Chapter XXX: End of My American Tour

I had to play two days at Pittsburg, and then go on to Bradford, Erie, Toronto, and arrive at Buffalo on Sunday. It was my intention to give all the members of my company a day’s entertainment at the Falls, but Abbey, too, wanted to invite them. We had a discussion on the subject which was extremely animated. He was very dictatorial and so was I, and we both preferred giving the whole thing up rather than yield to each other. Jarrett, however, pointed out the fact to us that our autocracy would deprive the _artistes_ of a little festivity about which they had heard a great deal and to which they were looking forward. We therefore gave in finally, and in order to settle the matter we agreed to share this fête between us. The _artistes_ accepted our invitations with the most charming good grace, and we took the train for Buffalo, where we arrived at ten minutes past six in the morning. We had telegraphed beforehand for carriages and coffee to be in readiness and to have food provided for us, as it is simply madness for thirty-two persons to arrive on Sunday in an American town without giving notice of such an event. We had a special train going at full speed over the lines that were entirely free on Sundays, and it was decorated with festoons of flowers. The younger _artistes_ were as delighted as children, those who had already seen everything before, told about it; then there was the eloquence of those who had heard of it, etc., etc., and all this together with the little bouquets of flowers distributed among the women and the cigars and cigarettes presented to the men, made everyone good-humored, so that all appeared to be happy. The carriages met our train and took us to the Hotel d’Angleterre which had been kept open for us. There were flowers everywhere and any number of small tables upon which were coffee, chocolate, or tea. Every table was soon surrounded with guests. I had my sister, Abbey, Jarrett, and the principal _artistes_ at my table. The meal was of short duration and very gay and animated. We then went to the Falls, and I remained more than an hour on the balcony hollowed out of the rock. My eyes filled with tears as I stood there for I was deeply moved by the splendor of the sight. A radiant sun made the air around us iridescent. There were rainbows everywhere lighting up the atmosphere with their soft silvery colors. The _coulées_ of hard ice hanging down along the rocks on each side looked like enormous jewels. I was sorry to leave this balcony, and we went down in narrow cages which glided gently into a tube arranged in the cleft of the enormous rock. We arrived in this way under the American Falls. They were there almost over our heads, sprinkling us with their blue, pink, and mauve drops. In front of us, protecting us from the Falls, were a heap of icicles forming quite a little mountain. We climbed over this to the best of our ability. My heavy fur mantle tired me and about half way down I took it off and let it slip over the side of the ice mountain to take it again when I reached the bottom. I was wearing a dress of white cloth with a satin blouse and everyone screamed with surprise on seeing me. Abbey took off his overcoat and threw it over my shoulders. I shook this off quickly and Abbey’s coat went to join my fur cloak below. The poor _impresario’s_ face looked very blank. As he had taken a fair quantity of cocktails he staggered, fell down on the ice, got up and immediately fell again to the amusement of everyone. I was not at all cold as I never am when out of doors. I only feel the cold inside houses or in any place where I am inactive. Finally, we arrived at the highest point of the ice and the cataract was really most threatening. We were covered by the impalpable mist which rises in the midst of the tumultuous noise. I gazed at it all, bewildered and fascinated by the rapid movement of the water which looked like a wide curtain of silver, unfolding itself to be dashed violently into a rebounding, splashing heap with a noise unlike any sound I had ever heard. I very easily turn dizzy and I know very well that if I had been alone I should have remained there forever with my eye fixed on the sheet of water hurrying along at full speed, my mind lulled by the fascinating sound, and my limbs numbed by the treacherous cold which encircled us. I had to be dragged away, but I am soon myself again when confronted by an obstacle.

We had to go down again and this was not as easy as it had been to climb up. I took the walking stick belonging to one of my friends and then sat down on the ice. By putting the stick under my legs I was able to slide down to the bottom. All the others imitated me and it was a comical sight to see forty people descending this ice hill in this way. There were several somersaults and collisions and plenty of laughter. A quarter of an hour later we were all at the hotel where luncheon had been ordered.

We were all cold and hungry; it was warm inside the hotel and the meal smelled good. When luncheon was over, the landlord of the hotel asked me to go into a small drawing-room, where a surprise awaited me. On entering, I saw on a table protected under a long glass box, the Niagara Falls in miniature with the rocks looking like pebbles. A large glass represented the sheet of water and glass threads represented the Falls. Here and there was some foliage of a hard, crude green. Standing up on a little hillock of ice was a figure intended for me. It was enough to make anyone howl with horror, it was all so hideous. I managed to raise a broad smile for the benefit of the hotel keeper by way of congratulating him on his good taste, but I was petrified on recognizing the man servant of the Th—— brothers of Pittsburg. They had sent this monstrous caricature of the most beautiful thing in the world. I read the letter which their domestic handed me and all my disdain melted away; they had gone to so much trouble in order to explain what they wanted me to understand and they were so delighted at the idea of giving me any pleasure. I dismissed the valet after giving him a letter for his masters, and I asked the hotel keeper to send the work of art to Paris packed carefully. I hoped that it might arrive in fragments. The thought of it haunted me, though, and I wondered how my friend’s passion for the Falls could be reconciled with the idea of such a gift. While admitting that his imaginative mind might have hoped to be able to carry out his idea, how was it that he was not indignant at the sight of this grotesque imitation? How had he dared to send it to me? How was it that my friend loved the Falls, and what had he understood of their marvelous grandeur? Since his death I have questioned my own memory of him a hundred times, but all in vain. He died for them, rolling about in their waters, killed by their caresses, and I cannot think that he could ever have seen how beautiful they really were. Fortunately, I was called away, as the carriage was there and everyone waiting for me. The horses started off with us, trotting in that weary way peculiar to tourists’ horses.

When we arrived on the Canadian shore we had to go underground and array ourselves in black or yellow mackintoshes. We looked like so many heavy, dumpy sailors who were wearing these garments for the first time. There were two large cells to shelter us, one for the women and the other for the men. Everyone undressed more or less in the midst of wild confusion, and making a little package of our clothes we gave this into the keeping of the woman in charge. With the mackintosh hood drawn tightly under the chin hiding the hair entirely, an enormous blouse much too wide covering the whole body, fur boots with rough soles to prevent broken legs and heads, and immense mackintosh breeches in Zouave style, the prettiest and slenderest woman was at once transformed into a huge, cumbersome, awkward bear. An iron-tipped cudgel to carry in the hand completed this becoming costume. I looked more ridiculous than the others for I would not cover my hair, and in the most pretentious way I had fastened some roses into my mackintosh blouse. The women went into raptures on seeing me. “How pretty she looks like that!” they exclaimed. “She always finds a way to be chic, _quand-même_!” The men kissed my bear’s paw in the most gallant way, bowing low and saying in low tones: “Always and _quand-même_ the queen, the fairy, the goddess, the divinity,” etc., etc.... And I went along purring with content and quite satisfied with myself until, as I passed by the counter where the girl who gives the tickets was sitting, I caught sight of myself in the glass. I looked enormous and ridiculous with my roses pinned in and the curly locks of hair forming a kind of peak to my clumsy hood. I appeared to be stouter than all the others because of the silver belt I was wearing round my waist, as this drew up the hard folds of the mackintosh round my hips. My thin face was nearly covered by my hair which was flattened down by my hood. My eyes could not be seen and only my mouth, which is rather large, served to show that this barrel was a human being. Furious with myself for my pretentious coquetry and ashamed of my own weakness for having been so content with the pitiful, insincere flattery of people who were making fun of me, I decided to remain as I was as a punishment for my stupid vanity. There were a number of strangers among us who nudged each other, pointing to me and laughing slyly at my absurd get-up, and this was only what I deserved.

We went down the flight of steps cut in the block of ice in order to get underneath the Canadian Falls. The sight there was most strange and extraordinary. Above me I saw an immense cupola of ice hanging over in space, attached only on one side to the rock. From this cupola thousands of icicles of the most varied shapes were hanging. There were dragons, arrows, crosses, laughing faces, sorrowful faces, hands with six fingers, deformed feet, incomplete human bodies, and women’s long locks of hair. In fact, with the help of the imagination, and by fixing the gaze when looking with half-shut eyes, the illusion is complete, and in less time than it takes to describe all this, one can evoke all the pictures of nature and of our dreams, all the wild conceptions of a diseased mind or the realities of a reflective brain.

In front of us were small steeples of ice, some of them proud and erect, standing out against the sky, others ravaged by the wind which gnaws the ice, looking like minarets ready for the muezzin. On the right a cascade was rushing down as noisily as on the other side, but the sun had commenced its evolution toward the west and everything was tinged with a rosy hue. The water splashed over us and we were suddenly covered with small silvery waves that fell over us, and which when shaken slightly stiffened against our mackintoshes. It was a shoal of very small fish which had had the misfortune to be driven into the current and which had come to die in the dazzling brilliancy of the setting sun. On the other side there was a small block which looked like a rhinoceros entering the water.

“I should love to mount on that,” I exclaimed.

“Yes, but it is impossible,” replied one of my friends.

“Oh, as to that, nothing is impossible!” I said. “There is only the risk, the crevasse to be covered is not a yard long.”

“No, but it is deep,” remarked an _artiste_ who was with us.

“Well,” I said, “my dog is just dead. We will bet a dog of my choice that I go.”

Abbey was fetched immediately, but he arrived only in time to see me there. I came very near falling into the crevasse, and when I was on the back of the rhinoceros I could not stand up. It was as smooth and transparent as artificial ice. I sat down on its back holding on to the little hump, and I declared that if no one came to fetch me I should stay where I was, as I had not the courage to move a step on this slippery back and then, too, it seemed to me as though it moved slightly. I began to lose my self-possession. I felt dizzy, but I had won my dog. My excitement was over and I was seized with fright. Everyone gazed at me in a bewildered way and that increased my terror. My sister went into hysterics, and my dear Guérard groaned in a heartrending way: “O God, my dear Sarah! O God!” The artist was making sketches and fortunately the company had gone on up in order to get to the rapids in time. Abbey besought me to return; poor Jarrett besought me. But I felt dizzy and I could not and would not cross again. Angelo then sprang across the crevasse and remaining there called for a plank of wood and a hatchet.

“Bravo! Bravo!” I exclaimed from the back of my rhinoceros.

The plank was brought. It was an old, black-looking piece of wood and I glanced at it suspiciously. The hatchet cut into the tail of my rhinoceros and the plank was fixed firmly by Angelo on my side and held by Abbey, Jarrett, and Claude, on the other. I let myself slide over the crupper of my rhinoceros and I then started, not without terror, along the rotten plank of wood which was so narrow that I was obliged to put one foot in front of the other, the heel over the toe. I returned in a very feverish state to the hotel, and the artist brought me the droll sketches he had made.

After a light luncheon I was to start again by the train which had been waiting for us twenty minutes. All the others had taken their places some time before. I was leaving without having seen the rapids in which my poor Pittsburg friend met his death.

Our great voyage was drawing toward its close. I say great voyage for it was my first one. It lasted for eight months. The voyages I have since undertaken were always from eleven to sixteen months.

From Buffalo we went to Rochester, Utica, Syracuse, Albany, Troy, Worcester, Providence, Newark, making a short stay in Washington, an admirable city, but which at that time had a sadness about it that affected one’s nerves. It was the last large city I visited.

After two admirable performances and a supper at the Embassy we left for Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York, where our tour was to come to a close. In that city I gave a grand matinée at the general demand of the _artistes_ of New York. The piece chosen was the “Princesse Georges.”

Oh, what a fine and never-to-be-forgotten performance! Everything was applauded by the _artistes_. Nothing escaped the particular state of mind of that audience made up of actors and actresses, painters and sculptors. At the end of the play a gold hair comb was handed to me on which was engraved the names of a great number of persons present. From Salvini, I received a pretty casket of lapis, and from Mary Anderson, at that time in the striking beauty of her nineteen years, a small medal bearing a forget-me-not in turquoise. In my dressing-room I counted one hundred and thirty bouquets.

That evening we gave our last performance with “La Dame aux Camélias.” I had to return and bow to the public fourteen times.

Then I had a moment’s stupefaction, for in the tempest of cries and bravos, I heard a shrill cry shouted by thousands of mouths and which I did not in the least understand. After each recall I asked in the wings what the meaning of the word was that struck on my ears like a dreadful sneeze, beginning again time after time. Jarrett appeared and enlightened me. “They are calling for a speech.” I looked at him abashed.... “Yes, they want you to make them a little speech.” “Ah, no!” I exclaimed, as I again went on to the stage to make a bow. “No.” And in making my bow to the public I murmured: “I cannot speak. But I can tell you, thank you, with all my heart!” It was in the midst of a thunder of applause, underscored with “Hip! hip! hurrah! Vive la France!” that I left the theater.

On Wednesday, the 4th of May, I embarked on the same transatlantic steamer, _L’Amérique_, the phantom vessel to which my journey had brought good luck. But it had no longer the same commander. The new one’s name was Santelli. He was as little and fair complexioned as the other was big and dark. But he was as charming and a nice conversationalist.

My cabin had been newly fitted up, and this time the woodwork had been covered in sky-blue material. On going on the steamer I turned toward the friendly crowd and threw them a last adieu. “_Au revoir_,” they shouted back.

I then went toward my cabin. Standing at the door in an elegant iron-gray suit, wearing pointed shoes, hat in the latest style, and wearing dogskin gloves, stood Henry Smith, the showman of whales. I gave a cry like that of a wild beast. He kept his joyful smile and held out a jewel casket which I took with the object of throwing it into the sea through the open porthole. But Jarrett caught hold of my arm and took possession of the casket which he opened. “It is magnificent!” he exclaimed, but I had closed my eyes. I stopped up my ears and cried out to the man: “Go away! you knave! you brute! go away. I hope you will die under atrocious suffering! Go away!”

I half opened my eyes. He had gone. Jarrett wanted to talk to me about the present. I would not hear anything about it.

“Ah, for God’s sake, Mr. Jarrett, leave me alone! Since this jewel is so fine, give it to your daughter and do not speak to me about it any more.” And this was done.

The evening before my departure from America I had received a long cablegram signed Grosos, President of the Life Saving Society at Hâvre, asking me to give a performance for the benefit of the families of the society upon my arrival. I accepted with unspeakable joy. On regaining my native land I should assist in drying tears.

After the decks had been cleared for departure, our ship oscillated slightly, and we left New York on Thursday, the 5th of May.

Detesting as I usually do sea traveling I set out this time with a light heart and smiling face, disdainful of the horrible discomfort caused by the voyage.

We had not left New York forty-eight hours when the boat stopped. I sprang out of my berth and was soon on deck fearing some accident to our boat, _Phantom_, as we had nicknamed it. In front of us a French boat had raised, lowered, and again raised its small flags. The captain, who had given the replies to these signals, sent for me and explained to me the working and the orthography of the signals. I could not remember anything he told me, I must confess to my shame. A small boat was lowered from the ship opposite us and two sailors and a young man, very poorly dressed and with a pale face, embarked. Our captain had the steps lowered, the small boat accosted, and the young man escorted by two sailors came on deck. One of them handed a letter to the officer who was waiting at the top of the steps. He read it and, looking at the young man, he said quietly, “Follow me.” The small boat and the sailors returned to the ship, the boat was hoisted, the engine shrieked, and after the usual salute the two ships continued their way. The unfortunate young man was brought before the captain. I went away after asking the captain to tell me afterwards what was the meaning of it all unless it should prove to be something which had to be kept secret.

The captain came himself and told me some time after. The young man was a poor artist, a wood engraver who had managed to slip aboard a steamer bound for New York. He had not a cent of money for his passage, as he had not even been able to pay for an immigrant’s ticket. He had hoped to get through without being noticed, hiding under the bales of various kinds. He had, however, been taken ill and it was this illness which had betrayed him. Shivering with cold and feverish he had talked aloud in his sleep, uttering the most incoherent words. He was taken into the infirmary and when there he had confessed everything. The captain undertook to make him accept what I sent him for his journey to America. The story soon spread and other passengers made a collection so that the young engraver found himself very soon in possession of a fortune of £48. Three days later he brought me a little wooden box, manufactured, carved, and engraved by him. This little box is now nearly full of petals of flowers for every year on the 7th of May I receive a small bouquet of flowers with these words, always the same ones, year after year: “Gratitude and Devotion.” I always put the petals of the flowers into the little box, but for the last seven years I have not received any. Is it forgetfulness or death which has caused the artist to discontinue this graceful little token of gratitude? I have no idea, but the sight of the box always gives me a vague feeling of sadness as forgetfulness and death are the most faithful companions of the human being. Forgetfulness takes up its abode in our mind, in our heart, while Death is always here laying traps for us, watching all we do, and jeering gayly when sleep closes our eyes, for we give him then the illusion of what he knows will some day be a reality.

Apart from the above incident, nothing particular happened during the voyage. I spent every night on deck, gazing at the horizon, hoping to draw toward me that land on which were the loved ones. I turned in toward morning and slept all day to kill the time.

The boats in those days did not perform the crossing with the speed of to-day. The hours seemed to me to be wickedly long. I was so impatient to land that I called for the doctor and asked him to send me to sleep for eighteen hours. He gave me twelve hours’ sleep with a strong dose of chloral and I felt stronger and calmer for confronting the shock of happiness.

Santelli had promised that we should arrive on the evening of the 14th. I was ready and had pawed the ground distractedly for an hour when an officer came to ask whether I would not go on to the bridge with the commander who was waiting for me.

With my sister I went in haste on to the bridge, and soon understood from the embarrassed circumlocutions of the amiable Santelli that we were too far off to hope to make the harbor that night.

I began to cry. I thought we should never arrive. I imagined that the Gnome was going to triumph and I wept those tears that were like a brook that runs on and on without ceasing.

The commander did what he could to bring me to a rational state of mind. I descended from the bridge with both body and soul like limpid rags.

I lay down on a straw deck chair and when dawn came was benumbed and sleepy. It was five in the morning. We were still twenty miles off land. The sun, however, began joyously to brighten up the small white clouds, light as snowflakes. The look of the loved one gave me courage again. I ran toward my cabin. I spent a long while over my toilet in order to kill time. At seven o’clock I made inquiries from the captain. “We are twelve miles off,” he said. “In two hours we shall land.” “You swear to it?” “Yes, I swear.” I returned on deck, where, leaning on the bulwark, I scanned the distance. A small steamer appeared on the horizon. I saw it without looking at it, expecting every minute to hear the cry “Over there! Over there!” All at once I noticed masses of small white flags being waved on the small steamer. I got hold of my glass ... and let it fall with a joyous cry that left me without any strength, without breath. I wanted to speak. I could not. My face, it appears, became so pale that it frightened the people who were about. My sister Jeanne wept as she waved her arms toward the distance. They wanted to make me sit down. I would not. Hanging on to the bulwarks, I smell the salts that are thrust under my nose. I allow friendly hands to wipe my temples, but I am gazing over there whence the vessel is coming. Over there lies my happiness! my joy! my life! my everything! dearer than everything!

The _Diamond_ (the vessel’s name) comes near. A bridge of love is formed between the small and large ship, a bridge placed under the beatings of our hearts, under the weight of the kisses that have been kept back for how many days. Then comes the reaction that takes place in our tears when the young being that one worships is pressed to one’s bosom under the spell of an undefinable emotion.

The big ship is invaded. Everyone is there, my dear and faithful friends. They have accompanied my young son Maurice. Ah, what a delicious time! Answers get ahead of questions. Laughter is mingled with tears. Hands are pressed, lips are kissed, only to begin over again. One is never tired of this repetition of tender affection. During this time, our boat is moving. The _Diamond_ has disappeared carrying away the mails. The farther we advance, the more small boats are met with, decked with flags, plowing the sea. There are a hundred at least. Here are others.

“Is it a public holiday?” I asked Georges Boyer, the correspondent of the _Figaro_, who with friends had come to meet me.

“Oh, yes, madame, a great fête day to-day at Hâvre, for they are expecting the return of a fairy who left seven months ago!”

“Is it really in my honor that all these pretty boats have spread their wings and beflagged their masts. Ah, how happy I am!” At this moment we go alongside the jetty. There are perhaps twenty thousand people there who cry out: “Vive Sarah Bernhardt!”

I am dumfounded. I do not expect any triumphant return. I am well aware that the performance given for the Life Saving Society has won the hearts of the people of Hâvre, but I learn that trains have come from Paris, packed with people, to welcome my return.

I feel my pulse.... It is I.... I am not dreaming....

The boat stops opposite a red velvet tent and an invisible orchestra strikes up an air from the _Châlet_: “Arrêtons-nous ici.”

I smile at this quite French childishness. I get off ... and walk through the midst of a hedge of smiling, kind faces of sailors who offer me flowers.

Within the tent all the life savers are waiting for me, wearing on their broad chests the medals they have so well deserved.

Mr. Grosos, the president, reads to me the following address:

“Madame, as president, I have the honor to present to you a delegation
from the Life Saving Society of Hâvre, who have come to welcome you
and express their gratitude for the sympathy you have so warmly worded
in your transatlantic dispatch.

“We have also come to congratulate you on the immense success that you
have met with at every place you have visited during your adventurous
journey. You have now conquered in two worlds an incontestable
popularity and artistic celebrity, and your marvelous talent, added to
your personal charms, has affirmed abroad that France is always the
land of art and the birthplace of elegance and beauty.

“A yet distant echo of the words you spoke in Denmark, evoking a deep
and sad souvenir, still strikes on our ears. It repeats that your
heart is as French as your talent, for in the midst of the feverish
and burning successes of the theater you have never forgotten to unite
your patriotism to your artistic triumphs.

“Our life savers have charged me with expressing to you their
admiration for the charming benefactor whose generous hand has
spontaneously stretched itself out toward their poor but noble
society. They wish to offer you these flowers, gathered from the soil
of the mother country, on the land of France, where you will find them
everywhere under your feet. They are worthy that you should accept
them with favor, for they are presented to you by the bravest and most
loyal of our life savers.”

It is said that my reply was very eloquent, but I cannot affirm that that reply was really made by me. I had lived for several hours in a state of overexcitement from successive emotions. I had taken no food, had no sleep. My heart had not ceased beating a moving and joyous charge. My brain had been filled with a thousand facts that had been piled up for seven months and narrated in two hours. This triumphant reception, that I was far from expecting after what had happened just before my departure, after having been so badly treated by the Paris press, after the incidents of my journey that had been always badly interpreted by several French papers—all these coincidences were of such different proportions that they seemed hardly credible. I preferred to remain in the latter dream that was so flattering to me.

The performance furnished a fruitful harvest for the life savers. As for me, I played “La Dame aux Camélias” for the first time in France. God had come. I affirm that those who were present at that performance experienced the quintessence of what my personal art can give.

I spent the night at my place at Ste. Addresse. The day following I left for Paris. A most flattering ovation was awaiting me on my arrival. Then, three days afterwards, installed in my hotel in the Avenue de Villiers, I received Victorien Sardou in order to hear the reading of his magnificent piece “Fédora.”

Ah, what a great artist! What an admirable actor! What a marvelous author! He read that play to me right off, playing every rôle, giving me in one second the vision of what I should do.

“Ah!” I exclaimed after the reading was over. “Ah, dear master, thanks for this beautiful part! Thanks for the fine lesson you have just given me!”

That night left me without sleep, for I wished to catch a glimpse in the darkness of the small star in which I had faith. I saw it as dawn was breaking, and fell asleep thinking over the new era that it was going to lighten up.

My artistic journey lasted seven months. I visited fifty cities and gave 156 representations as follows:

“La Dame aux Camélias” 65 performances
“Adrienne Lecouvreur” 17 „
“Froufrou” 41 „
“La Princesse Georges” 3 „
“Hernani” 14 „
“L’Etrangère” 3 „
“Phèdre” 6 „
“Le Sphinx” 7 „

Total receipts 2,667,600 francs
Average receipts 17,100 „

I conclude these memories of mine here, for this is really the first halting place in my life; the real evolution of my physical and moral being.

I had run away from the Comédie Française, from Paris, from France, from my family, and from my friends.

I had thought of having a wild ride across mountains, seas, and space, and I came back in love with the vast horizon, but calmed down by the feeling of responsibility which for seven months had been weighing on my shoulders.

The terrible Jarrett, with his implacable and cruel wisdom, had tamed my wild nature by a constant appeal to my probity.

In those few months my mind had matured and the brusqueness of my will was softened.

My life, which I thought at first was to be so short, seemed now likely to be very, very long, and that gave me a great mischievous delight whenever I thought of the infernal displeasure of my enemies.

I resolved to live. I resolved to be the great _artiste_ that I longed to be.

And from the time of this return I gave myself entirely up to my life.

THE END

------------------------------------------------------------------------

“THE MOST UNFORTUNATE WOMAN IN MODERN HISTORY.”

Lucretia Borgia: According to Original Documents and Correspondence of
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By FERDINAND GREGOROVIUS, Author of “A History of the City of Rome in the Middle Ages.” Translated from the Third German Edition by John Leslie Garner. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth, $2.25 net; postage, 17 cents additional.

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“This story of a beautiful, untiring life is worthy of consideration
by every lover of truth.”—_St. Paul Despatch._

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO. LONDON.

“Destined to take rank as one of the two or three most remarkable self-portrayals of a human life ever committed to posterity.”

—_Franklin H. Giddings, LL.D., in the Independent._

An Autobiography by Herbert Spencer.

With Illustrations. Many of them from the Author’s Own Drawings. Cloth, 8vo. Gilt Top. Two vols. in a box, $5.50 net. Postage, 40 cents additional.

“It is rare, indeed, that a man who has so profoundly influenced the
intellectual development of his age and generation has found time to
record the history of his own life. And this Mr. Spencer has done so
simply, so frankly, and with such obvious truth, that it is not
surprising that Huxley is reported as having said, after reading it in
manuscript, that it reminded him of the ‘Confessions’ of Rousseau,
freed from every objectionable taint.”—_New York Globe._

“As interesting as fiction? There never was a novel so interesting as
Herbert Spencer’s ‘An Autobiography’.”—_New York Herald._

“It is rich in suggestion and observation, of wide significance and
appeal in the sincerity, the frankness, the lovableness of its human
note.”—_New York Mail and Express._

“The book, as a whole, makes Spencer’s personality a reality for us,
where heretofore it has been vaguer than his philosophical
abstractions.”—_John White Chadwick in Current Literature._

“In all the literature of its class there is nothing like it. It bears
the same relationship to autobiographical productions as Boswell’s
‘Life of Johnson’ bears to biographies.”—_Philadelphia Press._

“This book will always be of importance, for Herbert Spencer was a
great and original thinker, and his system of philosophy has bent the
thought of a generation, and will keep a position of commanding
interest.”—_Joseph O’Connor in the New York Times._

“Planned and wrought for the purpose of tracing the events of his life
and the growth of his opinions, his autobiography does more than that.
It furnished us, half unconsciously, no doubt, a more vivid
portraiture of his peculiarities than any outsider could possibly
provide. We pity his official biographer! Little can be left for him.
Here we have Spencer in habit as he was.”—_New York Evening Post._

VIVID, MOVING, SYMPATHETIC, HUMOROUS.

A Diary from Dixie.

By MARY BOYKIN CHESNUT. Being her Diary from November, 1861, to August, 1865. Edited by Isabella D. Martin and Myrta Lockett Avary. Illustrated. 8vo. Ornamental Cloth, $2.50 net; postage additional.

Mrs. Chesnut was the most brilliant woman that the South has ever
produced, and the charm of her writing is such as to make all
Southerners proud and all Northerners envious. She was the wife of
James Chesnut, Jr., who was United States Senator from South Carolina
from 1859 to 1861, and acted as an aid to President Jefferson Davis,
and was subsequently a Brigadier-General in the Confederate Army. Thus
it was that she was intimately acquainted with all the foremost men in
the Southern cause.

“In this diary is preserved the most moving and vivid record of the
Southern Confederacy of which we have any knowledge. It is a piece of
social history of inestimable value. It interprets to posterity the
spirit in which the Southerners entered upon and struggled through the
war that ruined them. It paints poignantly but with simplicity the
wreck of that old world which had so much about it that was beautiful
and noble as well as evil. Students of American life have often
smiled, and with reason, at the stilted and extravagant fashion in
which the Southern woman had been described south of Mason and Dixon’s
line—the unconscious self-revelations of Mary Chesnut explain, if they
do not justify, such extravagance. For here, we cannot but believe, is
a creature of a fine type, a ‘very woman,’ a very Beatrice, frank,
impetuous, loving, full of sympathy, full of humor. Like her
prototype, she had prejudices, and she knew little of the Northern
people she criticised so severely; but there is less bitterness in
these pages than we might have expected. Perhaps the editors have seen
to that. However this may be they have done nothing to injure the
writer’s own nervous, unconventional style—a style breathing character
and temperament as the flower breathes fragrance.”—_New York Tribune._

“It is written straight from the heart, and with a natural grace of
style that no amount of polishing could have imparted.”—_Chicago
Record-Herald._

“The editors are to be congratulated; it is not every day that one
comes on such material as this long-hidden diary.”—_Louisville Evening
Post._

“It is a book that would have delighted Charles Lamb.”—_Houston
Chronicle._

BIOGRAPHY AND HISTORY.

The Journal of Latrobe.

Being the Notes and Sketches of an Architect, Naturalist, and Traveller in the United States from 1796 to 1820. By BENJAMIN HENRY LATROBE, Architect of the Capitol at Washington. Copiously illustrated with reproductions from the original drawings by the author. 8vo. Ornamental cloth, $3.50 net.

These are the memoirs of a personal friend of the first President of
the United States. He was a man of refinement and great intellectual
attainments, a soldier, civil engineer, philosopher, artist, humorist,
poet, and naturalist. The book is bright with story and anecdote,
criticism and comment.

“Benjamin Latrobe was a man of the world and a clever commentator on
what he saw going on around him. One of the best pen pictures of
Washington is Latrobe’s account of a visit to the Father of his
Country at Mt. Vernon in 1796.”—_Review of Reviews._

“Mr. Latrobe was a keen observer, and his notes of travel in the South
are valuable in an attempt to picture the life of a century
ago.”—_Chicago Tribune._

“Benjamin Latrobe visited Washington at Mt. Vernon and recorded what
he saw very fully. Then, late in life, he went to New Orleans by sea
and wrote full notes of his voyage and his impressions. Both diaries
are full of interest. Between them are placed in this volume papers
relating to the building of the Capitol. Prefixed to the volume is a
biographical introduction written by his son thirty years ago. The
illustrations are curious and interesting.”—_New York Sun._

“With what has been said of the volume it should be evident that it is
curious, interesting, and instructive to an unusual degree. To speak
of ‘The Journal of Latrobe’ without mention of its illustrations would
be an unpardonable oversight.”—_San Francisco Chronicle._

AN AMERICAN ADMIRAL.

Forty-five Years Under the Flag.

By WINFIELD SCOTT SCHLEY, Rear-Admiral, U. S. N. Illustrated. 8vo. Cloth, uncut edges, and gilt top, $3.00 net.

About one-third of Admiral Schley’s volume is devoted to the Spanish
War, in which he became so great a figure. He tells his own story in
simple and effective words. His recollections are constantly
reinforced by references to dispatches and other documents.

Readers will be surprised at the extent of Admiral Schley’s
experiences. He left the Naval Academy just before the outbreak of the
Civil War and saw service with Farragut in the Gulf. Three chapters
are devoted to Civil War events. His next important service was
rendered during the opening of Corea to the commerce of the world, and
the chapter in which he describes the storming of the forts is one of
thrilling interest. Another important expedition in his life was the
rescue of Greely, to which three chapters are devoted. Two other
chapters pertain to the Revolution in Chili, and the troubles growing
out of the attack upon some of Admiral Schley’s men in the streets of
Valparaiso.

Altogether the book contains thirty-eight chapters. It has been
illustrated from material furnished by Admiral Schley and through his
suggestions, and makes an octavo volume of large size. It will appeal
to every true-hearted American.

The author says in his preface: “In times of danger and duty the
writer endeavored to do the work set before him without fear of
consequences. With this thought in mind, he has felt moved, as a duty
to his wife, his children, and his name, to leave a record of his long
professional life, which has not been without some prestige, at least
for the flag he has loved and under which he has served the best years
of his life.”

“Rear-Admiral W. S. Schley’s ‘Forty-five Years Under the Flag’ is the
most valuable contribution to the history of the American Navy that
has been written in many a year.”—_New York Times._

“The author’s career is well worthy of a book, and he has every reason
for pride in telling of his forty-five active years in all parts of
the world.”

—_Edwin L. Shuman in the Chicago Record-Herald._

“It is a stirring story, told with the simple directness of a sailor.
Its reading carries the conviction of its truthfulness. The Admiral
could not have hoped to accomplish more.”—_Chicago Evening Post._

“He has told his own story, in his own way, from his own viewpoint,
and goes after his detractors, open and above board, with his big
guns.”

—_Washington Post._

“It is a work that will interest everyone, from the sixteen-year-old
schoolboy who is studying history and loves tales of stirring
adventure to the grandsire whose blood still pulses hotly with
patriotic pride at the recounting of valiant deeds of arms under our
starry flag.”—_Boston American._

“The Admiral tells the story well. His is a manly and straightforward
style. He leaves nothing to doubt, nothing open to controversy.”

—_Baltimore Sun._

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. P. 244, changed “leave on the bench” to “leave on the beach”. 2. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in spelling. 3. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.