Don Quixote

IT is always good news to hear that new champions are coming forward to translate Don Quixote into English. It is a bold deed, well worthy a knight-errant of the pen ; and if many men make the attempt, we may be perhaps so fortunate as hereafter to have a true English translation. Don Quixote, it is said in the Encyclopædia Britannica, has been translated into every language in Europe, even including Turkish, but I cannot believe that any language is so fit as English to give the real counterfeit presentment of the book. One might guess that a Romance language would do better, but, on reflection, French prose lacks humor, and Italian has not sufficient subtlety to give the lights and shadows of Don Quixote ; and as for German prose, in spite of Goethe it still is German prose. There is a scintilla of truth, so far as this translation is concerned, in the saying of Charles V.,that French is the language for dancing-masters, Italian for singing birds, and German for horses. I should like to be able to read the Turkish translation. I imagine that there must be a dignity and self-respect in the language that would befit Don Quixote to a nicety ; but for Sancho it would not do, — even Candide’s experience could not persuade me that it would be for him le meilleur monde possible: he would be homesick talking Turkish. There are a number of English translations, — one by Mr. Shelton long ago, one by Smollett, and others by Motteux, Jarvis, Duffield, Ormsby, and Watts,— all more or less inadequate, if I may judge from parts, for I have never been so willful-blame as to read them all. In truth, the translation is a very difficult matter. Don Quixote himself is one of the most delicately drawn characters in fiction ; almost every Spanish word he speaks stands out in the reader’s mind, separate and distinct, like a stroke in a Rembrandt etching. How can you measure out their English equivalents in the finely adjusted scales of language unless you have ten talents for weights ? Epigrams are commonly of little use in finding the way to truth, but Coleridge has left a saying that, I think, helps us materially in this matter of translation. “ Prose,” he said, “ is words in the best order ; Poetry is the best words in the best order.” Now, by what sleight of hand shall a man keep this best order of words in shifting thoughts from one language to another ? In poetry we are waking up to this, and Homer and Dante are rendered into English prose. Now and again a man, if he have the luck to be a man of genius, may make English poetry when he professes to translate a foreign poet. Such a one was Mr. Fitzgerald. But I know of no one who has made both poetry and a translation, with a few exceptions: such as Shelley in his translation of the angels’ chorus in Faust, Dr. Hedge with Luther’s hymn, and Wordsworth with Michelangelo’s sonnet, “ Ben può talor col mio ardente desio.” Maybe the translators of the Old Testament were such.

Of all prose that I know, I should say that Don Quixote was the hardest to translate out of the original tongue; for Cervantes has used his words in the best order very often, and his Spanish tongue was of so fine a temper — for it had been framed among high-strung gentlemen, quick in quarrel, urbane in manner, and of a broad human courtesy such as gentlemen have in Utopia, and all men, I needs must think, in heaven — that the translator need be of a stout heart. Words are delicate works. Nature has nurtured them, art has toiled over them. For a thousand years those Spanish words have been shaped by Spanish mouths, and now some zealous translator, like a lean apothecary, expects to catch their fragrance and cork it up in English smelling-bottles. All a nation’s sentiment has gone into its words. Great musicians, architects, painters, and sculptors put into their works the feelings of their country and of their age, but these works remain the works of individuals and bear their personal stamp, whereas all the nation, at all times, from generation to generation, has been putting its passions into its speech. The Spanish heart is not the English heart.

Moreover, the translator of Cervantes has another great difficulty. Don Quixote is the delineation of a man’s character ; he is as real as any hero in fiction from Achilles to Alan Breck, and much more so than the heroes who lie buried in Westminster Abbey.

“ Er lebt und ist noch starker
Als alle Todten sind.”

This very reality lies in the arrangement of words,and slips through the translator’s fingers. The hero was alive and then is done into English, a process that has much similarity to embalming. To draw the likeness of a living being in words is one of the most difficult tasks in art. We all, no doubt, can remember some figure coming, in the days of our childhood, into our Eden from the vague outer world, that impressed itself deeply in our memories. Such a one I can remember, — a delicately bred gentleman, one of those in whom the gentle element was so predominant that perhaps the man was pushed too much aside. His bearing spoke of training and discipline received in some place out of Eden that we knew not of, and there was a manner of habitual forbearance, almost shrinking, in his daily actions, as if he feared that whatever he touched might turn to sorrow, which still kept us behind the line across which his tenderness was ever inviting us. I think to describe his smile and to translate Don Quixote would be tasks of like quality.

But of all books in the world Don Quixote is the book for an English-speaking boy. There is a time in his boyhood while the sun of life throws a longshadow behind him, when, after he has read the Waverley Novels, Cooper, and Captain Marryat, he pauses hesitating between Thackeray and Dickens. Which shall he take ? The course is long, for a boy is a most just and generous reader. He reads his novelist straight through from start to finish, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, Nicholas Nickleby, Old Curiosity Shop, and all, ending finally with a second reading of Pickwick. That is the way novels should be read. Reading the first novel of one of the ricos hombres of literature is like Aladdin going down into the magic cave: it summons a genie, who straightway spreads a wonderful prospect before you, but it is not till the second or third book that you understand all the power of the master slave. It is at that moment of hesitation that Don Quixote should be put into the boy’s hands ; but that cannot be done now because there is no satisfactory English translation. Of course, Don Quixote is a man’s book, also,—the great human book, as Mr. Lowell following Sainte-Beuve calls it. Cervantes has breathed into its nostrils the breath of life, and, like the macrocosm, it has a different look for the boy and for the man of fifty. You can find in it the allegory that the ideal is out of place in this workaday world, that the light shineth in a darkness which eomprehendeth it not. You can find the preaching of vanity, if such be your turn of mind, in Don Quixote as well as in the world. But the schoolboy does not look for that; there is no vain thing in life for him, and perhaps his is the clearer vision. And with this schoolboy, pausing as I have suggested on the brink of Thackeray or Dickens, a translation of Don Quixote has the best chance of success. Its defects will be of such a nature as will mar the man’s enjoyment, but not his. It will give him the gallant gentleman pricked by a noble contempt for the ignoble triumphant and for the acquiescent many ; he shall have there the lofty disregard of facts that hedge in housekeepers, barbers, and parsons; he shall find courage, endurance, knightliness, and reverence for woman. After a boy has once been squire to Sir Kenneth, to Ivanhoe, and to Claverhouse, what business has he in life but to right wrongs, to succor maidens, and to relieve widows and all who are desolate and oppressed ? What if this gallant gentleman be a monomaniac, and be subjected to disasters at the hands of farmyard louts and tavern skinkers, by windmills and galley slaves : must not Ivanhoe’s squire march through Vanity Fair and lodge in Bleak House, his long breeches unentangled in spurs, and his chief weapon of offense carried in his waistcoat pocket ? Carducci says that he read Don Quixote for the first time when a boy, and that then he “did not know the irony that God put into the world, and which the great poet had imitated in his little world of print and paper.” Carducci is mistaken ; there is no question of knowledge and ignorance. The boy has his world as heavy to an ounce, weighed in scales of avoirdupois, as that of a man of fifty, and there is no irony in it. The boy is not the subject of illusion ; there is in fact no irony there. The man of fifty, le soi-disant désillusionné, is certainly on the border of presumption, to say that it is there, and then to call the boy an ignoramus. To be sure, he commonly couples his offensive epithet with some mitigating adjective, as “ happy fool,” or thus, “ his pretty ignorance.” But in place of the adjective there should be an apology. Every man is born into a house where there is a chamber full of veritable chronicles of Tristram and Launcelot, of Roland and Rinaldo di Mont’ Albano ; and if his housekeeper, his barber, and his parson wall up the door and tell him that Freston el gran encantador has swooped down on dragon back and carried it off by night, his acceptance of their assertions and his lofty compassion for his old illusions furnish but poor proof of wisdom. Such men, be sure, have followed too rashly in their youth some false adventurer into the world of thought, and their fifty years, like the monks of St. Cuthbert’s Isle, have walled them up for punishment. There let them lie “ like mutines in the bilboes.” But however that may be, “ mas vale buena esperanza que ruin possession.”

It is for the boy that a good translation should be made, and that might be done ; one in which Don Quixote shall talk like a scholarly gentleman, and in which there shall be no conscious grin of the translator spoiling the whole, as in that wretched version by Motteux. The boy wants two qualities in his books, enthusiasm and loyalty; and here he has them jogging on side by side through four good volumes. Sainte-Beuve says that Joubert’s notion of enthusiasm was une paix élevée; a boy’s idea is la guerre élevée, and Cervantes was of that mind. He was a soldier of the best kind, fighting for Europe against Asia at Lepanto, and esteeming his lost arm the most honorable member of his body. Don Quixote is the incarnation of enthusiasm ; and what loyalty was ever like Sancho’s, even to the death-bed where he beseeches Don Quixote to live many years, “ for it would be the utmost foolishness to die when no one had murdered him ” ! There are many who are loyal to a friend’s deeds, and some to his faults, but to be loyal to another’s dreams and visions is the privilege of very few. Besides, the boy demands incident, and here there is the greatest variety of adventure, of that delightful kind that happens in La Mancha without having to be sought in Trebisond or Cathay.

Another reason for a good translation is that Don Quixote is the first modern novel. It is the last of the romances of chivalry and the first novel; and as, on the whole, most of the great novels are English novels (for what other language can show a like richness to Robinson Crusoe, Tom Jones, Rob Roy, Pride and Prejudice, Vanity Fair, David Copperfield, Adam Bede, and The Scarlet Letter ?), there should be an adequate English version of it. So many novels of much skill and force are written nowadays that we are too often swayed in our judgment of them by the pulse of the year or of the decade. Were it not well, after reading Mr. Meredith or Mr. Moore, to take our bearings by a mark that has withstood the changing sentiments of ten generations of mortal men ? “ You cannot fool all the people all the time.” Men during three hundred years are of so many minds, and have such diverse dispositions and temperaments, and are placed in such different circumstances, with various passions and prejudices, that any book that receives the suffrage of all is proved to be, to use Sainte - Beuve’s phrase, un livre de l’humanité. By going back to these great human books we learn to keep our scales truly adjusted. Goethe said that every year he was wont to read over a play by Molière.

There have been a great many theories about the book, speculations as to what purpose Cervantes had in view when he wrote it. The chief two are that he intended a burlesque upon romances of knight-errantry, and that he intended an allegorical satire upon human enthusiasm. Doubtless he began with the purpose of ridiculing the old romances, but, as Carducci says, genius gallops ahead of its charioteer. By the seventh chapter he found himself with Don Quixote and Sancho Panza seeking adventures in La Mancha ; and he had in his heart a deep and serious knowledge of life, and in his brain wit and fancy such that the world has but once had better, and he wrote. Men must express the deep feelings within them : the common man to one or two by words and acts and silence, the man of genius to the world by such means as nature has made easiest for him. In Spain, since the invention of printing, the one form of popular literature had been the romance of knighterrantry. The three great cycles of romantic fiction — of King Arthur and the Round Table, of Charlemagne and his Paladins, and of the Greek empires founded by Alexander the Great — had spread all over western Europe, and had long before served their office. Their place in Spain was filled by the romances of knight-errantry. Of these, the first and best was Amadis of Gaul, which was probably written in Castile about the year 1350. The old version has been long lost, but Garci-Ordoñez de Montalvo wrote a new one some time after the conquest of Granada, which obtained wide popularity and still exists. The success of this was so brilliant that a great many books were written in imitation of it. In the middle of the sixteenth century these romances met with two powerful enemies : one was the spirit of the Catholic Reaction, the other the spirit of classical culture. In 1543 Charles V. forbade that any of these books should be printed or sold in the West Indies, and in 1555 the Cortes made its petition to the Emperor to make the like law for Spain. The text of the petition reads thus : "Moreover, we say that it is most notorious, the hurt that has been done and is doing in these kingdoms to young men and maids and to all sorts of people from reading books of lies and vanities, like Amadis and all the books which have been modeled upon its speech and style, also rhymes and plays about love and other vain things ; for young men and maids, being moved by idleness to occupy themselves with these books, abandon themselves to folly, and, in a measure, imitate the adventures which they read in those books to have happened, both of love and war and other vanities ; and they are so affected thereby that whenever any similar case arises they yield to it with less restraint than if they had not read the books ; and often a mother leaves her daughter locked up in the house, thinking that she has left her to her meditations (recogida), and the girl falls to readingbooks of that kind, so that it were better if the mother had taken her with her. . . . And that it is to the great hurt of the consciences, because the more people take to these vanities, the more they backslide from and cease to find enjoyment in the Holy, True, and Christian Doctrine.” Wherefore the petition asks that no more such books be printed, and that all those existing be gathered up and burned, and that no hook he printed thereafter without a license ; “ for that in so doing your Majesty will render a great service to God, taking persons from the reading of books of vanities, and bringing them back to read religious books which edify the mind and reform the body, and will do these kingdoms great good and mercy.” Mr. Ticknor and other commentators have gathered together condemnations upon these romances uttered by various persons of note prior to the publication of Don Quixote. There can be little doubt that these faultfinders were puritans of the Catholic Reaction, and that the same spirit influenced the Cortes. In this same feeling the Puritans in England of Queen Elizabeth’s time attacked the stage. In the preface to Part I., Cervantes represents himself as sitting with his chin on his hand, pondering what he shall do for a preface, when a friend comes in, who, after making some rather dull suggestions, says, “ This book of yours is an invective against books of knight-errantry your writing has no other object than to undo the authority which such books have among the uneducated ; ” and he ends with the advice, “ Make it your purpose to pull to pieces the illbased contrivance of these knight-errant books, which are hated by some, but praised by many more ; for if you accomplish this, you will have done a great deal.” And Part II. ends with a declaration by Cide Hamete Ben Engeli that his “ only desire has been to make men dislike the false and foolish stories of knight-errantry, which, thanks to my true Don Quixote, are beginning to stumble, and will fall to the ground without any doubt.” These are the arguments for limiting and cutting down the great purposes of the book, a commentary on the life of man, to a mere satire upon silly and extravagant romances. The book speaks for itself.

With respect to the other theory, that Cervantes intended a satire upon human enthusiasm, Mr. Lowell, in commenting, discovers two morals : the first, “ that whoever quarrels with the Nature of Things, wittingly or unwittingly, is certain to get the worst of it ; ” the second, “ that only he who has the imagination to conceive and the courage to attempt a trial of strength with what foists itself on our senses as the Order of Nature for the time being can achieve great results or kindle the coöperative and efficient enthusiasm of his fellow-men.” By this interpretation the condemnation of the quarrel is itself condemned by the deeper moral. But it little profits to seek after Cervantes’ motives ; he wrote about life, and he does not draw any final conclusions. He observes and writes. He tells of a gentleman who found the world out of joint, and with a "frolic welcome ” proclaimed that he was “ born to set it right.” The attempt is followed by the most disastrous and delightful consequences. Don Quixote is sometimes triumphant, but many more times mocked, mauled, persecuted, and despitefully used by clown and duke, and Sancho shares all his fortunes. Side by side go Imagination on his hippogriff, and Common Sense on his donkey. At the end of the book, the reader, loving and admiring Don Quixote, loving Sancho, and havingrejoiced at every piece of good fortune that has come to them on their ill-starred career, hates and despises all those who have ill used them, including those two wiseacres the Parson and the Barber. If the unoffending reader must draw a moral, he would seem to hit near the mark by inferring that enthusiasm justifies its own appellation, and that the divine in us is the only thing worth heeding and loving, though it behave with lunacies inconstant as the moon, or go to live with publicans and sinners. But why draw a moral at all ? Life is very big, and there is less dogma now than there used to be about the meaning or the worth of it, and an observer of life may travel about and note what he sees without being compelled to stand and deliver his conclusions. What should we say if Cide Hamete Ben Engeli had made an end in good Arabic with “ Life is but an integration of Matter with a concomitant dissipation of Motion ” ? Let the great books of the world escape these hewers of epigrams and drawers of morals. Hamlet has escaped to a place of safety; so has the book of Job. Faust is on the way thither, and Don Quixote will one day keep them company. It is a tale of life drawn from the author’s imagination, and it is enough to know that a man who had lost an arm in a sea-fight and had been a captive slave for five years, who had been poor and persecuted, began this joyous and merry history in prison, and continued it in the same strain of joy and merriment to the end. Let any man tired

“to behold Desert a beggar born,
And needy Nothing trimmed in jollity,”

betake himself “ en un lugar de La Mancha.” The very words conjure up springtime, holidays, and morning sun, and he shall feel like the poet

“ Quant erba vertz e fuebla par,
E 1’ flor brotouon per verjan,
E l" rossinhols autet e clar
Leva sa votz e mov son chan.”

“ C’est un pays interdit à, la mélancolie.” The joy of it is masculine and boyish; it maketh for life, like all good things. The reader never stops to think whether there be wit or humor, irony or optimism. These questionings are foisted upon you by the notes. If you read a Spanish edition, beware of the notes. Some there are who, in their schooldays, acquired a wise preference of ignorance to notes, but I have known many who would stop in the middle of a sentence to read a note, and then begin again exactly at the asterisk where they had left off. The notes in the editions by the Spanish Academy, Dr. Bowle, Pellicer, and Clemencin are all to be skipped. There is a tale that two gentlemen clapped hands to their swords over the last copy of the second edition of Gil Blas in a bookseller’s shop in Paris ; and I would not part with my Pellicer to any lesser person than the sheriff, but it would require that gentleman and at least one of his posse to make me read the notes-

In Don Quixote we believe that we have a partial portrait of Cervantes. He has described somewhere his own physical appearance in a manner very like to the description of the knight, and in the latter’s character we feel sure that we have the real Cervantes. Certainly there is there the likeness of a high-spirited Spanish gentleman at a time when Spanish gentlemen were the first in the world. Every little detail about the knight is told with such an intimate affection that Cervantes must have been writing down whatever he believed was true of his own best self. The ready knowledge with which he wrote is manifest from the carelessness with which he makes mistakes, as with Sanclio’s ass, on which Sancho suddenly mounts half a page after losing him forever, and in the names of la Señora Panza, and in various details. Certainly Cervantes is very fond of Don Quixote, and does him justice ; and he has a kindliness for the reader, too, and pays him for his sore sympathies every now and then by the joyous feeling of victory which he receives when Don Quixote, in the midst of a company that think him mad, delivers a brilliant harangue, leaving them confounded and the reader exultant. Sancho said Don Quixote ought to have been a parson, and you feel that he would have adorned any position of dignity within the gift of the Majesty of Spain. The art with which the story is told and the characters are drawn grows upon one’s wonder. For example, Don Quixote has been lowered down into the cave of Montesinos, and after some hours, during which Sancho has become much alarmed for his master’s safety, he reappears and gives an account of the most marvelous adventures. Sancho and the reader are aghast; they know that the adventures cannot be true, and they know equally well that Don Quixote is incapable of telling a lie, and the wonder is whether he is mad or has been dreaming. This same wonder finally overtakes Don Quixote, and you feel, without being told, that he is struggling with his memory to find out what did really happen as he faces the awful possibility that what be related may not have been true. There is a certain low fellow in the book, one Samson Carrasco, a friend of the Parson and tbe Barber, of good purposes, but of no imagination, who devises a scheme to fetch Don Quixote home. This plan was to arm himself as a knighterrant and take Don Quixote captive. The approach of the combat is very disagreeable ; you cover over with your hand the lines ahead of where you are reading, so that you may not read faster than you shall acquire fortitude to bear whatever may happen. And behold, Rosinante breaks into a gallop, dear horse, — Boiardo and Bucephalus never did as much for their readers, — and the counterfeit knight is hurled to the ground. By the same dull device this vulgar Carrasco finally, near the end of the story, ran atilt with Don Quixote and unhorsed him. He dismounted, and stood over our hero with his spear. The terms of the combat were that he who was conquered should confess that the other’s lady was the more beautiful. “ Don Quixote, without raising his visor, with weak and feeble voice, as if he were speaking from within a tomb, replied: Dulcinea of Toboso is the most beautiful woman in the world, and I am the most miserable knight on earth, and it were not right that tbe truth should suffer hurt from my weakness; thrust home your lance, Sir Knight, and since you have taken my honor, take away my life also.” It Avere difficult to imagine that this is a satire upon human nature, and that Cervantes made mock of the spirit of chivalry.

One of the deepest and most delightful elements of the book is the relation between Don Quixote and Sancho Panza; in fact, it is Sancho’s obedience, his profound loyalty and belief in his master, that throw both their characters into high relief: and here lies one of the hardest tasks for the translator ; for unless their conversations are given with the delicacy and grace of the original, they cease to be Don Quixote and Saneho, and become mere comic figures.

Sancho has never had full justice done to him. Affection and regard he has had in full measure, no doubt. One loves him as one loves a dog ; not the noble, fairlimbed, fine-haired aristocrat, but the shag-haired little villain, nullius filius, who barks at your guests, and will gnaw a drumstick in my lady’s chamber unless he be prevented. But Sancho’s character and intelligence have not had their due. He is commonly spoken of as if he were one of old Gobbo’s family, selfish and of loutish appetites ; but in truth he is not related at all. Sancho stands charged with greediness ; and as to eating, he ate well whenever he had an opportunity, but he worked very hard and needed food, for he often went supperless to bed, and was never sure of the morrow. His desire to be gobernador was the imperial fault of ambition, and most honorable ; and when be governed Barataria, he bore his great office meekly, and was a just and beneficent ruler. When Don Quixote first told him of the great fortunes, even of a royal complexion, that sometimes fall to the lot of the esquire to a knight-errant, his first thought was that Teresa Panza would be queen and his children princes. His intelligence bloomed and unfolded under the sunny influence of Don Quixote’s company; in fact, one of the most delightful things in the whole book is the elevation of Sancho’s understanding as he travels from Part I. into Part II. Preface-makers say that Cervantes discovered how popular Sancho was, and, taking his cue accordingly, developed and expanded Sancho’s wit and gifts of speech; but the true reason is that living with a dreamer of dreams ennobles the understanding. When Don Quixote had forbidden the brutal laborer to thrash the boy, and made him promise by the laws of knighthood, the boy said, “ My master is no knight; he is rich John Haldudo, and he lives in Quintanar.” “No matter,” replied Don Quixote ; “the Haldudos may become knights; every man is the child of his own actions.” By his faithfulness and loyalty to his master, Sancho’s condition was made gentle and his intelligence was quickened. Even in the beginning Sancho is by no means backward in comprehension. Don Quixote resolves to get a sword that will cut through any steel and prevail over all enchantment. Sancho apprehends that the virtue of the sword may be personal to Don Quixote, and of no avail to him, as he is only an esquire. And he explains that the reason why Don Quixote was horribly beaten by the Yanguesian cattle-drivers was that he had neglected to observe his vow not to eat baked bread or do sundry other things until he should have obtained Mambrino’s helmet. Don Quixote quietly replies that that is so, and that Sancho was beaten also for not reminding him. Sancho has a generous human sympathy, too ; for when Don Quixote finds Cardenio’s loveletter, lie asks him to read it aloud “ que gusto mucho destas cosas de amores. ” The difference in their views of life, however, and the help they render each other in getting into difficulties, is the precious quality of the book.

There are a hundred men who admire and reverence Dante for bis fierce seriousness and burning convictions about life, to one who would feel that the like reverence and admiration were due to the laughing seriousness and smiling convictions of Cervantes. Heine somewhere draws a picture of the gods dining and Hephæstos limping among them to pour out the wine, while their laughter floats off over Olympus, when suddenly in the midst of them stalks a Jew and flings down a cross upon the banquet-table, and the laughter dies. But with the revolving years laughter has once more come to take its place as a divine attribute, and Cervantes’ seriousness, his sympathy and loving-kindness, may set him, in the estimation of men, as high, as wise, as deep, as Dante. I think with what pleasure he and Shakespeare met in the Happy Isles and laughed together, while Dante, a guisa di leone, sat sternly apart. What happier time was there ever in those Islands of the Blest than that sweet April wherein those two landed from Charon’s bark ? For I think that Shakespeare’s spirit tarried a few days that they might make their voyage and entrance together. In Cervantes, says Victor Hugo, was the deep poetic spirit of the Renaissance. In him was the milk of loving-kindness. After reading his book, we see a brighter light thrown on the simple human relations, the random meetings of men and women in this world of ours that is not so unlike to La Mancha, and we become more sensitive to the value of words spoken by human lips to human ears, and of the touch of the human hand in. our greetings and partings. It is not the usage among soldiers to confess their own tenderness, and Cervantes has thrown over his confession the veil of irony. Heinrich Heine did the like. These proud men would not have their women’s hearts show on their sleeves, and they mocked the world. It was easily done.

“ Diese Welt glaubt nicht an Flammen,
Und sie nimmt’s für Poesie.”

In Algiers, Cervantes, with some of his fellow-captives, devised several plans of escape, all of which failed, and he was threatened with torture if he would not disclose the names of the conspirators and the story of the plot. He told nothing but that he alone was responsible. So he did; so he wrote. He obeyed the great prayer made to each of the children of men : “ Peter, lovest thou me ? Feed my sheep.”

Henry D. Sedgwick, Jr.