while the author may be a pleasing and graceful ornament to the kingly power, he is a useless appendage to a republic. Again, it is not for the interest of a publisher to encourage American authors, whom he must pay for their work, for he has the cream of English literature at his command without money and without price. As to the American public, it doesn't read books. It prides itself on being well read, I know, and it is in magazines and newspapers, but the figures in our publishers' offices prove incontestably that of our fifty millions of people between one and two thousand only are regular buyers of books. Forty years ago the case was different: then wealthy men bought books, as they now buy pictures, to encourage American art, and the genial sun of their patronage called out such men as Bryant, Cooper, Irving and Hawthorne. But under the changed conditions of our times what writers have risen up to fill their places? Brilliant magazinists, versatile journalists, skilled producers of the lightest of light literature for summer-resort consumption, I grant, but few distinctive names; for one might as well expect roses to bloom in January as a true national literature to grow and bloom under the blight of universal neglect and indifference.

"But I am carrying my generalizations too far: it is my purpose rather to narrate for your benefit some cases of individual hardships on the part of authors that have come under my own observation. My friend, the accomplished magazinist of whom I spoke, wins the wage of a grocery clerk; and as nothing could induce him to leave his profession--it is his life--he will continue to eat the bread of poverty all his days. I know authors who have fared far worse than this--who would be glad to exchange all the fame their books have brought them for money to meet the obligations incurred in their publication. I have a friend who was not a tyro in authorship when he came up to New York with a newly-completed book seeking a publisher. He first gave his manuscript to a leading publishing-firm, which, after keeping it three weeks for inspection, informed him in the politest manner that their reader did not advise them to undertake the publication. He then sought another publisher equally eminent, who in due time consented to take the book on the following terms: He would publish it, give it the benefit of the firm's imprint and push its sale through the trade for a certain commission, the author to pay the entire cost of the stereotype-plates when delivered, and also the cost of printing and binding the first edition. The publisher admitted the hardship to authors of this plan, but declared that since the decline of the book-trade it had been almost universally pursued by publishers as a means of ensuring themselves against loss. But, as it happened, my friend succeeded in making better terms with another publisher. In the course of their conversation the latter remarked that he could offset the author's experience with a much severer one, and proceeded to relate the following incident, which he declared to be strictly true: Not long ago a well-known lady writer made arrangements with a large New York publishing-house to publish a book for her. In return for the firm's name on the title-page she agreed to pay the entire cost of the plates and of the first edition of two thousand copies, and the usual per cent. commission for introducing the book, and in addition not to call for any settlement of accounts until the entire edition was exhausted. She did this the more readily as she supposed that the books would be sold in two or three months at the farthest. Time flew on, the book-trade was dull, and the last half of the second year was approaching ere fifteen hundred copies had been sold. She was in urgent need of the money, and to obtain it sent a buyer into the market who bought for her the remaining five hundred copies, paying the publisher his commission on them: in this way she secured payment for the entire edition.

"In these instances I have only hinted at the hardships endured by authors. I mention them not to excite your sympathy for the guild--although none are more deserving of it--but to show you plainly some of the lions in the way of the literary aspirant; and I regret that I have not in my audience the ten thousand brave, capable young men and women in our country who are looking forward to a literary career--some in the hope of winning distinction, and some as a profession to be used in bread-winning. Certainly, nothing will justify man or woman in embarking in it but the possession of the true _afflatus_, the rich gift of imagination, constructive power and expression which we call literary genius."

Happy is the preacher who sees the seed he sows fall into good ground! Not many days after our talk, happening to glance into the parlor, I saw Sue in suspicious proximity to Fred Alston, the young bank-cashier, and only last night she blushingly announced her engagement to him, assuring me that she was content to shine in a literary way only in the home-circle. Fred is a good fellow, besides being desperately in love with her, and, as he hasn't a particle of literary talent himself, will set all the more store by Sue's.

C. B. T.

PEOPLE'S HOUSES: A DIALOGUE.

MRS. PHILIP MARKHAM. PHILIP MARKHAM. MRS. FRANK BEVERLY. FRANK BEVERLY.

_Frank Beverly._ Now that I have a house of my own to furnish, I find that I have a strong reaction of taste in favor of the things I was used to as a boy. It is all very well to go into other people's rooms and see fantasies in sage and olive-greens and peacock-blues--to admire stained floors and French Turkey rugs, tiles and dadoes, decorated curtains and portières (which latter invention, by the way, I call a mere nuisance, always in the way, letting in draughts and depriving you of the comfort of closed doors). So I tell Ethel that for my part I don't want any of these things.

_Mrs. Beverly._ What Frank really wants he does not know himself: he is simply too bigoted and old-fashioned to move with the new currents, but all the time has nothing better to propose. We have bought the house, and have gone twice to look at it. I know exactly what would suit me. I should like to have it done up with inlaid floors and wainscotings--tiles in the fire-places, with brass fenders and andirons. The dining-room should be in oak and brown and gold--Queen Anne's style--the parlors in blue and olives, and the bedrooms in chintzes.

_Mrs. Markham._ That would be perfectly lovely. One may always be certain of your taste, Ethel.

_Philip Markham._ I confess I don't see any marvellous display of taste in furnishing rooms like everybody else's.

_Mrs. B._ But the general styles now-a-days are so thoroughly artistic!

_Philip M._ I suppose they are. I shall be very glad, however, when this ever-lasting refrain of artistic household furnishing is done with, and people settle down into their surroundings and really get to living. Then, after a little wear and tear, one may find comfort in these new houses: everything is too fine at present. Now, the other night at Gregory's dinner I sat with my back to the fine Eastlake fireplace and was scorched by the blazing wood-fire. I suggested to the servant that he should put a screen behind me: you know the house is full of Japanese screens. On my word, had I proposed burning the house down Mrs. Gregory could hardly have made more of it. She told everybody, as the most delicious joke, that Mr. Markham wanted to put one of her exquisite silk hand-embroidered Japanese screens before the fire! Of course I grinned and made light of it, but I was roasted alive and made almost ill.--Now, that would just suit you, Ethel, to have a fine house and then begrudge the use of it to people.

_Mrs. B._ But the idea of spoiling one of those lovely screens in that way!

_Philip._ What were they made for, any way?

_Mrs. B._ For decoration.

_Frank B._ I go into very few houses which suggest actual living. The drawing-rooms are Fairyland to look at, but might as well be a show suite in upholsterers' shops. I had a pride and pleasure in my mother's house which had nothing to do with the furniture: its charm and elegance linger in my memory like a perfume. There was no room which did not contain a low chair belonging to my mother, with a work-table and work-basket beside it. She always sat, a living presence, in either parlor, dining-room or library. I heard her once tell a lady-friend, "I always stay down stairs and arrange my occupations here, that I may be within reach of my husband and sons." You need not doubt but what the first impulse of any one of us on entering the house was to seek her. We were often all grouped about her at once. When I go into the lifeless, dreary houses of most women, I am amazed that they do not cultivate this habit of my mother's.

_Mrs. M._ There is a good deal in what you say. A set of rooms has quite a different air when the mistress habitually sits there. When I am making visits I have a sort of reluctance to ring the bell at houses where I feel certain of being forced to wait twenty minutes in a dim, empty parlor.

_Mrs. B._ But then a lady should be ready to receive her guests promptly.

_Mrs. M._ Of course she should, but, all the same, she never is ready save on her regular reception-days. She sits up stairs in her own room, and it seems absurd to wear a nice dress when she is not certain that anybody will come. She slips, naturally, into her wrapper in order to enjoy her fire and easy-chair, then when the bell rings has a hurried toilette to make.

_Mrs. B._ I shall make a point of sitting in my parlor.

_Mrs. M._ Those delicately-furnished rooms grow shabby and faded very soon when lighted and used freely.

_Frank B._ You see we come back to my notion that in order to live elegantly one must have a house furnished in a certain solid, old-fashioned way.

_Philip M._ Exactly. Nothing is more inelegant than being over-fine. True elegance consists in the fitting of our surroundings to our needs. There is no elegance in extravagant furniture, which must claim the first place in one's thoughts and forbid real comfort and ease. I don't spend many days at home in the course of the year, but when I am in the house Jenny has a bad time of it, and actually suffers for her chairs and sofa. I like to "glorify the room," as Sidney Smith used to say. I _will_ have light everywhere; I _will_ have the good of my furniture: if the fire is too hot to bear, I will put a screen in front of it; if the screen is too fine, it is direct impertinence to me: I consider myself more precious than the screen.

_Frank B._ Speaking of Sidney Smith, he had good views respecting household comfort. Every guest in his house was formally introduced to a particular easy-chair, table and reading-lamp in the parlor, and informed that said chair, table and lamp were to be sacred to his or her individual use so long as he or she remained.

_Philip M._ Now, that was a man's idea. Men are the only judges of what is pleasant and convenient in a house: women know nothing whatever about it.

_Mrs. M._ (sarcastically). Oh dear! no!--nothing at all!

_Philip M._ Women always want to save in essentials that they may waste in non-essentials. If a woman orders a dinner--that is, unless she has had a long and valuable experience under some sensible man's directions--she will stint you in everything except entrées and dessert.

_Mrs. M._ For shame! Women are so lectured, so tutored, about extravagance, that they feel the necessity of making their money go as far as it can. Most of us experience a positive sense of guilt when we assume a masculine prerogative and insist upon having the best of things.

_Philip M._ Indeed! So far as my limited experience goes--

_Mrs. M._ It is all very well to be sarcastic about us poor women, when you know all the time that you are dependent upon us for everything that makes a house pretty and cheerful. You men know just one thing about furniture--how to spoil it; and one thing about meals--how to eat them. As to knowing how to live, that is wholly a feminine accomplishment.

_Frank B._ I quite agree with you, dear Mrs. Markham, but then how few people do live! _Mrs. M._ My instinct tells me what you mean--that there is either vacuity or an air of bustle and haste about our lives; that we waste our strength upon what is not worth having when it is attained; that we are never satisfied with to-day, but are always longing for the morrow; that we surround ourselves with beautiful things, but fail to get the worth of them in improved ideas and culture.

_Frank B._ Precisely.

L.W.

"TIME TURNS THE TABLES."

Ten years ago, when she was ten,
I used to tease and scold her:
I liked her, and she loved me then,
A boy some five years older.

I liked her: she would fetch my book,
Bring lunch to stream or thicket--
Would oil my gun or bait my hook,
And field for hours at cricket.

She'd mend my cap or find my whip--
Ah! but boys' hearts are stony!
I liked her rather less than "Gyp,"
And far less than my pony.

She loved me then, though Heaven knows why;
Small wonder had she hated:
For scores of dolls she had to cry
Whom I decapitated.

I tore her frocks, I pulled her hair,
Called "red" the sheen upon it:
Out fishing I would even dare
Catch tadpoles in her bonnet.

Well, now I expiate my crime:
The Nemesis of fables
Came after years. To-day old Time
On me has turned the tables.

I'm twenty-five: she's twenty now,
Dark-eyed, pink-cheeked and bonny:
The curls are golden round her brow;
She smiles and calls me "Johnny."

Of yore I used her Christian name,
But now, through fate or malice,
When she is by my lips can't frame
Five letters to make "Alice."

I, who could joke with her and tease,
Stand silent now before her;
Dumb through the very wish to please--
A speechless, shy adorer.

Or if she turns to me to speak
I'm dazzled by her graces:
The hot blood rushes to my cheek;
I stammer commonplaces.

She's kind and cool: ah, Heaven knows how
I wish she blushed and faltered:
She likes me, and I love her now.
Dear! dear! how things have altered!

SEEING IS BELIEVING.

There is a prevalent impression that Spiritualism is on the decline, but proof to the contrary exists in the fact that no class of books commands such rapid and extensive sales as those which narrate Spiritualistic experiences and discuss Spiritualistic phenomena. Mr. Howell's last novel is one of the many instances of such popularity. To any one who can remember back about thirty years _The Undiscovered Country_ revives vanished impressions, renews old problems and brings up portraits of fervid enthusiasts of every age, all bent on getting an answer to the unanswerable. That was the time when all over the country a favorite social amusement was for a company to sit about a table of light weight in a dusky room, each with his or her fingers lightly pressed upon the board and just sufficiently touching their neighbor to form a connecting link. In this position the "spirits" were patiently waited for: known as they were to be inconsistent, capricious and elusive, their eccentricities were regarded as sacred. The least sound which disturbed the stillness was interpreted as a message from the other world: any inclination to rock on the part of the table gave evidence that the company was surrounded by invisible but powerful spiritual forces. Sometimes everybody waited in vain: the spirits might be invoked from their vasty depths, but would not come. Again, the faithful believers in the group were the victims of an outrageous hoax on the part of some one of the circle who could creak joints or tip tables. But there would come times when patient waiting and intense belief were rewarded--when tables walked, when floor, ceiling and furniture all resounded to startling raps. Then came the opportunity to leap the gulf from time into eternity--to measure distance and compare finite with infinite knowledge.

"Mr. A----," the medium would observe, "there is a spirit who wishes to communicate with you."

Mr. A---- would be thrilled with a sort of ghastly gladness. The angelic visitant was anxious to define his personality by the aid of the Spiritual alphabet, and turned out to be Mr. A----'s father. In life he had signed his name William C. A----, but after suffering the great change the middle initial had been altered into H. But what matter? Such trifling inaccuracies were not counted.

"Miss S----," the medium would say, "I see a spiritual form standing by you."

"Is it my mother?" miss would cry, the tears gushing to her eyes.

"I think it is. She is dressed in gray silk, with lace about her throat. Her hair is dark, and she wears some sort of ornament among the braids."

"Are you sure the hair is dark?" cries Miss S----, almost in hysterics. "My dear mother's hair was quite light, a beautiful golden."

"I see more clearly now," the medium would reply: "the hair is golden."

"A little gray on top?"

"Yes, a little."

"Oh, my mother!" Miss S---- would shriek, gazing beyond vision to find her.