whispered in my ear, "Do you suppose that he himself believes what he is saying?" The incident is worth recording as the involuntary criticism of a bluntly honest foreigner who for the first time saw and heard the distinguished historian.

Bancroft the schoolmaster, the Unitarian preacher, the lecturer, the magazine writer, the politician-changing his party-colored coat with the facility of a harlequin—a member of the cabinet, secretary of the navy, minister at the court of St. James and at Berlin, and the historian of the United States, presented the same versatility of character while he excited universal respect for his intellectual qualities. In London he occasioned many amusing remarks in society, but his scholastic acquirements and diplomatic ability were justly acknowledged. His familiar acquaintance with German literature and the German language brought about a familiar friendship with the Prince Consort, with whom he held long conversations on politics, art, and letters in the prince's native tongue. The late emperor of Germany, then Prince Royal of Prussia, in reply to the question how he liked our minister at Berlin, said to me, "Bancroft? I like him immensely. Such energy and investigation I have seldom seen. He is here, there, and everywhere. Really a remarkable man."

Arrived at Bancroft's door in Washington I decided not to send up my card until assured that he was disposed to receive a casual visitor at that hour. Newspaper rumor had more than once asserted that the venerable historian had lost much of his intellectual as well as physical vigor; that he had given up his daily horseback exercise, had ceased writing history, and that he passed most of his time in a semi-demented condition, a confirmed invalid in his house. But his valet who opened the door to me, a faithful body-servant devoted for years to his master's service, assured me before going up to him in his library to announce my name, that he was sure that any visit from an old acquaintance would be most acceptable. "It is one of Mr. Bancroft's good days," he remarked. "He is feeling very well, and I know that he is not engaged in writing. He will be glad to see you, sir, and it will do him good to have a visitor." The man soon returned with a pleasant message confirmatory of this opinion, and I followed him upstairs to the library. As I proceeded, the inner life of the occupant of the house was apparent at every step. Books lined the walls, and a second room filled with shelves laden with bound volumes caught my eye, adjacent to the library proper in which the historian passed the greater part of his time.

Mr. Bancroft was seated in his arm-chair near his writing-table, which also was well covered with books, but he arose and received me with much

cordiality. Taking it for granted that he might not after the lapse of so many years distinctly recall my identity, I began by reminding him as to who I was and when we had last met. He interrupted me with a vigorous but somewhat squeaky voiced exclamation, that he not only remembered me perfectly but that he rather thought he knew more of my family and their antecedents than I did myself. Thereupon he went back to the days of his boyhood in the town of Worcester, Massachusetts, and informed me that a certain cousin of mine, now some years deceased-who then dwelt there had been his schoolmate and playmate. He, Mr. Bancroft, had greatly stood in awe of his schoolmate's mother, my aunt, who was a lady of great dignity, and most precise in her manners and ways of life. "I was a wild boy," continued Bancroft," and your aunt did not like me. She was always fearful that I would get her son into bad ways, and still more alarmed lest I should some day be the cause of his being brought home dead. There was a river, or piece of water, near Worcester, where I used to beguile young Salisbury, and having constructed a rough sort of raft he and I would pass a good deal of our playtime in aquatic amusements, not by any means unattended with danger. Madam's remonstrances were all in vain, and she was more and more confirmed in the opinion that I was a 'wild, bad boy.' However, nothing serious beyond an occasional wetting ever occurred, yet I never rose in her estimation, and a 'wild boy' I continued to be up to manhood."

acute.

Other members of the family were then referred to, and with that vividness of recollection in small details of events of early years which is characteristic of old age; but when I called Mr. Bancroft's attention to mutual friends still living, and to one in particular then residing in Washington, whom I took it for granted he sometimes saw, his memory was less "And so he is living in Washington ?" asked the historian. "Well, this city has certain advantages which cannot be said of others. I find it a most agreeable residence. New York is only a great money-making centre, and literature is unappreciated there." Referring to his library he was unable to state the number of volumes; he believed there were between twenty thousand and twenty-five thousand; the collection was much larger than it appeared, as for want of space elsewhere most of the shelves held two rows of volumes. The conversation was turning upon books and recent publications, when a lady member of the family entered the room, to whom I was introduced. She held an open letter in her hand which she showed to Mr. Bancroft and suggested the reply he should make to it, to which he assented. This incident convinced me that in his widowerhood and old age Mr. Bancroft was not bereft of that feminine

counsel and sympathizing care which none but those who stand in need of such influences can fully appreciate. As the lady remained and joined in the conversation, Mr. Bancroft became more of a listener than a talker, interrupting only by an occasional pertinent and caustic observation. A gentleman's name came up who was an active sympathizer in work," whose words were quoted to the effect that it was ridiculous for a person to refuse to believe in religious dogma simply because he did not understand it. "It would be ridiculous," broke in Mr. Bancroft, “for a person to profess to believe what is opposed to his understanding." I referred to a magazine paper which had recently appeared with the title, "Why I am an Agnostic." "What nonsense!" said Mr. Bancroft. “It is like saying, Why I don't know what is not knowable." Speaking of magazine literature I referred to that excellent publication The Magazine of American History, the editor of which I knew to be personally known to him, a lady whom he once introduced to a large gathering of distinguished guests at the White House, where she was receiving with the Presidential party, as his "fellow historian," and on another occasion in another administration, when invited by the President to meet her at dinner, promptly replied, "I am always glad to meet my peer in historical work," and I suggested that if he could lay his hand upon some piece of historical manuscript among his papers which had not been in print, it would be particularly acceptable to the readers of her magazine. He answered by paying a high tribute to the genius of that editor and pronounced her “a sincere woman," as if sincerity in woman, or of writers of history as a body, is an exceptional characteristic. As to a contribution of the kind, he remarked that his executors would find very little indeed among his papers which had not been already in print. I earnestly hope the editor of this magazine will not hesitate to print the above personal allusion to herself, now that the distinguished man who made it is no more.

Bancroft was in such a genial mood during my visit, that I ventured to proffer another request of a literary nature in behalf of a publisher, which I thought he might possibly accede to, but in this I was mistaken. We were standing in the middle of the room at the moment, and I was just on the point of taking my leave. "May I not give our friend some hope that he may hear from you on the subject?" I asked, noticing his apparent hesitation to grant the favor requested.

Certainly not," he said with some asperity. "I am very careful what I say, and I cannot speak a word to encourage such a hope. No, I won't, there now!" and the great historian jumped off his feet to give emphasis to his decision. The action was so ludicrously out of proportion to the

cause in question, that he as well as the rest of us broke into laughter. It served at least to show the nervous energy of the octogenarian and the importance he attached to matters affecting his personal convenience.

I was happy to leave him in this cheerful state of mind and to take away with me the impression that should he before long quit this earthly tabernacle, he would do so like his contemporary Hawthorne in the midst of literary labor, and not like Emerson live beyond that period when the intellectual flame illumines and cheers the evening of existence.

Charles H. Tuckerman.

FLORENCE, ITALY.

GEORGE BANCROFT, 1800-1891

A SONNET

'To be a really great historian is perhaps the rarest of intellectual distinctions.”—Macaulay.

Before his century born, a few brief days,

And living with its lapse, well toward its close,
No name with classic lore more starred it shows,

Nor thicklier wreathed with Fame's historic bays,
Than his whose death we mourn, whose virtues praise—
BANCROFT, our nation's Nestor, as he goes

Plumed for the lustrous fellowship of those
Whom Death is sure to strike, but never slays.

His learning and his life our memories fill

With pride on which no shade of censure lies.
He did not die too soon, or live too long-
His worth full ripened for the poet's song.
Since History lives though the historian dies,
'Tis his best meed to live in history still.

Wm Richards

CHICAGO, ILLINOIS.

SLAVERY IN CANADA

BY J. C. HAMILTON, LL.B.*

Mr. Hamilton presented the results of a study of existing records, and stated the facts relating to this subject so appearing.

He began with the origin of the institution of slavery in Canada, two hundred and two years ago, in the reign of Louis XIV., who was then busy aiding and advising his good friend and brother James II. of England, and in watching the movements of William Prince of Orange, and preparing for war with Germany. The secretary of state, however, as soon as he found a leisure moment, brought before his majesty certain letters from high officials in the province of Quebec. There were two, dated 10th August and 31st October, 1688, from M. de Denonville, and one from M. de Champagny, dated 6th November, 1688, to the secretary, their purport being to represent that working people (" gens d'industrie ") were so extraordinarily scarce, and labor so dear in Canada, that all enterprise was paralyzed, and that it was thought the best remedy would be to allow the importation of negroes as slaves.

The attorney-general of Canada, then in Paris, assured his majesty that such was also his conviction, and that if permitted some of the principal inhabitants would purchase slaves as they arrived from Guinea. His majesty finally got to a consideration of the subject. Perhaps he talked it over with King James, who visited Paris in December, 1688, having "left his country for his country's good," and the result was a royal mandate written early in 1689 stating that his majesty had approved of the proposal that his loyal subjects of Quebec should obtain negroes to do their work. He added that he wished care to be taken, lest the negroes, coming from so different a clime, might not endure the rigor of Canada, and so the important project fail.

The code noir contains an ordinance of November 13, 1705, making negroes movable property, and providing for their humane treatment. In 1709 an ordinance was issued by Raudot, intendant at Quebec, reciting the king's permission, and that negroes and Panis (Pawnee Indians) had been procured as slaves; and to remove doubts as to ownership it was ordained

* Abstract of a valuable paper read before the Canadian Institute July 3, 1890. From the Transactions.

VOL. XXV.-No. 3.-16