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INTRODUCTORY
BIOSTATISTICS
INTRODUCTORY
BIOSTATISTICS

CHAP T. LE
Distinguished Professor of Biostatistics
and Director of Biostatistics
Comprehensive Cancer Center
University of Minnesota

A JOHN WILEY & SONS PUBLICATION

Copyright 6 2003 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey.

Published simultaneously in Canada.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise,
except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without
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appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc., 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers,
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Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, (201) 748-6011, fax (201) 748-6008, e-mail:
permreq@wiley.com.

Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best
e¤orts in preparing this book, they make no representations or warranties with respect to the
accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaim any implied
warranties of merchantability or fitness for a particular purpose. No warranty may be created or
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herein may not be suitable for your situation. You should consult with a professional where
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Wiley also publishes its books in a variety of electronic formats. Some content that appears in
print, however, may not be available in electronic format.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Is Available

ISBN 0-471-41816-1

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To my wife, Minhha, and my daughters, Mina and Jenna
with love
CONTENTS

Preface xiii

1 Descriptive Methods for Categorical Data 1

1.1 Proportions, 1
1.1.1 Comparative Studies, 2
1.1.2 Screening Tests, 5
1.1.3 Displaying Proportions, 8
1.2 Rates, 11
1.2.1 Changes, 11
1.2.2 Measures of Morbidity and Mortality, 13
1.2.3 Standardization of Rates, 16
1.3 Ratios, 18
1.3.1 Relative Risk, 19
1.3.2 Odds and Odds Ratio, 19
1.3.3 Generalized Odds for Ordered 2  k Tables, 22
1.3.4 Mantel–Haenszel Method, 26
1.3.5 Standardized Mortality Ratio, 30
1.4 Notes on Computations, 31
Exercises, 34

2 Descriptive Methods for Continuous Data 57

2.1 Tabular and Graphical Methods, 57
2.1.1 One-Way Scatter Plots, 57
2.1.2 Frequency Distribution, 58
vii
viii CONTENTS

2.1.3 Histogram and the Frequency Polygon, 62

2.1.4 Cumulative Frequency Graph and Percentiles, 67
2.1.5 Stem-and-Leaf Diagrams, 70
2.2 Numerical Methods, 72
2.2.1 Mean, 73
2.2.2 Other Measures of Location, 76
2.2.3 Measures of Dispersion, 77
2.2.4 Box Plots, 80
2.3 Special Case of Binary Data, 81
2.4 Coe‰cients of Correlation, 83
2.4.1 Pearson’s Correlation Coe‰cient, 85
2.4.2 Nonparametric Correlation Coe‰cients, 88
2.5 Notes on Computations, 90
Exercises, 92

3 Probability and Probability Models 108

3.1 Probability, 108
3.1.1 Certainty of Uncertainty, 109
3.1.2 Probability, 109
3.1.3 Statistical Relationship, 111
3.1.4 Using Screening Tests, 115
3.1.5 Measuring Agreement, 118
3.2 Normal Distribution, 120
3.2.1 Shape of the Normal Curve, 120
3.2.2 Areas under the Standard Normal Curve, 123
3.2.3 Normal Distribution as a Probability Model, 128
3.3 Probability Models for Continuous Data, 131
3.4 Probability Models for Discrete Data, 132
3.4.1 Binomial Distribution, 133
3.4.2 Poisson Distribution, 136
3.5 Brief Notes on the Fundamentals, 137
3.5.1 Mean and Variance, 137
3.5.2 Pair-Matched Case–Control Study, 138
3.6 Notes on Computations, 140
Exercises, 141

4 Estimation of Parameters 147

4.1 Basic Concepts, 148
4.1.1 Statistics as Variables, 149
4.1.2 Sampling Distributions, 149
4.1.3 Introduction to Confidence Estimation, 152
4.2 Estimation of Means, 152
4.2.1 Confidence Intervals for a Mean, 154
4.2.2 Uses of Small Samples, 156
 CONTENTS ix

4.2.3 Evaluation of Interventions, 158

4.3 Estimation of Proportions, 160
4.4 Estimation of Odds Ratios, 165
4.5 Estimation of Correlation Coe‰cients, 168
4.6 Brief Notes on the Fundamentals, 171
4.7 Notes on Computations, 173
Exercises, 173

5 Introduction to Statistical Tests of Significance 188

5.1 Basic Concepts, 190
5.1.1 Hypothesis Tests, 190
5.1.2 Statistical Evidence, 191
5.1.3 Errors, 192
5.2 Analogies, 194
5.2.1 Trials by Jury, 194
5.2.2 Medical Screening Tests, 195
5.2.3 Common Expectations, 195
5.3 Summaries and Conclusions, 196
5.3.1 Rejection Region, 197
5.3.2 p Values, 198
5.3.3 Relationship to Confidence Intervals, 201
5.4 Brief Notes on the Fundamentals, 203
5.4.1 Type I and Type II Errors, 203
5.4.2 More about Errors and p Values, 203
Exercises, 204

6 Comparison of Population Proportions 208

6.1 One-Sample Problem with Binary Data, 208
6.2 Analysis of Pair-Matched Data, 210
6.3 Comparison of Two Proportions, 213
6.4 Mantel–Haenszel Method, 218
6.5 Inferences for General Two-Way Tables, 223
6.6 Fisher’s Exact Test, 229
6.7 Ordered 2  k Contingency Tables, 230
6.8 Notes on Computations, 234
Exercises, 234

7 Comparison of Population Means 246

7.1 One-Sample Problem with Continuous Data, 246
7.2 Analysis of Pair-Matched Data, 248
7.3 Comparison of Two Means, 253
7.4 Nonparametric Methods, 257
7.4.1 Wilcoxon Rank-Sum Test, 257
7.4.2 Wilcoxon Signed-Rank Test, 261
x CONTENTS

7.5 One-Way Analysis of Variance, 263

7.6 Brief Notes on the Fundamentals, 269
7.7 Notes on Computations, 270
Exercises, 270

8 Correlation and Regression 282

8.1 Simple Regression Analysis, 283
8.1.1 Simple Linear Regression Model, 283
8.1.2 Scatter Diagram, 283
8.1.3 Meaning of Regression Parameters, 284
8.1.4 Estimation of Parameters, 285
8.1.5 Testing for Independence, 289
8.1.6 Analysis-of-Variance Approach, 292
8.2 Multiple Regression Analysis, 294
8.2.1 Regression Model with Several Independent
Variables, 294
8.2.2 Meaning of Regression Parameters, 295
8.2.3 E¤ect Modifications, 295
8.2.4 Polynomial Regression, 296
8.2.5 Estimation of Parameters, 296
8.2.6 Analysis-of-Variance Approach, 297
8.2.7 Testing Hypotheses in Multiple Linear Regression, 298
8.3 Notes on Computations, 305
Exercises, 306

9 Logistic Regression 314

9.1 Simple Regression Analysis, 316
9.1.1 Simple Logistic Regression Model, 317
9.1.2 Measure of Association, 318
9.1.3 E¤ect of Measurement Scale, 320
9.1.4 Tests of Association, 321
9.1.5 Use of the Logistic Model for Di¤erent Designs, 322
9.1.6 Overdispersion, 323
9.2 Multiple Regression Analysis, 325
9.2.1 Logistic Regression Model with Several Covariates, 326
9.2.2 E¤ect Modifications, 327
9.2.3 Polynomial Regression, 328
9.2.4 Testing Hypotheses in Multiple Logistic
Regression, 329
9.2.5 Receiver Operating Characteristic Curve, 336
9.2.6 ROC Curve and Logistic Regression, 337
9.3 Brief Notes on the Fundamentals, 339
Exercise, 341
 CONTENTS xi

10 Methods for Count Data 350

10.1 Poisson Distribution, 350
10.2 Testing Goodness of Fit, 354
10.3 Poisson Regression Model, 356
10.3.1 Simple Regression Analysis, 357
10.3.2 Multiple Regression Analysis, 360
10.3.3 Overdispersion, 368
10.3.4 Stepwise Regression, 370
Exercise, 372

11 Analysis of Survival Data and Data from Matched Studies 379

11.1 Survival Data, 381
11.2 Introductory Survival Analyses, 384
11.2.1 Kaplan–Meier Curve, 384
11.2.2 Comparison of Survival Distributions, 386
11.3 Simple Regression and Correlation, 390
11.3.1 Model and Approach, 391
11.3.2 Measures of Association, 392
11.3.3 Tests of Association, 395
11.4 Multiple Regression and Correlation, 395
11.4.1 Proportional Hazards Model with Several
Covariates, 396
11.4.2 Testing Hypotheses in Multiple Regression, 397
11.4.3 Time-Dependent Covariates and Applications, 401
11.5 Pair-Matched Case–Control Studies, 405
11.5.1 Model, 406
11.5.2 Analysis, 407
11.6 Multiple Matching, 409
11.6.1 Conditional Approach, 409
11.6.2 Estimation of the Odds Ratio, 410
11.6.3 Testing for Exposure E¤ect, 411
11.7 Conditional Logistic Regression, 413
11.7.1 Simple Regression Analysis, 414
11.7.2 Multiple Regression Analysis, 418
Exercises, 426

12 Study Designs 445

12.1 Types of Study Designs, 446
12.2 Classification of Clinical Trials, 447
12.3 Designing Phase I Cancer Trials, 448
12.4 Sample Size Determination for Phase II Trials and
Surveys, 451
12.5 Sample Sizes for Other Phase II Trials, 453
xii CONTENTS

12.5.1 Continuous Endpoints, 454

12.5.2 Correlation Endpoints, 454
12.6 About Simon’s Two-Stage Phase II Design, 456
12.7 Phase II Designs for Selection, 457
12.7.1 Continuous Endpoints, 457
12.7.2 Binary Endpoints, 458
12.8 Toxicity Monitoring in Phase II Trials, 459
12.9 Sample Size Determination for Phase III Trials, 461
12.9.1 Comparison of Two Means, 462
12.9.2 Comparison of Two Proportions, 464
12.9.3 Survival Time as the Endpoint, 466
12.10 Sample Size Determination for Case–Control Studies, 469
12.10.1 Unmatched Designs for a Binary Exposure, 469
12.10.2 Matched Designs for a Binary Exposure, 471
12.10.3 Unmatched Designs for a Continuous
Exposure, 473
Exercises, 476

Bibliography 483
Appendices 489
Answers to Selected Exercises 499
Index 531
PREFACE

A course in introductory biostatistics is often required for professional students

in public health, dentistry, nursing, and medicine, and for graduate students in
nursing and other biomedical sciences, a requirement that is often considered a
roadblock, causing anxiety in many quarters. These feelings are expressed in
many ways and in many di¤erent settings, but all lead to the same conclusion:
that students need help, in the form of a user-friendly and real data-based text,
in order to provide enough motivation to learn a subject that is perceived to be
di‰cult and dry. This introductory text is written for professionals and begin-
ning graduate students in human health disciplines who need help to pass and
benefit from the basic biostatistics requirement of a one-term course or a full-
year sequence of two courses. Our main objective is to avoid the perception
that statistics is just a series of formulas that students need to ‘‘get over with,’’
but to present it as a way of thinking—thinking about ways to gather and
analyze data so as to benefit from taking the required course. There is no better
way to do that than to base a book on real data, so many real data sets in
various fields are provided in the form of examples and exercises as aids to
learning how to use statistical procedures, still the nuts and bolts of elementary
applied statistics.
The first five chapters start slowly in a user-friendly style to nurture interest
and motivate learning. Sections called ‘‘Brief Notes on the Fundamentals’’ are
added here and there to gradually strengthen the background and the concepts.
Then the pace is picked up in the remaining seven chapters to make sure that
those who take a full-year sequence of two courses learn enough of the nuts
and bolts of the subject. Our basic strategy is that most students would need
only one course, which would end at about the middle of Chapter 8, after cov-
xiii
Another Random Scribd Document
with Unrelated Content
invokes the Saxon Chronicle and other authorities in proof of the
credibility of his narrative, but these references themselves show
that he is not unconscious of the fact that his story stands in need of
extraneous support.

And yet, this artificiality being once conceded, how beautiful is the
structure! How fine the material, and how symmetrically it is put
together! Sometimes, perhaps, the narrative lags a little; sometimes
the descriptions, like those of Cedric’s hall or Athelstane’s castle, are
longer than the impatience of the reader cares to tolerate. Yet the
great scenes of the drama, how vividly do all these stand forth in our
memory! How splendid the stage setting and how well arranged the
incidents!

The story opens quietly. Gurth, the swineherd, and Wamba, the
jester of Cedric the Saxon, are driving home a herd of swine, when
they are overtaken by Prior Aymer and the Templar Brian de Bois-
Guilbert with their train. Then follows the supper scene at
Rotherwood, the residence of Cedric, where Ivanhoe, disguised as a
wandering palmer, returned from Palestine, visits his father’s home,
answers the boasting taunts of the Templar, saves the poor Jew,
Isaac of York, and is supplied with armor for the coming tourney.

Next follows one of the most celebrated scenes in literature, the

description of the passage at arms at Ashby, in which Ivanhoe, as
the “Disinherited Knight,” vanquishes all antagonists and names
Rowena, Cedric’s ward, as queen of love and beauty, and where, in
the melée on the second day, the “Black Sluggard,” another
unknown knight, turns the fortunes of the fray against the Templar.

Perhaps even more admirably constructed are the scenes which

follow,—the capture of Cedric, Rowena, Athelstane, Isaac and his
daughter Rebecca, by the Norman nobles, and their imprisonment in
the castle of Front-de-Boeuf, where they are separated from each
other, and where the events which take place simultaneously in
different parts of the castle are narrated with great vividness and
power. While Cedric and Athelstane are held for ransom, Front-de-
Boeuf seeks to extort a vast sum of money from poor Isaac by
preparing to roast him alive; De Bracy, a Norman noble, demands
the hand of Rowena as the price of her safety and that of Ivanhoe;
and the Templar besets Rebecca with his amorous importunities until
she prepares to fling herself from the parapet to escape his violence.
The interruption of these scenes by a bugle call from without, the
demand for the release of the captives made by Wamba, Gurth, the
Black Knight, and Locksley, captain of the outlaws, followed by the
siege and burning of the castle, constitute perhaps the climax of the
story, and are even more impressive than its third great scene, the
trial of Rebecca for sorcery, and her deliverance by Ivanhoe, who
appears as her champion at the last moment.

Certain episodes are almost as attractive as the main thread of the

narrative. For instance, the drinking bout between Friar Tuck and the
Black Knight (who turns out to be King Richard) in the chapel in the
forest.

There are improbabilities in this work which show us very clearly

that it is a creation of the imagination rather than a transcript of
observations from actual life. Take, for instance, the conversation
between Brian de Bois-Guilbert and the captive Rebecca in the
castle. It is safe to say that no knight, however profligate, ever
began a love-suit to a maiden with a satirical reminder that her
father was then being tortured for money in another part of the
castle, in such words as the following:

“Know, bright lily of the vale of Baca, that thy father is already in
the hands of a powerful alchemist, who knows how to convert
into gold and silver even the rusty bars of a dungeon grate. The
venerable Isaac is subjected to an alembic, which will distill from
him all he holds dear, without any assistance from my requests or
thy entreaty. Thy ransom must be paid by love and beauty, and in
no other coin will I accept it.”
And yet, in spite of such defects, the heroism displayed by Rebecca
in this particular scene has made it one of the most attractive in the
entire story. Rebecca is indeed one of the noblest characters in
fiction, and the portrait is natural and human, as well as heroic.
Although she was delivered from the stake by her champion, the
story ends sadly for her, since the knight whom she loves has
become the husband of Rowena. Scott tells us in his preface that he
has been censured for this, but he adds, with admirable taste, that
he thinks that a character of a highly virtuous and lofty stamp is
degraded rather than exalted by an attempt to reward virtue with
temporal prosperity.

But to my mind the most attractive person in the book is Wamba,

the jester. He appears to me in many ways a close imitation of some
of Shakespeare’s clowns. His jests are on an average quite as good,
and he everywhere awakens our liveliest interest and sympathy,
from the hour when he interposes his shield of brawn in front of the
Jew at the tournament until the time when he exchanges repartees
and songs with the Black Knight on their way through the forest.
There is, moreover a strain of pathos in his merriment, and when he
enters the castle of Front-de-Boeuf, disguised as a monk, and
exchanges his garments with his master, remaining within the castle
in expectation of death, the gibes with which he accompanies his
sacrifice give to his character something very human, lovable, and
withal heroic. Even Shakespeare has hardly given us a better clown.

The resuscitation and the appearance of the Saxon noble Athelstane

at his own funeral feast is far from artistic. Scott himself calls it a
tour de force, and says he put it in at the vehement entreaties of his
friend and printer, who was inconsolable at the Saxon being
conveyed to the tomb,—an example which ought to be a warning to
authors to follow their own judgment rather than that of their
friends.

In the crucible of Scott’s imagination moral qualities are sometimes

fused together in such manner that the original ingredients are quite
undiscernible. Robin Hood and his outlaws become generous heroes,
and Friar Tuck, who is in reality a dissolute and hypocritical monk,
becomes amiable and attractive. Indeed, this great writer of
romance is filled with such ever present optimism and love of
honorable qualities, that it is almost impossible for him to draw the
picture of a really detestable man. His novels offer the strongest
possible contrast to the pessimistic realism of some of the more
recent works of fiction.

Men may differ in their estimates of Ivanhoe as a picture of human

life and character, but they can hardly differ in their estimate of it as
a beautiful piece of poetic imagination.
 THE BETROTHED
ALESSANDRO MANZONI

“The Betrothed,” by Manzoni, has not received at the hands of the

English or American public that wide celebrity or high rank which it
deserves. It is a very great novel. Excepting only “Don Quixote,” and
some of the masterpieces of Thackeray, I know of nothing more
excellent in the whole range of fiction. There is no artificiality, no
sensationalism, no straining after effect; but the story proceeds
naturally and even quietly through events of great historic as well as
tragic interest, to its consummation.

The scene opens at a village on the shores of the lake of Como, on

an occasion when Don Abbondio, the curate of the parish, is stopped
on his way home by two “bravoes” of Don Rodrigo, a nobleman of
the locality, and warned, upon pain of death, not to celebrate the
marriage of Renzo Tramaglino and Lucia Mondella, which had been
fixed for the following day. The scene is a very vivid one, and the
terror of Don Abbondio is set forth in the liveliest manner. He is also
warned not to disclose the warning; “It will be the same as marrying
them,” says the bravo. But the poor priest is a leaky vessel, and
when he grumbles and complains to his housekeeper Perpetua, he
can not refrain from relating to her the awful threat. Dreadful are his
dreams that night of “bravoes, Don Rodrigo, Renzo, cries, muskets”;
and on the next day, when he makes blundering excuses to the
bridegroom and tries to overwhelm him with Latin quotations which
he can not understand, the truth all comes out, for Perpetua has
talked with Renzo about “overbearing tyrants,” and Renzo at last
worms the story, and even the name of the “tyrant,” out of the
frightened priest.

But the wedding is stopped, and Renzo betakes himself to Dr.

Azzecca Garbugli, learned in the law, who treats him encouragingly
and confidentially, so long as he thinks he has only a malefactor to
defend, quoting terrible edicts with the comforting assurance that he
can get him off, until he learns that Renzo has come, not to defeat
but to seek justice, and that too against the powerful Don Rodrigo.
Then he sends the poor fellow away, and will hear nothing in
justification of his suit.

But the unfortunate lovers have a friend in the person of Father

Cristoforo, a monk, who in his early life had killed a man in a rage,
and devoted the remainder of his days to the humility and
repentance of the cloister. He takes it upon himself to visit Don
Rodrigo, and in earnest and indignant words remonstrates with the
abandoned nobleman, but he is ordered from the house.

And now Agnese, the gossiping mother of Lucia, proposes to

accomplish the marriage by craft. The lovers are to make a
declaration before the curate in the presence of witnesses. This, it
seems, was a method recognized by law. Renzo undertakes his
preparations for the scheme; gains access to Don Abbondio’s house
through a friend, who comes under pretense of paying rent; but just
as they are making the mutual declaration they are interrupted by a
great outcry on the part of Don Abbondio, who throws the tablecloth
over Lucia’s face and stops the proceedings.

That same night Don Rodrigo has sent his bravoes to abduct Lucia.
They steal into the house, but find it empty, and are suddenly
startled by the ringing of the bell, which has followed the outcry of
Don Abbondio. “Each of the villains seems to hear in these peals his
name, surname, and nickname,” and they flee in consternation,
while the betrothed betake themselves to the convent of Father
Cristoforo, at Pescarenico; and the tumult aroused in the village by
these events, admirably pictured by the novelist, at length subsides.

Father Cristoforo sends Renzo to Milan, and the women to a convent

at Monza, where Lucia is to find refuge with “the Signora,” a nun of
high rank, who has been compelled by her father to assume the veil.
The Signora is proud, passionate, unreconciled. Her history, and the
schemes by which her consent to a monastic life had been extorted
by alternate persecutions and flatteries, are skillfully delineated, as
well as her intrigue with Egidio, an abandoned man, living in a house
adjoining the convent, which intrigue is followed by the mysterious
disappearance of a lay sister who has discovered the crime. But “the
Signora” now rejoices at the opportunity of thus sheltering an
innocent creature like Lucia, whom she takes under her protection.

Renzo reaches Milan at the time of the breaking out of the bread
riots, due to the prevailing famine. The looting and destruction of
one of the bake-houses is vividly described, and also the attack upon
the superintendent of provisions. Renzo can not keep out of these
exciting scenes, and becomes quite a hero, making a speech to the
crowd, innocent enough in purpose, but easily construed into
sedition by a secret agent of the government who hears it, attaches
himself to Renzo, acts as his guide to an inn in the neighborhood,
where the innocent young man unlawfully refuses to give his name
to the innkeeper, but unwittingly reveals it to his guide; then goes to
bed intoxicated, is arrested next morning, escapes from the officers
of justice in the midst of the crowd, flees from the city, and does not
stop until he has quit the duchy of Milan, crossed the Adda, and
taken refuge with his cousin Bortolo in the Bergamascan territory—
all of which is followed by proceedings declaring him a dangerous
outlaw,—luckily, however, after he is well out of reach.

Through the intrigues of Don Rodrigo, the monk Cristoforo is sent

away to Rimini, and the nobleman now betakes himself to the castle
of a great lord, whose name is not given, so dreadful were the
crimes he was said to have committed. The Unnamed took upon
himself the task of kidnapping Lucia from the convent, and for this
purpose availed himself of Egidio, who compelled the Signora to
betray the girl committed to her keeping and to send Lucia on a
pretended message, to be seized, thrown into a carriage, and driven
to that lair of robbers, the castle of the Unnamed. But so great are
her sufferings, so moving her piteous appeals, that even the heart of
the outlaw is touched, and he falters in his desperate scheme. Lucia
in her agony prays to the Madonna for deliverance, and, resolving to
sacrifice what she holds most dear, she determines to give up her
beloved Renzo, and vows to remain a virgin.

A fine description is given of the remorse which steals over the

conscience of the desperate malefactor, his despair at the
contemplation of a career which is now drawing near its close, with
its inevitable termination, and the thought, “If there should really be
another life!” He hears again the piteous words of Lucia when she
besought him to set her free, “God pardons so many sins for one
deed of mercy!”

When the morning breaks after a night of this remorse, he hears the
distant chiming of bells; learns of the festival of the people in the
neighborhood who were going to meet their bishop, Cardinal
Federigo Borromeo, and, by a sudden impulse, he too determines to
go and present himself to the cardinal. The history of this great
prelate, a saintly man, is given in detail—his works of charity, his
writings, his efforts in the cause of education. The Unnamed is
welcomed by the Cardinal with joy and genuine tenderness, and the
details of a religious conversion, often repulsive to an unsympathetic
reader, here become, through the author’s skill, both natural and
attractive.

Don Abbondio, to his great consternation is now sent with the

celebrated outlaw to fetch Lucia from his castle. He goes thither,
trembling, grumbling, and complaining to himself like an old woman.
The poor girl is released, and believes, of course, that her
deliverance is due to the Madonna.

Shortly afterwards the cardinal, on the occasion of a visit to Don

Abbondio’s parish, takes the poor priest to task for his violated duty
in refusing to celebrate the marriage. There are few passages in
literature more impressive than the solemn severity of his reproof;—

“Signor Curate, why did you not unite in marriage this Lucia with
her bethrothed husband?”....

“Don Abbondio began to relate the doleful history; but

suppressing the principal name, he merely substituted a great
Signor; thus giving to prudence the little that he could in such an
emergency.

“‘And you have no other motive?’ asked the Cardinal, having

attentively heard the whole.

“‘Perhaps I have not sufficiently explained myself,’ replied Don

Abbondio. ‘I was prohibited under pain of death to perform this
marriage.’

“‘And does this appear to you a sufficient reason for omitting a

positive duty?’

“‘I have always endeavored to do my duty, even at very great

inconvenience; but when one’s life is concerned....’

“‘And when you presented yourself to the church,’ said Federigo,

in a still more solemn tone, ‘to receive Holy Orders, did she
caution you about your life?’.... ‘He from whom we have received
teaching and example, in imitation of whom we suffer ourselves
to be called, and call ourselves, shepherds; when He descended
upon earth to execute His office, did He lay down as a condition
the safety of His life? And to save it, to preserve it, I say, a few
days longer upon earth, at the expense of charity and duty, did he
institute the holy unction, the imposition of hands, the gift of the
priesthood? Leave it to the world to teach this virtue, to advocate
this doctrine. What do I say? Oh, shame! the world itself rejects
it; the world also makes its own laws, which fix the limits of good
and evil; it, too, has its gospel, a gospel of pride and hatred; and
 it will not have it said that the love of life is a reason for
transgressing its precepts. It will not, and it is obeyed. And we!
children and proclaimers of the promise! What would the Church
be, if such language as yours were that of all your brethren?’

“‘I repeat, my Lord,’ answered Don Abbondio, ‘that I shall be to

blame.... One can’t give one’s self courage.’

“‘And why then, I might ask you, did you undertake an office
which binds upon you a continual warfare with the passions of the
world?... Ah, if for so many years of pastoral labors you have
loved your flock (and how could you not love them?)—if you have
placed in them your affections, your cares, your happiness,
courage ought not to fail you in the moment of need; love is
intrepid.’”

This discourse, which is much longer than I have quoted, gives us

an admirable ideal of the episcopal office, and through the whole of
it the contrast between these two natures vividly appears, without
any apparent effort on the part of the author to produce it.

In the meantime, Renzo, who has been in hiding under an assumed

name, has established secret communication with Agnese, the
mother of his betrothed, and is naturally greatly disgusted to learn
of Lucia’s vow. Lucia has found refuge at Milan with a distinguished
lady, one Donna Prassede, who is a type of the “superior woman”—
one of those pestilent, unsympathetic natures, determined to do
good to others at whatever violence to their feelings; who feels
herself the instrument of Heaven and with a consciousness of innate
superiority, and great display of patronage, torments Lucia by
denouncing the unworthy outlaw to whom her affections have been
engaged.

Up to this point the narrative has traversed scenes common enough

to the period with which it deals; but here it takes up the story of
one of the most terrible public calamities which history records—the
appearance of the plague in Milan. The scenes of the preceding
famine are vividly described; the inefficacy of the ridiculous legal
remedies by which it was proposed to supply the lack of natural
resources; the establishment of the Lazaretto; the war raging in
Italy, which distracted the attention of the authorities; and, finally,
the invasion of the German army, by which the plague was
introduced into the territory of Milan. A historical account is given of
the introduction of the contagion, and the various stages of public
sentiment in regard to it.

“First, then, it was not the plague, absolutely not—by no means;

the very utterance of the term was prohibited. Then, it was
pestilential fevers; the idea was indirectly admitted in the
adjective. Then, it was not the true nor real plague; that is to say,
it was the plague, but only in a certain sense; not positively and
undoubtedly the plague, but something to which no other name
could be affixed. Lastly, it was the plague without doubt, without
dispute; but even then another idea was appended to it, the idea
of poison and witchcraft, which altered and confounded that
conveyed in the word they could no longer repress.”

There are descriptions of the processions in the streets, the

exhibition of the body of San Carlo Borromeo, and of the public rage
against the supposed poisoners. But the most vivid part of the
description begins when the author again takes up the thread of his
story and describes the return of Don Rodrigo from a carousal,
where he had excited great laughter by a funeral eulogium on his
kinsman, Count Attilio, who had been carried off by the disease two
days before. There is a powerful description of the coming on of the
fatal malady, on his return, and of the dreams that tormented him in
his sleep.

“He went on from one thing to another, till he seemed to find

himself in a large church, in the first ranks, in the midst of a great
crowd of people; there he was, wondering how he had got there,
how the thought had ever entered his head, particularly at such a
time; and he felt in his heart excessively vexed. He looked at the
bystanders; they had all pale, emaciated countenances, with
staring and glistening eyes, and hanging lips; their garments were
tattered and falling to pieces; and through the rents appeared
livid spots, and swellings. ‘Make room, you rabble!’ he fancied he
cried, looking towards the door, which was far, far away; and
accompanying the cry with a threatening expression of
countenance, but without moving a limb; nay, even drawing up
his body to avoid coming in contact with those polluted creatures,
who crowded only too closely upon him on every side. But not
one of the senseless beings seemed to move, nor even to have
heard him; nay, they pressed still more upon him; and, above all,
it felt as if some one of them, with his elbow, or whatever it might
be, was pushing against his left side, between the heart and arm-
pit, where he felt a painful, and as it were, heavy pressure. And if
he writhed himself to get rid of this uneasy feeling, immediately a
fresh unknown something began to prick him in the very same
place. Enraged, he attempted to lay his hand on his sword; and
then it seemed as if the thronging of the multitude had raised it
up level with his chest, and that it was the hilt of it which pressed
so in that spot; and the moment he touched it he felt a still
sharper stitch. He cried out, panted, and would have uttered a
still louder cry, when, behold! all these faces turned in one
direction. He looked the same way, perceived a pulpit, and saw
slowly rising above its edge something round, smooth, and
shining; then rose, and distinctly appeared, a bald head; then two
eyes, a face, a long and white beard, and the upright figure of a
friar, visible above the sides down to the girdle; it was Friar
Cristoforo! Darting a look around upon his audience, he seemed
to Don Rodrigo to fix his gaze on him, at the same time raising his
hand in exactly the attitude he had assumed in that room on the
ground floor in his palace. Don Rodrigo then himself lifted up his
hands in fury, and made an effort, as if to throw himself forward
and grasp that arm extended in the air; a voice, which had been
vainly and secretly struggling in his throat, burst forth in a great
howl; and he awoke. He dropped the arm he had in reality
uplifted, strove, with some difficulty, to recover the right meaning
of everything, and to open his eyes, for the light of the already
advanced day gave him no less uneasiness than that of the candle
had done; recognized his bed and his chamber; understood that
all had been a dream; the church, the people, the friar, all had
vanished—all, but one thing—that pain in his left side. Together
with this, he felt a frightful acceleration of palpitation at the heart,
a noise and humming in his ears, a raging fire within, and a
weight in all his limbs, worse than when he lay down. He
hesitated a little before looking at the spot that pained him; at
 length, he uncovered it, and glanced at it with a shudder;—there
was a hideous spot, of a livid purple hue.”

The unhappy man now finds that he has been betrayed by Griso, the
chief of his bravoes, who, under pretense of bringing the doctor, has
introduced into the room the horrible monatti, whose duty it is to
drag away the dead to their graves and the sick to the Lazaretto.
They plunder the stricken man of his treasures before his eyes, and
then carry him away.

In the meantime Renzo, who has had the plague in the

Bergamascan territory, finds it safe to return home, amid the general
confusion, and proceeds to Milan to find Lucia. The terrible scenes in
the streets are graphically described, but the realism is combined
with a certain delicacy on the part of the author which renders even
its most dreadful details not wholly repulsive. For instance, Renzo
sees coming down the steps of one of the doorways.

“A woman with the delicate, yet majestic beauty, which is

conspicuous in the Lombard blood. Her gait was weary, but not
tottering; no tears fell from her eyes, though they bore tokens of
having shed many; there was something peaceful and profound in
her sorrow, which indicated a mind fully conscious and sensitive
enough to feel it.... She carried in her arms a little child, about
nine years old, now a lifeless body; but laid out and arranged,
with her hair parted on her forehead, and in a white and
remarkably clean dress, as if those hands had decked her out for
a long promised feast, granted as a reward. Nor was she lying
there, but upheld and adjusted on one arm, with her breast
reclining against her mother’s, like a living creature; save that a
delicate little hand, as white as wax, hung from one side with a
kind of inanimate weight, and the head rested upon her mother’s
shoulder with an abandonment deeper than that of sleep: her
mother; for, even if their likeness to each other had not given
assurance of the fact, the countenance which still depicted any
feeling would have clearly revealed it.”

“A horrible looking monatto approached the woman, and

attempted to take the burden from her arms, with a kind of
unusual respect, however, and with involuntary hesitation. But
 she, slightly drawing back, yet with the air of one who shows
neither scorn nor displeasure, said, ‘No, don’t take her from me
yet; I must place her myself on this cart; here.’ So saying, she
opened her hand, displayed a purse which she held in it, and
dropped it into that which the monatto extended towards her. She
then continued: ‘Promise me not to take a thread from around
her, nor let any one else attempt to do so, and to lay her in the
ground thus.’

“The monatto laid his right hand on his heart; and then zealously,
and almost obsequiously, rather from the new feeling by which he
was, as it were, subdued, than on account of the unlooked-for
reward, hastened to make a little room on the car for the infant
dead. The lady, giving it a kiss on the forehead, laid it on the spot
prepared for it, as upon a bed, arranged it there, covering it with
a pure white linen cloth, and pronounced the parting words:
‘Farewell, Cecilia! rest in peace! This evening we, too, will join
you, to rest together forever. In the meanwhile, pray for us; for I
will pray for you and the others.’ Then, turning again to the
monatto, ‘You,’ said she, ‘when you pass this way in the evening,
may come to fetch me too, and not me only.’

“So saying, she re-entered the house, and, after an instant,

appeared at the window, holding in her arms another more
dearly-loved one, still living, but with the marks of death on its
countenance. She remained to contemplate these so unworthy
obsequies of the first child, from the time the car started until it
was out of sight, and then disappeared. And what remained for
her to do, but to lay upon the bed the only one that was left her,
and to stretch herself beside it, that they might die together, as
the flower already full blown upon the stem falls together with the
bud still enfolded in its calyx, under the scythe which levels alike
all the herbage of the field.”

Renzo learns that Lucia has been taken to the Lazaretto, and he
proceeds thither. The scenes in that dreadful abode of suffering are
described in detail. Here he meets Father Cristoforo, who in tending
the sick is already falling a victim.

“His voice was feeble, hollow, and as changed as everything else

about him. His eye alone was what it always was, or had
something about it even more bright and resplendent; as if
 Charity, elevated by the approaching end of her labors, and
exulting in the consciousness of being near her source, restored
to it a more ardent and purer fire than that which infirmity was
every hour extinguishing.”

Renzo learns that Don Rodrigo himself is lying unconscious in one of

the miserable hovels, and, filled at first with rage at the recollection
of the man who has caused him so much wretchedness, he is at last
brought, by the commanding reproofs of Father Cristoforo, into such
a forgiving spirit that he can pray for his enemy’s salvation.

Renzo seeks Lucia in vain amid the procession of the few persons
who were going forth cured from the Lazaretto, but he finds her at
last, convalescent in one of the little huts in the woman’s quarters. A
very characteristic conversation ensued between the lovers in regard
to the binding nature of her vow, which Renzo naturally disputes,
and calls Father Cristoforo to remonstrate and interpose. The good
father consolingly tells Lucia that she had no right to offer to the
Lord the will of another to whom she was already pledged; and by
virtue of the authority of the church he absolves her from her vow.
It is not long until the lovers, restored to their former happiness,
leave the Lazaretto; and the book concludes with the consummation
of their wishes—their marriage, and a happy wedded life.

A great deal of quiet satire pervades the story. Take, for instance,
the following, in the description of Lecco, at the very opening of the
book:

“At the time the events happened which we undertake to recount,

this town, already of considerable importance, was also a place of
defense, and for that reason had the honor of lodging a
commander, and the advantage of possessing a fixed garrison of
Spanish soldiers, who taught modesty to the damsels and
matrons of the country; bestowed from time to time marks of
their favor on the shoulders of a husband or a father; and never
failed, in autumn, to disperse themselves in the vineyards, to thin
the grapes, and lighten for the peasant the labors of the vintage.”
There is a great deal of homely philosophy intermixed with this
satire. For instance, the criticism of

“those prudent persons who shrink back with alarm from the
extreme of virtue as well as vice, are forever proclaiming that
perfection lies in the medium between the two, and fix that
medium exactly at the point which they have reached, and where
they find themselves very much at their ease.”

These delicate touches come in most appropriately, and, as it were,

spontaneously from the context. They are never lugged in head
foremost, for the evident purpose of saying a good thing.

The book abounds in apt similes; for instance, in the following

description of Perpetua’s vain efforts to keep a secret:

“But certain it is that such a secret in the poor woman’s breast

was like very new wine in an old and badly-hooped cask, which
ferments, and bubbles, and boils, and if it does not send the bung
into the air, works itself about till it issues in froth, and penetrates
between the staves, and oozes out in drops here and there, so
that one can taste it, and almost decide what kind of wine it is.”

When the bravoes, led by Griso, in the guise of a pilgrim, attempt to

carry off Lucia from her home and are suddenly thrown into
consternation by the pealing of the bell, the author tells us:

“It required all the authority of Griso to keep them together, so

that it might be a retreat and not a flight. Just as a dog urging a
drove of pigs, runs here and there after those that break the
ranks, seizes one by the ears, and drags him into the herd,
propels another with his nose, barks at a third that leaves the line
at the same moment, so the pilgrim laid hold of one of his troop
just passing the threshold, and drew him back, detained with his
staff others who had almost reached it, called after some who
were flying they knew not whither, and finally succeeded in
assembling them all in the middle of the courtyard.”
The characters are extremely well described. Perhaps the two lovers
are the least striking of any in the book. Lucia is a simple peasant
girl; Renzo, a rash, impulsive, kindly boy, easily led, a very natural,
grown-up child such as Italy produces in greater luxuriance than
colder and severer latitudes. There are no passionate love scenes in
the book. The affection of the betrothed for each other seems rather
an incident than the principal theme of the story. Don Ferrante, the
husband of Donna Prassede, is a fine type of scholastic pedantry.
The catalogue of his ridiculous acquirements in the absurd
philosophy and learning of the time, with long lists of authors now
unknown, reminds us of the studies of Don Quixote; Don Ferrante,
too, is skilled in the science of chivalry, wherein he enjoyed the title
of “Professor,” and “not only argued on it in a real, masterly manner,
but, frequently requested to interfere in affairs of honor, always gave
some decision.”

The officiousness of Donna Prassede is well set forth in the

following:

“It was well for Lucia that she was not the only one to whom
Donna Prassede had to do good.... Besides the rest of the family,
all of whom were persons more or less needing amendment and
guidance—besides all the other occasions which offered
themselves to her, or she contrived to find, of extending the same
kind offices, of her own free will, to many to whom she was under
no obligations; she had also five daughters, none of whom were
at home, but who gave her much more to think about than if they
had been. Three of these were nuns, two were married; hence
Donna Prassede naturally found herself with three monasteries,
and two houses to superintend; a vast and complicated
undertaking, and the more arduous, because two husbands,
backed by fathers, mothers, and brothers; three abbesses,
supported by other dignitaries, and by many nuns, would not
accept her superintendence. It was a complete warfare, alias five
warfares, concealed, and even courteous, up to a certain point,
but ever active, ever vigilant. There was in every one of these
places a continued watchfulness to avoid her solicitude, to close
the door against her counsels, to elude her inquiries, and to keep
her in the dark, as far as possible, on every undertaking. We do
 not mention the resistance, the difficulties she encountered in the
management of other still more extraneous affairs; it is well
known that one must generally do good to men by force.”

The story, like some other of the greatest works of fiction—like Don
Quixote, Les Misérables, nay, like Henry Esmond itself, is somewhat
too prolix. The long historical citations, the extracts from the edicts
and proclamations of the time, look as if the author considered it
necessary to prove his story rather than to let it prove itself. That
Renzo and Lucia should leave Father Cristoforo to die alone is, to my
mind, the most serious blemish in the book; but in spite of these
shortcomings, “The Betrothed” is entitled to one of the first places in
the front rank of the masterpieces of fiction.
 EUGENIE GRANDET
HONORÉ DE BALZAC

It is not quite fair to Balzac to judge him by any one of the stories in
his encyclopædic “Comedie Humaine.” The countless varieties of life
and character which he portrays show the author’s versatility and
power, and have perhaps a value from their very number which can
not be adequately treated when we consider only a single specimen
of his work. Many of his characters, it is true, are grotesques; some
are absolute deformities; others are hard to understand by any but a
Frenchman,—French human nature, as it seems to me, being a little
different from human nature elsewhere; but there is one great work
of his which, although it is not without its morbid side, must appeal
to the common consciousness of all mankind, and bring to every
human heart the conviction of its spiritual truth. “Eugenie Grandet”
is a novel of this universal kind of excellence.

The plot is a very simple one. M. Grandet is a miser who lives in an

old comfortless house in Saumur with his wife, his daughter Eugenie,
and big Nanon, the maid of all work. The Cruchots and the De
Grassins are intriguing for the hand of the heiress, and on Eugenie’s
birthday, when all these are assembled, a stranger unexpectedly
appears, Charles Grandet, her cousin, committed to the care of his
uncle by his father in Paris, who has become a bankrupt and has
determined upon suicide. Charles, however, knows nothing of this,
and is overcome with pitiful grief when he learns of his father’s
death. Eugenie, a simple minded girl, falls in love with him, but the
old miser, anxious to get rid of him, sends him to the Indies.
Grandet’s tyranny over his wife and child is graphically portrayed.
The poor wife succumbs to it and dies. It is not long till the miser
follows her, and Eugenie is left alone with a colossal fortune for
which she cares nothing, and with a lover from whom she has
received no word. In the meantime Charles has acquired a fortune of
his own, and on his return writes to her that he wishes to marry
another. Her dream is over, the light of her life is extinguished; she
gives her hand without her heart to Cruchot, and upon his death
continues her hopeless life alone in the desolate home,
administering her estate with economy, but devoting its proceeds to
works of beneficence.

This is a story, the like of which has happened many a time in actual
life, but the cold skeleton of the tale as given above conveys not the
slightest idea of the warm flesh and blood with which it is invested.
The description of the old street and the dreary house and its
furniture is a literary jewel. The account of the way in which Grandet
accumulates his fortune, and of the neighborhood rumors regarding
his wealth, stirs our own acquisitiveness as we read it, and shows
him to be a very natural and almost inevitable sort of miser. He is
moreover a man of commanding ability, who extorts respect even
though he inspires abhorrence. The details of his habits, his
economies, and his schemes, as well as his personal appearance, are
admirably given. Equally lifelike are the descriptions of big Nanon,
the devoted house-servant, starved and overtasked, yet always
grateful to the master who took her when none others would; of the
wife, submissive, sensitive, magnanimous, and uncomplaining; and
of Eugenie, a girl who has grown up in perfect innocence of the
world, pure, beautiful, and of a generous and noble spirit. All these
are the subjects of an odious domestic tyranny on the part of
“Goodman Grandet,” the particulars of which are set forth with
powerful fidelity.
Charles is a rather uninteresting young dandy, who comes arrayed
for conquest. It is not unnatural that an artless girl like Eugenie
should fall in love with him, and her devices to procure him such
luxuries as a cake, a wax candle, and sugar for his coffee, add to the
charm of their simple love-making. The sympathy of the two women
in his sorrow contrasts sharply with the sordid calculations of the
miser, and the scene where Eugenie learns his needs by furtively
reading two of his letters (for even her good qualities are decidedly
of the French type) and then brings him her little store of gold, and
when he hesitates, begs him on her knees to take it—this scene is
very effective, as is also her despairing cry, after he departs, “O
mother, mother, if I had God’s power for one moment!”

But the more tragic parts of this simple drama are near its close,—
the stormy scene when Grandet learns that Eugenie has given
Charles her money, her imprisonment in a room of the old house,
her mother’s illness and patient death, and, ghastliest of all, the last
hours of the miser:

“So long as he could open his eyes, where the last sparks of life
seemed to linger, they used to turn at once to the door of the
room where all his treasures lay, and he would say to his
daughter, in tones that seemed to thrill with a panic of fear:

“‘Are they there still?’

“‘Yes, father.’

“‘Keep watch over the gold!... Let me see the gold.’

“Then Eugenie used to spread out the louis on a table before him,
and he would sit for whole hours with his eyes fixed on the louis
in an unseeing stare, like that of a child who begins to see for the
first time; and sometimes a weak infantine smile, painful to see,
would steal across his features.

“‘That warms me!’ he muttered more than once, and his face
expressed a perfect content.
 “When the curé came to administer the sacrament, all the life
seemed to have died out of the miser’s eyes, but they lit up for
the first time for many hours at the sight of the silver crucifix, the
candlesticks, and holy water vessel, all of silver; he fixed his gaze
on the precious metal, and the wen on his face twitched for the
last time.

“As the priest held the gilded crucifix above him that the image of
Christ might be laid to his lips, he made a frightful effort to clutch
it—a last effort which cost him his life. He called Eugenie, who
saw nothing; she was kneeling beside him, bathing in tears the
hand that was growing cold already. ‘Give me your blessing,
father,’ she entreated. ‘Be very careful!’ the last words came from
him; ‘one day you will render an account to me of everything here
below.’ Which utterance clearly shows that a miser should adopt
Christianity as his religion.”

Then follows the long waiting of Eugenie; the dastardly letter sent
by Charles after his return; the noble dignity with which she releases
him and pays his father’s creditors to preserve the honor of one who
is quite careless of it himself, and then resigns herself to her
hopeless destiny.

“Eugenie Grandet” is a consummate work of art.

 DEAD SOULS
NIKOLAI GOGOL

“Dead Souls,” the masterpiece of Gogol, is not very widely known

among English readers, but it is entitled to a high rank in literature.
Perhaps the fact that it is a torso has been one cause of this neglect,
for before the second volume was finished the author was overtaken
by that madness which clouded his last days. But the first volume is
practically complete in itself. It records the efforts of the smug,
shrewd, rascally Tchitschikoff to procure from various landowners
certain paper transfers of the serfs who had died on their estates
since the last enumeration in order to effect a fraudulent loan by
means of a list corresponding with the official register. The
description of the stranger, of his sudden arrival in a provincial city,
of the various estates he visits and the remarkable people he
encounters, and then, while his enterprise is prospering, of the
sudden spreading of the scandal through the town and his forced
flight to other regions—these things are told with a power of
portraiture which is amazing. The characters he describes are
sometimes grotesque, but they are faithful to the essentials of
human nature; even the wild Nozdreff and the massive Sobakevitch
are very real. Gogol has been called the Dickens of Russian
literature, and his portraits, while fewer in number and variety, are
less like puppets than many of those drawn by the English novelist.
His description of Pliushkin the miser is quite as striking as that of
L’Avare of Molière or Père Grandet of Balzac, while his account of the
way the gossip regarding Tchitschikoff started and circulated is as
fine as anything in “The School for Scandal.” He calls his book a
“poem,” and although it is quite devoid of versification or lofty
diction, yet if the word “poem” means a “work of original creative
art,” “Dead Souls” will fully justify the name.

It has the same sort of masterly quality as “Don Quixote,” and

transports us as completely to the scenes which it describes. His
patriotic apostrophe to Russia in the final chapter, and his description
of the swift flight of the hero in his troika, are picturesque and
eloquent to the last degree.
 THE THREE GUARDSMEN
ALEXANDRE DUMAS

Probably there is no better example of the novel of adventure than

“The Three Guardsmen,” by Alexandre Dumas. The author claims in
his preface a historical origin for his novel. However that may be, the
plot seems plausible in spite of its extravagances, and never was
there a book in which men conspired and slaughtered each other
more merrily, nor in which the mere strenuous life without moral
accessories has found a more perfect embodiment.

The book in its way is a masterpiece. The style is simple and

luminous to such a degree as would hardly be possible in any other
language than that in which it was written. No work in the world is
more easy to read, to understand, or to translate. The old French
dictum that no words should be used in literature which can not be
understood upon the market-place here attains its highest
realization.

As for the characters, they are of the simplest type. The dashing
devil-may-care soldier and adventurer, the deep drinker, the heavy
player, the man who with equal gayety defies the bullets of the
enemy and the commonest precepts of morality, has here his
apotheosis. Perhaps the hero of the book even more than
D’Artagnan himself is Athos, the chief of the three musketeers, who,
having made an unfortunate marriage in his youth, has forsaken his
name and station and embarked upon a life of mere adventure. We
love him and admire him, and yet it is hard to tell why upon any
logical or ethical principles we should do either. Yet when he gets
very drunk, or when he hangs his wife because he finds that she
bears upon her shoulder the mark of a criminal conviction, we feel
that he has done in each case exactly the right thing. Generally a
novelist seeks by contrasting his hero with more commonplace
characters to set him off in relief, but in this novel almost everybody
is a hero, and all are equally and superlatively great and admirable,
except perhaps the poor woman who has been hanged and comes
to life again and engages in divers diabolical plots against the rest of
the world.
 JANE EYRE
CHARLOTTE BRONTE

“Jane Eyre” is a book which impresses the reader with its power,—I
might say its masculine power, were it not for the fact that the
author gives us at every turn the woman’s point of view.

The narrative, like that of “David Copperfield,” is in the form of an

autobiography, and the plot, which is quite simple, has only that sort
of unity which the heroine gives it. Yet the work glows with intense
passion and the characters are so faithful to nature that they
convince us that vivid personal experience must have come to the
aid of the author’s imagination in delineating them.

Jane Eyre, an orphan, is abused and mistreated in childhood, first in

the family of Mrs. Reed, where she is brought up, and afterwards at
the Lowood charity school, where she is first a pupil and then
becomes a teacher. She seeks a situation as governess, and finds
employment at Thornfield Hall, the residence of a Mr. Rochester,
who, after a wild, dissipated, wandering life, has come, some time
before, into possession of this splendid property. Here she has the
charge of Adele, his ward.

There is a certain uncanny secret about Thornfield which the

governess finds herself unable to fathom. She hears wild laughter
and inarticulate sounds in a distant part of the Hall. One night
Rochester’s bed is mysteriously set on fire, and Jane Eyre saves his
life. On another occasion, while the house is full of guests, a horrible
shriek comes from the upper floor and a murder is well nigh
committed by some unknown creature who is hidden there.

In the meantime Mr. Rochester has become greatly interested in his

little governess, who, although quiet and plain in appearance, is
warm-hearted and high-spirited, with a strong sense of duty, great
courage, and an indomitable will. And she on her side becomes
fascinated and at last utterly devoted to her master, a man of
brilliant parts, strong, brusque, proud and autocratic. He offers her
his hand, and she accepts him, to learn, however, in the very
presence of the altar and during the wedding ceremony, that he has
another wife! It seems that in his early years he had been beguiled
into a marriage in the West Indies with a woman whose dissolute
courses had wrecked his life, and had terminated in her own
madness, and that this was the maniac who had occasioned the
strange scenes at the Hall.

Jane Eyre now flees from Thornfield, concealing all traces of her
whereabouts. She wanders amid incredible hardships and
destitution, and at last finds shelter at Moor House, the home of St.
John Rivers and his two sisters, who are afterwards discovered to be
her relatives, and with whom she divides a legacy which she
receives from a deceased uncle. St. John is a country clergyman of
high character, full of zeal, ambition, and fanaticism, and determined
to devote his life to missionary service in India. He seeks her hand,
but she realizes that it is not from love but to make her his fellow
laborer in the work of the Gospel. He has sought to inspire her with
his own enthusiasm, and she is on the point of yielding, when she
seems to hear the voice of Rochester calling to her in pain and
anguish. She returns to Thornfield, and finds that the Hall has been
consumed in a conflagration kindled by the maniac, and that
Rochester, who had sought in vain to save the life of the wretched
creature, has been himself rescued, blind and a cripple, from the
ruins. She seeks him and becomes his wife.
But the bare recital of these leading events gives very little idea of
the characters in this somber and tragic tale, or the feelings which
control their actions. The book must be read through to be
understood. From the very beginning the author strikes a resounding
chord in human nature. Brutality to children stirs us to fury, and no
one, not even Dickens or Victor Hugo, has painted this form of
tyranny in livelier colors than Charlotte Brontë. The conduct of Mrs.
Reed and of Rev. Mr. Brocklehurst, the sanctified and inhuman
director of Lowood school, arouses our hot resentment.

Of course there are blemishes in the book. Sometimes the

conversation is too carefully written to be natural. Then there is an
intrinsic improbability in the plot. Why should a young woman so
self-sufficient as the heroine consent to marry Rochester before she
had solved the secret of Thornfield? But these defects in the novel
are trifling by the side of its abounding excellences. At nearly every
point the heroine awakens our admiration; we feel (sometimes,
perhaps, in spite of our better judgment) that she is doing right; and
so masterly is the author’s portraiture that, in spite of many
repulsive features, she awakens a stronger sympathy for the seared
and blighted Rochester than for the pure and devoted yet inexorable
St. John Rivers. Jane Eyre is an eloquent novel. It is emphatically a
work of genius.
 CARMEN
PROSPER MERIMÉE

It has always seemed to me that “Carmen” was a story of great

power and told with wonderful skill. I know not whether it be fact,
nor whether the author has learned it in the way he says; but so
convincing is the narrative, it seems to me impossible that it is a
mere product of the imagination. Yet the leading characters are so
abnormal that I sometimes wonder why I believe this story so
thoroughly. It must be because it is true.

The author, in pursuing certain archæological researches to discover

the site of the ancient battle of Munda, comes with his guide upon a
secluded amphitheatre among the rocks, where he suddenly
encounters an outlaw, José Navarro, whom he makes his friend by
the exchange of some simple courtesies and by warning him at the
humble venta where they lodge together, of the approach of the
officers of justice.

Some days afterwards, while the author was leaning upon the
parapet of the quay at Cordova, Carmen, a young gipsy girl of a
strange and savage beauty, comes and sits near him. After some
conversation he accompanies her to her residence to have his
fortune told. Suddenly the door opens, and Navarro, in a very bad
humor, enters the room. A quarrel ensues between him and Carmen
in the gipsy language, and it appears from the gestures that the
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