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comparing prices. At one commissary he had asked the agent the price of a certain sewing-machine. "Forty-three dollars," was the reply. "Can't you buy it wholesale for eighteen dollars?" he had then asked, and the astonished storekeeper had replied: "About that price." At another place, where a tenant behind with his rent had finally paid in store orders, one of these was sent in to purchase bacon. There was sent back what purported to be sixteen pounds, at 164 cents a pound; but the bacon actually weighed but eleven pounds, while the cash price for it at the same store was eleven cents a pound. These, of course, were the extreme stories of a manufacturer who was rightly disgusted with the methods used by some of his competitors; but everybody with whom I talked, except officials of companies making use of the system, characterized it as one of extortion where it did not descend to downright robbery. The only excuse offered was that without it many of the negro families would almost starve. No doubt this ex


cuse was true-just as it was true as an excuse for slavery itself. Every abuse furnishes the excuse for its own continuance. But the only way to emancipate the negro from the slavery of the company store system-which nourishes the improvidence that nourishes it-is by requiring weekly wage payments, and then prohibiting the company store system altogether. more degraded negro, when thus made free, will at times long for the fleshpots of credit at the commissary, but what he suffers from thriftlessness as well as what he gains from thrift will make for manhood and progress. The only hope of bettering the industrial position of the negro lies in the development of the selfreliant virtues which slavery repressed. This brings us to the question-the most important of all-Does freedom develop these virtues in the negro? My answer to this is an unequivocal "yes;" and the reasons for this answer will be presented in the next article, on "The Negro as a Citizen."

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"God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him.


OWED by the weight of centuries, he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,

And on his back the burden of the world.
Who made him dead to rapture and despair,
A thing that grieves not and that never hopes,
Stolid and stunned, a brother to the ox?
Who loosened and let down this brutal jaw?
Whose was the hand that slanted back this brow?
Whose breath blew out the light within this brain?

Is this the Thing the Lord God made and gave

To have dominion over sea and land;

To trace the stars and search the heavens for power;
To feel the passion of Eternity?

This poem, written by Mr. Markham after seeing Millet's famous picture, has been revised by the author for The Outlook, and is here printed with his special permission. The illustration is printed by courtesy of Braun, Clement & Co., New York.

Is this the Dream He dreamed who shaped the suns
And pillared the blue firmament with light?
Down all the stretch of Hell to its last gulf
There is no shape more terrible than this-

More tongued with censure of the world's blind greed-
More filled with signs and portents for the soul-

More fraught with menace to the universe.

What gulfs between him and the seraphim!
Slave of the wheel of labor, what to him
Are Plato and the swing of Pleiades?
What the long reaches of the peaks of song,
The rift of dawn, the reddening of the rose?
Through this dread shape the suffering ages look;
Time's tragedy is in that aching stoop;
Through this dread shape humanity, betrayed,
Plundered, profaned, and disinherited,
Cries protest to the Judges of the World,
A protest that is also prophecy.

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,

Is this the handiwork you give to God,

This monstrous thing distorted and soul-quenched?
How will you ever straighten up this shape;
Touch it again with immortality;

Give back the upward looking and the light;
Rebuild in it the music and the dream;
Make right the immemorial infamies,
Perfidious wrongs, immedicable woes?

O masters, lords and rulers in all lands,
How will the Future reckon with this Man?
How answer his brute question in that hour
When whirlwinds of rebellion shake the world?
How will it be with kingdoms and with kings-
With those who shaped him to the thing he is-
When this dumb Terror shall reply to God,
After the silence of the centuries?

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By Th. Bentzon (Mme. Blanc)
Translated from the French by Bellina Phillips

On the edge of the wonderful Forest of Fontainebleau, between Thomery, universally celebrated for its white-grape culture, and Moret, so picturesquely situated on the banks of the Loing, with its old church and the two gates that once were a part of the fortifications built by Charles VII., lies the peaceful village of By. This strange name, pronounced Bee all over the country, should really have both the English sound and meaning. The Scotch, before the Swiss, were the special body-guards of our kings; the Captain of the Scotch Guards lived at this place, and, quite naturally, designated it by Fontainebleau. Now Rosa Bonheur lives in "the Château," as it is still called; or, rather, she lives on its site, having built nearly the whole of the pretty brick and stone house separated by a square courtyard from the only street in the village.

We shall surprise her here, in a fine studio on the first floor, at work as usual,


her two favorite dogs near her; still brisk and agile, in spite of her years, clad in masculine attire, which she wears with the ease of one accustomed to it from youth. When a vocation leads one to frequent horse-markets, to tramp over the rich loam of plowed fields and the litter of farm stables day after day; when one lives in the company of animals, in all kinds of weather and seasons, trousers seem far more practical than skirts. The blue serge suit that Rosa Bonheur wears in her studio is the neatest and best-fitting thing imaginable. Her slender, wiry, and admirably proportioned little body moves at ease in a very loose sack coat; her thick, silvery hair is cut just below the ears and sets an aureole of light on her fine brow. None of her recent portraits, except one by an American artist, Miss Klumpke, gives any idea of the delicacy of her physiognomy lit up by sparkling eyes that penetrate one.

When before her, I have to think of the two women who had the greatest right to wear men's clothes: George Sand and Déjazet. She has the supple and vivacious grace of the latter, and the genial expression of the former, although it is a totally different one. The novelist seemed to look within, lost in the thoughts that created so many masterpieces; her dreamy head and Juno eyes were something like the great ruminants Rosa Bonheur has so well represented. The painter, on the contrary, embraces the external world in a sharp and rapid glance that, one feels, allows nothing to escape it. The contrast between the two women, who, in different branches, have contributed so much to the glory of their times, is inevitable for whoever has known them; and all the more because their names were so often mentioned together. It would be difficult not to speak of "La Mare au Diable" or the "Meunier d'Angibault" when recalling the reeking fields where Rosa Bonheur speeds the plow, or places her oxen lowering their patient heads under the yoke. Rosa Bonheur knows this and is proud of it; and although her laborious career has not left her much time for reading, she has always taken the keenest pleasure in the pastoral tales of her illustrious contemporary.

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