came his former slaves and their children. "He was a good, kind master," they said "everybody that he ever owned loved him." An old negro of eighty, who could not walk alone, came because he "wanted to see him once more." One division of the funeral procession was made up of New Orleans negroes. From North Carolina came a telegram from James Jones who had learned of the death too late to reach New Orleans in time for the funeral. From South Florida, Milo Cooper came. He had heard that Mr. Davis was very ill and had started at once to New Orleans hoping to see him in life once more. Old and unused to travelling Cooper was often delayed and reached New Orleans after the death of his master. His distress upon learning this was pitiable. Mrs. Davis received letters from Thornton Montgomery then living in North Dakota, and the negroes at Brierfield united in sending the following: We, the old servants and tenants of our beloved master, Honorable Jefferson Davis, have cause to mingle our tears over his death, who was always so kind and thoughtful of our peace and happiness. We extend to you our humble sympathy. Respectfully, Your Old Tenants and Servants. Since all who served Mr. Davis loved him it will not be out of place here to quote what Betty, a white maid in the employ of the Davis family, said to a New Orleans reporter: "You are writing a good deal about Mr. Davis but he deserved it all. He was good to me and the best friend I ever had. After my mother died and I went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Davis at Beauvoir, he treated me like one of his own family. He would not allow any one to say anything to wound the feelings of a servant." His servants always said of him that he was "a very fine gentleman." 26 Louisiana State University, Baton Rouge. WALTER L. FLEMING. 26 Davis, Memoirs, Vol. II, pp. 923, 933, 934; Daniel, “Life and Reminiscences of Davis," p. 76; Jones Memorial Volume, pp. 467, 468, 493, 500, 501; Jacksonville Times-Union, Jan. 9, 1890; New Orleans newspapers, Dec., 1889; Obsequies of Jefferson Davis, pp. 27, 113; Bancroft, Davis, pp. 100, SOME RECENT BOOKS ON ART I. THREE BOOKS ON SPAIN. When a bad book appears, the effectual remedy is a conspiracy of silence. Books live on the lips of men, and when men cease to talk about them, they perish. And so, when a good book is published, it is the duty of him who reads it to pass it on to his friends, or, if he dare not trust them with its possession, at least to pass on the glad tidings of its coming. Her Spain is the hardest of all European countries to understand. This is because it is not really European. Not the Straits of Gibraltar, but the Pyrenees divide Europe from Africa. Spain is in truth a detached fragment of the Dark Continent. bare, parched mountains, her verdureless, sun-baked plains, the whole aspect of a land that speaks of the desolating power of tropical heat, tell us that we are in Morocco, and that the illimitable Sahara is just beyond. The people, too, are African in their pride, their dignity, their customary indolence broken by fits of fierce energy, their narrowness of view, their religious fanaticism, their indifference to pain, whether in themselves or in others. Indeed, it is most likely that the original Iberians came from Northern Africa, and were of the same race as the Berbers who now roam over the desert sands of Morocco in search of blood and water. If so, it explains much in the Spanish temperament which otherwise is inexplicable. This alien character of the land and its inhabitants raises a barrier which only much intercourse combined with native sympathy can overleap. One may live for years among the Spaniards, and yet never penetrate into their thoughts nor comprehend their strange outlook on life, so different from our own that it is only with much effort that we can understand it. And even when we have penetrated into their inner consciousness and attained their point of view, it seems so unreasonable, so narrow, so one-sided, that we find it difficult of toleration. Mr. THE SOUL of SPAIN, by Havelock Ellis (Houghton, Mifflin & Co.) Ellis, however, is not like the rest of us who go through Spain with open eyes and closed hearts. He has studied the people until he understands them, and while their ideals are not his, they are not beyond the pale of his sympathy. His book is well named. He has penetrated the Spanish soul, and he reveals it to us in its weakness and its strength, plainly, but not unkindly. All who contemplate a trip to that land of romance should read his work, and they who have returned will find it in an explanation of much that they did not comprehend. His Introduction and his chapters on "The Spanish People" and "The Women of Spain" are particularly informing. They contain the results of his patient study and long observation, and they are the essence of the book. The other chapters on special subjects are interesting, and all are most beautifully written, in that style which every reader of his books has learned to love; but while they may be neglected, if need be, the portions that I have named are really necessary to a comprehension of the Spanish people. In them the essence of the Spanish spirit is revealed, the Spaniard's soul laid bare. It is a strange soul, narrow and intense, which, like the soul of the middle ages, yearns passionately for sweetness and light, and yet continually misses the true way and strays into paths of darkness. No one can wander through Spain without looking much at Spanish women. It is doubtful whether St. Anthony himself would have been able continually to avert his gaze. Their wonderful eyes, exceeding in size and lustre those of all other lands, their faces and figures that are so often perfect in beauty and grace, their rich complexions, the statuesque calm of lineaments that seem to be carved from purest ivory, and their singularly steadfast regard that turns not away because a stranger stares, all compel attention from the most indifferent. But what is occurring behind that brow so immobile as compared with the faces of her northern sisters is something which the visitor from a foreign land cannot even imagine. Mr. Ellis, however, came to our assistance, and does much to let us into her point of view; and it must be said that the revelation is usually to her credit. Of the other chapters, those on Montserrat and "Spanish Ideals of To-day" I found to be of greatest interest. Not that Mr. Ellis does justice to Montserrat. Neither pen nor pencil can do that. Of all mountains that I have seen it is the most fascinating, incredible in its beauty and in the fantastic shapes of its towers and battlements and far-reaching horns of white stone that seek to penterate the sky. There it stands, white in a land where all else is brown, fertile in a land where all else is desolation, the richest vegetation issuing from the smallest crevices of the rock; so extraordinary in its shapes that Doré in his maddest visions saw nothing like it. No wonder that it was always a sacred mountain; no wonder that it was chosen as the dwelling place of the Holy Grail. There are few experiences in life so completely satisfying as a sojourn at the great monastery hidden in a cleft of the rock beneath its towering summits, and few are they who can leave it without a longing to return and end their days in its peaceful shade. Of all men, the monks have been the wisest in the selection of their dwelling places. Nearly all monasteries are in situations commanding a glorious view. Is it because they realize the uplifting effects upon the soul of an extended prospect, bearing it off on the wings of the morning to the very throne of God? Or is it that, denying themselves the joys that come from woman's beauty, they seek to indemnify themselves by revelling in the beauty of nature? Whichever it be, the monks who located the monastery at Montserrat were masters of their craft. The chapter on "Spanish Ideals of To-day" takes a hopeful view of Spain's future, and even the most casual tourist sees everywhere since the Spanish-American War signs of a national awakening. That shock forced on Spanish pride a realization of Spain's weakness, and convinced her of the necessity of joining the march of civilization, while it freed her from the colonies that were a millstone around her neck, dragging her down to perdition, as they would drag us down were it not for our greater strength. Mr. Ellis intimates, though he does not plainly say it, what a somewhat extensive reading of Spanish has forced me to believe, that Spain's failure is largely due to the fact that they are not an intellectual nation. This may be due to the Inquisition. A people who for hundreds of years are not allowed to think must lose in a large measure the power of thought. On the other hand, it may well be urged that if they had been a nation of thinkers they would never have suffered the Inquisition to gain its monstrous ascendency. Most likely they were born narrowminded. Certainly their literature, outside of Cervantes, is painfully deficient in thought; so much so that I often feel that the time that I have spent upon it has been largely wasted. It contains much that is beautiful; but rarely does it grapple with the deeper problems of life, and when it does, it is usually in an ineffectual way. If this suspicion is correct if the real trouble with Spain is an inherent want of intellectual breadth — then her case is essentially hopeless, and she must always limp behind the other civilized countries. Mr. Hutton is not a specialist on Spain, like Mr. Ellis. His heart and his soul are in Italy. He goes through Spain as a tourist, like the rest of us; but he sees it with a poet's eye and describes it with a poet's pen. To me his book is the most beautiful piece of English prose that has been written since Walter Pater. And the style recalls that of Pater. It has the same linked sweetness, which reminds one of some exquisite legato playing upon a perfect instrument. One can read Mr. Hutton's book again and again for the mere sensuous beauty of the words, as one reads poetry. Yet it is full of meaning and keen-eyed observation, just as were Pater's essays. Mr. Hutton is never a slave to his words, writing for the mere joy of their honeyed cadences. He sees things as they are, with remarkable clearness of vision, and he tells us what he sees. Though he writes so exquisitely about Spain, you can see that he is no great admirer of the land or its art. He perceives that it is mostly a barren land with few spots that are truly delightful, and that its art is mostly imitative, and too often spoiled in the translation; that there is something barbaric in the overloaded ornamentation of its great cathedrals. But while he does not try to lead us into a fool's paradise of injudicious admiration, while his taste, cultivated by long acquaintance with the masterpieces of Italy, is severe, he tells us |